Our morning errands have turned rustic - Sebastian sets up tent and makes coffee on the MSR stove, I fold sleeping mats and bags and run a daily reorganization of the trunk, which boasts kitchen and storage space, along with sections of bedroom and living room. We leave Tararua campground around 8:30 after quick breakfast of peanut butter and jelly chased with milk coffee and head full speed for Interislander ferry in Wellington at 10:30. ‘Moderate Conditions’ on the Tasman Sea rock our stomachs but we‘re super excited anyway, partially because of the rugged coast as we approach South Island, but mostly because we get to charge all our electronics for free over the 3 hour trip. We’ve temporarily turned numb and desensitized to visual stimulus as along as our basic needs are satisfied - silly how simple they are.
crossing over
From Blenheim to St. Arnaud vineyards chase one another. Beautiful Black Water River and Buller River and Route 63 sneak alongside across St. Arnaud Mountain Range. Nature in this country is just sick. Ridiculous. Unreal. You can’t help yourself but gasp with enchantment at every turn.
We keep an eye out for picnic areas that could double as campgrounds for the night but all promising sites are either too close to the road or sit by construction equipment near river bed. As sun is coming down and shadows elongate by the minute we drive past Westport and small town of Tiramoana, where Paparoa National Park opens up to an amazing coastal scenery. Even tough it’s getting late we can’t resist to pullover. As I admire the view, Sebastian disappears into what looks like a private driveway and, after chatting with the owner, extremely nice older gentleman, secures a spot for the night. We end up with the most spectacular campsite we’ve had so far, looking out into a wild Tasman Sea and boulder laced beach.
unreal view from our tent
Going along with our new rustic backpackers lifestyle we wash up under a hose by an abandoned vacation hut on our host‘s property. Contrary to an image of a rough, boyish backpacker I have of myself, I rush with the cold shower as only a girly girl can and manage to duck inside the tent seconds before our host swings by. Sebastian feverishly pulls up his pants just in time before Frank, along with some friends, walks pass announcing he’s just coming around to “look for his crack pot”, then disappears behind the bushes by the beach. [??;)]
Later, enchanted, we stare at the sky, hot coffee in hand. It’s an astronomer’s paradise, with big fat milky way stretched overhead and connecting Tasman Sea with Paparoa Mt Range. Sebastian always used to say that he’s never seen better starry night than years ago, back in Poland. Admittedly, that memory has been topped now.
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