hand and heart intensive at Bunya

This morning we got up quite early

I made lavosh

While Roz set the table

We laid another table with materials for class 

And we prepared some good food

It was a marvellous day. People sat about and stitched, then (when they were ready) they bundled 

And put things in this pot

With spectacular results. 

A good day was had by all, methinks. 

the thin veneer

Within the walls of the conference hall and on the tidy plaza that surrounds it there pervades a gentle and harmonious atmosphere.

People have gathered from around the whirled to share their joy in, knowledge of and commitment to naturally derived colour.
In the quartier St Nicolas it’s a little edgier. In addition to the usual grannies taking their Totos for a gentle outing and the gilded [but slightly younger] visiting matrons carrying their canine accessories in outsize handbags [a curious way for what was once a predator to be travelling] there are also a few less savoury elements roaming the streets.

In the square outside the Monoprix [a supermarket that seems to be the only place to buy milk but which I regret to advise smells like an open drain] two tribes of seedy-looking persons engage in a loud and pugnacious confrontation. I suspect they are saying unkind things about each other’s mothers. Each side is attached by sturdy chains to a selection of muscular and vociferous mongrels whose visible masculinity is clearly intended to endorse that of their respective owners who themselves are thrusting their chests out like cockerels in the fowl yard. The obscenities and provocations are loud and continuous. Perhaps they are able to breathe through some other orifice.

There is a bitter aroma in the air composed of urine [not just canine], sweat and adrenaline. It is not a brand of aftershave I shall be seeking out anytime soon. A few of the dogs belonging to the passing throng offer an occasional polite woof to the fracas as well. People edge nervously around the situation or stand at the edge of the square awaiting developments. We move on.

In the park a group of people are cheering and applauding. Perhaps it is a performance of some kind? No. It is an ‘organised’ dogfight. Again we back away.

Dusk falls, people gather at tables. We decide to test a local restaurant, having so far prepared all of our meals from fresh market produce thus far. After duly inspecting the various offerings we settle on one we think looks promising. We order a Kir Royale each [delicious] and elect to share a plate of langoustines. La Rochelle prides itself on the local seafood so we are doubly surprised when the long-suffering crustaceans appear, clearly in the last stages of exhaustion, having been [we deduce by the flavour and texture] cooked, frozen and thawed on their drawn-out journey to our table. They certainly hadn’t been coaxed from the net that day. On the bright side, the bread was delicious.

My daughter then had the salade calamars [also ex freezer and oddly bouncy] and I had a pastry-lidded fish stew. Not bad, if a trifle overcooked and thank fully free of winkles. Back in our apartment we wash away dinner with a gin and tonic followed by copious amounts of tea. In the streets below, people eat, breaking what sounds to be rather a lot of plates and glasses in the process and also wander off to their homes and hotels. Chatter rises and falls, gradually becoming louder. We expect it will peak shortly after midnight, as it has most nights except Wednesday, when the revellers were still singing loudly and tunelessly at 5.21am. I know because I looked at my watch. Blearily.

Back to the story. We repair to our respective beds and attempt to dispose ourselves in the arms of Morpheus despite the racket in the street. I doze fitfully but am called rudely back to uncomfortable consciousness by the sound of breaking glass. Lots of it. Someone is idly but repetitively tossing bottles at a wall. As you do when you can’t sleep. Some sound empty, others full. The noise of tinkling and shattering continues awhile until eventually it attracts the attention of a passerby who erupts in howls of very French rage, sadly unintelligible on the third floor [I might have learned some new words] and chases the perpetrator down the street. For the next twenty minutes howls and thumps and pounding feet can be heard in the empty streets.

There is more breaking glass. More howling. The whole thing continues like a ghastly groundhog day until the streetcleaning robotty thing comes and attacks everyone with a watercannon. And wins. I wonder if this is what hell might be like. Maybe La Rochelle needs a visit from Buffy.

I hired the apartment thinking it would be an interesting experience of life in France. I was right.

zen moment close to home

Sometimes I have occasion to wander into the wild. In 2007 an urge to see some more glaciers before the world turns into a giant sauna drew me to the West Coast of New Zealand. Here in a nutshell are a few places to look out for as well as a couple to avoid at all costs. None of this is in particular order…it appears as various memorable moments bubbled out of the stygian gloom presently enveloping the grey cells…travel in summer if you are sensitive to coal smoke!

Both the Fox and Franz Josef Glaciers offer walks through beautiful rainforests, past and through streams and waterfalls, across spectacular moraine areas. The Franz Josef Country Retreat provides a cosy haven and a fabulous deep bath in which to contemplate all this extravagant geography. They also have a welcoming and hospitable cat and will let you play at barista with their gleaming coffee machine.

The Greymouth Working Men’s Club deserve sparkling gold stars for their warm and friendly welcome, offers of tea and invitations to play pool. I’ll be back.

Keep walking past the Frauenreisehaus in Christchurch if you are sensitive to battery operated stuffed sleeping puppies with simulated breathing. There is one in the office. It was probably a beloved pet before Mr.G.Reaper handed it untimely to the taxidermist. Avoid also the Admiral’s Court at Kaikoura. It is a depressing and dismal establishment which illustrates the sort of pit a person unfamiliar with the location (me) can fall into when booking on the internet.

Leap back on to the train (after you’ve seen the seals), travel north and stay at the Harbour View Motel in Picton instead. It’s comfortable, clean and decorated in refreshingly simple style and does indeed have a rather nice view of the harbour. That way you won’t be tempted to order chowder at the Aroma (or was that Amoré?…I forget) Café in Kaikoura and won’t get a nasty surprise when the glue-like substance that arrives in front of you is full of funny pink-dyed fish substitute masquerading as crab and bears as much resemblance to traditional chowder as coffee whitener (or its cousin gesso) does to cream.

In Wellington make a bee-line for the Wellington Trawling Sea Market on Cuba Street (just up from Roger’s Tattoo Art). The fish and chips are unrivalled for freshness and flavour. Still on Cuba take your coffee at Midnight Espresso. In fact, have breakfast there too. Whatever you do, don’t risk your teeth on the offerings at Dorothy’s Patisserie a few doors down. The croissants would have made handy paperweights, but proved disappointing when offered slightly nuked as an accompaniment to the lukewarm brown substance masquerading as coffee in that establishment.

Visit Moore Wilson across town to stock up on Whitestone Farmhouse cheese, fresh fruits and vegetables and other comestible delights. Wander up the hill to the Botanic Gardens (where the Magnolias are magnificent) and adjacent historic graveyard. Take your left-over bread for the denizens of the duck pond. Back on Cuba the Irish Bar is good for a game of pool (free for as long as you can stretch a drink!) and the house band is brilliant at churning out old favourites. 

Roll on Mustang Sally.

to bee, or not to bee

the passing and commemoration of Aotearoa's best-loved beekeeper is in many minds today. family members reminiscing about Sir Ed remind us of his humility and his extraordinary insistence on the state of ordinariness. his response to an interviewer pointing out his modesty regarding his achievements makes me smile..."well, there's a lot to be modest about." we wish him well on his next adventure...which, according to Peter Pan, is an "awfully big one".












with beekeeper in mind and a fondness for bees, when friends suggest we break our evening bread together at the Busy Bee (in Raumati) given our first choice Lembas is closed on Tuesdays and there is a hurricane blowing i am favourably disposed to be pleased by the establishment.

having experienced aromatic deliciousness, warm smiling speedy service, unparalleled cleanliness, soothing surroundings and general bliss at the Mussel Boys in Paraparaumu some nights ago i could even describe my attitude as comfortably optimistic. the waitress at the Mussel Boys understood her wine list, was clearly delighted by the food she was able to offer and indicated by her very demeanour that she had been waiting all day, just for us to walk in the door. this is how i like to be welcomed, particularly when i am far from home and especially when hard earned shekels are to be exchanged for edible commodities.

sadly the Busy Bee now joins the list of places to be avoided at all costs when visiting Wingnutcentral; among a range of dining experiences which are rapidly beginning to resemble local terrain - peaks of achievement separated by deep valleys of despair. if only those metaphoric valleys had rivers to flush out the dining debris. high points have included the Wellington Trawling Seamarket, that nice place on Cuba Street called Satay Palace or something very similar, the aforementioned Mollusc Fraternity and of course the octogenarian favourite, the Green Parrot.
lows have included an appalling cafe in Kaikoura, whose chowder brought to mind Lord Blackadder's pungent and graphic description of one of Baldrick's cream-coloured culinary offerings. the chowder presented by the Bee's ample waitress isn't quite in that league and redeemed by recognisable morsels of sea-creatures; however finding a small black hair at the bottom of the dish was more than a little disconcerting.
the crowning glory of my present evening is provided by the appearance of four diminutive and decidedly deceased objects erroneously described on the menu as king prawns. it is obvious from their dessicated appearance that some time has elapsed since the Reaper popped by for cocktails and canapes at the prawn family residence and despite the promising description of the dish on the menu it is a dull affair.
in contrast my friends are pleased with their meals. the scallops are certainly plumper than their crustacean cousins...however once immediate hunger is assuaged and we begin to more closely observe our surroundings it is clear all is not well at the Bee. the waitress keeps flicking her hair everywhere. the state of said hair conjuring lines from an early Dire Straits song, that bit about the conductress on the number nineteen. the hair slides over a plate of muffins she carries to another table. uggh. too tired and too stunned to protest, we cough up the cash and depart.

grub may well be a simile meaning food, but grubby is not a descriptor one likes to associate with dining.
and $16.50 for four shrivelled shrimps is scandalous. no wonder i have a bee in my bonnet.


ps, actually posted on tuesday, non-usa time...