Day 58- Redefining the nuclear family, and a French Flair

We woke up, had breakfast (we were quickly dwindling on food) and dropped off Dylan and Fabian at the airport. We then drove to a small town called Akaroa, about 70 K’s away from Christchurch. It was something we decided to do on a whim- by word of the Brits we encountered days before, and it was a great suggestion.

A ways through the trip, we reached the highest peak in the area, at a few hundred meters tall. Below us was a pastoral scene- green rolling hills covered in morning sunlight. To the left was a series of gentle mountains, and rolling down them was a thick bank of fog. The low lying clouds were acting like foam from an overfilled beer- they spilled over the crests of the peaks, and into the valley below, keeping right to the ground. They moved so fast that we could see the specters advancing onto the fields below. We sat and watched. It was perfect- it was content. It was out of a movie, or so it seemed.

We drove the rest of the way to Akaroa, and were hit by a feeling of… rightness. Everything was pleasant here. The town was the only French settlement in the country, and the influences are obvious. Nestled in a bay, which itself is nestled in a bay, which itself is on a peninsula forming a bay, Akaroa is a peculiarly situated town. The population could not have been more than 3 or 4 thousand. Sailboats flocked in the quiet harbor. I felt as though I was in an 18th century Caribbean French settlement. The sun was shining, the breeze was light, the grass was green and the water blue. Out of all the places we visited, this was one of my most favorite, because it was just right. There were no extreme mountains or raging rivers- there were no bungee sites or glaciers. It was a pleasant town, and while I normally abhor the idea of a perfect place, I didn’t here. I suppose I tend to associate perfect with boring, but here the two don’t even begin to overlap.
We checked into our hostel, to learn it was the highest rated hostel in all of New Zealand. The beautiful historic farmhouse had large rooms, a pear tree, chestnuts, walnuts, free fruit, right on the coast, with pastoral views on all sides. I wrote a postcard and watched a shepherd herding sheep in front of me. We walked out on the coast, and walked to a peninsula which was originally a Maori Pa, or fortress. Imagine a bay. Jutting out of the bay is a peninsula that is quite large at the tip, but where it meets the mainland it is so narrow that at high tide only a footpath is exposed. This footpath is about 30 feet in the air, with no railings on either side. Drop off, and say hello to a face full of rocks. We didn’t drop, and got to the top. At the summit there was a group of exposed limestone outcrops, similar to a smaller version of Castle hill. We watched the sun set behind the hills, and watched the fog roll in, which it did quickly.
Walking back along the beach, we came across beach glass. I love beach glass, and picked up over 20 pieces. I at last found an entire beach bottle- it had been tossed in the waves, but not recently. It had organisms growing on it- obviously it had been in the sea for awhile. It was full of mud, but I took it back. We went to sleep early that night.