Day One.

A road trip has always sounded exciting and adventurous. You set off
into the unknown, not really knowing what you will find on the way. You feel a
sense of freedom that you can leave the mundane stuff like weeding the garden
behind and live a little more on the edge. The car was packed up yesterday with
just about everything I think I need and this morning I set off on another
adventure. I am travelling in quite some comfort this time as I have a mattress in
the back of the car. This means I will have to fight for space with my two dogs
who are accompanying me. In addition, I have also been able to strap my car
fridge into the front seat so that I can just flip the lid open to get a cold drink,
some smoked salmon or some chocolate. Well, that's what's in there at the
moment. You can see my diet is tasty but not especially healthy. Under the
passenger seat I have a plastic box stuffed with chocolate toffee biscuits and
gooey marshmallow biscuits. These are for emergency use if I get caught in a
snowdrift and need a sugar rush to help me dig myself out. As stocks get
depleted I will have to find civilisation and some shops. The dogs are a bit of a
mixed blessing. Toby, the younger dog, just settles down and sleeps all the time
while Rufus sits alert like an annoying back seat driver waiting for disaster to
strike. Unsettlingly, his doggy sixth sense has been pretty reliable in the past and
I know to be worried when he growls trying to stop me going down roads will
only end in tears.
On a previous trip I managed to destroy a car engine as I raced incautiously along
a dirt road and hit a hidden ford. Either there was no sign warning of the ford or
I had missed it as I looked at the scenery. In any event, I drove into a deep stony
ford at a speed that managed to wreck my engine, radiator and fans. Rufus
barked disconsolately, lay in the back and looked at me with his 'I told you so'
face. This might have been just a disaster as opposed to an unmitigated disaster
had I not been on one of the most remote roads in New Zealand which crosses
the massive Molesworth Station - all 180,000 hectares of it. It’s home to New
Zealand’s largest herd of cattle, believed to number over 10,000 but it’s quite
hard to count them in an area that size. It’s a terribly beautiful place but
unforgiving. At the homestead they get ground frosts two days out of three,
which gives you an idea of how miserable it must be to live there all year. They
close the road in Winter as it’s basically unpassable. When I hit the ford I was at
least 40 KM from the end of the dirt road and there wasn't exactly a lot of traffic.
Luckily some guys in a large utility truck came along to rescue me after I had
been stranded for about half an hour. They had been fishing and enjoying some
hand-rolled cigarettes that looked suspiciously fat. They seemed in a very
relaxed mood. So relaxed in fact that they seemed to have forgotten I was
attached to their vehicle by a tow rope he minute they got back in their cab. They
set off with a jolt at high speed laughing, chatting and sharing their fat cigarette
frequently. There is nothing quite like the feeling of being towed at high speed
along a dirt road with no power steering and almost no brakes by two extremely
happy guys who quite obviously have forgotten you are there and who have an
important appointment at bar when they get to their destination. At those
moments you wonder how a pleasant drive managed to turn into an adventure
that would not have been out of place in New Zealand version of Fear and
Loathing in Las Vegas. Anyway, it all ended well as they pulled me into the
forecourt of a garage in Hanmer Springs what seemed like an eternity later. I

proffered them a $50 bill to thank them as it would have cost four times that
amount to have a tow truck collect me. They made a show of unwillingness to
accept my largesse but I could see them mentally calculating how many more fat
cigarettes they could buy with the note. They both embraced me a tad too
warmly for comfort and screeched away to their appointment that, I suspect,
went a lot better that they had expected fuelled by my generous donation.
Yesterday, Gill stood at our gate waving me off trying not to look worried with a
brave smile on her face. Like Rufus she worries that dirt roads have a habit of
biting the unwary and that’s not something I can argue with.
My first stop today was at the historic site of Lyell. At first sight this remote spot
looks like a perfectly empty car park and that, indeed, is what it now is. On the
hillside used to stand a thriving, populous mining town but nothing is now left.
It's hard to believe that in the 1860's this place attracted prospectors from all
over the world in a mad gold rush. In the beginning the only access was by the
dangerous Buller River. The boom only lasted about forty years before the gold
ran out. Over time, fires and earthquake destroyed the town, which was finally
abandoned. All that remains is well hidden. Near the car park is small sign that
could be easily missed. It points forlornly with the single word 'cemetery'
towards a track that disappears upwards through dense bush. Occasional shafts
of sunlight turn the mossy wet banks to startling green. The path itself is only
about 50 cms wide in places and composed of slippery, sharp shale. To your left
the ground falls steeply through dense forest to a barely glimpsed river
thundering far below. About half a kilometre into the forest the path winds
below a spectacular bush waterfall and you have to hop from stone to stone to
get across the river. You feel the cold rush of air from the water as it tumbles
down and then suddenly you are there, standing looking at the last resting place
of some of the mine workers and their families. Each grave is surrounded by a
simple metal fence and the head stones are strewn across the side of the steep
hill in amongst the trees. Over the years the bush has encroached and one grave
has been smashed by a falling tree which has twisted the metal railings into
strange shapes. There are only about 20 graves and it seems such a lonely and
remote place to be buried. Standing there listening to the bird song and the wind
in the branches was both eerie and beautiful. The presence of those long-dead
miners gave a special poignancy to the beauty of this private bush clearing. This
is what I love about the road. There are these moments of intense beauty that
defy description.

I stopped for lunch by a river and spread some of my smoked salmon on bread.
On balance, life is pretty good if you can watch the sun glinting on river and
stones while you munch delicious food. There was nothing to photograph until I
got to Punakaiki on the West coast. On previous occasions I have visited in
winter and the place was deserted. Today it was full of holidaying school
children and tourists. The ocean was a magnificent topaz colour. I had never seen
the West Coast look so beautiful. Usually it’s raining. The coast at Punakiki has
strange pancake like rock formations which are, apparently, the result of
creatures and mud piling up over several million years. Water has eroded blow
holes which explode with surprising force and noise. It was thunderous and

spectacular. A group of tourists were huddled together discussing the best way
to avoid spray getting on their cameras and busily polishing their lenses every
five seconds. I got some photographs of the exploding water and left the tourists
who still hadn’t solved the spray problem to their satisfaction. I arrived in
Hokitika about 4-30 pm. I had stopped to buy some food so I laid my pick nick
out on a table by the beach to watch the lowering sun. I felt so good I thought I
might experiment with taking a 'selfie'. I had wanted to do this for some time but
self-consciousness always got in the way. Now that I was alone it seemed a good
moment. I had no idea they were so difficult to take. The main problem is that my
phone has no back facing camera. It’s an old phone. This means the screen is
pointing away when I try and compose the shot so I’m working blind.
Photographers usually like to see what they are taking. This was, however, the
least of my worries. The other problem was that I had no idea where the capture
button was once I turned the screen away. I was stabbing in the general area but
failed to hear the magic artificial shutter sound. Only after I had made several
failed attempts did I spot a woman on a balcony in some holiday apartments
behind me. She had obviously been observing me for some time as I flailed about
trying to capture my happy, relaxed, smiling image. At that point, I gave up the
battle. The idea of being observed in the act of failing miserably to take a selfie
was just too embarrassing.
All photographers ask the 'why' question. There has to be a reason to do what we
do. I have never believed that photographers are artists. We are, I think,
chroniclers. We cannot create something that is not there, nor can we
substantially alter what we see through the lens. We just point and shoot. That
raises the question of motive. I realised that a lot of my motivation comes from
anger. Anger that powerful interest groups, usually trying to accumulate more
and more money, are stealing democracy away from us. Anger that politicians
have stood by and accepted the cheques and subtle bribes that have been offered
to look the other way. Anger that corporate greed has spread its tentacles into
every level of government and society. We are all paying a price for the obscene
unnecessary profits of multi national corporations who bow to no masters. We
are going to pay a terrible price for their headlong rush to maximise profits with
no regard to the environment or future generations. We have lost the ability to
realise when enough is enough. Most of all I am angry that we are powerless. We
have stupidly allowed those who are supposed to serve us, the people, to wage
unnecessary wars based on lies. We have allowed governments to brush the
malfeasance of the money men under the carpet. We have accepted that the
mantra of national security now means our personal liberties are being eroded. I
am a child of the sixties. In those days I marched in demonstrations in Dublin
against the Vietnam war. There was no fear then that my e mails, my writings
and my thoughts would be lifted from the ether and filed away for future
reference in much the same way as the East German Stasi collected every little
morsel of information on innocent citizens. Our ability to state a contrary view is
being chilled and will, eventually, be frozen. When I enter the lonely world of my
trips I realise that I can take back some power. I have the power to affirm. Keats
wrote that 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all ye know on earth, and all ye
need to know'. When I was a student I did not realise the full import of those
words. We have become desensitised to the mendacity of power. We listen to

lies by politicians about why they do the things they do. We listen to lies about
what banks really do behind closed doors as they rig rates and cynically profit
from the most vulnerable members of society. We have stopped questioning the
lies told about creeds and people who are different to us. A beautiful image is a
truth. No one can diminish it or take it away. Once created it is there forever,
even if the image lies in a dusty drawer for centuries. Its power will never
diminish. To create a truth is a very special thing in a world where the currency
of truth is being steadily devalued.

On my road trips I like to sleep in the back of the car. This causes quite some
concern to my wife and son who do not believe this is a sensible way to behave.
On those nights when ice coats the inside of the windows I have top admit they
have a point. But on a fine night I can look out when I wake up in the middle of
the night and see the Milky Way arched over my car. I can hear the lapping of
water on a nearby lake and I can hear the utter silence. However, sometimes my
luck runs out and my first night on the road turned out to be less restful than
usual. When I stay in a town I try and find a quiet place to park up which has
street lights but I made the mistake of parking near a huge roller door on a side
street that looked like it would have no night traffic. At precisely 3.55 a.m. a huge
articulated lorry and trailer drew level with my rear door, stopped, put on
hazard lights, and turned the engine off. The logo on the side was that of a major
supermarket chain and I realised that I had inadvertently positioned myself at
the goods entrance. How was I to know that the first delivery would be at 4.00
am? The lorry had parked right in the middle of the street - the driver confirming
my excellent judgement that this was a quiet street with little passing traffic-
unless of course you count giant rigs. I made a quick calculation that he was
there was no way he could reverse his gigantic trailer into the loading bay and,
therefore, a fork lift would be required to transfer the pallets of cocoa pops or
whatever delicious delicacy was on board. Right on cue the little yellow beeping
vehicle appeared and the drivers exchanged pleasantries. Both men were
oblivious to the fact that the car parked next to them had an occupant. As it was a
warm night, I was wearing underpants and a tee shirt. My natural modesty
dissuaded me from opening the back door and exposing myself to their gaze.
There is nothing one can do to look dignified as you exit, in night attire, from the
rear passenger door like a mollusc exiting its shell. There was no alternative but
to reverse my position in the back of the car so that my feet were pointing at the
dash and thread my way between the front to seats into the driver's seat. I've
never driven a car in my bare feet but there was no alternative. I waited till the
fork lift had started unloading and the lorry driver had disappeared to make my
getaway. I chose a remote spot to spend the rest of the night.

Day 2

My alarm went at 6 am and I set off immediately for Lake Mahinapua which is
about ten minutes out of Hokitika. I have taken some gorgeous shots here and I
was hoping for some great atmospheric conditions. There is a camping ground
by the lake and when I arrived everyone was still asleep. It seemed such a waste
that people who had come half way round the world should be asleep during a
magnificent dawn. I had to resist the urge to bang on their windows to alert them
to the impending spectacle. The sky was not promising as I stood on the jetty
and waited for first light. All around me fish were jumping in the pre dawn light
to get their breakfast. When I have been here before in winter there has only
been the occasional splash. This morning they were feeding ravenously. When
dawn came it was four on a scale of ten, so I was disappointed. It's the first time I
haven't managed to get a special shot in this location. Oh well... That's part of the
job I suppose. So much in landscape photography is luck. Simply being there is
half the battle. Lesson one is that getting up early is the easiest way to become a
really good landscape photographer. Most times, when the conditions are right,
you’d have to shake the camera like a rattle not to get a really good image.
On reflection I photograph atmospheric conditions more than scenery,
Bright sunlight is a bit of a problem as far as I am concerned. I want moody
clouds. The sun flattens everything except in those few hours after dawn where
it is hitting at an acute angle. Unfortunately today was bright and sunny for most
of the trip so I was not able to capture much of interest. With nothing to
photograph my mind has plenty of time to wander. I enjoy these trips because
they give me the time to articulate my feelings. I realise when I compose these
journal entries that the majority of our lives are unrecorded. Thoughts flit
through our minds and happenstance dictates if they make it beyond the internal
monologue we all have with ourselves. Because I have time at the end if the day I
can reflect on my experiences and this is a luxury. I realise that so much of what I
think dissolves into the synapses of my mind and is lost forever. My iPad allows
me to transfer the random thoughts of my mind into concrete form. I have no
idea if these thoughts make sense and it's like writing in the sand- except that the
waters cannot wash them away. I realised long ago that the value of recording
my thoughts lies not so much in their meaning, but in the fact that they take on a
permanence. Years later they become a window into a person that I risk
forgetting with the passage of time. They are an affirmation of the internal made
external. Part of me knows that when I die all my thoughts die with me so maybe
that's why I want to write them down. Our thoughts are who we are much more
than our job or our achievements. They are our essence. It has taken me a long
time to realise that my photography serves the same purpose. It is a sort of
writing with images. I never know if anyone will see the images the same way as
I do. I never know if anyone will spend more than a second glancing at them.
They are a way of speaking about things that I find difficult to articulate.
Photography has become a very personal language to me but I often fear that it is
a monologue. For it to become a dialogue, the viewer of my work has to engage
and I have no way of knowing if that ever happens. We cast our work into an
empty space and have to leave it there wondering who will find the message in a
bottle that we wanted it to deliver.

My first mishap of the day happened when I tried to take a sip from my juice
bottle. I pulled the mouth piece open, whereupon a fountain of orange juice
erupted all over my trousers, my iPad, my steering wheel and portions of the
dash. I hesitate to use the hackneyed 'spectacular' word but I can truly say it was.
I have concluded that air had expanded with heat inside the bottle and I was the
victim of one of the laws of gases which I must have learned at school but which I
have long forgotten. I have spent part of the morning wondering if there might
be a commercial application for this phenomenon. It was the sort of thing that
would go down wonderfully at children's parties. There was quite a dense early-
morning mist so I was hopeful that I might catch the sun low on the horizon
through the fog. I was exceptionally lucky that this happened just as I was
passing some farmland with some miserable looking sheep standing around
aimlessly. I then headed for my favourite place, Hakatere Conservation Park.
What I love about the place is the fact that it is a hidden jewel and that the scale
of the scenery is monumental. You drive down what seems an endless boring
road and suddenly you feel you have exited one world and entered another. I
imagine it as similar to entering Narnia through the wardrobe. It is a world of
high distant mountains and beautiful lakes. It's like nowhere else you have ever
been. It resounds to the cries of birds and the sound of the wind in the high
grasses. It is as far from 'civilisation' as it is possible to get and the sort of place
you dream about as you stand at busy intersections in crowded cities wondering
if another life might be possible. It’s certainly the sort of place where you are
unlikely to bump into a Wall Street banker or one of their poodle politicians.
I’d like my ashes to be scattered in Hakatere because I can't imagine a more
beautiful place to return to the earth. I know that probably sounds a bit morbid
but Gill and I have often talked about the fact that death is not something that we
should pretend doesn't exist. It is a natural end to a process. We have no idea
what form it will take but we know it is inevitable. It is the only inevitable thing I
can think of and yet we don't often factor it into our thinking about life. We are
so busy living and that's as it should be. As we get older we begin to wonder
about our legacy. What will remain of us after we are gone? I know that my
photography plays some part in trying to represent something tangible that is a
part of the person I am now. I am in my sixties so it would be somewhat
unrealistic to suppose I have as long in front of me as I have behind me. This
realisation is not necessarily a bad thing because it pushes me to do things like
go on these trips. It would be a lot more comfortable to stay at home and not
subject myself to the endless kilometres on dirt roads. I dislike ready-made
cliches like 'carpe diem' ( or 'carpet' diem as autocorrect wanted me to write)
mainly because constant repetition wears away the subtler meanings. However,
having an eye to the fact that time is not limitless pushes me to create things that
are timeless. I would like to think that landscape photography transcends time.
Many of the scenes I photograph have probably not altered that much in
millennia. A bit of erosion here, some trees born and died there. But essentially it
is the same scene that was there thousands of years ago and will, I hope, be there
forever. I wrote earlier that I believe that photographers are chroniclers. If that's
the case there is an illogicality in the previous paragraph. Why chronicle the
timeless because it will always be there? I have wrestled with this conundrum
for quite a while and have reached two conclusions. I capture images because,

deep down, I fear that things will not always be the same because we will
eventually allow our planet to be destroyed in the name of senseless greed.
Secondly I believe photography has the power to open up an interior landscape.
It can make us think in a way that staring at traffic lights never will. Landscape is
elemental and it should awaken the elemental within us.
Photography captures the evanescent. A shaft of light illuminating a mountain
for a few short minutes can be captured and made permanent. There is a
paradox in this because, in some ways, evanescence has its own unique beauty.
The Japanese value the short period of cherry blossom precisely because it is so
short. To capture it in an image somewhat devalues that fragile temporary
beauty. So we need to see the photograph of evanescent things in a different way.
The photographs can never be a substitute for the real thing. Perhaps these
photographs are metaphors. They are there to teach us something. However, if
that is to happen then we have to look into those images, not at them, as Ansell
Adams advised us to do. Only by looking into the image can we see beyond the
surface. When I am looking at scenery I sometimes just stare at it silently for
ages waiting for something to emerge. I have no idea what that will be. Andre
Gide, the French novelist, talked about 'disponibilité'. He meant being
available to experience, not locked shut. Our busy lives mean that we are
available very little of the time. Maybe we just need to stop and look at landscape
a bit more. It can teach us a lot about permanence and impermanence, light and
dark, mood and emotion, accessibility and impenetrability. Just as your eyes have
to accustom themselves to the dark, they also have to accustom themselves to
the landscape. They have to become sensitive to the shifting patterns of light and
the delicate way colours change as the angle of the light changes. If you look for
long enough you will see all this and more.
Next stop on the trip was Geraldine. I rather like this town as it has the most
wonderful cinema. It has been lovingly restored and they have kept the original
1930's projectors that work just fine. The original seats went a long time ago but
no matter. The auditorium is filled with old sofas and armchairs covered with
everything from blankets to grandma's knitted shawl. The last time I was in
Geraldine I stood and watched as teenagers slouched against the wall trying to
look like James Dean. Their girlfriends looked less than convinced but seemed to
like the game anyway. On the village green there was a 'craft market' with a
rather stern sign asking that dogs not enter the market. As the fair consisted
almost entirely of women selling copious amounts of small knitted things it
seemed a rather unnecessary stricture. Perhaps they feared that the dogs might
have made the connection between all that wool and the animals who had
generously donated it from their backs. For all that my mutt Rufus lacks
intelligence, I cannot see him trying to savage a knitted garment, even if it were
in the shape of a sheep. The only exception to the garment stalls was a young
woman selling soaps in the shape of cupcakes. This annoyed me for some
reason. Being on the road makes one very judgemental. For heavens sake! Soap
is soap and should look like soap - a simple bar or, if you want sophistication, a
little discreet Impereal Leather with a label stuck in the middle. When I was a
child my mother used to buy this soap and I could never work out why any
manufacturer would be daft enough to stick a paper label on something that

would be constantly immersed in water and rubbed. It seemed rather badly
designed but then those were the days before design became more important
than function. I wondered if those cup cake soaps ever end up in the mouths of
small children but decided it might be tactless to ask the young vendor. She was
obviously very proud of her ornate creations. They were indeed very 'life-like' if
such a compound adjective can be applied to an inanimate object. Personally, I
felt her talents would be better directed to something that really was edible
rather than tempting small children to consume her imposter confections. I was
also alarmed that there were no warning labels that seem to be de rigour for
every item that might be noxious to children. No doubt these warnings will
become mandatory in time. Personally I like the idea of soap carrying a “Do not
eat me’ label. It has a certain Alice in Wonderland quality that would, I know, be
totally lost on the humourless regulators in charge of soap labelling. I suspect
they already have these labels in the European Union. We are not quite as
advanced here in New Zealand. It’s a long way from civilisation.
From there it was onwards to Lake XXXXXX. This might have been a beautiful
location to shoot but power boats with engines roaring like a 747 taking off were
out and about. Not only was there horrific noise pollution but the calm water was
being churned up by weaving water skiers and annoying, small, screaming
children being towed behind boats on rubber rings. I assumed their screams
were of excitement and enjoyment but you never know. Photographers can be
very intolerant of people ruining their shots. I decided there was nothing there to
photograph, had a nut bar and moved on. Tekapo was my next stop. The location
would bedramatically improved by demolishing the town but, sadly, there is
little hope of that. Actually the older parts of the town are fine, it’s just the row of
seedy looking shops and restaurants that is jarringly at odds with the stunningly
beautiful location. It has to be one of the most beautiful locations on the planet
and it doesn’t appear that anyone is in charge of making sure it doesn’t turn into
just another sprawling community of holiday homes for the rich. If you turn your
back on the town the lake is truly beautiful. The azure water was as deep a
colour as I have ever seen it. I went up to St John's Observatory but the water
was not calm in the right places for a good image. However, I could see that if I
went up a road on the other side of the lake I would have flat glassy water in
front of the lens. Once you get the scent of a good photograph the adrenaline
starts seeping out. You star fearing that clouds will suddenly boil up or that a
light wind will disturb the water. When I finally got to the right place the shot
was perfect. A small wooded island stood reflected in the perfect calm of the lake
against a backdrop of snow-covered mountains. It isn’t often that easy. From
there it was all downhill. I rushed off to Lake Pukaki in the hope that the
conditions would be the same. However, in the 45 minutes it took me to get
there, clouds rolled up and the light faded. Such is luck. However, I had bagged a
few good shots so I was not unhappy. Now I am sitting in Twizel. I have a special
affection for Twizel because of the radio station in the toilet block which sits
prominently in the main square. The town has the air of something designed by a
not very gifted student town planner as a first year project. Unfortunately the
town fathers, if they ever existed, looked on the plan and said it was good. When
you see the results of this sort of 'planning' you wonder why none of the
presumably hundreds of people involved in approving and building it stopped

and said, "This is truly terrible. We are making a monumental mistake that will
be mocked for decades if not centuries to come. How could anyone in their right
minds make a toilet block the central feature of any town?" I can only assume
that it was approved by a group of people who had poor bladder control and
could see the merits of a convenient solution to their problems. The one good
thing about the toilets is that they provide hot water so I went to bed feeling
fresh and clean after a long day on the road.

Day Three
I'm sitting writing this at lunch time in the comparative luxury of the Hermitage
Hotel at Mount Cook. I've parked myself in an elevator lobby on a high floor that
has five metre tall picture windows looking out at the panorama of peaks. The
staff smile indulgently at me assuming I am a guest. Well, I am going to have a
cup of coffee later. The top of Mount Cook itself is covered with a curious
umbrella shaped cloud that is shading the peak from sunlight. I imagine that's
quite a relief for any climbers who happen to be at the summit. It must be
blindingly bright up there. Beside me a young Chinese woman is pressing the
lens of her camera against the plate glass window to get a picture. The door
through which she might walk to take a picture unimpeded by glass is about five
metres away and she must know it's there because that was where she entered. I
expect she's tired. The lobby is full of about fifty of her compatriots who have
disgorged from a coach. They are a fascinating mix of young and old. I am
consumed with curiosity to know their stories. Where do they come from? What
do they do for a living? Why are some of them wearing day-glo orange running
shoes? Sadly, I do not speak Mandarin so an opportunity is lost to learn more. I'm
feeling pretty perky as I had an excellent night's sleep in a quiet corner of Twizel.
The place is mercifully free from large supermarkets and their attendant delivery
juggernauts. I was on the road at 6-15 a.m. to see what the dawn looked like at
Lake Pukaki. It was average to fair with nothing much to get excited about. I
grabbed a shot of the dawn sun turning one side of Mount Cook pink and then
scooted down to a favourite spot at Lake Ruataniwha and got some useful shots.
Then I went down to Lake Ohau One of the lessons I have learned from travelling
in the South Island is that the climate can change every fifty kilometres. The
distance between Lake Pukaki and Lake Ohau is about thirty kilometres and
whereas Pukaki was glass calm, Ohau was being whipped by strong winds. I
decided to climb up the road to the ski fields above the lake but, unfortunately,
the road was closed after a few kilometres by a ford. I have made a promise to
Gill that my days of plunging into fords of uncertain depth are over and I
regretfully turned the car around. Given my previous experience with fords this
was a wise move for which I am expecting copious praise on my return.
Today is going to be a writing day I have decided. I rather overdid it yesterday. I
spent just under 13 hours working and driving. I've driven 1500 kms in four
days so I didn't think I could stand another long day driving. I have sought refuge
and calm here and have commandeered a soft leather sofa to collect my
thoughts. An alliterative Latte and Lamington sit beside me. I regard them as my
gesture of appreciation for the comfortable seat and the electricity to charge my

ipad. For those not familiar with New Zealand cuisine, the Lammington is a small
sponge square covered in jam and coconut. I was tempted by this particular
Lamington as it had obviously been hand-made in the kitchens here. You could
tell by the length of the coconut threads and the fact it was oblong and not
square. You notice these things when you've been living off nut bars. As I drive
along during the day, the thoughts succeed each other in a rather random jumble
and it's good to have the time to order them. Not surprisingly, I think a lot about
photography. Photography is about images, not words and yet I feel a need to
write about the craft of photography. I am not interested in writing about the
‘how to’ side of it. What fascinates me is the idea of trying to give meaning to a
pursuit that so many people engage in. It must be the most popular hobby on the
planet. As I sit here in the hotel, everyone is snapping away like mad on
everything from cell phones to big heavy camera with cream-coloured phallic
lenses. They are this colour, rather than boring black, to advertise the fact they
are ridiculously expensive. These lenses are the photographer's equivalent of a
Lamborghini. They excite envy, admiration and contempt in roughly equal
amounts. I have no doubt that the photographs I see being taken around me will
soon be taking flight on wifi to join the billions of others already sloshing around
the internet. You have to ask the question, why? What is it that prompts us to
want to capture images in such astounding quantities? There is, obviously, no
single answer to this question. Are these images simply about marking our
territory? The digital equivalent of the old graffito “I woz ere”? Are they about
bragging? In the case of parents with small babies this would seem to be a
perfectly plausible theory. Parents with newborns always seem ready to spring
their photographs on unsuspecting acquaintances and even strangers. In the old
analogue days you had to be prepared with a small pocket-sized wallet of prints
of your blotchy red-faced baby. Now that phones can store frightening amounts
of pictures with zero bulk we can fall victim to proud parents at any time, in any
place for any length of time.
To be brutally honest, one baby looks pretty much like another if you don't have
a vested interest , so to speak. I look at pictures of my granddaughter and think
she is the most winsome baby ever born, but show me a stranger's baby and I
will soon have to stifle yawns. That doesn't change the fact that when I show her
pictures to anyone else I am expecting them to be amazed that such cuteness
could possibly exist on this small planet. The photograph of my grandchild
speaks to me because of all the emotional associations around her role in my life
and that of my family. It is not just an image, it is a reminder of the joy she has
brought. For others, it's just another baby. I have wondered for some time if
photographs of landscape fulfil the same function of signalling emotion. The
images are not so much about the location but more about the feelings and
experience of being there. Could these photographs be like a mild drug which
releases our pleasurable memories and emotions? "I was happy at that moment
and this is a record of it." Photographs taken by others are, however, different.
There are no memories and no emotional associations. It is difficult to connect
with them. This is perhaps why most landscape photographs are offered to us in
easily digestible form in calendars, coffee table books and prints on hotel walls.
Their images are cliched and easily digestible. There is a similarity between
these sorts of images and calendars featuring large breasted, pouting ladies in

minimal medical attire that used to adorn every garage workshop wall before the
days of political correctness. They were never intended to do more than fill a gap
on the wall with something reasonably attractive. For lawyer’s offices there
were tasteful landscapes, for grimy factories lit by welding torches there were
underclad females. The images these calendars present are unreal in the sense
that we know that we are unlikely to see what they depict in real life. We are no
more likely to stand in the shores of some remote Patagonian lake at dawn than
we are to encounter the pouting lady on a routine visit to the oral hygienist. That
is not the point. They are just there for decoration.
Unlikely though it might seem, imagine for a moment that we stand in front of
the pouting lady and try and see her as more than an assemblage of cleavage, lip
gloss and tight shorts. What if we ask ourselves what she tells us about
ourselves? We have changed the image into something that has engaged us
beyond a mere glance. We are giving it our consideration. Landscape
photographers take time and trouble over the composition of their work.
Perhaps they chose to show an ambiguity. Perhaps a metaphor emerges in the
composition. Perhaps there is an unconscious or conscious realisation that
photography forms part of semiology. It doesn't matter what process went into
the making of the image. Each photographer has his or her own voice and they
speak with it. What they want most is for people to 'listen'. By listening we mean
that the viewer becomes available to engage with the image. It would be
interesting if we were to stand in front of a landscape image and ask, "What does
this say about me - or to me?" Our reaction can define meaning. I am not arguing
that every image has to have meaning. Rather, I am trying to define the landscape
image as having a relevance created by the viewer as much as by the maker. We
want to awaken the mind of the viewer to the possibility that they can have a
connection with the image if they make the jump from looking at to looking into
the image. However, We need to produce work which has the depth and weight
to sustain longer contemplation. We cannot expect viewers to engage with our
work if we keep trotting out the same tired cliches time after time. We have a
responsibility to speak with an original voice if we expect viewers to give their
attention and really respond to our work. There are too many fiery sunsets out
there and they have lost the power to be anything other than a calendar
photograph. Landscape images need to have content that cannot be assimilated
in a millisecond and which are, in some ways unfamiliar. We need the viewer to
lose themselves in the world we have presented to them. We need to create
images that extend time for the viewer.
When I first became interested in photography as a teenager, I really believed
that if I studied hard enough and perfected my craft over time I, too, might get to
photograph handsomely cleavage models for auto parts calendars. This didn't
progress in quite the way I hoped as my parents felt that a more traditional
preparation for life, a university degree for example, might just be the safer
option. Thus, I embarked on the study of French language and literature, which
was a reasonably pleasant way to pass my undergraduate years. I wouldn't say it
was the best choice if you are interested in getting a paying job at the end of all
that work trying to make sense of Jean Paul Sartre. There isn't a lot of call in the
real world for people to explain Existentialism as part of their day job. From time

to time I would reflect wistfully on what might have been when I happened to be
in a garage workshop. Nevertheless, I think my parents were probably wiser
than I realised at the time. I can remember the first time I took a photograph and
discovered that there was more to the art than making sure that studio lights
reflected properly on lip gloss. I had shed my annoying awkward teen years and
could finally begin my age with the numeral two. I had been given the
opportunity to spend a year in France to learn French. This experience allowed
me to imbibe some culture and some wine, though not necessarily in that order. I
went to the gardens of the Palais de Versailles looking for something interesting
to photograph. It was winter and the magnificent sculptures were all protected
in wooden boxing that made for rather odd, if pleasantly surreal, photographs.
After experimenting with the boxed statues I wandered off the main paths and
found myself in a little forest. Then, in the distance, I saw a couple holding hands
walking away from me into the light, dwarfed by the tall, slender, bare trees
around them. I raised my camera and clicked. In those days people actually
recorded images on film and, even more amazingly, processed and printed
the photographs themselves. I can remember the excitement as my image took
form on the white paper under the red light of the darkroom. I was, frankly,
amazed at my own genius in transforming that fleeting moment in Versailles into
a paper print that actually looked like a 'proper' photograph. I was hooked.
From there it was all downhill. Once you realise you can do it, you have to do it
better and better. Unfortunately, my skill ran a distant second to my enthusiasm
and I never quite recaptured that magical, first moment. Photography was
relegated to something I did between earning a living and that made it difficult to
really learn the craft. For the majority of my career I was a teacher. The
depressing thing about teaching is that you get a year older with every passing
year but the pupils remain, in general, the same age. As soon as a cohort of them
became too old they were shipped out to be replaced by younger versions, so the
faces in front of me never aged. The ones who left went off to involve themselves
with something more interesting - life. I remained behind looking for grey hairs
and working on an escape plan, like the majority of my colleagues and indeed the
pupils. Strangely, the escape plan found me rather than the other way round. I
was working in the United Kingdom and was offered a marketing job in New
Zealand. My family, which consisted of a wife and son aged 12, dutifully packed
their bags and took passage to the New World with not the slightest idea what
they might find when they set foot on land. Luckily, what they found was a place
that, at first sight, seemed like the land that time forgot. There were no shiny
metro trains, no elevated motorways, no magnificent opera house, no slick TV
advertisements and it was one of the few places where Donald Trump wasn't
trying to build a casino, an ugly building or a golf course. The inhabitants of this
small, perfectly-formed country didn't seem in the least slighted by Donald's
apparent indifference. Instead they were, to all appearances, far too busy having
a whale of a time watching rugby, escaping to their cabins by the lake, buying
fancy fishing rods and practising every sport it is possible to attempt on water or
under it, on mountains or deep in caves. The bungy jump perfectly encapsulates
the Kiwi approach to life. Who wouldn't want to tie a rope to their ankles and
jump off a bridge towards a raging torrent several hundred metres below?

A bonus was that New Zealanders didn't seem that interested in politics. They
seemed to operate on the perfectly reasonable assumption that politicians do
exactly what they want anyway, so time is better spent on important matters
such as discussing why the Australians play rugby so badly. I forgot to mention
also that there were no United Colours of Benneton stores here and the wine is
pretty damn good.
Day 4
My temporary camp at the hotel proved so pleasant that I have decided to spend
another day writing here. I slept in Twizel and availed myself of the toilet
facilities that, I have to admit, are beginning to grow on me. Another feature of
these toilets is that they house a small local radio station. Not in the cubicles, but
hidden round the back of the block. I’m intrigued as to how a radio station found
a home in a toilet block but there wasn’t anyone around to ask when I tried to
gain entry through a well-hidden doorway. In any case it was nice to shave
myself humming along to the sound of easy listening from the speakers which
broadcast the station across the town square. The drive up the lake to Mount
Cook was glorious in the morning sunshine. The azure blue colour is created by
‘rock flour.” The glaciers at the top of the lake ground the rock into fine dust that
colours the water. When tourists see postcards at Christchurch Airport on their
arrival they often dismiss post cards the highly saturated water as a photoshop
trick. It isn’t. The water really is that colour and it makes the Southern Lakes
quite spectacular when the light is right. The lake eventually peters out and you
approach the huge bulk of Mount cook and the surrounding Alps. Whoever had
the idea of building a hotel here certainly knew how to pick a good spot. It’s not
the sort of hotel that turns up in those guides to the most spectacular hotels on
the planet which is great because not all that many people know about it. I
arrived back at the elevator lobby and settled myself into the comfortable chair
and looked out at the huge snow covered mountains that looked as if they were
just a few hundred metres away. My journey to becoming a photographer
eventually took a huge leap forward when I decided to ditch the day job and try
to earn my living with a camera. If there is anybody reading this who is
contemplating setting up in business as a photographer, I have one word of
advice - don't. I started my business just as the digital revolution in photography
was beginning. Prior to that, people had to make do with snapping blindly and
waiting with trepidation for the prints to be developed. Then would come the
apologies and embarrassed guffaws because Uncle Jim's head had been cut off so
to speak. In desperation people would hire a 'professional' for those special
occasions where Uncle Jim needed be recorded for posterity with the entirety of
his head. With digital cameras there is no excuse for a badly framed or badly
exposed image. You can retake the photograph ad infinitum. There are so many
apps and in-camera effects that even a twelve year old can produce work that in
the old days would have earned you a gold medal in photographic club
competitions. Modern cameras automate everything to the point where
‘professionals’ often cannot really claim to have any superior ability. Whole
swathes of the profession have been hit by this digital blitz. Former wedding
photographers can now be seen outside supermarkets begging for small change.
There was a golden age when they could charge several thousand dollars for a

service which is now being performed by Uncle Jim's nephew, who looks about
twelve and possibly is. In short, unless you're one of the chosen ones who get
hired by auto parts calendar publishers the job has become redundant. And if
you think there is still a place for specialised work like food photography just
take a look at one of the many image banks online where a perfect photograph of
a perfect Waldorf salad can be downloaded for a few dollars. You could always
try National Geographic. They are hiring, but you need to have the sort of
temperament which doesn't mind squatting on a narrow perch in the Amazon
rain forest canopy for months on end eating nut bars, being eaten alive by
massive, hairy insects and capturing your personal waste in black plastic bags.
All this effort expended so the readers of NatGeo can see some ugly animal no
one has ever heard of feed its even more ugly offspring. If you're unlucky you
might even have the unenviable job of recording it mate with another equally
ugly animal of the opposite sex. Or, if you are incredibly lucky and hit pay dirt, an
ugly animal of the same sex. They pay big money for that. Perhaps I'm thinking of
one of Rupert Murdoch's papers.
During the time I ran my photographic business, the bulk of my income came
from taking photographs of undergraduates at their 'capping' ceremonies. The
only reason I could make any money at this was because the university didn't
allow relatives on stage so it was too difficult for them to get a good shot. It was, I
am ashamed to say, the exploitation of a monopoly situation. It did, however, go
a long way to paying the bills. In the six years I had the contract I saw income
diminish year on year as increasing numbers of 12 year olds equipped
themselves with telephoto lenses and high ISO cameras and crowded under the
stage to take exactly the same photo as I was taking, unemcumbered by the
tiresome need to pay tax, employ assistants and buy insurance. In the end I
decided I was fighting a losing battle and would be better off retiring and doing
the sort of photography I really wanted to do. Three reasons pushed me towards
landscape photography. The first was proximity to some of the most beautiful
scenery on earth. The second was the work of painter Graheme Sydney and the
third was my depression. The first two can be dealt with fairly easily, the third
will require a chapter all of its own. When Gill and I moved to the South Island
after we retired it was as if we had been handed a ticked to the most beautiful
place imaginable. Forget the computer enhanced vistas of Lord of The Rings. The
reality is far, far more impressive. Other countries have the same beauty but
what is remarkable is that the two small islands which make up New Zealand
have a truly extraordinary variety of scenery compressed into a relatively small
place. In square miles, the entire country is the size of Colrado but contains a
truly amazing diversity of climate and scenery. In New Zealand there is almost
too much beauty in a small space for its own good. I say that because it runs the
risk of being overrun by the development that accompanies large tourist
influxes. The world, especially China, is only just discovering New Zealand and
the pressure is building. For the moment, though, it has some of themost
haunting wilderness areas in the world and to stand by a remote lake listening to
the calls of birds and looking out at a perfect amphitheatre of snow capped
mountains is a rare and special experience. To photograph it is a privilege.

When I first saw the work of Graheme Sydney I was transfixed. I had rarely seen
landscape painting of this power. There was a terrible beauty about the images.
The places looked both cruelly lonely and achingly beautiful. They were places I
desperately wanted to be. More than that, I wanted to be as good a
photographer as Sydney was a painter. His work showed me that landscape
imagery can be truly original, not just a copy-cat version of something that has
been trotted out a thousand times. He has been an extraordinary inspiration
almost without me knowing it. For many years I carried his images
subconsciously in my head. I would look at other painters and be disappointed
and not really know why. His work has pushed me to be a better photographer.
Ansell Adams said that landscape photography is the photographer's greatest
challenge and he was right. Graheme Sydney showed me how to rise to that
challenge. I realise that I haven't been keeping up the travelogue part of these
journals. You might have worked out that writing has had the upper hand in the
last few days as the weather conditions have not been conducive to taking
photographs. I spent Tuesday night in Wanaka - my sleep disturbed only by
wandering teenagers at some early hour in the morning. During the day I crossed
back over the Lindis Pass to Tekapo. The light was leaden, dull and boring.
Tekapo was full of disconsolate Chinese tourists who wandered up and down
waiting for their busses to depart to the next gorgeous location. I had an
indifferent chicken sandwich for my tea and parked up in the car park for the
night. This is possibly one of the most beautiful car parks in New Zealand as it is
situated right at the edge of the town with uninterrupted views of the lake with
the backdrop of Mount Aspiring. I looked out from my window as I was going to
sleep at the moon reflecting in the lake with not a sound to be heard except for
the gentle lapping of the water on the shore. Imagine my surprise when I was
awakened, in the middle of the night, by the beeping of a large trailer rig as it
reversed into a yard about twenty metres from my car. I have no idea what on
earth it was delivering as the only business I had identified near my parking spot
was a mini golf course. Life can be very unfair as I had, after my experience in
Hokitika, taken great care to avoid loading bays and supermarkets when I chose
my sleeping spot. A mini golf course by a tranquil lake at night seemed a
reasonably safe bet. How wrong I was. Such are the trials of the voyager.
Having time to think is, I have realised, a great luxury. When I had a real job
there wasn't a lot of time for that sort of self-indulgence. Feeding the maw of
one's employer takes a significant amount of time and effort, leaving little over
for pondering the state of the universe. I started my career with Cadbury
Schweppes as a management trainee. Before joining the company I fondly
imagined that I was about to join an organisation united in pursuit of the perfect
chocolate bar. I soon realised that once you left the factory floor and headed for
the management offices, there was precious little interest in the sticky, brown,
odorous commodity. The main objective of those involved with 'management'
was to make as much money as possible. By money, I mean gross revenue with
as few costs and taxes as they could get away with. Had management calculated
that there was a better rate of return on selling cow pats I have not the slightest
doubt that production would have been switched as swiftly as possible. I suspect
few modifications would have been needed to the production lines as the
consistency of both products is roughly similar. In any event, if too many

problems had surfaced at Bournville they would surely have moved production
to mainland China. Making a lot of money was deemed to be a good thing, but
redistributing more than the minimum amount of that money to those who
actually did the heavy lifting did not appear that attractive to the higher ups.
That was the start of my youthful disillusion. I suppose I was naive in not
understanding 'how things really work', but that particular subject was not on
the curriculum of the school I attended. Teachers like Mr Scroggins were more
concerned to make sure we 'conformed' and were not afraid to wield a ruler over
our knuckles to drive the point home. I was dumb enough not to realise that
school was just a training ground for what would be required later. Conformity,
as preached by Mr Scroggins, meant doing what you were told to do and, under
no circumstances, were you to question orders. It wasn't much different as a
management trainee at Cadburys. They didn't use wooden rules to emphasise
the point. It was a lot more subtle than that.

I knew from quite early on that I was not suited to a life in 'management' or
'business' and resigned my job to go and work in the factory as a machine
cleaner on the night shift. I think this was partly to assuage my guilt over all
those easy years I had spent reading Sartre and pretending I understood what he
was on about. I felt it was time I did some real work. I assumed that the people
who made the chocolate would welcome me with open arms. I was a defector
from the ranks of management who understood where the real work was done
and who would dish the dirt on all those executives who spent as little time as
possible in proximity to the stuff that lined their pockets, figuratively speaking. A
sort of Edward Snowden before his time. As it turned out, it took me several
months to convince my fellow workers that I was not a spy sent from higher up
on a mission to uncover their more questionable work practices. To be honest,
there were times when we took rather longer to clean the revolting mess out of
the creme egg machine than was strictly necessary. However, as this extremely
unpleasant job involved sticking your arm up to the armpit in a tube filled with
viscous yellow filling, we felt it was reasonable to take our time just in case some
terrible accident befell us and our arms got stuck in a moment of careless
inattention. Such an unglamorous way to lose a limb. I learned some valuable
lessons on that night shift. The most important was that you stood by your mates
at all costs. In my brief sojourn in the halls of management I had been struck by
the vicious competition to ensure that you got your foot on the next rung of the
ladder of promotion. If your foot happened to be on someone else's fingers as
they clung to the ladder so much the better. Those who worked in the factory
were united in their dislike of 'management' and that bred a sense of loyalty and
camaraderie. Also, there was not exactly a lot of competition over who led the
clean-up tream on the curly wurly production line. Once my co-workers decided
I was not a spy we all got along famously which is more than I can say of my
experience higher up the food chain.
Page
All of this preamble about chocolate production has been to help illustrate my
belief that business and photography do not make good bedfellows. If you

believe that making money is a good thing you will probably make a terrible
landscape photographer. Some of the very best landscape photography I have
seen has been by self-confessed amateurs. The reason it is so good is because
they don't have to sell what they photograph. The work is original, imaginative,
daring and deeply personal. The professional landscape photographer, however,
has a problem. The only people who will pay good money for this sort of work
publish calendars, post cards and tourism books. The people who buy these
items are not looking for original, imaginative, etc. They want landscape porn.
They want lush sunsets, extremely saturated green fields, more sunsets, cute
sheep in extremely green fields, beautiful sunsets with boats in silhouette,
extremely green paddocks with cows in them, tranquil bays with extremely
saturated sand, sunsets over tranquil bays with extremely saturated sand. Need I
continue? You've all bought a calendar for Uncle Jim at some point and you know
just the sort of thing he likes. Lest you detect a whiff of snobbery here, I have to
qualify what might appear as dismissive comments about 'calendar'photography.
The people who do that sort of work are akin to the management cadre. They
know what they do well and they get paid handsomely for doing it. They make
images that sell well and they are not too worried about what Graheme Sydney
thinks about their work. The rest of us are desperately trying to make a better
chocolate bar so to speak. We also take sunset shots. We also take sheep in fields.
However, we are liberated from the necessity to ensure that our shots are
'commercial'. We can take risks and we can experiment. When people do that
they often discover that they have made a better image than one which might be
easily saleable. Most importantly we don't have to conform to what is expected
of us. Mr Scroggins would not have approved.

Rufus has never had diarrhoea in his life. Until today that is. I discovered this
unfortunate development after I had tried, but failed, to take some dawn shots at
the lake edge. Without going into gruesome details, suffice to say his normally
ash blonde rear end had turned brunette. The cause of this outpouring was his
unwise decision to scoff, yesterday, an entire sweet muffin that I had hidden
under my seat to boost my blood sugar in the late afternoon driving stint.
On a trip of this nature I usually plan for a number of eventualities. Having to
deal with a smelly, messy dog had not made it to the final list of 'things I need to
worry about and make provision for.' Now, in the early light, I realised I had no
effective means of cleaning up without using my own clothes to do so. As I had
parked in a hotel car park I decided to make a sortie to the toilets in the lobby to
see if they had some strong paper hand wipes. Being a four and a half star
operation they had no paper towels but piles of fluffy terry hand cloths by the
immaculate basins. There was nothing for it. This situation required desperate
remedies. As I was about to slip one of these fine towels into my pocket, the door
opened and a Chinese teen in massive ski trousers and an even more massive
jacket entered. He, surprisingly, had not come to use the toilets but to wash his
teeth after breakfast which he proceeded to do with astonishing thoroughness.
His dental hygienist back in Beijing must have put the fear of God into him as he
went on and on and on, I had no choice but to give a passable impression of a
compulsive obsessive - opening the tap, closing the tap, washing my hands -
rewashing my hands, putting more water in the basin, etc. At first the teen was

too preoccupied with scrubbing his molars to notice me but gradually he realised
that all was not well and beat a hasty retreat pushing the toothbrush into the
capacious pocket of his ski jacket. With the coast clear I made a small prayer for
forgiveness and pocketed the towel. I assuaged my conscience by saying to
myself that I could always post it back to them anonymously but on reflection
realised they probably wouldn't want a towel back that had been used to clean a
dog's bottom no matter how well it had been laundered. Perhaps a donation to
the SPCA would be in order.

Sleeping in the car in winter can be tricky as you never really know how cold it
will get. Gill is always worried I will freeze during the night but it hasn't
happened so far. When I went to eat the temperature was dropping like a stone
and I was a little bit concerned. After an excellent steak I went back to the car. I
have no idea how cold it got during the night but today the temperature was still
minus three centigrade at 10 am. I think I understand the term chilled to the
marrow better now. When I awoke at 6 am after a less than ideal night, Toby was
all ready to go but Rufus was motionless which is a bit unusual for him. I patted
his head and still no movement. Then I felt his body and it felt really cold. "Oh
my God, I've killed Rufus. He must have got hypothermia." He suddenly lifted his
head and looked at me reproachfully. I guess he must have had a cold night as
well. I wouldn't put it past him to try and scare me like that. Anyway the positive
side was that the plummeting temperature provided perfect conditions for
photography. The wet air freezes and hangs over the land in a thick mist. I drove
before first light to Lake Manipouri but the fog there was too dense and I decided
to cut my losses and continue the journey. It was a good decision as I then
encountered some stunning early light scenes with low mist, sun, snow and
mountains. I wound my way back to Queenstown and got some good photos on
the way. Then I set off to the Remarkable Ski Field to climb up a vertiginous road
for views out over Lake Wakatipu. It really was beautiful up there but glacially
cold. The sun was out but there were glowering clouds scudding about and wisps
of mist clinging to the side of mountains. I could look down in Lake Hayes and
over 15 minutes watch the wind subside rendering the water like a mirror.
The problem with starting the day with stunning vistas is that the rest of the day
you keep trying to match them but fail. I decided to grab a beer at the Lakeside
Resort in Wanaka. Pandemonium then broke out when screams were heard from
a three year old girl who had slipped on a rock and cut her forehead. Concerned
adults gathered round, bandages were applied and after a while all was well.
The parents made an odd couple. She was in her late thirties and very well
dressed. He was in his fifties, balding, dishevelled and wearing saggy jeans.

He came over to my table after a while and set about committing conversation all
over me. He was much the worse for having consumed what appeared to be
significant amounts of alcohol. For some reason he obviously felt he needed to
inform me of the amazing (to him) fact that fewer than 8% of US citizens have a
passport. I have no idea why he used this as a conversation opener but you get
used to the unexpected when you travel. This then morphed into a discussion of
the unattractive nature of mid-western USA female's accents. He then leaned

forward conspiratorially and said that the mother of the little injured girl was his
second wife and that he now had eight children and, as far as he was concerned,
it wasn't a big deal when they fell over. His wife had only just avoided hysterics
in the lobby when she saw the girl's bleeding forehead so I guess they weren't
totally in agreement on that aspect of parenting. While she was discussing with
another guest whether or not her daughter would have a permanent scar he
suddenly got bored with me. I suspect I hadn't been as fascinated with his
appraisal of regional female accents in the USA as he might have wanted. and
stumbled back to his to his wife who was looking extremely stressed at this
point and shouting at one of her other children to stop playing as one accident
that day was enough and she had no desire to deal with another one. I decided
to have a burger from the bar which proved to be so massive I was able to wrap a
large slab of it in a serviette for the dogs. I thought they’d like a taste a taste of
what humans eat instead of dog food. They were seriously impressed.