Day 6: Joining Kiwi Experience with a Kiwi Experience

Day 6, Friday 11th December 

T avelling on the Kiwi Experience bus tour

Rotorua to Auckland

The whole team, plus a new bunch in the KE tour bus

On our way towards Bay of Islands and NZ's most northerly point

Distance: 229km

Total Distance: 981

I left not too bright and early from Rotorua, catching the KE bus going north. There's a random bunch of people on here from all over the world (still lots of English & Germans though). 

Had a good chat with a few before we dropped in at a large Kiwi hatchery. It was advertised as the place where one would get the closest experience possible with a Kiwi. I slightly take issue with that- there's a Kiwi in Napier Aquarium where they have a hatchery. The hatchery isn't on public display, but they do have a Kiwi. There's also a one legged Kiwi in Wellington Zoo- not sure why they haven't given him/her a prosthetic, I'm sure I know a couple of people who could. (Mammal-like bone structure too, including marrow, unlike most birds. Easy as. I'm sure they have a reason, Wellington Zoo has good Veterianry facilities.)

What I will say for the nursery near Rotorua though is that it's the best. The kiwis they have are in excellent enclosures and seemed much more lively than the others I've seen. (Napier Aquarium deserves more funding and Welli has one leg.) The hatchery and nursery were also great to see. 

The mother kiwi can lay 2 eggs per season, but each egg is HUGE. They are the equivalent of a 35lb baby fo a human (5year old child). 

After birth the father takes over (monogamous, so daddy and mummy share a territory for life), and sits on the egg for 80 day. This is how they find the eggs- the fathers are tagged. If he stays in one spot for a long time that's probably an egg. 

Naturally, at this point, the fathe leaves. The chicks squeaks and scratches its way out of the egg (no egg tooth) over the course of a week, making lots of noise for predators to hear. It quite often sleeps for long periods during the process. Each chick has an internalised yolk sack that acts as a feed source for 2 weeks before it needs to eat (a chicken's lasts 24 hours), giving it long enough to mature. Yeh, it's not long- they come out as mini-adults.

After all of this the wild survival rate is 5%. Not really enough. 

Ferrets used to kill 40,000 kiwis per year

There's 75,000 in the wild.

Time to bring in the humans.

Having tracked down the sitting kiwi the egg is retrieved after the fath has left.

It is brought into the hatchery where the shell is checked for cracks and the size of the air sack in the egg is measured- this indicates how old the chick is so gives a guide to how long until hatching.

After this the egg is placed in an incubator. Most eggs go in the large one that does everything- temperature control, air flow, turning the eggs. Similar model to that used to raise farm chickens, but for bigger eggs.

Special eggs that there might be concerns about are placed in slightly older models- still temperature controlled, but the turning has to be done manually. This means someone has to go and look at the eggs and check they are alright.

Eventually the chick with start to hatch. Most birds have an "egg tooth", a little toe bit of extra beak to break open the egg shell. Kiwis don't . They just have to hammer their way out of the egg, between sleeps, over the course of a week, until they emerge fully feathered, with giant feet and tiny wings. (Occasionally birds need help put most are allowed to hatch naturally). They get a dab of iodine on their navel, just like lambs and calves.

The nursery weighs them and puts them in a different incubator for them to adjust to life and eat their internal yolk.

Once they are judged medically sound they can be moved further. They get fed a combination of Hill's Science Plan Optimum Cat Food, with mixed veg, fruit, wheat germ, vitamins and minerals, rolled oats, few other bits mixed in to a soft blend. Yummy.

It's more nutritionally sound than just giving them the kilos of bugs they would naturally have, as well as cheaper and easier that's growing kilos of bugs. Each kiwi gets a wee dish of the mix. Once it finishes its share (some get a little h lo to start them off) they get "desert"- a blend of live bugs! Don't finish your main, don't get to play with your other food. Rules is rules.

They keep track of weights to ensure the little balls of fluff are growing properly. 

After they're sure they can hunt and live in the wild properly they are released to a "colony". Whilst each kiwi has a territory, they try to keep them in a specific area. This enables them to keep track of the kiwis and allows them to only have to look after a certain amount of land (as well as making kiwi match making easier)

In total the process costs NZ$2000-2500 (GB£1000-1250), from collection to release. In the wild it takes about NZ$100 per kiwi per year. They live for around 20-30 years, so per kiwi it's not cheap. Hence many of the kiwis are sponsored by companies. These sponsors are allowed to name the kiwis...but this is before they know the sex of the bird. 

Like many birds these days it is possible to take out 1 feather and do a PCR DNA test to find out if he is a she or she is a he. The test is becoming cheaper, but it's not very fast, taking weeks to get the results back. Hence Miss Steven and Miss Dugg.

At present they have 2 adults on site, a mating pair. Both very lively in their little forested enclosure, running about diggin for grubs and pruning themselves.

Tonto found one to ride into battle

We also had a wee drop into Matamata. The town used to be famous for horse breeding. With the filming of The Hobbit, however, the Hobbiton set was rebuilt nearby. This has given the area a tourist trade, to the point that they've had their information centre converted into a thatched cottage by Weta Workshop.

Tonto made a friend inside

Now I'm on a quiet, sleepy bus heading towards Auckland, watching Wedding Crashers, as the weather closes in.

Day 4 & 5: Rotorua, Redwoods, Buried Village & Exhausting Myself

Days 4 & 5, Wednesday 9th, Thursday 10th,December

Rotorua, The Redwoods, and The Buried Village

Myself & Tonto (Walter Knitty's just too big for some of these journeys)

Walked about 40km (25 miles) - thankfully I could carry a light bag

Total Journey Distance: 752km

The plan: 

Walk to The Buried Village- a cross between Beamish (a Northern England Must See) and Pompeii (an Italian Must See)

Walk, in part, through the Redwood forest park

I'm writing this on the afternoon on my fifth day. I just couldn't find the energy last night. I could barely walk. So amazing to have a soak and a shower afterwards. I wasn't much better this morning, so this has been a bit of a lazy day. Just talking to whoever was around the hostel. I deserve it. Yesterday was nuts.

I guess I should have felt warned when I managed to, in the rush to get out of the door, forget the green stone pendent I was given by the practice as a leaving present.

Although, maybe I kept some of the effects. I was certainly determined. I did get plenty of walking in. Just not so sure how good it was for my short term health.

The day started at the hostel at 8am. The Buried Village site is 15km away by road. With a small day sack I can easily cover 30km in a day. In theory I would be there by 11am, before the day became far too hot.

The first few kilometres I steadily got into my usual rhythm wandering along watching out for traffic and ensuring I was alongside the correct highway.

I turned onto the road that lead to the Village. There was the entrance to the redwood site. 1km to the centre and start of their tracks. I had a memory of one route that would take me across the are to a place far closer to the Village. But if I was wrong I could be doing another 2km, and if I was right, with hills etc. I'd be doing another 3km minimum- but under the trees and through the forest. I might also lose and hour. I could still be at the village for 12 though, that was fine.

The route does have a proper name. Something long and in Moari which, for better or worse, I can't pronounce, spell, or remember. But it had black arrows showing the way, so I just called it the black route. Simple.

The problem was that there was work going on in the forest.

"Please ask inside about diversions"

Pay, no fear,I was just wanting to follow the road, I'd work it out.

The first 10km were up and into the forest. We travelled through a region filled with giant American redwoods, brought over for the timber industry,but here left as a recreational park, mostly for mountain biking. There are also fern trees and bushes interspersed, giving the place a "Jurassic Park" feel. If anyone remembers the Walking with Dinosaurs episode about the baby sauropod this is that landscape.

Up and into the hills, the vies we distupted by the trees, until we got deep enough to were vast swaths had been felled. This was the commercial area at the back of the park.

Eventually I descended and reached the roadside. The path was due to follow the road further, in theory. I should have gone with the plan and followed it. Yet it wasn't obvious, and there was the road. There were a lot of cars on it, maybe I could hitchhike?

I've done a fair amount of road walking in the past. I don't generally encourage it due to the dangers.  There are a few rules to make it safer, though.

Keep as far off the road as possible. 

Keep yourself aware of traffic, and get out the way! Especially big stuff.

When walking round a bend walk on the outside. Your more easily seen and people tend to drive towards the inside of a curve.

The forest walk, whilst nice, hadn't given me a short cut, or a decent time. It was 11am, the sun was hot, I was hungry, and I still had 12km to do. I fished out one of my small burger buns, a cold sausage and a boiled egg. Not much of a sandwich but it hit the spot.

Right. Hitchhiking. People still do it here. People on highways with too much time and too little cash. People just trying to go somewhere else. Successful people doing it either look sensible or have a low cut top and sweet smile. So yeh...

After 6km I'd given up and had my kindle out, reading the last of my Harry Dresden novel. The trees had grown closer, the traffic less, and my legs were in auto. I sipped water from my bag and hammered along.

 Reached the Blue and Green lakes at about 12.30. There were a lot of families splashing about, having fun. I was knackered. Why was I bothering? This wasn't worth it! Surely I would have had more fun staying in Rotorua. Maybe if I turned back now I could do more in the redwood forest, go have a sleep, have a drink with my feet up. I'd done enough for the day. I'd earned a rest.

"Buried Village 4km"

Sod it.

There were even fewer cars as I carried on, but more trees. I just keep going. Mindless, just carrying on.

"Buried Village 1km"

We can do this.

Where all the cool kids at.

"The Buried Village. Devonshire Cream Teas 10am-3.30pm"

Finally!

Have you ever sat on a train staring out of the window, only for when it stops to still feel like you're moving? Your eyes and brain make it seem as if everything is very steadily slipping past.

I had that when I'd stopped walking. Freaky. I must have been doing a very consistent pace.

I shook my head and sat down outside. 2 bread buns, a sausage, boiled egg, and an apple. A little bit of bread when to the friendly wee bird that cautiously came to say hello.

The Buried Village

In the year 1886 the most famous tourist attraction in New Zealand were the Pink and White Terraces.

I know, tourism on the other side of the world for the Victorians! Looking at some of their stuff they clearly didn't travel light either. Glad I'm not carting around half a dozen petticoats. One's enough for me.

The terraces were formed as hot, mineral rich boiling waters bubbled out from the volcano. The minerals were deposited as the water cooled, forming a series of terraces and small pools, not unlike a Chinese paddy field hillside. Tourists would start at the cooler bottom pools, working up to the warmer pools, then down again. Some items were pertained in the pools- there's a bowler hat someone left in a pool for a year in the museum. It's not unlike Mother Shipton's cave in Yorkshire- but the minerals are a pretty white or pink, not a rusty brown.

It wasn't to last though. On the night of the 10th June 1886 the ground shook and then exploded. The volcanoes heating the terraces had erupted. Rock and dust fell out of the sky onto the local village, destroying Maori and Pakeha buildings alike. Hundreds died via direct hits, buildings collapsing under the weight of debris, or from toxic gases. Many tried to run, or huddled together in larger Whares ("Fares"- traditional Maori houses). Some were successful- the main guide, Sophia, a half-Maori half-Scottish lady successfully sheltered many in her home.

It was all over by morning. Rescue parties were sent out, digging people out from the 2 metres of dust and mud up to 4 days after the event. Some were even deeper. Some too deep to rescue.

Initial reports proposed the the terraces had, in part, survived. This would at least mean the tourist trade could continue. Then the truth came. They were gone. Simply gone. The land had shifted, moved, flown. The lake had been altered, part of the mountains obliterated, and the terraces nothing more than a memory, other than a few chunks littering the land.

No more farming, no more tourism. Local Maori donated food, blankets, and even land to help their refugees. The Pakeha were not so lucky. Many went to find new work, but those who owned businesses were ruined. The insurance companies declared that no one was eligible for protection from volcanic eruptions so wouldn't pay out. Some items were retrieved, medals were awarded to people for bravery, but nothing prevented bankruptcy.

Vi Smith had begun a little tea room not far from Lake Tawera. She was effectively right above the original village. He sons, before WW2 began excavating the site, finding Victorian items, and them homes. After the war the excavations continued, and do to this day. They are steadily unearthing everything that had been left behind.

Thus, today, the tea room has a museum attached documenting the day the terraces were destroyed. The grandson of the Maori chief who saw the eruption guides some of the tours. Outside are a collection of the houses they have unearthed, including a few Whare and the blacksmiths. 

And finally, their waterfall.

Sorry, the rest of my photos are on my camera, which isn't as easy to move photos from right now compared to my phone.

Suddenly my day REALLY doesn't seem so bad

After my wander round, I'd missed afternoon tea. It was bang on 3.30pm and everything was shut up. I managed to find someone to fill my water though, then sat down for a little snack. Still had to get back.

So, I set off. I'd finished my book and wasn't in the mood to start another. I was getting tired. Very tired. Must have done 20km so far. I didn't have a great deal of food left either. I really wasn't in to mood to carry on. Why should I anyway? I could be back at 10pm and it wouldn't matter. I got to the Blue lake and had a lie down. Just a little nap, a sleep to help. The wind picked up. The clouds might have been a dark shade. No rain as forecast. Wasn't going to take the chance though. A cereal bar and I was off.

I'm not much of a music person. I like it, enjoy it, appreciate it- but I can never remember track names nor artist's names. So far I hadn't put in my earphones- the book was already an excessive risk when road walking. But without it, and keeping the volume down, I risked it. And I'm so glad I did! My legs got back into the rhythm. I was suddenly positive again, able to just keep going. We eve off!

So far along I noticed, as we passed a few redwoods 8km along, a little hole in the hedge. I pushed through and there it was, the black track that ran along the roadside! It had been so close throughout my earlier walk. Well, I'd missed this opportunity before, let's not do it again. Hearty pace, don't get run down by the occasional mountain bike, keep going. 

After several kilometres the road diverted off and a gully grew between it and the track. This must be a short cut around that, I decided. Keep going.

The gully grew. Some hills were added to the ensemble. Big hills. A ridge. A long ridge. Ah. I'd missed the turning I hadn't taken that morning. I was lost. And going south- I wanted to go west, over the ridge.

Suddenly I came across a black arrow. So, i was in the right area. But do I go with the track, or against it? Against was uphill and south. With it was down into the gully. I followed it... Into a turning circle for log trucks. The path ended. Must have missed a diversion too. Oops.

I heard voices further down the gully. Young guys playing on mountain bikes. Time to ask for directions.

I know men traditionally are supposed to be too proud to ask for directions. If I have a map I usually am. But when I'm tired, the sun is setting behind the ridge I might have to climb, and I have no idea where I am pride can go (rude words) itself.

As I walked down I noticed an older man put his bike down and walk over the lip of the land into the gully. He'd know where I should go. I walked towards him. A head appeared out of the bush, his wife pulling up her shorts!

I blurted out something akin to an apology, then turned around for a few paces, trying not to blush. She came up the hill, pulling a bike I hadn't noticed out of the trees.

"You look lost"

I tried to explain my position.

"My husband knows this place better than me"

Her husband arrived out of the bushes with their daughter. He did a fair job of explaining were to go. But it wasn't exactly safe.

"Go over this creek, then climb up that bike track. You'll find a clearing. You see that gap between those two trees? Yeh, that's the exit of a bit track. You'll know it by the massive jumps it has. Follow that up to the track. Then do down hill to the filtration ponds. Take a right, follow that, it'll turn into asphalt. Follow that until the cross roads, take a right, you'll come to the end of the road the redwood centre is on"

Simple, easy, slightly dangerous and tiring, but God bless that man!

I followed his advice. He wasn't wrong about the bike jumps. The last one was like two king size beds at 30' angles, separated by a gap the size of another king size bed. The rest weren't much easier.

His was probably more dangerous than the roads. I took the earphones out and kept to the edges. I wasn't so much worried about anyone hitting m- I'd be able to get out of the way. But suddenly seeing a random guy when riding a bike at 20+km/hr through a forest- that could lead to some serious miscalculation and I didn't want to see someone crunch into a tree because of me. Keep close to the trees, be ready to hide well out of the way.

Is that a hare? What's a hare doing here?

The little fluff ball looked up at me. I wasn't going to get any closer. It wasn't quite right though.

Then it started hopping off. But not like a hare does. Just on its hind legs, holding its front paws off the ground.

A Wallaby!

There's not many in the park- they eye released by accident from a private collection. Now a few live out their lives amongst the trees. And I'd seen one!

I got to the entrance of the track without seeing any crazy humans trying out the massive jumps. At the top I got a confused but caring look from two mountain bikers who gave me the same directions as before and sent me on my way. I was so close that I had to celebrate. More music, my last half bread bun and an apple. Oh, splash out, have the other cereal bar.

There were more people as I got closer, a few dogs, families, walkers, asphalt. Finally I was back down to ground level. I found the information centre. It was 6.30pm and only 4km back to the hostel. I fished out the last of my food to help me finish off. A raw carrot. I'm sorry, who packed this bag? Where's the Jelly Babies, or the chocolate? Weirdo.

Once bag I hammered through 2 bread buns and a giant bowl of last night's curry. At 9 the Irish lass who's in the dorm room invited me to the warm spa pool. Oh, so good for the legs. She chatted with the old American lady we shared the pool with as I allowed blood to leave my head to do good elsewhere. 

After a shower I stumbled to bed and passed out. It was good night's sleep. 

Day 3: To Roto-Vegas Baby!

Day 3

The whole team

Taking the bus from Gisborne to Rotorua

Finding a nice wee hostel as base, visiting Pak 'n' Sav, resting, eating, chatting to/up seven different nationalities

Distance today 272km

Total distance 712km

Today was due to be an early start as the only bus to Gisborne (at a reasonable price) left at 7:55am. It was made even earlier when the only other Brit in the building fell out of bed at 5am, with a thud and a yelp. She was fine but it seemed like as good a time as any to get up.

Breakfast consisted of cold sausage and disappointment. I couldn't get the BBC to stream. 

No Have I Got News For You, No Dr Who, Much Boo Hoo.

Anyway, off to the bus, occasional sleep, weird looks at the toilet stop from a small biker gang, quick drive past the coast, then to Rotorua.

And into the lodge. 

There's a vast number of German people here. Everyone's surprised by it, even the Germans! I'm trying to learn German but it's not been smooth. I'll get there.

In the mean time they're practicing their English on me, as are the Italians, the Chinese, the Brazilians, the French, the Argentinians, as well as there being a few English and Irish about. Lovely people. I've decided I need to try more French and German though- I've a spattering of it lodged in my brain somewhere. Just need to drag it into the light, blow it off, then show it off. Might as well be ambitious.

Other than that I've just been chilling, planning, cooking, drinking tea, and eating bananas.

Ooh, I forgot! Over dinner got talking to a girl from central China. I was making curry, but having none of the usual carbs I was using up my noodles. I then proceeded to eat my mess with chopsticks. She loved it- first European she'd ever seen using them. She was so impressed she took a photo! 

I've got skills, bro.

Anyway, finishing cup of tea no. 6, next to the last half a pack of Cadbury's and a few remaining bananas. The weather's cool but the spa pool is at 44C. Did I not mention? The cheapest hostel in Rotorua has its own geothermal spa pool. 

Sweet.

Day 2: Gisborne, Captain James Cook, and logs

When: Day 2, Monday, 7/12/15

Where: Gisborne, first city to see the sun, first landing of Captain James Cook

Who: Wingham and Tonto

How: on foot (I'm so out of shape right now!)

Why: Gisborne is one of the few major cities on the North Island I hadn't visited. It proclaims itself as being "First place to see the light" (it's even on the drain covers). It is built around that landing sight of the first pakeha (Europeans) to get here. There was once a large amount of export industry here, but as roads improved it was deemed easier to export on the west cost, transporting everything there via the roads. That apparent exception to this is the timber.

I started the day win brisk walk to, around, up, and over, the large hill that over looks Gisborne. 

At the base of the hill is the port, where today a ridiculous number of logs were being loaded.

By the entrance to the port, however, sits a monument to the first pakeha to land on New Zealand, Captain James Cook.

Above this spot, on the hill, are numerous sites, including old cottage sites, look outs, and the observatory. May favourite spot has to be the statue of "Cpt James Cook" near the top. It's not James. It's a bronze replica of a random marble statue from Italy. The uniform's not British, and the face is nothing like that of the portraits of Jimmy. It was all sponsored by a brewery- they have the statues twin at their main site in Auckland. Yet it's still a good representation, and the view is pretty sweet, so it'll do.

After all the exercise the rain set in, a signal to head off for the museum.

Admission free on Mondays! Good timing

The museum doubles as an art gallery, so there was lots on photography of the local area, art exhibits, Maori and Pakeha history.

Most amazingly they've got half a ship in the museum! 

The Heart of Canada, from Belfast, sank just off the coast. The captain's quarters and the piloting area (don't know the real name, bit with the wheel) were salvaged and rebuild on the side of the museum.

There were also exhibits about the areas surfing history, Maori boat building, and James Cook's initial landing.

From here we went on to the Botanical Garden, with its desert green house, aviary, native plant garden, and assortment of trees. Nice place to sit and take 5 before I came back to the hostel.

All in all a good day to start me off. Now I really need a shower, lots of tea, and some sleep.

Tomorrow morning we're off to Rotorua!

Monument to Cpt Cook

Not Cpt Cook, but close enough

View of the bay, with ship being filled with ex-trees

Tonto taking charge of the Heart of Canada

Looking at the compass

The real Captain James Cook

Random little fence in the Botanical Gardens, looks like bamboo, actually painted steel pipes. Penned Tonto up to keep the ducks safe

The Flying Nun, an ex-convent, now hostel

Where's Wingham? Day 1- and so it begins!

Well, I'm making a start on trying to keep you all updated from day 1. Long may it continue.

For those of you on Facebook you might also experience 6 months of my short ramblings and photos whenever I have wifi

The same goes for anyone following me on Twitter @The_Animagus

Today began with the usual ramshackled stumblings of an overly excited, slightly worried, quite dehydrated, very out of practice, Wandering Wingham. 

Eventually the circus left town, proceeding to get 3 buses, 2 egg and ham sandwiches, and a Moro bar  over the 420km to Gisborne. 2 rambling old women sat behind me all the way, chatting over whatever, eating cheese and weird flavours of crisps. The rain steadily poured down and I went to sleep.

Thankfully I'd had the foresight to book my accommodation 2 days in advance. Seems everyone else also wants to stay in the ex-convent I found, now a budget hostel. Whole place is run down (most budget hostels are) and the feeling of deep religious thought has been washed away by a stream of smelly students.

At the moment it's not a stream, it's a down pour. And they're 95% German Surfers. I didn't get as far as I would have liked with my German course. I've never surfed. Oh well, there's a decent French guy and a young German lad in my dorm, so been hearing their stories. 

Everyone else is either chatting about surfing, watching surfing videos, or staring at screens. 

We have FREE WIFI!!!

Which is great for so many reasons, but it does hamper conversation. Why bother trying to get chatting to a bunch of random people when I'm only here for a couple of nights? Because most of them will be interesting! But I'm tired. Tired from sitting on a bus all day? Fine, I'll try.

Sorry, where was I? Ah, yes.

In the beginning there where the three amigos.

Let me introduce the other two.

Meet Mini-Wingham and our doggie

I've decided to christen Mini-Me as Walter Knitty the Witty

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty was on the plane when I first flew out and was on TV the night before I left Bulls. It's a pretty good film about a quiet guy who works for Life magazine ending up on a sudden adventure. Seemed a fitting name, with a little change.

Our wee doggie is called Tonto

I was going to call him Toto, because we're not in Kansas anymore. But I prefer the name Tonto, and it fits so it sticks. Does this make me the Lone Ranger? Maybe.

Tomorrow I'm going to visit some gardens and climb a hill. It's not the most exciting start, but as Gisborne is the "First place to see the sun" (take that Japan), I had to visit.

Then we're off to Rotorua, the Redwood forest and the Buried Village 

Merry Christmas!

Why I love about working with farmers

I'm out of my cast! No more splint, no more having to use one hand for everything!

Back to normal life? If only it were that simple.

Sadly the doctors who are in charge of me have decided that, whilst I can use my hand for anything else, I'm not allowed to drive for at least another week (boo!!!), maybe another 3 weeks (many many loud angry swear words). I appreciate that I want to get back to normal, but I don't think driving a car is going to do any more damage than, say, typing.

The BIG problem with not being able to drive, however, is work. I'm allowed to work, but suddenly I'm not allowed to drive to the farms where I do that work. Thankfully, option B for getting me out of the office and back into the wild is sending me out to do paired or group work, such as taking blood samples.

It is rediculously great to be back outside. To be able to smell the weeds and shrubs that grow around cattle handling facilities mixed in with the smells and calls of the animals. To be out in the light breeze and under the warm sun, doing something practical and useful. To be back to what I came to New Zealand to do.

And back to hanging out with farmers.

I do go to the local pub on a Friday evening to catch up with a portion of the local agricultural community, as well as living with a farm manager. That has been just enough to get some decent farmer chat in during the average week. Yet it's not quite the same as travelling round, seeing the farms, catching up over animals and fields, but one to one.

As many of you will know, I grew up on a farm in the midst of Yorkshire, surrounded by farming friends and family, with my foolish adolescent weekends spent with the local Young Farmers Club. This having shared values and shared experiences, goes , in part, towards explaining the reason why I love working with farmers.

But, along with the animals, the paddocks, the plants, and the weather (for better or worse), there's more than just familiarity that makes farmers great people to work, and socialise, with.

Truth or Consequences 

Farmers nearly all talk in a very specific way. They speak their minds, tell you the truth, for better or worse, even if it's a harsh truth, and just want to get on with it. Some people seem to struggle with this blunt honesty where no one minces their words or tries to make a subject look better than it is.

Yet this is my favourite thing about talking to farmers. The only bullshit is on the ground. You get as close to the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as you're likely to get from any human when talking to a farmer. Again, you might not like what is said, but they just speak their minds, normally with no though to causing offence, occasionally just commenting in jest.

I guess one could say that farmers have never learnt the city slicker techniques of modulating what they say. Never learnt to take into consideration other people's feelings and thus appear brusque. Some days they may even sound like they are trying to be vindictive- which at times can be true, especially with "the new guy", yet if you show you can stand up to it without flinching they will know they can trust you. It doesn't matter how smart you are or what you know, first you have to prove you've got a spine, and that's important in one of the worlds most dangerous jobs when working in a team.

Yet the other side to it is this- when there's only two of you in the entire valley, it's useless lying to the other person: "If it wasn't me, and it apparently wasn't you..."

What's more, with a 14+ hour work day one doesn't see many other people. If you can't laugh and joke with your work mates you'd go mad. They're the only ones you have to confide in, or to discuss things with face to face. Best to be honest now and not dig a hole for yourself. Equally those few people met in the day are best spoken to sincerely, opening your mind to them. There's not many other people about. They will end up knowing you so well that any hint of trying to hide something or lie, such as a new girlfriend ("a real girl bro?" "Wasn't expecting that!" "Isn't your usually a bit more woolly?" "Baa!" "BAAA!"). You really do end up becoming a family.

As well as the 14+ hour work day not leaving time to go socialise elsewhere, it also results in tiredness. It gets harder and harder to invent and then tell convincing lies as one tires, why even start? 

There are plenty of young farm hands who have not realised any of this and struggled- at best learning the hard way, at worst having to leave the job.

We Three Kings of Agriculture...

I recon there's three types of farmer.

The Enthusiasts

These farmers are in it because they love agriculture. For some it's the freedom, owning your own business, doing your own work, or because cows are awesome, tractors are amazing, and the landscape is breath taking.

A bit like this Mitchell and Webb sketch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_pDTiFkXgEE

They also did one about being a vet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qP8LHurwHw

The great thing about these farmers is that they are capable of being really chatty. Plus they have a wealth of knowledge about agriculture and their countryside (not to mention local history).

As well as this, with the introduction of the radio into tractors and cattle shed, most of them have a better idea of what's in the news than many townies I know. Not the old stereotypical backward red neck views either, but modern, well rounded, educated views. Well done to talk radio and the news, giving everyone something to think about whilst cupping cows and leading bales.

To give you an example, last Friday night I went to the pub. It was much quieter than usual, I was tired, and I'd arrived later than most. Yet I still learnt about irrigation systems, changes to forestry machinery, what they do with the stumps of felled trees, newly encroaching weeds and the problems of billing as a contractor. I find it fascinating.

In turn I do my part, occasionally throwing in knowledge as well- reminding them how important it is to vaccinate cattle for Leptospirosis, what Theileria is, or why BVD is something to worry about- subjects that they are interested to hear more about, having heard a few lines in the news or from other farmers.

The Socialite

There's a few farmers who enjoy the job, not so much for the agriculture, but for the lifestyle. They get to work out in the open air, being physically active, whilst chatting with mates, in real life or via Facebook.

Most of these guys and gals are the workers, rather than management, doing a job they have found they like and are, potentially, good at.

The advent of smart phones has meant they are no longer alone, out on the farm, able to be connected by their managers as well as keep social contact with friends. It's a blessing or a curse, depending upon whether you're worker or manager. Either way they're always well ahead of me on knowing the newest jokes, news, sport, weather, new movies, TV, etc. etc.

Half of them are so chilled out you wonder how anything gets done. Some of the time one has to work hard to make sure they're listening if an animal will need extra care when you leave, because they will forget.

On the other hand they have some of the best chat there is! As well as all the news from the web, they know all about every local farm, and will bring out a few old stories of stupid stuff that's happened that week. There's banter and jokes and I normally can't keep up, especially if there's a few of them, yet it's entertaining.

I imagine that some of them eventually leave to do other work, whilst the best graduate into becoming Enthusiasts. 

Finally 

The Loners

Those of us in the farming community all know of these men (and they are nearly always men)- many of us probably have them in our family. To much an extent they are the British publics go-to farmer image. An old man, up on the hills or down some long road, only ever heard to shout "GER OFF MOI LAAND!!!" 

Without other people about, other than any family, it easy for these guys to seem "backward", struggling to keep up with the modern world and having no social life. They become a harsh caricature of the Truth or Consequences.

And they like it this way- out of reach from everyone else's bullshit, living their own life with the land and their animals.

These are the farmers we all need to keep an eye on. No matter how far from the world they are, whether family or neighbour. Without a point of reference for their thoughts and ideas, without a strong wife nor workers, their thoughts can wander.

Lack of contact with the rest of the world can make them naïve, losing their defensive streak, easily taken advantage of by some conspiring company rep, or wayward woman. I've heard too many stories of men having their lives and businesses ruined by such people.

They also have no one to share their troubles with, becoming insular in their isolation, defensive, and ignorant of their problems- which can grow, or in their mind grow, resulting in anxiety, depression, and aggression. These emotions might get taken out on their animals, visitors, or themselves , through active aggressive attitudes or neglect. This is also given as a reason why farmers have one of the worlds highest suicide rates (a long with vets). 

These men really need people to talk to, even if they don't always want them. I feel there aren't many women Loners because they wouldn't be so daft as to get so far away from other people. Equally a strong farmer's wife wouldn't let it happen to her husband. But the stubborn nature of these men, with the inability to quit, to hold on to the bitter end and never admit a mistake (perhaps because they no longer feel they have anyone they trust enough to admit their mistakes and fears to), results in them being increasingly isolated.

I hope that through Young Farmers Clubs, by having local pubs, and smart phones, as well as a "hello" or "G'day" from the milk tanker driver, or the postman, the number of true, lonely Loners we have will decrease. I'd never want to prevent anyone from from living the life they want, and being alone in the hills, with no one but your dog and livestock, is a wonderful, calming life, at one with the land. Just because that is their working day, however, doesn't mean it needs to be their entire life.

Of course many of these attributes are shared with people across the world, and the farming types I have described are not distinct, but merge into one another. A socialite might grow up into an enthusiast, might become old and grumpy and become a loner. Someone who spends their work days as a loner might enjoy contracting work over the summer, becoming a socialite.

Conclusion 

So there you are, farmers. They struggle to be anything but honest. They have great banter, terrible jokes, live a life bound to beautiful land, away from everyone else's troubles and lies. Once you've proven yourself to them you'll have a friend for life. They have a ton of knowledge about everything from animals to aquifers, tractors to trees, weeds to what's on television.

Like any community, they have their own customs, traditions and mannerisms, for better or worse, a difficult community for outsiders to understand at times, but a great bunch once you're in.

But as the community shifts and shrinks as farming practices change, we all need to keep an eye on those who are struggling in silence and ensure they do have people they trust whom they can comfortably open up to with their worries or complaints.

Maybe that's why people always say farmers complain. Better complaining to you than the sheep. The sheep don't listen.

"BAAA!!!"

FOMO vs FOSU: Fear of Missing Out versus Fear of Screwing Up

The scariest thing I've ever done is move to New Zealand. A place I'd never been to, had no family nor friends here, to a job I'd never properly done before, on the other side of the world, by myself. Looking back, being scared was a logical reaction.

And yet I still did it. I packed up my gear and travelled all this way.

The first few weeks I could get by on the phrase "You are in New Zealand!". It was a simple phrase filled with novelty and hope. I was on a beautiful island on the other side of the world where the sun was shining, how could I not be excited?

And then came Christmas. No family, no cold nor snow, just endless sunshine. I have never felt so far from home before. Thankfully, though, Emma, a friend from University, had been working on the South Island and came to visit. Later I moved into a new flat in Bulls with two lads, Ben and Nick. And finally, on Christmas Day I was invited round to Ben's family home, with Emma, to enjoy a true Kiwi Christmas.

After that it got steadily easier. The flat was a lot of fun, I could socialise with local farmers at The Rat Hole pub on a Friday night, I got out and about exploring the North Island, and met a new group of friends in Wellington.

The whole experience has been great, no regrets, would tell anyone else to give it ago. It was all made much easier by knowing that I had a base and community when I got here. Not to mention that the Kiwis are all lovely people and if I needed help it was never far away.

Now, however, I'm letting go of all that stability and going off to see the rest of NZ, as well as Australia and some of the USA.

Back to being afraid. But also excited. 

"I'm a backpacker"

"I'm travelling the Pacific"

"I'm as close to a professional blogger as I'll ever get"

"I'm lost... Well that's not good"

I'm back to being on my own again, fending for myself.

Granted, I know NZ now, have friends here, and spend time travelling with others,but I'm still off on my own.

Australia and the USA are similar- I'm with other travellers, have friends in the country, but I don't really know the places, not like I know Yorkshire, or even New Zealand.

Being terrified that something, anything, could go wrong and screw it all up seems very reasonable.

What's the solution?

Knowledge.

I already know most Kiwis, backpackers, tour guides, Australians and American hosts will be kind and honest.

I know what I want- to see more of the world, meet interesting people, have great experiences- then I don't have to worry too much about the day-to-day, just go with the flow.

And if I have a decent idea of what I'm doing then I don't have to worry able it the big picture.

All of this will remind me not to be afraid. To be excited. To enjoy everyday of it.

Spending the whole trip scared of what might happen would be as useful as spending the 157 days in a box.

Thus I will be spending the next couple of weeks writing posts about what my plans are, potentially with some detail. Of course things will happen to change some minor aspects, but the basic idea is there.

Hopefully it will help me fell confident in the face of so much time on the road.

Wish me luck!