Jo and I spent our final four Mallorcan days in Palma de Mallorca, the capital city and home to around half of the island’s population of 900,000.

In 2015 the UK Sunday Times named Palma de Mallorca the world’s best place to live – and I can sort of see why. It really is a beautiful city – bustling without being crowded, full of history and positioned right on the coast. The old town is definitely the place to head for and so it was here that Jo and I found a room in a hostel. One thing for sure – if you want to stay in old town Palma it’s expensive, hence our decision to opt for the economy option for our four nights.

The New Art Hostel is in a reasonably decent spot – just 15 minutes stroll from the main tourist action. At around $NZ 100 a night for a room (tiny) with ensuite it was less than half the cost of staying in a hotel nearer the city centre – and so we thought what the hell. I did have second thoughts when we saw the many photos of various hen and stag parties that had used the hostel as a base in the past. Luckily there were a few other old farts like us staying and so all was pretty quiet.

Palma is one of those places that you can quite happily wander around without actually going anywhere. On two of our mornings we took a dog-leg route to the old town by wandering down to the sea and along the promenade. Like everywhere in Mallorca there are oodles of cyclists – but on this route less of the lycra clad variety and more cruisers taking in the view, and thankfully in their own dedicated bike lane.

The Catedral Basillica de Santa Maria de Mallorca is simply spectacular, towering above the surrounding buildings on the Palma foreshore. Building began in 1229 but took until 1601 to complete – something to keep in mind next time I moan about roadworks. Like most other churches we have been to over here it was free to enter, albeit there was a brisk trade in candles which can be purchased and lit to remember loved ones. It was a majestic, light and overpoweringly peaceful place.

​From Palma it was an easy hop over to Lisbon. Two hours direct flight at around $NZ 75 each. European air travel is competitive and hence so affordable. Landing at Lisbon we jumped into an uber (the first place we have been where the local taxi drivers haven’t forced them out) and in half an hour plus $NZ 14 later we were outside our next place to stay. And wow . . . what a place.

Lost Lisbon Chiado stretches over one floor on a quiet street in the uber fashionable district of Chiado. It is more of a guest house than a hotel – run and managed by the owner who I suspect has turned his family home into a business. It’s just amazing with older style rooms combined with cutting edge interior design. Picture a tiger’s face painted on to the wall of a classic drawing room – or old-fashioned metal desk lamps melded together into a central chandelier. It all works, and we were sad we only had two days in this beautiful place. Breakfast was provided via a help-yourself buffet – a dangerous proposition if you have a penchant for over-eating . . .

While Lisbon is some 1,200 km from Palma de Mallorca, it’s like you could be walking through one city and mistaking it for the other. On our last visit to Lisbon we stayed in the older area of Alfama, full of tiny shops and restaurants with large ladies singing fados – traditional Portuguese music, usually melancholic and relating a sense of loss or hardship. Chiado, while only about 2km away, is more commercial with larger shops and a little more upbeat. I wandered into one place called the “Amazing Store” (well you couldn’t not) which sold ethically made stuff made mostly from wood. I bought a pair of headphones and could have stayed longer.

My other highly exciting excursion was to get my hair cut. My mate google suggested Figaros, a traditional men-only place specialising in classic cuts from the 1920s to 1950s. My request for a short back and sides was greeted less than enthusiastically and after a long conversation, most of which I followed, we agreed I would have something different. I sat back and just let it happen. I have to say the result looked exactly like every other cut I have ever had, but was delivered with much enthusiasm and panache. I was effusive in my feedback and everyone was very happy.

Our next stage involves meeting Danielle at Lisbon airport (fresh from the Philippines) and picking up our rental car for three weeks in Portugal – first destination Porto Covo and the start of the Fisherman’s Trail.

Well I continue to surprise myself. Here I am in Spanish speaking Mallorca in the middle of a yoga and creative writing retreat. Attending, in addition to me and Jolanda, are Sylvia from Switzerland, Louise and Sophie from the UK plus our instructors Stella and Chris. Vinyasa-flow yoga for an hour and half each morning followed by brunch. Another yoga session, kundalini or restorative in the afternoon. And then, on alternate days, a class of creative writing before dinner. Finally followed by mantra chanting with hand actions. Hand actions . . . ! Well this shy, insecure Kiwi man has come a long way . . .

I have to say I am finding the chanting after dinner the most challenging. I am of course completely out of my comfort zone but, aside from that, mantra participation requires singing along in Sanskrit while at the same time performing quite complex movements. Last night I was defeated by one particular piece. I had to give up on the words and concentrated on following the actions which were surprisingly energetic. At one stage you are required to cleave the air vigorously downwards with clenched fists, as though you are chopping wood. Then follows some quick breast-stroke action before making some hand signs in the air. I was giving it my all when I realised my efforts were becoming the focus of some hilarity from Sophie and Louise. I have to admit playing up a little to my audience while at the same time being aware of some stern glances from Stella. It was a tricky situation . . .

Mantra chanting can be good for you with benefits such as lowering stress levels. I have to say I did find myself enjoying things and felt pretty chilled. I guess you just have to give it a go to experience what it’s all about . . .

We have had two sessions of creative writing so far and I have been transfixed. We are required to “free write” each day – just to write continuously and without stopping. Stella says: “You can’t find the right dance if you aren’t on the dance floor” which is another way of saying writing is a discipline. No discipline – no creativity. We have learned about structuring a story, building characters and about how to make a story gripping. For our homework we had to write a poem. Well that was the first poem I have written in about . . . ever. Thankfully you will be spared the end result in this blog. Suffice to say it involved a boat called Rusty.

Our retreat is based at Finca son Artigues in Mallorca’s south – between the towns of Porreres and Felanitx. The owners have created a wildlife refuge here with donkeys, rabbits, frogs and one quite bouncy three-legged dog. For the guests there are various amenities – two self-contained residential houses with a total of seven rooms, a kitchen block and yoga shala. The grounds are beautiful – two swimming pools, outdoor patio areas – we are quite spoilt really.

To add to our indulgent lifestyle for seven days, all our meals are cooked and served to us around a large communal dining table. All vegetarian, beautifully prepared and presented by Adrienn, a delightful Hungarian girl. Check out her Instagram account “tastemosaics”.

As I sit writing this on our last day, the others are participating in some Somatic dancing – a sort of free dance technique with the focus on exploring the internal experience of the dancer as opposed to dancing for how it looks. Now that is completely out of my comfort zone. I guess one thing I am learning is while it’s liberating to say yes to more things, there is also something to say for having the courage to say no. It’s all about getting the balance right.

So how do I feel at the end of this week? Well I’m pretty sore, particularly in my shoulder. But I am definitely stronger, I feel more flexible and definitely have a quieter and calmer mind. I have hugely enjoyed the tuition and guidance from Chris and Stella – two extremely talented, kind and compassionate people. Check out their profiles https://www.chrisleuenberger.com/ and http://www.theyogabeat.co.uk/

And I have loved the companionship – laughing and talking about things that matter with some seriously cool people.

Our next stop is Palma de Mallorca for our final four nights in Mallorca.

Jo and I are now two weeks into our stint in Mallorca. For those who don’t know, Mallorca is the largest of the Balearic Islands, is part of Spain and sits around 250km off the coast from Barcelona.

Rather than heading straight for the Capital, and largest city, Palma De Mallorca, we instead picked up a rental car and headed straight for the town of Soller – around 50 minutes from Palma airport. Nothing is very far on this island.

The “abcMallorca” website incongruously describes Soller as a modernist town. Well it appeared pretty ancient to me with winding cobbled streets, a bustling central square and beautiful old Church (Església de Sant Bartomeu) built at the end of the seventeenth century and looking anything but modernist . . .

Jo and I had booked ourselves into a 200-year old finca on the edge of town. It was simply beautiful set in almost an acre of garden with a pool, outdoor patio/dining areas and several orange trees groaning with fruit. The finca itself boasted two stories with a curious layout – a large kitchen and bathroom on the ground floor with two sets of staircases, one heading up to one of the bedrooms (and nowhere else) and the other leading up to the main living area plus second and third bedrooms.

Our favourite spot, and one which we made a beeline to at around 5:30 each evening, G&Ts in hand, was a wonderful enclosed veranda with drop-dead gorgeous views of the surrounding countryside and back-drop of towering mountains.

​Mallorca, with its mountainous terrain, is an absolute mecca for road cyclists particularly so with pro-cyclists getting some training in before heading off to compete in the various events in Europe. Everywhere you drive you encounter bikers of all shapes and sizes – predominantly men for some reason. It’s not uncommon to join a long queue of cars following some group pedalling its way up one of many twisting mountain routes. Nobody seems to mind, and I witnessed some good careful overtaking – I guess the value of cycle touring to the Mallorcan economy is well understood. Or maybe you get chucked in jail if you knock a cyclist off his or her bike. Yep . . . maybe it’s the latter.

​The other hugely popular tourist activity in Mallorca is hiking and so that’s what we did on our first day. We chose a route from the town of Soller to Port Soller which is about 4km as the crow flies but more like 10km on our route which meandered through some truly spectacular mountain scenery and picture-perfect tiny villages. We spotted a hotel at about the halfway mark and wandered up the drive to be greeted by smart looking waiters hovering round smart looking guests taking their elevenses in the gardens of what was obviously a smart upmarket resort. To their credit they didn’t seem to mind serving two sweaty trampers “dos espressos por favor”. Jo nicely capped things off by nicking a couple of lemons from the garden . . .

When we weren’t hiking or drinking G&Ts we generally hung out, wrote, read and ate. Jo suggested a game at one stage and so we decided on Trivial Pursuit, which on closer inspection turned out to be in German. No worries I said – we can use my Google Translate app. Well that was interesting. How’s this for a translated question . . . “How much kilo must be a weightlifter in superschwergewicht already on dead weight with it grapple” ? The answer, of course is 110.

Following our week in Soller we sort of stuck a pin in a map and ended up, for the next six nights, in a place called Sa Pobla in the north. I had to admit feeling a little deflated when we drove through the place searching for our Airbnb. Sa Pobla is very much a working town – functional but not outwardly pretty. It’s apparently famous for its potatoes. I mentally kicked myself for not properly thinking through the implications of a potential tourist destination touting its potato credentials . . . But wait, this story has a twist to come.

Jolanda had read there was to be an Easter procession on the evening of Maundy Thursday and so off we trotted to the central Church to be greeted by one of the most differently spectacular sights I have ever seen. Each church in the region seeks to outdo each other with costumes, trumpets, drums and a float, the latter being on wheels and pushed or carried by costumed men. We hung around the Church witnessing everyone getting ready for the off, marshalled by elderly gentlemen carrying electric candles. Somehow, out of apparent chaos, everyone seemed to have worked out their place and off they went at a slow march throughout the town. What a sight – just wow . . .

Next stop after Sa Pobla we head slightly east to the town of Porreres where we are to attend a week long yoga retreat combined with creative writing.

It was 1990 the last time I was in Barcelona – with a group of kiwi mates in an old combi that belched smoke and frequently broke down (actually it ended its days only one week later in Madrid). Back then we camped somewhere on the outskirts of the city and drank the cheapest beer we could find at the supermarket. Hence, I felt I would definitely be seeing Barcelona through different eyes this time . . .

Jo and I flew straight from Bali via Qatar. It was a long haul but hassle free with Qatar Airlines. Great service if anyone is wondering. We had left our resort at Bali at around 6am and it was another 23 hours before we arrived via taxi at our apartment in Barcelona – about 10pm Spanish time. Somehow, we felt it the best idea ever to find somewhere to have a celebratory beer. And so there we were, in an English pub, in the middle of Barcelona drinking Belgian lager with 23 hours of travel behind us. Best beer ever . . .

I can’t begin to describe what a surreal feeling it was to leave our Indonesian way of life in the morning and arrive in this European city in the evening. From heat, bustling activity and beaches to centuries old stone buildings, tapas bars and relative calm. All I can say is that it’s very different here – and for now, in this cool Spring temperature, it feels perfect.

We are in El Born – first time for me and second for Jo. It’s centuries old and full of character with tapas bars and design stores everywhere. The area is made up of a virtual labyrinth of alleyways, many of which cars thankfully cannot navigate – and so is a delight to explore on foot. No chain stores to be seen.

​Just about the best-known activity in this area is the Picasso Museum and that is where Jo headed to on our first day. Normally I will tag along to art galleries but I have to say Picasso leaves me cold and so I decided to explore the impressive Santa Maria del Mar. Built in the fourteenth century it is one of those churches which leaves you speechless. The spaciousness and sheer grandeur of the building makes you wonder how on earth those early architects and masons were able to construct such an imposing structure with none of the mechanical building aids we have today. I spent a happy half hour just sitting, chilling and people watching.

With temperatures now around 16-17 degrees I was beginning to regret packing so lightly. T-shirt and shorts are pretty much de rigueur in Bali but it’s a trifle nippier in these northern parts. I figured I had to buy something warm and was resigned to breaking my habit of purchasing second hand – when lo and behold Jo spotted a charity shop right in the midst of a row of cutting-edge designer boutiques. Jo furthered her hero status by finding a cardigan for me (its actually quite trendy believe it or not). Five euro – which will support Barcelona youth – or something like that.

If you are in Barcelona and have exhausted your shopping, eating and museum agenda – then a visit to the Parc de la Ciutadella is well worth it. Its spacious, unpretentious and such a great people watching experience. I spotted a diverse range of Barcelona – young lovers, Africans selling street art, teens playing outdoor table-tennis, jugglers, oldies and a fair few who were just sleeping of their morning beers in the sun . . .

I would come back to Barcelona. It has a great vibe and embraces being a city that’s just a bit different. April is perfect but I wonder how busy and hot it gets in July/August when European schools break for summer . . . ?

Next stop – a 30-minute plane trip to the Spanish Island of Mallorca.

Jolanda and I are now in Canggu on Bali’s south coast, just down the beach from Kuta, Seminyak and Legian but so much quieter and more laid back. Having said that, the rate of new construction in the two years since we were last here is noticeable. I fear that within the next five or so years Canggu may end up like its noisy/busy neighbours to east.

For $NZ 40 a night (25 Euros) Jolanda and I have a room at Serenity Eco Resort with ensuite, fan and air conditioning right beside the swimming pool. Breakfast also included. Guests here probably end up spending much more with the choice of eight different yoga classes every day, at $NZ 11 per class. Or there is the hugely popular Alkaline restaurant, attached to the resort, offering a massive vegan, gluten free and raw selection. The juices are amazing. If you are thinking of coming here, book ahead – its super popular.

It’s beautiful here and the people, like everywhere in Bali, chilled, friendly and genuine. However, there is one negative in my view – and it’s a big one. And that is the vast amount of plastic pollution, particularly on the beaches. Perhaps it has improved marginally since our last visit, but it’s hard to tell.

By chance I spotted an article on Facebook the other day answering one of the questions I have always wondered about. Where does all the plastic in the sea come from. I know that we don’t willy-nilly chuck our rubbish in the sea and I’m pretty sure neither would the vast majority of New Zealanders. So, who does it?

The World Economic Form claims that 90% of plastic polluting our oceans comes from just ten rivers. And they are: the Yangzte, Indus, Yellow, Hai He, Ganges, Pearl, Amur, Mekong, Nile and Niger.

Eight river systems in Asia and two in Africa. If you went further to list the top twenty, four Javanese rivers would apparently qualify. The rivers reportedly had two things in common: a relatively high population living close to the river combined with a poor waste management process. Of the ten, the biggest culprit by far is apparently the Yangzte river basin, home to a staggering 500 million people. To be fair to China however, while they are the biggest polluter they are also (according to the UN Environment Programme) making major efforts to get better. Well I will believe it when I see it . . .

The amount of plastic in our oceans is, frankly, quite frightening. A 2016 report from sailor Dame Ellen McCarthur suggests that by 2050 there may be more plastic in the sea than fish. Incredible as it sounds, around 8,000,000 tonnes of plastic per year is finding its way to the ocean – equivalent to a garbage truck dumping its load every minute. In a 2018 article, published in Britain’s Daily Mail, plastic particles have been found in three out of every four deep sea fish in the North West Atlantic. That’s the stuff we eat and it’s not right.

I don’t want to be unfair on Bali. There are of course moves to do something about the problem – my personal favourite of which is the effort by two girls Melati and Isabel Wijsen who attended the Green School here in Bali. Check it out – I defy you not to be inspired by these two . . .

However for every anti-plastic warrior in Bali there is still a huge amount of laissez-faire. Back in 2015, Melati and Isabel Wijsen had managed to extract a commitment from the Balinese Governor to phase out single use plastic bags by 2018. Well that never happened. And the Balinese authorities had better take note because it’s hurting the tourist industry. My mate Bron won’t come back here because of it, and she’s not alone. British travel groups are now warning travellers of the problem and in particular to check their intended hotel’s recycling policy. It’s a catch-22 situation – the water is unsafe to drink and so if your hotel doesn’t offer the option to refill your own water bottle, you are forced to use the plastic bottles.

Anyhow, enough hectoring and back to our hedonistic travelling. Off for a massage today, or possibly a spot of ear candling (you don’t want to know). Maybe a swim or two which will take us safely through to sundowners on the beach and then dinner. I know that does sound decadent – but I am truly grateful for the opportunity to live this travelling lifestyle and to experience this beautiful land.

Off to Barcelona the day after tomorrow . . .

It was only 20 minutes drive from Ubud to Shanti Toya Ashram, but life seems so different here. From the busy streets and pedestrian clogged pavements of Ubud to an outlook over rice paddies, native bush and not much else. Aaaaaah . . . .

Actually, this was our second choice of yoga retreat in Bali. Back in New Zealand we originally had our eyes on another place at the top of Bali island. It looked amazing to our eager Western eyes – beautiful looking accommodation, delightful restaurant overlooking the sea and lots of great sounding yoga. Thing is though it was expensive – $3,500 for the week for the two of us.

And then came time for payment. Like so many places in Bali, they wouldn’t take credit card which meant I instead had to a transfer direct to their Indonesian bank account. Well long story short, the payment failed to go through. I had had a nagging doubt in the first place about this particular retreat in Bali’s north and so after some discussion Jolanda and I decided not to go ahead but instead to come to Shanti Toya on the outskirts of Ubud, at a price around 25% of that which thankfully failed to go through the Indonesian banking system.

Which just goes to show how sometimes the world just wants to tell you something. In the middle of nature, Shanti Toya is glorious. It’s most certainly not pretentious – more old-world charm (perhaps a bit crumbly and decayed in some parts) and ultimately authentic. From the top of the property there is an administration block with a restaurant sitting on the top with views of the surrounding rice paddies – serving non stop vegetarian food which just tastes divine. The villas then descend down the path to the river, each one different and slightly quirky, with the yoga shala sitting atop the bottom-most villa, open to the surrounding bush and with the sound of the river running past. At the very end of the property is a grand old swimming pool, resplendent with a few cracks and fed by a natural spring.

All in all, it just goes to show that, in Bali anyway, authenticness is very rarely determined by price alone.

The programme here involves yoga twice a day – 90 minutes starting at 7am and then another 90 minutes at 5pm (the later session being a lot more chilled and relaxing than the morning). In between there are activities set out during the day such as participating in an offering ceremony, cooking class or dancing. I didn’t quite get the courage up enough to participate in the dancing but gave everything else a go, including a slightly strange ceremony where you basically chant to the accompaniment of a hand organ and drum. Oh, and there are also massages and healing sessions available if you somehow get bored . . .

So much about travelling is the people you meet, and I think that yoga really does attract the most interesting, varied and laid back people. In no particular order there is Oena from Romania and living in London, Madhu from India living in Singapore, Amy from Pennsylvania living in China, Valeria from Italy living in Holland, two Lauras from London, Mika and her daughter Clara from Surrey, Marieke from Holland, Jessie from the Philippines and Krishna from India. Krishna and I are the only blokes by the way. Such a nice group of people to connect with, share life stories that mean something – and of course laugh a lot about shit.

So how do I feel now? Well to be honest the yoga has challenged me. I’m not used to three hours of this stuff a day and so I do feel a little sore in my muscles. But I also feel stronger, straighter and calmer. I like my daily 20-30 minutes of YouTube yoga at home, but sometimes you just need to get out of your comfort zone.

Tomorrow Jolanda and I head off again for Canggu on Bali’s south coast for four nights before departing for Spain . .

Our flight from Sydney to Bali via Jetstar was quick and painless. I watched Bohemian Rhapsody and just loved Rami Lamek’s portrayal of the quirky, eccentric and ultimately talented Freddie Mercury. It was then just over an hour’s drive up to Ubud for our first few nights at the Ubud Sari Resort.

We have stayed before at Ubud Sari. It has an ideal location – around 200m up a relatively quiet street from the supreme busyness of Ubud’s main thoroughfare Jl Raya Ubud. All in all, its very good value for money. The grounds are beautiful and the buildings authentic Balinese, however if I was being critical, I would have to say it’s getting a little tired. Eating at the restaurant will make you feel virtuous courtesy of its uber healthy menu, but it’s soulless. And so, it wasn’t long before I was champing at the bit to eat out.

We chose the Fair Warung Bale, a small restaurant located about 500m from our resort, which I was soon to discover probably best sums up my love/hate relationship with Ubud – Bali’s “cultural heart”.

It’s a small restaurant, ten or so tables, on the first floor with views over the street. The food is great, the staff friendly and there was some decent 80’s music playing . . . But what is really unique about the Fair Warung Bale is that all profits are used to provide free healthcare for Balinese people who otherwise couldn’t afford it. By buying one meal you are providing healthcare to two people in need. Three probably if you throw in dessert. The medical centres funded by all those meals have apparently treated thousands of people. They have even funded the construction of a new children’s hospital, opened in 2018.

The Fair Future Foundation, the organisation behind the restaurant, was set up by a Swiss man called Alexandre Wettstein who seems to be one of those people that sees something wrong with the world and actually does something about it. Malnutrition has long been a problem in Indonesia, particularly in children. According to the World Food Programme, Indonesia has the fifth-highest number of stunted children in the world with more than nine and a half million children under five described as malnourished.

We spent some time perusing the various newsletters and articles that are available in the restaurant. Mr Wettstein doesn’t mince his words when describing the incidence and impacts of poor health on the local population, and also doesn’t hold back imploring us relatively wealthy and “overweight” tourists (obviously not taking Jolanda and my trim physiques into account) to chip in with some money to help. Which of course we duly did.

So if organisations like Fair Future represent the best of Ubud, the overpowering traffic, pollution and neglected infrastructure must represent the worst. Walking along the Jalan Raya Ubud is like smoking a packet of cigarettes in a hot yoga studio full of sugared-up toddlers. The traffic is intense and crossing the street requires a leap of faith that the ten million trucks, cars and motorbikes bearing down on you will somehow find a way to weave past at the same time.

Like elsewhere in Bali, there seems to be little in the way of public transport and you are left thinking how many cars, bikes and petrol fumes could be taken off the road if there were a fleet of electric buses servicing the main streets. And if you are one of the many pedestrians that have chosen to ignore the honking of the ever enthusiastic taxi drivers you are forced to share a footpath roughly 12 inches in diameter – and that is when there aren’t gaping holes or a motorbike taking a cheeky shortcut.

Now I know I am being a bit moany, but for goodness sakes, where is the Government in all of this. Since Julia Roberts portrayal of Elizabeth Gilbert in “Eat Pray Love”, Ubud has exploded. What was once a string of smaller villages has now become a congested jungle of shops, restaurants and up-market yoga retreats. It’s simply bursting at the seams with tourist numbers projected to keep on growing and therefore placing even more pressure on infrastructure that just can’t cope. Something has to change . . .

Anyway, now that’s all off my chest, time now to turn our attention to our next destination – a six-night yoga retreat in a much quieter part of Bali just twenty minutes drive from downtown Ubud.

It was a sobering start to our big overseas adventure this year. Thirty minutes before boarding our flight to our first destination, Sydney, the television news got turned up in the departure lounge at Wellington airport. Initial reports of shots fired at a mosque in Christchurch – not much detail but very much an unfolding story. I have never seen a busy departure lounge fall so quiet, so quickly.

Logging back in at Sydney airport three and a half hours later to learn 49 people had been killed and many more injured. We didn’t know what to say. And what could you possibly say that could make any sense of such a sickening act of cruel violence – perpetrated against people in the peaceful act of prayer in a country where they should have felt safe.

To be honest I wasn’t sure about writing this first blog at all. But then my mind went back to the Irish bombings in London when I was working there in the early 90s. And the attitude of London people – determined to keep on enjoying their normal lives, because to do otherwise would be seen as giving in to the evil in this world. So here it is . . .

Our old friend Terry and his partner Tim are based in Sydney – our first chosen stop. I have worked with and had a close friendship with Terry for around fifteen years. We tackled energy efficiency in New Zealand for the first few years before Terry moved off and focused more on Appreciative Inquiry – a concept which basically forces you to confront what you are good at and do more of it. Anyway, after several invitations to just come on over to Sydney for a visit we finally said yes. Funny isn’t it – how things just seem to get in the way of spending time with friends. Why is that? 

Terry and Tim live in Elizabeth Bay with an awesome view of Sydney harbour. The apartment building dates back to the 1950s – and so it’s full of character. Walk out of the main door and you are on MacLeay Street in Potts Point (more on Mr McLeay later), full of trendy restaurants, bars and shops. It’s an affluent area and beautiful, but I wonder how much of a community the place engenders. Hardly any families to be seen – it’s not a place for kids I suspect.

I decided to adopt an attitude of just saying “yes” to stuff when Jo and I travelled for most of 2017. And so, when Tim and Terry suggested a day’s trip to a place we had never heard of, Dangar Island on the Hawkesbury River, of course it was an affirmative. Just do it. For those who don’t know (including us of course), Dangar island is about an hour’s commute north of Sydney’s CBD with a population of around 300 and zero cars. Yes, you read that right – not one car on the island (oh except for a ute which belongs to the council and an electric buggy which is communal and carries heavier loads from the ferry). 

I fell in love with Dangar Island almost immediately. Maybe the absence of cars attracts a different kind of people from normal Sydneysiders. Its daggy!! No house is different, some perched on rocky outcrops overlooking the water while others nestle in the bush with sea glimpses and the sound of birds. It’s almost as though you feel the stress melting off you the moment you step foot ashore. And typical for us, stepping ashore involved an immediate respite at the local café for a flat white and planning session.
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Walking around the island (all 29 hectares of it) we passed communal vegetable gardens, chatted with the locals, walked along the beach and passed various art installations. Terry has had an idea of buying a place on the Island and so we rocked up to a property for sale – nobody there which of course was an open invitation to go and take a look. It was awesome, right in the bush with views through the trees of the water. The place is on several levels – bedroom wing with its own deck, main living area plus another two decks. And then last but not least a separate studio at the very top. Beautifully simple, cosy and unpretentious at a price you would never see in Sydney. I can’t think of a better place for a weekender to escape Sydney’s bustle, join an alternative community of people and luxuriate in the stillness of nature . . .

Back to Sydney where the rain really set in. Terry, unhelpfully in my view, said he had never seen a whole weekend of rain in Sydney. Tim, in a much more practical and helpful frame of mind, suggested we visit the historic Elizabeth Bay House. One point of attraction, with the rain teeming down, being it was a 100m walk from the apartment building’s back door.

The house was built and first owned by Alexander McLeay, who held the position of New South Wales Colonial Secretary. As could only happen in early colonial days, in 1826 McLeay was granted 22 hectares (almost as big as Danga Island) in Elizabeth Bay. If you still owned that and wanted to sell it today, you would be probably be a multi trillionaire. The house he built was probably impressive for the time, but to be honest I felt it was sort of ho-hum. Terry wanted to paint it purple.

And so that was Sydney. A sobering start in terms of the horrors in Christchurch but awesome on a personal level to connect with such great friends – talk, drink, laugh, plot Dangar Island Presidential campaigns (you don’t want to know . . .)

Next stop Bali – where we have spent so much time but can’t seem to get out of our blood . . .

Not so long ago Jolanda and I departed New Zealand’s capital city, Wellington, for Whakatane – a small town in the Eastern Bay of Plenty, home to around 35,000 people.
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I was being transferred temporarily for my job at the Department of Conservation. My new temporary role was to work with one of New Zealand’s largest Iwis, Tūhoe, whose people had felt disconnected from their homeland for around 150 years, but who now had the opportunity to pursue a responsibility-based re-connection on the back of a settlement agreement with the Crown.

At the start of my temporary secondment I felt completely out of my comfort zone. I knew almost nothing about Tūhoe people and what they had experienced. My understanding of Maori issues in general was virtually non-existent. I scratched my head at the time and thought to myself – how the hell did I land up here? I grew up in the heart of Remuera – son of a Doctor – private school education . . . I think there might have been someone Maori at my school? I honestly can’t remember. I went to University at Otago and surrounded myself with well-off pakehas . . . it was what I knew and in my comfort zone.

At the end of my short time with Tūhoe I now feel incredibly connected to the people and the place – more than I think I have ever felt connected to any work previously. Te Kawa (Tūhoe’s long term management plan for a massive chunk of central North island land – Te Urewera) for me was like a light bulb turning on . . . Recognising that we are born with responsibility – not powers and rights and false superiority over nature. Nature is speaking to us all the time – telling us about the world we live in and what’s important. Most of the time we are simply not patient, humble or egoless enough to pay attention to the story.

I have learned a lot about responsibility and caring – what that really means in the context of a post settlement world for Maori people – this stuff means something.

Turning to life in Whakatane – I had always thought of New Zealand as friendly place. I have lived and worked overseas for a number of years in London, Amsterdam and Sydney. None of those places I would have characterised as un-friendly, however it’s not until you arrive back in New Zealand and receive a cheery greeting from a shop assistant at Auckland airport, that you realise what it’s like for someone to ask you how you are – and be genuinely interested in the answer.

This morning, on one of my last days before departing, I drove into the town centre from our rented place on Ohope Beach to do a few errands. First the bike shop where the lady remembered my wife’s name from her call the previous day and we had a general chat about how hot it has been lately and about the bike business in general. Then I drove to my favourite café for a coffee and eggs. Crossing the road to the cafe from where I parked the car involved negotiating almost every driver desperate to stop, let me cross and give me a thumbs up. A chat at the café with the owner and then a walk back to my car encountering a “good morning” from lady putting out tables outside the Sri Lankan restaurant. My last stop was a quick visit to the supermarket, exchanging a “kia ora” with a heavily tattooed and beaming Maori gentlemen getting out of his car.

And that is pretty much a typical day in Whakatane. It’s one friendly and laid-back place – that’s for sure . . .

So where next for us? Well, Jolanda and I have decided to take off overseas for another adventure. Perhaps this sounds a bit greedy after our mega overseas trip in 2017? I guess all I can say is that I am hugely grateful to be able to live the life I do and don’t take anything for granted. So that’s that then . . .

Stay tuned for more on our 2019 Big Adventure. First stop Sydney on March 15th.