Did someone say sausage rolls?

Sausage rolls, baby.

Today we had the joyous occasion of viewing our colleague’s new baby. I’m sure viewing is the incorrect word. Perhaps we had a showing; or an unveiling. But that’s beside the point, which was that the baby was very cute and mother and father are doing well. A blissful event, spoiled only slightly by the large number of males present, myself included.

Let us just say that the baby behaved a lot better – or at least more appropriately – than the males. She was awake and received her visitors well, with the obligatorily ridiculous displays of cuteness and smallness. The males, myself included, kept up their end of the social contract for a few minutes before looking around awkwardly for food.

It was all going very well – until the males, myself included, began talking. We are not good at saying the right things at such times. For we have the attention span of very small hamsters and when we stray into matters beyond our ken – such as baby unveilings – we tend to say rather stupid things.

Like “yeah, the first two years really just fly by, eh?” This to newly minted parents who hadn’t slept well for a not inconsiderable time and who were probably measuring the minutes in hours or even days.

Then food came and the men were relieved of saying even vaguely sensible things about the baby viewing. Now we could talk stupidly and considerably less offensively about other things, relieving the tensions a little bit.

Let me say once again that the baby was very beautiful and it was a wonderful occasion.

But then the sausage rolls arrived. This made me happy. These delectables are sausages wrapped in pastry and are the crack cocaine of New Zealand’s culinary repertoire. They are like pies, only better. They tend to make people purr for a bit and then, apparently, become very stupid – at least in company. We ate the sausage rolls, which were perhaps the best I’ve had in a very long time; like my Granny made.

"There's only two sausage rolls left."

It was at this point that I noticed another of my (male) colleagues begin to act a bit strangely. He began a sort of sausage roll countdown. “There’s only nine sausage rolls left,” he would say, stroke his chin, and then sit back as if a profundity had been uttered. I took the hint, of course, and handed around the plate.

Then there was silence for a while. The parents tended to their child. Sausage rolls were consumed.

“There’s only seven sausage rolls left,” the same colleague offered into the silence. We all counted and saw that he was right.

I handed the plate around again.

There was another silence.

Then the colleague told us that he had entered into a half-Ironman race. We waited for more, but there was another silence.

“I’m going to have to give up the sausage rolls for a while, eh?” he concluded his point.

“How many sausage rolls do you eat, then?” asked another (male) colleague.

There were, in fact, just two sausage rolls left.

This question was carefully considered.

“Oh, about four a week.”

“Well that’s not very many, is it?” Colleague two was baiting colleague one.

Colleague one considered this question carefully.

“Well sometimes I’ll have more,” he finally pronounced. “Like at Christmas I might have up to 20 a week. Yeah."

“Still, that’s only about 200 a year,” I joined the fray.

“True, but sometimes I’ll go a long time without a sausage roll.” He was making excuses now, clearly backed into a corner.

All this time the women were looking rather bemused. The baby, the alleged center of attention, was still conducting herself impeccably.

There was another silence.

“There’s only four sausage rolls left,” colleague one said.

And everyone laughed. It was a laugh led by the ladies. They were politely insisting on an end to these inanities. Soon the baby viewing was over. We said our goodbyes and left.

There were only two sausage rolls left. Oh yes, and the baby was gorgeous.

Signs, signs everywhere signs

THE sign is finally up.

The infamous sign is at last in place. It's hard to see what all the fuss was about. The initial proposal to put a sign up that said "Wellywood" led to mass protests at the airport, owner of the sign-bearing land, and a prolonged hue and cry. So it was decided to let the people come up with their own suggestions for a sign that would greet passengers as they land at the airport and then put it up for a popular vote. This is what won: Wellington Blown Away, a homage to the gustiness of Wellington. It all seems so droll now, particularly on a glorious, almost windless day.

But here it is.

Actually on a day of aimlessly driving around this bejewelled city, there were signs that caught my attention everywhere. A new, not quite so frivolous sign on a hill - one that passengers landing at the airport will also be able to see - went up just around the corner. I have no idea what is going on here.

Something ugly's going on.

There's been nothing in the papers about what is obviously a property dispute of some sort. I drove up there, but could discover nothing - other than the apparently pissed-off person has even installed lights to illuminate this treasure at night. Stay tuned. (Here's a story about this now.)

Whaddya mean? A gull's gotta eat.

Speaking of unpopular signs, this seagull is obviously non-plussed about what comes across as a discriminatory ban. What's he supposed to do? Dig through the garbage cans and pick up scraps off the beach? Oh wait.

I then moved into town, where Wellingtonians were lapping up the sun. Everyone was in a good mood.

How about some coffee instead?

A group of overly happy folks were working the waterfront randomly giving out free hugs. I had to take this picture with a long lens; I didn't want to get too close and be caught up in such random pleasantness and smile generation.

Perhaps they could visit the "U stole my land" guy in Strathmore. Somebody obviously needs a hug, especially a free one.

Thoughts and prayers please

Thoughts and prayers for my father would be appreciated. He goes in for surgery tomorrow morning in the States.

Pie horror strikes again

Shane Kearns with a very French air of smugness - and their winning pie. (Stuff.co)

Another year, another outrage. As promised last week, I bring you the results from this year's Bakel's New Zealand pie competition.

Last year's supreme award winner was a spiced plum, port and apple pie. But everyone knows pies are about meat. They are supposed to be comfort food; hangover abaters; a source of culinary joy. They are not supposed to have French inclinations or aspirations.

And yet, for the second year in a row Viands Bakery have run away with the grand award and done it again with a dollop of pretentiousness that threatens the very fabric of pie culture. This year's affront? Gingered peach and pear with Cointreau. (A definitive French connection.)

Well, well. Luckily their bakery is located a long way from here and I will never have to abase myself by sneaking in for a taste of these concoctions. (Purely for the purposes of blog research, of course.) Many of the 4,500 entries, thankfully, were of the more traditional variety. This provides hope that mince and cheese is not dead. For the full story and complete results, you can read Stuff.co's story here. I depart, disappointed, to my local bakery to buy something wholesome and hardy for my lunch. Gingered peach? Really?

Things that make you go hmm (10)

It has always struck me as odd that in a land where you can bungee jump off anything higher than 20 feet, or take jet boats up narrow rivers - a land of adventure tourism, in other words - the urban side of things is so overly protective. Anal, if you will.From traffic cones to all sort of caution signs, it's as if there's a total lack of faith in the common sense of Kiwis of the city. These developers, for instance, assume that without this big yellow arrow I would just walk smack dab into the screening. Well, it is a very hard left turn I suppose. You can see other pictures that'll make you scratch your head here.  

Meri Kirihimete ... in July

This country is made up of a lot of people whose forbears were used to celebrating Christmas in the cold and dark and sullen weather of winter. Celebrating it here at the height of New Zealand summer in the upside-down seasons of the Southern hemisphere was a cause of great nostlagia. You weren't supposed to barbecue at Christmas or finish lunch early so you could go to the beach. It was just not right, not Christmasy.

So someone had the great idea of celebrating a little Christmas in July when its cold and nasty here - not instead of December 25, but as well as. Of course department stores have sales and there's no mention of Jesus or his birth. What it really boils down to is a chance to indulge without guilt.

And that's what we did today. We ate too much, dollied the place up a tad, drank wine at lunch, chatted with colleagues, and felt warm and toasty against the hostile elements outside.

It wasn't much, but it left a happy feeling thinking about absent friends and family and of Christmases past and to come. And now it's time for an overstuffed and satisfied nap. Meri Kirihimete, one and all.

One more sail: to Mana Island

Sort of crashing - and winning - a sailing race.

Wait, where are we going?

It wasn't supposed to be nice today.

Mana Island up ahead.

Spinnakers get me every time.

A nasty  little barracuda.

The Guns of Wellington

Fort Dorset looking out over Breaker Bay

(I'm just updating this having added all the links to the old gun emplacements around Wellington that I managed to visit. I wouldn't say it's a definitive guide to what's out there, but it's as good as anything I found on the subject. For those interested, it's certainly a decent primer.)

I've rarely lived in one place long enough to become familiar with its soul. But we've done so much exploring in Wellington, that I believe I get the place. I think I know what makes her tick, what her story is, who her people are. Yet there is always room for discovery. On this morning's run I took a left at the Pass of Brenda instead of heading straight down into Breaker Bay, as I usually do.

And what do you know, I stumbled across the rest of Fort Dorset. Not that I knew there was more of it to discover. I'd imagined that the gun emplacements at Seatoun's harbor entrance were all that remained. But there was a whole new world up here in the newly dawned day above Breaker Bay. I can't describe how powerfully emotional it is, just as the sun is rising over a glorious bay, to scramble through the decaying spirits of a dangerous time gone by - a time when the world was filled with horror and uncertainty - and to feel, as I did there on the high point, as if I were the only person alive in the world.



Magazine at the south end of Fort Dorset



Seventy years ago World War II was raging. But until the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor it had been fought far from New Zealand's shores. Most of her fighting men were in North Africa and Europe. But with the Pacific becoming increasingly strategically important, the Kiwis suddenly realized they were more than a little exposed on the home front.

While the coastal batteries at Somes, Massey Point, Ft. Opau, Pol Hill, Wrights Hill, Palmer Heads were dramatic - and are hauntingly beautiful to this day - they were basically good for defending against a naval attack on Wellington harbor. Should the enemy, God forbid, land elsewhere, they would pretty much have free reign over Aotearoa - the Dad's Army home guard notwithstanding.

Churchill and Britain were busy elsewhere, New Zealand was told. So it fell to the United States to send troops. Almost precisely 70 years ago - on June 12 in Auckland and June 14 in Wellington - the first of what would turn out to be more than 100,000 U.S. Marines and U.S. Army fighting personnel arrived in New Zealand. They built camps and trained here and many, many headed out into the Pacific to die in battles on tiny atolls in the middle of nowhere.



The view from the bunker

 I had no idea that Fort Dorset was so large in its day. It was, in fact, constructed in time for World War I, with two 6" MkVII guns, manned by the Wellington Naval Artillary Volunteers, constructed in 1912 on top of the ridge above what is today a nudist beach. Yes, a nudist beach. Don't you just love history laid bare?



You can just see the Peace Poppy through the gun slit

Two more guns were placed in Seatoun, at the entrance to Wellington Harbor. But they were removed for placement on Merchant Ships taking part in World War I and were not returned until 1921. Period pictures show a, by New Zealand standards, massive military camp, complete with parade grounds and barracks, down in Seatoun below these guns.

As with the other batteries around Wellington, not a single shot was fired in anger from the guns of Fort Dorset during World War II. Running around them at the breaking of a new day is particularly profound. The graffiti and detritus of modern youth seem to denigrate and celebrate the memories of these places at once - aren't the kids free, after all, to drink and smoke pot up there now? I was also delighted to see work around Fort Dorset that makes it look as if the Kiwis are actually thinking of making these old war memorials more presentable to the public. All of them seem to be suffering from sort of benign neglect.

If nothing else, the views from all these old gun emplacements are spectacular. Still, it would be appropriate if you didn't just have to stumble across these old guardians from another time. Many locals don't know about these glorious old ruins.

Here are some of the shots of what remains today at the other coastal defense stations:

The tunnels of Wrights Hill Fortress:

                                                      

The guns of Pol Hill:

                                                           

Palmers Head Fortress: 

Fort Ballance - the first

                                                             

Fort Opau - gorgeous





Fort Buckley - early and little

Somes Island - windy and wild

Mt. Crawford

Massey Memorial - yes, there were guns under it

The Russians are coming - not

The view from Fort Ballance

The last of the fortifications around Wellington I discovered turns out to have been the first one built. (Yes, this will be the last post - in both the military and blog sense, on this subject.) During tensions between Russia and Britain (Crimea, Afghanistan) in the 19th Century New Zealanders realized two things: they might get dragged into any unpleasantries; and Britain might not be there to help protect  them.

So, in 1885 contstruction of Fort Ballance, above Scorcher Bay, was begun. It was the first of a number of Russian Scare gun emplacements and is still remarkably well preserved.

Up to 40 people slept in the barracks.

Though the Russian Scare turned out to be nothing so much as overactive imagination, Russian warships were in the habit of making trips to the South Pacific. The fears were stoked by an Auckland newspaper that spread panic with its false reports of a Russian invaion of Auckland by the Russian cruiser Kaskowiski (cask of whisky). When we were in Rotorua we were told that when Mount Tarawera angrily erupted in 1886 many locals believed they were hearing the sounds of a Russian attack.

I also tracked down Fort Buckley this week. It's another Russian Scare fort, but not nearly as impressive as Fort Ballance. It was also built in 1885. It held just two 64-pounder guns and sits above Kaiwharawhara. There's some unpleasant graffiti up there but, as with all these forts, a beautiful view of Wellington Harbor.

I believe - though I've been surprised before by new discoveries - that these two Russian Scare forts are the last of the coastal batteries and military fortifications around Wellington that are still, to varying extent, in existance.

The guns are long gone.

Fort Ballance is an elaborate set of buildings perched luxuriously above Scorcher Bay. There are barracks, tunnels, and gun embankments along with the rails used to "disappear" the guns. Named after the then Minister of Defence, Fort Ballance had more guns than any other fort in New Zealand. It was supported by weapons and armories at Kau Point and Point Halswell. Over the years its defense functions were slowly taken over by Fort Dorset above Breaker Bay. 

Barracks.

Unbelievably, Fort Ballance remained in use for army housing until 1990. Historical documents show that Ballance, built in recognition of the country's need to stand on its own two feet, is viewed as an important first step along the road to independence. It was the city's main defense system until 1911.

Tunnel to the gun emplacement.

I'm not sure Fort Ballance is technically "open to the public." There are signs that warn people to keep out, but, judging by the amount of graffiti in evidence, there's a pretty free flow of visitors.

Fort Buckley gun emplacement.

Fort Buckley, named after then Colonial Secretary and Attorney General, Sir Patrick Alphonsous Buckley, pales in comparison to Fort Ballance. There's not much left there, though you can see the two emplacements for the guns still. It too was a Russian Scare fort and sits above Wellington Harbor.

Nasty graffiti.

The Nazi graffiti does not significantly improve the experience of visiting Ft. Buckley. Some students of history might chuckle at the irony, I suppose. I find only melancholy at these historical sites crumbling away in the hills surrounding Wellington. I have driven below this old fort every day on the way to work without knowing it was there. There is, apparently, a tunnel that goes from here down to what used to be an old wharf by which ammunition was transported up to Buckley. I could find no sign of it, which is probably good.

Still, this little hobby of "collecting" new gun emplacements to visit and write about has taken me to some truly spectacular views of Wellington. I hope I've found them all.

A Coning-away party

An unexpected guest for dinner

I'm a tough guy born in Scotland. We don't show our feelings. But I must say my colleagues threw me the most touching going-away party. There was even a special guest, one of the New Zealand road cones that have haunted me throughout my time here. For those of you who don't know what started this two-year obsession, you can get a bit of background here.

I was touched by the kindness of the day. However, I was a little upset that, despite my best efforts to document my many wonderful experiences in this great country, we spent so much time talking about one thing: my run-in with the killer chickens. I had to point out repeatedly that the video was only the second attack. I had been so traumatized by the first fowl attack that I was unable to film it. You shag one sheep ... as the old joke goes. Still, it was a wonderful opportunity for us to focus on the marvelous times together in this land of splendor. The gifts I was given will stay with me forever and I can admit, now that I've been gone from Glasgow for 25 years, brought a wee tear to my eye. Tis going to be hard to leave.

The ubiquitous pie gets its moment

I like pie

Pies have evolved. Once at the bottom of the food chain, they've actually become more than belly fillers at a cold football game. As I wrote last year, it's been a confusing development for this lad who grew up in Glasgow in a time when the humble pie had good reason to be so. Here in New Zealand all these years later the pies are, dare I say it?, almost a little fancy. So much so, in fact, that I have overheard a dozen arguments about who makes/sells the best pies in New Zealand.

People take their pies seriously here. When my parents and I were crossing through the Haast Pass last year we stopped in a little village for a bite to eat. At what we took to be an unassuming little cafe - pronounced Kaff in some parts here - we ordered lunch. The smells from the kitchen were overwhelmingly enticing and the owner, when asked, said he was most proud of his pies. We obliged. Mine was a nice little lamb number with luxurious mashed potatoes and mushy peas as sides.

As we were enjoying this repast another customer was called to the counter, his pie ready for pickup.

"Could I have some tomato sauce for that?" he asked, perfectly innocently.

"You might want to have a bloody bite of it first," said the clearly miffed, Cordon Bleu-y owner, "and then come back and tell me if you think it needs it."

Whoa. A no-nonsense pie man. A Kiwi Pie Nazi? "No mince and cheese pie for you!"

Pies, pies, everywhere.

 All this is a long way of introducing the fact that today some of these arguments might just be settled. Seventeen judges will come together at the Bakels Supreme Pie Awards and have a go at 4,500 pies from 444 bakeries and cafes.

Last year's winner was an outrage, taking home the grand prize for spiced plum, port and apple pie - an abomination. These things are meant to be meaty and meaningful - not over-the-top frou-frou.

As is to be expected in New Zealand, where folks like a good chinwag about the most obscure and esoteric subjects, last year's selection got them going.

"There was a very healthy debate last year about a dessert pie winning the supreme prize," one of the judges told Stuff.co. "In the past there have also been debates about whether peas should go in bacon and egg pies."

Or check this marvelous comment out about the needed criteria: "Is the pie evenly baked with golden pastry? Does the pie top fit snugly so that filling doesn't leak out? Does it have a nice bottom?  Is the pastry on top layered properly? When the pie is cut open is it properly filled so there's no gap between the filling and the pastry lid? If it's a meat pie, does the meat look juicy and enticing?  If it's vegetarian, is there an attractive array of red and green vegetables?"

Does it have a nice bottom?

Well, speaking of that, while searching for images to go with New Zealand pies, I came across this not-so-randomly placed picture.

Who's eaten all the pie?

 Well I never said pies were healthy. I will speedily report on the results, dear readers, when they are announced next Tuesday.

All the sky's a canvas

A giant X-class solar flare - another sign of the apocalypse (see post below)? - has caused a spectacular light show over the South Island. Timelapse photography by TK Fraser shows the raw beauty of this spectacle. A geomagnetic storm was caused down here at the foot of the world by a solar flare let loose by the sun on Friday.

Packing up for the Apocalypse

Stormy weather.

Twice in the last few days the Dominion Post has plastered Doomsday scenarios for Wellington across its front page. First it was a disturbing article that said the capital would basically be cut off from the outside world for four months in the event of a big quake - the inevitable "big one" that everyone here knows is coming one day. This was followed a few days later by a story that talked about parts of the city being washed away by rising water levels caused by climate change. True, they said the change would come over the next century. But if the torrential weather of this weekend is anything to go by, it could be a hell of a lot sooner. Rivers have broken their banks, landslides have closed roads and the obligatory trampers have been stuck up mountains.

Those of you who regularly read this blog know how warm and fuzzy I feel about Wellington. All was well in my mind until the 7.0 quake that rumbled through here a couple of weeks ago. It's been followed by a steady assault of little rattlers that get the mind to thinking - especially when prompted by the local newspapers and constant reminders from my conspiracy prone son that it is, after all, 2012.

While not admitting to being a feardy-cat, I will confess that the gentle ache about my imminent departure from Wellington is being somewhat dulled. After what we've been through in New Zealand with quakes and slips and weather bombs and storms roaring in, you start thinking about this stuff despite your braver nature. Where would you go? How would you get water? What would you do if certain buildings came down? These are things that just become part of your Wellington DNA once you've been here for a while - perhaps especially when you know you are leaving.

The Dom Post's uplifting, pardon the pun, graphic about rising water levels in Welly.

So, as I sit in my empty house thinking thoughts of destruction, it dawns on me that it really is time to leave. My family's gone. There are pressing problems back home in the States. And the storming, howling weather is obviously trying to tell me something.

SBW, you sushi-eating heretic

The Hurricanes arrive

One of Amy's favorite expressions is, "Always be yourself, unless you can be Sonny Bill Williams. Then always be Sonny Bill Williams."

SBW

SBW, as he's known to headline writers, recently announced that he will be leaving New Zealand Rugby for a season in Japan followed by a season playing rugby league - a different form of rugby - in Australia. It's difficult to draw a U.S. comparison. SBW is a good-looking superstar, a freakish athlete - he's also New Zealand's heavyweight boxing champion - and has movie star good looks. In announcing his move, he's pretty much saying goodbye to the All Blacks, New Zealand's national rugby team and the current world champions.

It would be like A-Rod announcing that he's going to play baseball for Cuba. New Zealand is a small country and playing for the All Blacks is the mythical aspiration of every school kid. To walk away from that for financial reasons sticks in a lot of people's craw. "Money Bill Williams" is a moniker that has stuck. "Sushi Boy Williams" not so much. One radio commentator said that what SBW had done was sacrilege and he was a heretic.

So, when SBW and his Chiefs game to town to play the last regular game of the season against the Wellington  Hurricanes, a large crowd showed up. To show their appreciation, no doubt. I went along to see the spectacle.

But, this being New Zealand, politeness won the day. There was no sushi thrown at SBW, who has a habit of leaving teams at short notice. There was no booing, although appreciative roars erupted every time SBW got hit by one of the home team players.

Don't go, Sonny Bill.

The bottom line is that SBW is 26, single and looking for a bit of adventure. While lots of people hold that against him, I don't. He should have the chance to see the world, make a bit of money and, when he's ready, come on back.

In the end, the Hurricanes fans got their pound of flesh: their team beat the top-placed Chiefs and knocked them off their perch. But Sonny Bill is still leaving, no matter how fired up the Wellington stadium was. Safe travels, SBW. Always be yourself. Unless you can be ...