Category: New Zealand

Still no hangover, though I could feel one nudging at the fringes of my perception. John’s breakfast was again adequate but unremarkable, and his cleaner, Mary, appeared on the scene. As we were about to leave, he mentioned his wife, Karin. Where was this mysterious Karin, we wondered, and did she know about Jenny and Mary? Was John a secret bigamist, and was Martinborough a hotbed of salacious steamy sin? We’ll never know. What’s more, we hadn’t been to any of the vineyards which constitute Martinborough’s raisin d’etre (sorry). And it’s too late now, though I’m sure they’re great, and we did try some local wine at Est – which was very good.

Again – no hangover to speak of. John put on a reasonable breakfast, and then Jacq started up the automobile and we hit the road, bound for Greytown. If you have been to Berry or Leura in New South Wales, Greytown is very similar. There are lots of craft shops and coffee shops, and a large, stately-looking hotel with overpriced drinks, but fantastic original wooden interiors designed in sympathy with the elegant glamour of the exterior. Over a couple of mineral waters, we asked the waiter where we could go on a walk, and he sent out the commis chef, who suggested what sounded like ‘Mount Dick.’ Resisting the temptation to tell him that’s what we’d been trying to do all weekend, we noted down his advice and headed out of town to the Waiohine Gorge. The road was long, with many a winding turn, not to mention lots of gravel and occasional sheer drops, but we found our way to the swing bridge, the longest of its type in New Zealand, which stretched over a ravine. Okay, a heavily wooded valley with a river running through it. On the other side was a path which wound up into the mountains – and up, and up, and up… After about half an hour we got bored of the geography and turned and went down and down and down. We headed back to Greytown and had a fantastic dinner in Pipi café, a very funky place with a very chilled atmosphere. It may be a well-worn cliché, but it really did feel like we were eating in someone’s house.

Next stop – hiring a car with the help of the very friendly woman at the Sharella Motor Inn, then full steam ahead to Martinborough. The sleepy wine-country town of Martinborough exists for one reason only, it seems: so its townsfolk and visitors can get pissed. Or so you might be led to believe if you listened to Tania in the Tourist Information centre. “No one drives here,” she beamed. “We all drink.”

She managed to stay sober long enough to find us a place for $150 a night just round the corner: Beatsons http://www.beatsons.co.nz/.

A word with the owner and we knocked him down even further. It was lovely little place, we had our own cottage with a log fire – which was a good job as it was bloody freezing. The owner, John, was lovely and chatty. When we came back, he had been joined by a mysterious and taciturn woman, Jenny, who we assumed was his wife or perhaps his housekeeper.

There isn’t much to do in Martinborough, so I imagine quite a lot of the townsfolks’ time is taken up having sex with other people’s partners, or at least pretending to have done so and precipitating gossip about it. Or maybe they have better things to do than indulge in idle chit-chat about other people’s love lives. We certainly didn’t. So after trying to work out the relationship between John and Jenny and watching ‘The Next Top Model’ while enjoying the heater, we ventured out onto the streets – or should I say street – of Martinborough for a Saturday night on the town.

I imagine that on a hot summer night in the middle of the tourist season, the Martinborough Hotel would be packed and buzzing. On this particular freezing cold Saturday night, there were a few people in there watching South Africa against the All Blacks, but none of them appeared to be single men and thus of any interest to us, so we had a quick drink then headed across the road to Est to eat. Est is a Mod Oz-type (Mod Kiwi?) restaurant with great décor – an open fire, original artwork on the wall, and a frosted glass bar dividing the two main spaces. The staff were friendly and attentive and the food excellent, and although certainly not cheap, good value for money. Email them on [email protected] . The Martinborough Hotel was almost deserted when we emerged with full bellies, so we wandered round looking for random house parties to crash, but obviously the good folk of Martinborough were too busy wife-swapping to oblige. Home to bed.

The best bit of the gardens is the cable car, which runs down to the city centre. It costs next to nothing and it stops at other stations on the way, including Wellington University – must be a novel way to get to lectures. You have to wonder what kind of stupid pranks Kiwi freshers get up to on this unconventional mode of transport; I imagine the slopes of the cable car are no stranger to the trickle of urine.

Up and out, mercifully without a hangover, and ready for a stroll through the Botanical Gardens, which and cover of series of hills, with specialist gardens like a scented garden, a duck pond, and a great kids’ playground with a mini-deathslide (aka flying fox).