Hatfield And The East

Saturday 21st November. Day off. Travel to Lowestoft. 
Accommodation: The Hotel Hatfield.

It took a good three and a half hours on the road before the bus pulled up outside the Hotel Hatfield in Lowestoft. We were greeted by that ominous sight of a hotel surrounded by scaffolding, and a sign reading, ‘building work being carried out’. Not sure why it needs a sign to tell us that; it’s possibly there to eliminate any idea we might have that the builder, on his weekend off, might be erecting scaffolding for purely recreational purposes.

I know there’s a somewhat sarcastic tone to what I’m writing, but this is one of the all-time-most-dreadful-excuses-for-a-hotel-I’ve-ever-ever-had-the-terrible-misfortune-to-lay-my-eyes-on-and-set-foot-in.


Look, I don’t want to get overly negative, so I’ll begin with the good points. It’s on the sea front; that’s nice, especially on a day such as this (Sunday morning) with the sun in the sky.

The breakfast was good, also; and, one more thing - the staff seem pleasant.
Now, onto some of the other features here: the heating seems to be set to ‘full’, regardless of the outside temperature. I was first put into room 114; it had that slightly old and tacky feel that one comes to expect in many of these seaside resort hotels, and although I’d been struck be the heat in the corridors, it hadn’t as yet fully worked its way into my room. 


I took it easy in the afternoon, and caught up on a little sleep, but intermittently I took note of an irritating underlying sound, that of a constant bass drum beat, the kind you hear in dance music. The noise was there, occupying a ‘space’ if you will, the kind of space or place that makes it hard to decide whether it’s subliminal or not; whether it’s annoying or not, and if it is, whether its annoyance is more volume related or persistence related. 
I wondered, because of the constancy of it if indeed it was an idiosyncrasy of the hotel’s heating system, or some such thing.
Still, I did manage to largely switch off the attention I was paying it and consequently get some rest on my day off.

In the evening I met up with Liam, Pete and Jackie at an Indian restaurant called the Red Rose in the town centre. By the time we rendezvoused, they, the three of them had already been enjoying the pub life here in Lowestoft for quite some time, and so our coherence levels were not . . . how can I put it, ‘aligned’ maybe?
I did my best to catch up though. 
Just for the record, the food was incredibly good. I’d recommend the Red Rose.

So, back home I go, my home being the Hotel Hatfield, room 114. And after watching a little footy I switched on my DAB radio, and drifted off to the sound of Radio Four.

01:30. I’m awake. I’m sweating; the heat of the corridor has finally and fully worked its way into my room. I take off my pyjamas, and lie on top of the bed; the bass drum beat is still, unmercifully, continuing, and now it’s louder - this, as well as laughter, shouts, car doors slamming, engines revving, etc.

Looking out of my window, it becomes clear; there’s a night club adjacent to the hotel, and it’s on my side. Despite this, I try and open my window; my logic being that I didn’t know at this point which was worse, the heat or the noise.
At least if I could get cool I did have ear plugs.

The window was in quite an awkward position, and half awake I reached over beyond the television and my suitcase (the floor area was so small that the only place I could open my case was on the shelf next to the TV), and I tried to turn the handles, three of them, that would allow some air into the room.
Each handle was securely locked in place; there was no way I could open anything. I guess the logic is - who would want to have an open window on the side of the hotel next to a dance club!?

I phoned reception; I’d had enough. The man came to my door, and gave me the key to room 109. At 2 a.m. I was now dressed and transferring all belongings to this new location.

Room 109: the first thing I noticed was the Bell 40W light bulb packaging on my bed. I guessed someone had changed one of the lights, and neglected to clear up properly after themselves. At this point I wasn’t going to worry too much about that.

Then there was the empty biscuit wrapper under the desk.

I ‘part-opened’ the window, I had no choice, every time I tried to open it any wider, as I let go, its own weight returned it back to a partly opened position again. 
So, as with room 114, my sleeping was carried out pyjama-less and on top of the bed, but at least it was marginally more comfortable - and quieter.

The bathroom had no bath, just a shower, one of those with a plastic tray that you stand in. My plastic tray was cracked; you could see that someone had attempted a repair job - to glue / tape it back together; maybe the shower tray repair man had been temporarily successful, or had failed from the outset, I don’t know, however, when it came time for my morning shower it felt like the ground was moving under my feet, and my sense of balance was, not in-substantially, put to the test.

There comes a point when I start suspending my emotions, a point where I live with the knowledge that all things must pass, and that before-I-know-it I’ll be in the next town, the next hotel, the next shower tray.
And speaking of suspended emotions, there are things happening presently within the band, things that at some time soon I could possibly write about. Certainly from my position, and from a cathartic point of view, I’d find that helpful.

Swings And Roundabouts

Saturday 14th November. Day Off.
Accommodation: Worcester Whitehouse.

Not sure why, but I noticed that there are a good number of Saturdays when the band enjoys a night to itself. I very much doubt if there is anything, deliberately speaking, behind the fact that this, today’s leisure / travel day falls immediately after night one, however, I’m starting to believe it’s an effective strategy. What it does is give you time to reflect, discuss and appraise what happened on that adrenaline charged first night.

It felt as though the drive to Worcester took forever.
I usually sit in the back of the bus, over the back axle, a position where every bump, every twist and every turn is experienced with a greater degree of connection. I won’t go into too much detail, but if I were to say that I didn’t like the experience of travelling in a tour bus day after day, I would be expressing my most favourable feeling about that experience. 


One of the greatest things for me has always been the point in the tour when I eventually climb back into my own car; I always equated this moment with getting my own life back - to be again in the drivers seat; to take whichever route I choose; to stop whenever it pleases me.
In the meantime, however, as the bus swings around each corner and roundabout and I get thrown from left to right, and back again, I shall endeavour to travel with all the graciousness I can manage to muster.

I compare getting my car back with the first time I went ice skating. It was a profound experience. My skates were so painful; it was the pressure on the arches of the feet that caused the discomfort; not a sharp, but a chronic pain - a type of pain you even get used to. When I removed the skates at the end of the session, I would describe the relief as nothing less than glorious.

The evening was good. I noticed there was a spa at the hotel, so I went into town to buy some shorts or swimming trunks. I’d never even considered this before, and I suppose it’s pretty obvious, but in the world of retail clothing ‘they’ - swimming trunks - are very much season related, consequently there wasn’t a short in site. Yes, I did say ‘short’ - I only wanted one.

Luckily I found a lady at Debenhams who recalled seeing one or two pairs in the stock room. She vanished for five minutes, then she came back with three pairs of Bermuda shorts. They were all hideous; I chose the least hideous pair.

After a half hour split between the sauna, steam room and Jacuzzi I went back to my room - collecting a pint of Grolsch lager en route - then settled down to watch the Brasil v England friendly.
Then the night got even better; I found an Indian restaurant, and ordered a take away: a tandoori mix grill; on the way back to the hotel I picked up a bottle of Oyster Bay Sauvignon Blanc.

Sunday 15th November. The Swan Theatre, Worcester.

Accommodation: same as last night.

2/30

Another relatively small venue. A nice, and (I think) recently renovated theatre. Always when I played Worcester in the past it’s been at the Huntington Hall venue, but I get the impression that The Swan’s new opening has made way for a venue more suited to electric bands.
The difference in the band’s performance and confidence level was striking tonight, it seems that the day off worked well for us.

Monday 16th November. Reading Concert Hall, Reading.

Accommodation: Travelodge, Oxford Road, Reading. 

Show 3/30

I love the venue even though it was never designed for any kind of music other than orchestral - a typical town hall really in that respect, but in aesthetic terms it appeals to my eye.
The acoustics in these buildings I’ve written about a number of times before, most recently in my account of our Adelaide show: Friday 9th October.

I know some of those in the audience would have struggled to hear things clearly - especially the lyrics, but nevertheless it was an enjoyable night.
One change was made to the set - we dropped The Butcher (second song in), and replaced it with Seagull.

Tuesday 17th November. The Playhouse Theatre, Weston-Super-Mare.

Accommodation: The Commodore Hotel, Sand Bay, Kewstoke. 

4/30

Hardly recognised the place from the last time I visited one of my childhood-favourite places. My last visit though, I should make it clear, was not in my childhood, it was in fact Friday 6th February (Second Thoughts First posting) when this entire area of Britain was covered with snow and ice. Thankfully, today the weather was surprisingly pleasant - certainly surprising given the time of year.

The hotel’s in a neat location - right next to the beach in what the name of the area describes perfectly - a bay with lots of sand.
Didn’t feel as though the band clicked at all tonight. I think we all felt like that to some extent or another, and it’s somewhat unusual for that kind of consensus. Yet as I’ve stated so many times, seldom it seems that the two worlds, the two realities - the one on stage, and the other in the auditorium, are wholly synchronised with one-another. 

When Jackie, our tour manager, tells of great business at the merchandise table, and Maddy, who usually goes out after the show and mingles with the public, returns with tales of joyful ebullience, you begin to realise that it’s best not to dwell on these matters.

Wednesday 18th November. The Corn Exchange, Exeter.

Accommodation: Jury’s Inn, Exeter. 

5/30

The hall, according to my official schedule, that presently sits in front of me has the capacity to seat 500 people; this, the same hall that more than comfortably - much more - seated a grand total of, I think, twenty five when I played here with Phil Cool back in March earlier this year (Sunday May 31st. Over-Egging The Collective).
I did had a fairly strong inkling that we’d exceed that figure today, and my intuition proved correct, with the attendance figure increasing by around four hundred and seventy five.

Went through a bit of a time warp in the second set when Pete and Maddy did their duo spot - Silky. I was sat in the dressing room with a sense of having all the time in the world, and wasn’t at all poised-and-ready to go back onstage by the time the audience applause had died.
The next song was one of mine - Unconquered Sun. ‘Conspicuous’ could accurately describe my feeling as I eventually walked onto the waiting stage in a very quiet hall.

The hotel, Jury’s - I’m not impressed. I stayed years ago at the Dublin Jury’s, and loved it. So I was pretty happy when I saw this one here in Exeter on our schedule - especially after the Reading Travelodge experience. Alas, my room is poky; the staff at breakfast are unhelpful; the cleaning crew are noisy first thing in the morning, and the room doors, when left to close unhindered, slam shut with ferocity. Not recommended.

Thursday 19th November. The City Hall, Salisbury. 

Accommodation: The Mercure White Hart Hotel, St John Street, Salisbury.

6/30

Friday 20th November. The Assembly Rooms, Tunbridge Wells. 


Accommodation: The Royal Wells Inn, Mount Ephraim, Tunbridge Wells. 
7/30

UK Winter Tour - A Wing And A Prayer

Two days at home, actually more like a day and a half, and now I’m back on the road again.

The car problems have continued (read ‘Sunday August 30th’). My fears of the Toyota Previa needing at least a new cylinder head gasket where dispelled, at least temporarily, a few weeks ago - I was in the US or Aussie - when the garage phoned Carol to say they’d installed a radiator, and the car appeared to be fine.

When Carol went to pick the vehicle up, the man at the shop - so she told me - said, ‘it runs a bit sluggish, doesn’t it?’ And on the way home it was stalling.

I knew that it would probably at least have a flat battery after having sat in the drive for as long as it did.
Sure enough, on the day of my return, when I turned the ignition key there was barely enough power to turn the engine over. So I hooked it up to Carol’s car; this I was sure would start the car. No such luck.


I called the Automobile Association man. He was amazingly persistant; very helpful. He even had the driver’s seat unbolted and out of the car - the only way to actually get to the engine. This, alas, is why so many car repair people refuse to repair these cars, they are unbelievably difficult to work on.

Anyway, it looked as though this man’s determination would have only one outcome; I felt confident. It tried to start. In fact, it couldn’t of got nearer to starting without starting. But it didn’t.

Next, I was being towed to George’s, he’s my mechanic (though not the one who installed the radiator). I had previously, with a phone call from New Zealand, booked it in for Monday, my thinking being that perhaps it just needed a couple of new spark plugs or something and then all would be fine; and with ‘all being fine’ I’d have a car to drive to Oxford in Tuesday morning.
Now it was just a case of parking it outside George’s garage, putting the key through his letter box, and then figuring out an alternative means of transport to Oxford.

I’d completely forgotten, but then when the AA man reminded me - I remembered. I remembered that some two and a half months ago - when my car problems began - I had a call from a lady at the AA. These are logically, I suppose, the best times to sell new packages to AA members; I doubt that there are many of us that took out an AA membership in the first place until we felt we had no alternative. 
Well I went for it, I bought into this deal where they give you a hire car for up to three days if your own is off the road. I was saved. Perfect. It was a very shiny and very new model, and I picked it up on Monday afternoon.

Tuesday 10th to Thursday 12th November. Rehearsals at The Warehouse, Kennington, Oxford. 

Accommodation: Longwall Travel Inn, Cowley.
A tough three days, that’s the only way I can describe it. A lot of new songs have been proposed for the tour. All but one are actually old Steeleye tracks, but they are completely new to me, I’d never heard them until today - Tuesday, when I listened repeatedly to the CD I’d burnt that morning as I drove south.
Complex arrangements.
It’ll take some time to absorb all of this.


We ran the complete set on Thursday, the final day, working exclusively on the new stuff up until then. 


The New songs:

1. All Things Are Quite Silent

2. Bachelor’s Hall

3. Sheep Crook

4. Peace On The Border

5. Little Sir Hugh

6. Around Cape Horn (from the new album)

Friday 13th November. The Mick Jagger Centre, Dartford, Kent.

Accommodation: Express by Holiday Inn, University Way.

Shows 1/30

With a capacity of just 350 it’s not the largest of venues, but a perfect way to launch the tour.
The staff were incredibly friendly and helpful, and on the night every seat was sold.
As with all first nights, and possibly more so today, I’d guarantee that every band member felt there was a ‘wing and a prayer’ feeling at many points during the set.

The set list:

Set 1

Little Sir Hugh

Creeping Jane

The Butcher

Bachelor’s Hall

Sheep Crook

Babylon

I Love Not Where I Live

Fiddle Tunes

Around Cape Horn

Set 2

All Things Are Quite Silent

Ranzo

The Silky

Unconquered Sun

Van Dieman’s Land

Peace On The Border

Bonny Black Hare

Thomas The Rhymer

Campervan Vocations

Sunday 1st November. Solo. Bailies Bar, Christchurch. 

Arriving in Christchurch at around 3 p.m., we parked the camper in Hereford Street. With Hereford Street running parallel to Gloucester, Worcester and Lichfield Streets, it’s easy to forget exactly where you are.
For a Sunday the city centre seems quite busy, but very pleasant at the same time. The Cathedral Square where Bailies is situated is a modern looking pedestrian area that stands, not surprisingly, directly in front of a cathedral, one that has its origins in the mid 1800s.

In my world of imagined symmetry, we had not just reached Christchurch, we’d reached the very beginning of the very last episode in our New Zealand story. 
And as is so often the case, whilst I’m looking forward to not having to think about playing a gig for a while after tonight’s show, I know that at some point in the following four days I’ll feel like a drifting, aimless tourist.
This is not to say that we don’t have the most definite plans; we know exactly where we’re going, the things we’re going to do, and when we’ll be doing ‘em. 

It’s just that the purposefulness expressed through a campervan’s persona as it heads this, and then that way - fulfilling all that it was ever meant to achieve in life, does not always reflect the absence of direction carried by those doing the steering.

Already I’m casting my gaze towards 2010; given no blow-outs, or aviation mishaps between here and Preston, there are so many projects I’m looking forward to getting underway.

Another one of my cousins, Mike, lives here, and I’m so glad I got in touch with him. I haven’t seen him since he lived in London back in the seventies and eighties.
Mike used to travel up to my parents house to see his Uncle Jim and Auntie Alice - my parents, and would always leave Preston with a good supply of local tap water; he brewed beer, and always rated the Lancashire water for its softness. 
He met a Yorkshire woman called Elaine, and they moved to Christchurch. Both came to the gig tonight along with their children, Tim and Kitty.

Russell, the man who put the gig together for me arrived at seven complete with PA system; he did a good job on the desk.

It really was an excellent last New Zealand show; and once again, the bit that happens after the show was just brilliant; to be sitting in Mike and Elaine’s house, drinking red wine, getting to know a bit more, quite a bit more, about my long lost cousin was, well, perfect really after my final gig. You relax in a way–when you don’t have something imminent–that you wouldn’t relax otherwise; I was suddenly on holiday; I can’t tell you how good it felt.
Both son and daughter had left home some time ago, and we slept in one of their bedrooms - with a cat - which made it even more perfect.

Monday 2nd November. 

Today, the order of events is as followed; I buy a new tire, and then we head across Arthur's Pass to the west coast. 

Elaine guided us to various tyre venues around Christchurch until we finally found a place that not only had one of these commercial types of tyre which fitted the camper, but that would fit it without us having to book a time and come back hours later; I mean, we didn’t have hours - we had plans. 


The remains of our rear tyre

Well, eventually we found one; I can’t recall the name just now, but they didn’t mess about - I was impressed. They had the job done in a hundred and fifty dollars and a half hour later. Then we set out on Highway 73 towards the Southern Alps and Arthur’s Pass - a mountain pass–originally used by the Maoris–that was discovered by Arther Dobson in 1864; it’s an outrageously scenic means of making ones way to the west coast. 
We parked up at Hokitika for the night.

Over the next three days we just followed Highway 6 to Franz Josef, turning east through the Haast Gorge and Mt Aspiring National Park, along the shores of Lakes Hawea and Wanaka, on to Queenstown, Arrowtown and Cromwell, eventually arriving back in Dunedin late on Thursday afternoon. 


It’s difficult to point to any highlights along the way because it was more like a continuum of highlights, but if I ‘had to’ I’d choose a couple; first the fifty minute flight at Franz Josef which took us over and around Mount Cook and the Fox Glaciers; the second would be visiting Arrowtown; a former mining town with a fascinating history and a great museum.

So, one more night at Alan and Nicola’s, then we’ll drop the campervan off at Dunedin airport, and fly via Christchurch from there to Sydney where we have a twenty four hour stop-over. On Saturday evening we began the long haul back through Bangkok on to Heathrow, and then finally the short hop to Manchester airport on Sunday morning.

I’ll leave you with pictures from our last four days in this amazing country.

Mount Cook and the Fox Glacier from the sky

Blow-Out At Mount Cook

I have to be careful; I mean I could spend way too much time on things–family things–that are only relevant to me. I’ll try to proceed with caution, and not over indulge myself too much in all this family business.

These next two days, Thursday and Friday, had a heightened feeling of eventfulness about them; exploring Dunedin, visiting the house my Father grew up in, and the most fascinating thing - talking to the relations I knew ‘relatively’ little about.

From right to left: Nicola, Carol and myself, outside Dad's childhood abode.

Also getting a perspective, not just of my Father’s life beyond the context of my own (perspective) and my immediate family’s relationship with him, but gaining a greater knowledge of his family’s view of what he did with the rest of his life. 

It might sound like a cliché, but It really did help me get closer to seeing him more as a real person and not just as a Father figure.

Nicols Creek, named after Great Great Grandfather, David, who bought the land believing the newly developing railway system would be routed through it, and hence he'd sell it to the railway company for a huge profit. Characteristic of that time, it was a 'get rich quick' scheme that didn't quite go to plan.

Thursday, I played golf with Alan and Nicola, and enjoyed every single cold, wet and windy minute of it. I’d looked forward so much to just getting out there and hitting a ball around. 


Alan’s a neurologist, and when I learnt that the clubs I’d be using belonged to an anaesthetist colleague of his, I told him the old gag about the woman and the anaesthetist.
It goes like this:

A woman has sex with an anaesthetist, and afterward she says, ‘boy, you must be really good at your job’.

‘Why do you say that?’, he asks. 

She replies, ‘because I didn’t feel a thing!’.

Alan said he’d tell the joke to his friend; I was kind of surprised he hadn’t heard it already, I mean, there are so many musician jokes, and we musicians know just about all of them. So don’t all who work in the medical profession know every doctor joke?

Talking of jokes, my Father was famous for a few, and Nicola reminded me of one as she drove through Dunedin. Bringing the car to a halt she announced, ‘we’ve now reached the dead centre of town’.
I was slightly puzzled for a moment, then I turned to my left and saw a huge cemetery. 


This actually is where my ancestors are buried, but no one seems to know the exact location of the graves.

On the Saturday morning we visited the Otago Farmers Market, next to the railway station. It has a good feel to it.

The parking is just across the street in the Cadbury’s car park, and they’ve come up with the most fantastic idea.

I can’t recall all the details of what led up to this being put in place, but I think there had been one or two problems with how the Cadbury employees car park was being used, perhaps it was a legal issue.
In the end they decided not to have an official charge for those who wanted to park there on a Saturday morning, instead accepting donations; every penny taken (by volunteers) goes to charity.

We bought one or two things at the market, bread, cheeses, before starting out on our journey to Mount Cook.

Pictures taken on our journey to Mount Cook:

Lake Pukaki

Left to right: Sir Edmund Hillary
and Carol at Mount Cook

Travelling back from Mount Cook en-route to Christchurch, only about 15 / 20 kms into the journey on highway 80, and on a couple of occasions I was thinking to myself that the van was feeling slightly unsteady; I figured it was probably something to do with the camber of the road.

Then, suddenly, very suddenly, my concerns were more focused on whether or not I could keep the vehicle on the road. It was the back of the van that seemed to be gliding, swinging to one side and then to the other.
This had never happened to me before, and it was extremely unnerving!

If ever there was affirmation for the argument to keep ones speed down this was it; I swear, if I’d have been taking full advantage of the 120 kph limit I believe the vehicle would have at least ended up on its side - or maybe even in Lake Pukaki which ran along the left side of the road. 


As it slowed, I guided the camper off the highway and onto a gravel covered area between the road and lake. It was an early Saturday evening; the weather was absolutely beautiful - the sunlight bouncing off the water. And there I was - in the middle of nowhere, the rear near-side tire was in shreds; I was very tired - and somehow I had to summon the energy to change the wheel on this monster.

Carol was fantastic. She asked where the handbook was - it was in the glove compartment.
She found the ‘how to change the wheel’ section, and began shouting instructions at me.

“You’ll find the car jack and the wheel wrench by the base and to the right hand side of the drivers seat”, she began.

I followed each move to the letter, but did struggle to locate a good position under the van for the jack. It took forever to raise the vehicle even just slightly. I eventually felt confident enough to start loosening the lug nuts; yes, of course, there is always one that won’t move. It was impossible; it appeared to have its corners rounded slightly, so whenever the lug wrench reached a certain torque it lost its grip and slipped off. 


It was becoming more a test than anything, a test of my strength of character, and I felt that I was failing.
I was having to stop periodically to get my breath back and collect my thoughts.


I looked at my hands - the ones that were meant to play guitar, not work on cars - they were black, and one of my fingers was cut and bleeding. The two colours contrasted nicely.

‘If I could raise everything a little more’, I thought then I’d be able to turn the wheel around slightly and get a different angle of attack on the nut.
No, the whole thing wouldn’t go any higher, the jack position was proving to be at fault; there was only one thing to do, and that was to start all over again.
I reversed all that I’d done, then moved the bus backwards to a more level area - I figured that might help.
Now I placed the jack underneath the axle - an alternative position as shown in the handbook - and it seemed to be working. This time the problematic lug nut was in a different position, and with a lot, and I really mean - ‘a lot’ of huffing and puffing, the nut moved slightly, and then a bit more. I got the wheel off and then managed to get just enough height on the van to slip the spare on.

We were back in action, back on the road - yes; totally exhausted and with an enormous feeling of uncertainty - just waiting for the next thing to go horribly wrong. Of course, as the miles pass, in this case - as the kilometres pass, a most organic, unmeasured, process takes place, as calm gradually reintroduces itself - replacing and displacing all notion of catastrophe with unquestioned surety.

Lake Tekapo

Later we parked up at Lake Tekapo for the night. I hate to repeat myself, but the location and the views were absolutely incredible; but what do you expect? - we’re in New Zealand for Christ’s sake.

Lores Of Relativity

Monday 26th,
Tuesday 27th, October.
Picton to Dunedin.



On arrival at Picton, and after a little confusion as to the exact rendezvous point, we eventually located our campervan. 

An extremely likeable chap called Brian–who not only looked just like my Father, but also seemed to have his demeanour–showed us where everything was and how to refill the water / gas tanks; how to dispose of things / hook up to electricity supplies, etc.

‘Maybe everyone, well, every male, down here looks like my Dad?’, I thought to myself; ‘maybe it was something to do with the Scottish descent?’.
A lot of cash changed hands. I was a little unclear about this part. I’d taken care of the deposit before leaving England, and though I knew the balance would need to be paid on our arrival here I felt certain that there would be a means of paying with a credit card; I was wrong, and it was just as well I’d received cash in hand for the work I’d done thus far.

So this was it, after all these years I was finally on New Zealand’s South Island. And from all that I’d been told, I was in a ‘holding pattern’, a state of suspended anticipation; and I wondered when my jaw would start dropping.
There was little need for a GPS, all we had to do was find Highway one, and keep going until Dunedin gets in our way. Our plan is to stop about halfway between Picton and Christchurch, and tomorrow about the same between Christchurch and Dunedin.








It’s very difficult to write on a regular basis, let alone write at all when constantly on-the-move and travelling as I have been these last two weeks. Much of what’s been written has been done so well after the event, and I’ve struggled to recall many of the small backwaters we passed through or stayed at as we journeyed south along the east coast.

It’s almost not even worth saying - because we all know it; I already knew it; but you don’t ‘really’ know it until you’re there seeing it for yourself; but the scenery is actually remarkable. As my Cousin, Nicola stated to me later: ‘if the sun is out, it’s difficult to take a bad picture’. Here are a few more pictures taken on our first two days here. . .


























Wednesday 28th October. Solo. Celtic Music Arts Festival, the Otago Settlers Museum, Dunedin.

I’ve dreamt of this day ever since I sent my first tentative email enquiry to NZ. I knew I’d probably get the odd gig, but didn’t think it would go much further.

The prospect of playing in Dunedin was something I had a feeling about that I’ve tried often to articulate without much success. 
I don’t get overly sentimental or precious about matters of heritage and ancestry. If I’m to be completely honest, I’ve looked toward some of my relations here in England with a somewhat conditional view; it’s a view that was coloured very much by the difficulties I had growing up. Some of the rubbish that was said to me as a kid was nothing short of brainless; and whether it was a school teacher, an Auntie or an Uncle, it gave the phrase, ‘you can’t chose your relations’, significant meaning.

I know that it’s not necessarily the smartest thing to go through life viewing things on the basis of what your impressions were as a seven year old, and I’m not sure that’s even what I’m doing. I just like the idea of relating to one-another as people rather than swearing some blind allegiance on the basis of bloodline. But of course, if you’re interested in the lives of others, you do also become interested in your ancestry, and interested in your relations - as people.

Marcel Safier is someone I met for the second time when I was in Australia a few weeks ago. Marcel’s a doctor who lives in Brisbane, and as well as being pretty handy with a camera (see his pictures: Courting With Kangaroos. Saturday 3rd Oct, The Tivoli, Brisbane), he’s very much into the subject of genealogy. I told him a little about my family on my Father’s side, and within a couple of days I received two family trees, and this, a picture of a newspaper cutting from the Otago Witness, dated 6th March 1890.

This was my Great, Great Grandfather, the original Nicol who spent not much short of four months at sea, taking his wife and eight children with him to start a new life here in New Edinburgh.

On ‘my’ arrival in Dunedin I phoned Cousin, Nicola, for the directions to her house. For the next three nights we’ll be lodging with her and husband Alan; not forgetting their trio of children: Hannah, Kate and Amy.

They have a lovely house overlooking the fifth hole of the Balmacewen golf course - purported to be the oldest course in the southern hemisphere. Speaking of which, we have a tee-off time tomorrow afternoon.

But back to the show. It’s at the Otago Settlers Museum, a building dedicated to all of those, like David Nicol, who took the fateful decision to board one of those primitive sailing vessels of the nineteenth century.
This is ‘the’ place to not only learn about these early settlers, but also to carry out research into your family history; as they put it, they have 'an extensive collection which includes manuscripts, photographs, newspapers, directories, cemetery records, church registers, and diaries'.

So from my own point of view it seemed the perfect place to play.
I kept thinking, ‘I bet my Dad came here as a young man’. As I stood on stage I looked out and imagined him in that same room - oblivious to the day I would be standing there myself, performing to these people. It’s surprising I could remember the lyrics.
Actually, when I got to the encore, ‘If Ever I Return This Way’ I couldn’t remember some of the lyrics, but that was more because it had been so long since I’d last played it - not very professional, I know; but I just thought the sentiment was fitting.

The agreed fee for the concert wasn’t particularly high, but I was so pleased to play here that it was the least of my concerns. Based on what else was happening in the city tonight, the organiser had anticipated a small audience; we were, however, more than pleasantly surprised; it was sold out, and the fee was doubled.

The evening concluded with food and wine in the company of family and friends of family. A truly magical night.

Gumboots At Wellyfest

Tuesday 20th October. Turangi and Lake Taupo.










Hot mud pools at Turangi



Lake Taupo








Wednesday 21st October. The Paramount, Wellington.

Arrived at Musichaven - a bed & breakfast run by Ruth Birnie and Gerard Hudson - at about 4 p.m.. The arrangement here is that we’ll be staying for the next four nights; Acoustic Routes, the organisation who are staging today’s show are covering the first night of accommodation, and tomorrow’s I’ll be paying for.
For the next three nights, however, we’ve struck a deal; Carol and I house-sit, feeding the cats, etc. while Ruth and Gerard stay at the Wellington Folk Festival, and we get to stay here free of charge. 
I think it’s very generous of them; it feels good to be in a house, in one location for a while. And it gives me a chance to catch up on laundry.

Ken at the Paramount

Pictures: Gerard Hudson

Acoustic Routes is headed by Mary Livingston, a woman of considerable energy and organisational skills. I have been nothing less than humbled by the help she’s extended to me, not just in relation to tonight’s concert, but towards my entire NZ excursion. She advised on places to visit, helped get me booked at the weekend’s folk festival, arranged for the above accommodation, and even on how best to get my CDs to New Zealand without incurring a fortune in postage and excess baggage costs.

The Paramount is a good venue - a cinema, but with an artsy, café-like feel to it. Opening tonight was duo: Rob Joass and Jo Moir.
The audience size was respectable, though a little down on what we’d hoped for, but never-the-less, I enjoyed the evening enormously.

Thursday 22nd October. Solo. The Mayfair Cafe, Upper Hutt.


This was the most recently arranged of shows here. I received an email from Paul Lambert, someone who works for the Upper Hutt City Council, on the 27th September asking if I could fit an extra date into the schedule.
The only problem I had with this was the issue of whether it would have an adverse effect on audience numbers at the other shows close by. There was no way of knowing really, but I was concerned after Mary had told me what a small-knit music-going community it was in the Wellington area.
It took a fair degree of deliberation on my part, and a few phone calls to make sure I wasn’t doing the wrong thing and stepping on any-ones toes, before saying yes to Paul.

This afternoon, 4-ish, I met with producer Sean McKenna and presenter Chris Whitta at Radio New Zealand to record a half hour interview. Chris certainly seemed to have does his research; I was impressed with the questions he asked. Obviously, because of the internet, it’s much easier these days to get background information on just about anyone, but still, he came across as having done a more thorough job than most.

As well as talk about the usual - music-related - subjects, a big area of discussion related to the New Zealand family origins on my Father’s side, and I mentioned I had many cousins, half-cousins, etc, over there. 

We didn’t just talk; I played / sang three pieces: Midsummer Night Dreams, 2 Frets From The Blues, and the instrumental I.H..


The show goes out this coming Labour Day Monday. I should mention that the radio slot was yet again something Mary Livingston had organised for me; I wonder if she’d like to go into management?

Saturday 24th & Sunday 25th October. The Wellington Folk Festival, Wainuiomata.

I’d been booked to perform two sets here this weekend, the first on the Saturday morning, and then again on the Sunday evening in the final concert - both in the main marquee.


That was the plan. However, when I arrived there was a problem, the power had failed earlier that morning, and in the meantime nothing was happening in the main marquee.

Everyone did seem very confident that the power company would rectify the situation by the time I was due to take to the stage at 12:45, but should the problem not be sorted, I was to play in the Maire Hall at 1:30 - and that’s where I ended up playing - totally unplugged.

I was a little unnerved by the prospect of doing an acoustic set, but there was actually something that felt very good about it once I got going.
The crowd was great; there was a good feel to the session. 


Probably within a couple of hours, maybe less, the fuse had been fixed - yes, that’s what it was - a fuse. Must’ve been a bloody big one!; I understand that all of the houses beyond a certain point in the valley where the festival was held had been effected. 
Power or no power, this was the beginning of a memorable weekend.

We’d been warned by more than one person to bring gumboots with us. The weather here is notoriously unpredictable, and the need for footwear that will equip for the rain and mud, which is by all accounts oft encountered, has certainly not been understated. 

The term ‘Gumboots’ is, here in New Zealand the terminology used for such foot protection; they are, of course, what we in the UK class as ‘wellingtons’, a noun that most, if not all over here are fully aware of. So, although I’ve not had this totally clarified, when they talk about 'Wellyfest' I get a strong impression that the inference is twofold.

Tim O'Brien / Two Oceans

Photagraphy: Gerard Hudson

I made sure I caught some of the headline act: Tim O’Brien and Two Oceans Trio. Well, that’s a bit misleading and implies there’re four in total. He is one of the trio, so perhaps I should call it: The Tim O’Brien Two Oceans Trio, or just - The Two Oceans Trio?. Either way, I loved it. Very tight. Brilliant musicianship all round; knocked out with the mandolin playing. 
As well as Tim, there’s Gerry Paul on guitar, and Trevor Hutchison on bass.

Sunday, and the final concert. I felt I wasn’t at my best, but I have to say it appeared to go well - certainly if the line of those interested in my CDs was anything to go by. 

I met some lovely and interesting people here this weekend. Our five days in the Wellington area is a time I’ll never forget.
Tomorrow we drop the car off, and hop onto the ferry that will take us to the South Island.