In the Summer of ’17 I was living out the back of a beat out Toyota Estima, tramping the New Zealand byways and skyways. An adventure. A lifestyle. A dowdy dream and a sobering reality. Not a glamorous Insta-fad of perfect moments, but a beautiful mess of feral memories and rustic leisure.
˜ I dreamt my bed right by the sea, ‘side a pearly shipwrecked tree. Unwithered by dawns delight, the blue bay breathed a heavy roar of pebbles, ceaseless in its lucid trance of fading liquid night. The sky, in coy caress, blushed peachy on the brilliant peaks; admired from such handsome height. And the feral […]
Headlong in leave of Greymouth, I came of myself once more in vivid leisure of the West Coast Highway. Roaming down the juncture of the Southern Alps and a wild coastline – fresh promise blasting through the open windows, freedom spilling from the radio – I fled my misfortunes with impunity.
I unexpectedly found myself writhing lock-jawed on a hospital bed, focused intently on breathing through the pain. The lovely nurse instructing me to “try relax” as others blurred around me in a rush of needles. It was at that moment that I finally understood the baseless, primal fury of a women scorned being implored to “calm down”.
Sitting with the doors slouched open in the sun, the waves lapping nearby, it occurs to me that this is a different sort of home. Detached, completely, but with a warm, hazy texture. As if not the lazy safety of my parent’s couch, but rather the unshakable memory of it.
One does not simply walk into Mordor. You must catch a shuttle or hitch hike. Commercialisation of the the car park aside, we set off down the Tongariro crossing with the masses, having started a bit late. No matter though, for Julija and I were going to crush it anyway, right?
Leaving Kawhia, I traveled the same magnificent road I entered on, leading to Cambridge. I spent the night in Cambridge with a family friend, blissfully welcoming a few home comforts after my trailer trash introduction to van life. From Cambridge I hit the Thermal Express Highway.
The beginnings of four months of solo van life around New Zealand – From car yard life in Auckland to the blazing coolness of Raglan
The Faroe Islands are the work of a child’s imagination, and perhaps of my own. A jigsaw of impossible landscapes lost in the heart of the wild North Atlantic. A land of Vikings and lashing winds, where waterfalls flow upwards and drop a thousand foot into the raging sea. A land best explored with childish wonderment.