Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms

The Morris Eight Tourer Club
of New Zealand (Inc)

What to do? With nothing for eighty miles to the south there was no alternative but to turn around and head back to Hokitika, where after some enquiries I managed to find someone to take care of the thrush. In the relentless downpour I returned to the Morris and set off southwards once more. I defer to no-one in my appreciation of the beech forests of the west coast and the quiet highway that wanders through them, but it is difficult to appreciate anything in such foul conditions. Nor did I bother to stop for lunch. The only mitigating factor was that the wind was from the rear, but as the miles rolled by the rain became ever heavier until, at Franz Joseph, speed was down to 25mph in with negligible visibility and it was almost dark. Under Under normal conditions the tourer's weatherproofing is tolerably effective, but in that incessant deluge it was overwhelmed. Rain drove through the slightest gap or nook, windows steamed up, the valiant single wiper could make no impression, and luggage on the back seat was soaked. All but blind, I guided the old car under a garage canopy, hoping to take stock and sort myself out. I sprinted inside and asked the attendant if he minded, but he couldn't have cared less—none but a fool would venture out on such a day, his expression implied. The best thing on that depressing afternoon was that the Morris had run like a train for 1,200 miles and gave every indication that it would do so indefinitely.

After clearing the windows and a bit of mopping up, the only sensible course of action seemed to press on to the motel, little more than an hour away. At Fox Glacier the monsoon eased a little, a while later it actually stopped and I was able to turn off the wiper motor for the first time in 200 miles. As I pulled into the motel a watery sun came out! Just as well, for there was a great deal of drying out to do. My hostess prepared a sumptuous vegetarian feast, the car was under cover, luggage was drying out in the warmth of the room, and gradually the frustrations of the day melted away.

It rained again next morning, though just intermittently, and it was a joy to drive for half an hour without encountering another vehicle, something I would experience a number of times on the journey. Contrast that with the ghastliness of Auckland, where it can take that long just to get out of the end of your road. The Morris bowled along through mile upon mile of stunning forests, lush ferns in abundant variety and colour lining the narrow, winding highway. As the road turned inland to cross the Southern Alps cloud spilled from mountaintops and hung motionless above water in cavernous valleys like a giant witch's cauldron.  Then the Haast Pass with its first-gear climb, waterfalls crashing down from unseen heights to the roadside, pale cliffs decorated with broad brushstrokes of diverse mosses. As the catchment retreated behind, the drier interior scenery and sun emerged together with good views in blustery winds alongside Lake Wanaka, so characteristic of many Scottish lochs, and Lake Hawera. Reaching Wanaka, the tourer was left in the sun at the motel, still trying to dry out the rear carpets, whilst I went in search of provisions.

The principle aim of booking for two nights at Wanaka was to inspect the Alpine Fighter Museum, which fell short of expectation because of the lack of front-line aircraft and preponderance of Polikarpovs. How many examples of one aircraft type does a museum need? Possibly the display varies throughout the year depending upon the activities of the various aircraft, but it was disappointing that all but a solitary Spitfire should have been absent. So in the afternoon I visited Puzzling World, a unique presentation designed to tease the senses, most notably with striking holograms which appear to reach out from the wall, tilted buildings which cause disorientation greater than one cares to admit, and a three-dimensional maze—well worth a visit. Then it was back to the airport and the transport museum, a comprehensive collection somewhat spoiled by kitsch, clutter, and the neglected condition of many exhibits, some of which had been painstakingly restored but now languish, unused and unloved, in a huge hangar at the back. Unearthed a couple of Morrises there, a Series II and a Series E, both four-door saloons.

Day ten, and on the road once more heading for Cromwell and Queenstown in sunshine which seemed unable to warm the thin mountain air. Kawerau Gorge, the conduit for hordes of tourists on their pilgrimage to Queenstown, was a frenzy of busses and trucks and campervans with little tolerance for a slow old car. I should have gladly avoided it were there an alternative, though it enhanced my appreciation of the peaceful panorama which swept below me from the Crown Range road before easing along to Arrowtown. The historic village basked in glorious sunshine, its mood of tranquil contemplation a soothing balm, an ideal spot to lower the hood. A leisurely sampling of the lovely loop road via Arthur's Point, then a quick scuttle through Queenstown, ruined by the overgrowth of rampant commercialism, to head out along Lake Wakatipu, Manapouri-bound. By three o'clock the hood was up again to fend off a savage, cold wind which at Mossburn became gale-force, but at least the rain stayed on the mountains.

It was a bitter, overcast morning as the tourer headed north on the beautiful drive—I had forgotten how beautiful—to Milford Sound. It seemed to get ever colder as the miles slipped by, but at The Divide the tiny patch of blue sky I had been watching expectantly since setting out expanded a little, and finally at the Sound's edge the sun emerged and the temperature climbed sharply. Pestered by a million sandflies I lowered the hood, and with unimpeded vision at last I could appreciate the spectacular surroundings. Snow cloaked the mountains which towered above as the Morris wound up the long climb back to the Homer Tunnel, where we squeezed past oncoming tour coaches in the almost mile-long dripping darkness. A passenger on the upper deck of a coach almost fell out of his seat with excitement at the sight of an old car, a salutary reminder that far too many governments forbid unrestricted use of vintage machinery. For a couple of blissful hours weather and landscape blended harmoniously as the old motor purred through native bush, alongside rocky riverbeds glimmering under crystal waters, past wild flowers at the roadside.

The next day's excursion across Lake Manapouri to Doubtful Sound was not so blessed, lowering skies threatening to discharge their load at any moment. After a ten-minute stroll through the woods to the launch departure point I had still not decided whether to go, but, reasoning that it might be a long time before another opportunity arose, paid up and took my seat for the 45 minute cruise across the lake to West Arm, where I and my fellow tourists and several million sandflies boarded busses for a slow grind over Wilmot Pass in steadily deteriorating conditions which obscured the vaunted views of Doubtful Sound on the approach to Deep Cove, where the waters of Lake Manapouri exit the mountains after passing through the turbines of the underground power station. Still, as it's one of the wettest places on earth with an annual rainfall exceeding 300 inches, only the most fortunate will enjoy fine weather, and one has to remind oneself that such abundant vegetation—mosses and ferns in countless shades and varieties carpeting lush beech forests—would not otherwise exist. The cruise to the mouth of the sound, where fur seals squabbled on a huge, bald rock, was enlivened by the presence of a pod of dolphins who displayed complete mastery of their environment by keeping pace with the launch at 30 knots with contemptuous ease.

Having returned to West Arm, the buses descended carefully through the long tunnel into the heart of the mountain and the power station, carved out of solid granite. It is an impressive engineering achievement which, thanks to careful management, seems to have a negligible impact on the environment.

Copyright © 2000;  All Rights Reserved