Over breakfast this morning, I checked my local map and was surprised to
find that we had almost walked as far as Clyde yesterday; the bridge at
Muttontown lies a mere two kilometres or so from the commencement of the Trail.
We should have remembered from our earlier adventures!
After filling yet again with diesel, we were away from Alexandra before
10 am, or so the clock on the hillside said. As one climbs away up away from
the town, through more of the rugged outcrops and and barren land, we left
Central Otago and soon were on our way to Southland. We stopped at Roxburgh
also located on the banks of the Clutha River in the Teviot Valley. We had left
Alexandra at 138 metres ASL, passing over surreal landscapes where a sign at
one point showed the elevation at 233 metres ASL arriving in the well irrigated
but narrow fruit growing valley around Roxburgh, just forty kilometres on at 65
metres ASL. We parked and walked up and down the street, holding our caps on
and clutching the fronts of our rain jackets, vainly trying to avoid the
blustery cold wind.
Ni-Vanuatu labourers were wandering the streets a little
more aimlessly than us, lamenting the weather which had interrupted their
employment in the orchards. We had encountered a small vanload of their compatriots
in Alexandra’s Salvation Army Thrift Shop yesterday, sifting through the racks
of winter clothes; they had obviously come ill prepared for colder weather. Then,
as today, Chris and I lamented the situation that required the import of casual
pickers from the Islands when there were so many unemployed of our own here.
We revisited the Endemic Art Gallery, to marvel once more over the work
by New Zealand Wildlife Artist, Rebecca Gilmore and her partners, photographer
Gregory Slui. Rebecca’s work is more that of a skilled craftsperson, meticulous
reproduction of the colours and features of birds and reptiles, while Gregory
seeks to capture the wonders and atmosphere of Otago through his camera lens. I
love his work; it is of scenes and days I try to capture through my own but invariably
fail in doing so. As I admired his work, I recalled that I had written negative
descriptions of the Otago landscape in this blog, words such as “inhospitable”
and “uninviting”. These are certainly true but should not deter one from
exploring and enjoying the surreal nature of this amazing place. You cannot be
but inspired by the terrain hereabouts.
The artists’ elderly Airedale terrier, Tussock, was comatose on his
flattened couch on the polished floor of the old restored villa. At first I
wondered if he was real since he did not move when we entered, but soon saw the
movement of his abdomen. I have seen toy pets, cats and dogs, that lie in such
poses, battery operated so they ”breath” in an uncanny realistic manner. I
always think it would be quite morbid to own such a creature, although
recognise they would be cheap to run and no trouble to house on holiday.
I often wonder what artists like
these two think of us; we wander in, make positive praising noises and wander
out with a thank you and no purchase. Sometimes I make excuses by telling them
we have no walls on which to hang their treasures, which is all so true but
must sound empty. No matter how idealistic these people are, in the end they
need our money because it is, after all, money that makes the world go round
and keeps the wolves from the door.
Roxburgh, today with a population of barely over 500, was in its heyday,
a thriving gold town, just as Cromwell was, although that latter still has a
significant population of over 4,000, similar to that of Alexandra. Back in the
mid-1860s there were about as many publicans as miners, now there are only the horticultural
activities left from those bygone days. Although it should not be forgotten
that precious water was piped in from Lake Onslow, high above in the mountain
range for the sluicing for gold, and later was there for the growing of
peaches, apricots and a host of other orchard and garden produce.
We followed the river on down past Millers Flat, then climbed away and
down to Raes Junction where the road splits, one road to Lawrence and on out
toward the coast, and the other toward Gore. It was this second we took, and
soon were crossing over the rolling green hills of Southland, the wind buffeting
the motorhome and challenging our progress.
Finally we rolled into Gore and stopped long enough to pick up a map from the
Information Centre, to call into the local Thrift Shop where successfully scored
some drink coasters and to take a call from Olly who was on his way to school
to collect the boys early; one had fallen in the playground and needed medical attention. Oh the joys of
parenting!
We came on south of the town to the racecourse since we suspected the
A&P Showgrounds might be rather chaotic; the annual show is on this coming
weekend. Dark clouds surround us although we have only been subjected to the occasional
rain squall. We have tucked ourselves behind the grandstand out of the wind and
should be safe and quiet for the night; for now we are the sole campers.
Tomorrow we will revisit the town; Chris says we should walk about even
if it is pouring with rain. I say that if it is I will stay in the van and read
and he can go by himself. Manana la
manana, as they say!
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