Wanganui Trip

A prompt departure at on the Intercity coach at 10 am, with a rather gruff voiced mid-European accented driver at the wheel. The day is drizzly but nice to get out of the city, high temperatures are predicted, and that means twenty-one or two for down here. Managed to attain the front seat, and next to me is Reserved, in big letters, for the driver's passenger list. Sacred. 

Last night's Malaysian meal went well, and the three Indio-Malaysians were very happy with their reception in Wellington. They're being well looked after. However I didn't digest the chicken sambal too well, and confirmed the fact that I am a picky eater. So be it. I'll be ultra careful in Wanganui as I don't want to burp through Michael Houstoun's stellar performance. And I discover he is a personal friend of Viva's Mum so I now have an entree there.

But a phone all from L just before I rushed to leave  made me take a quick detour to BP on the way to the station where the coach leaves from. The BP information flyer was prepared and on a quick proof read I discovered, as always, a typo, a misspelling of the famous Courtenay Place. Easy to miss, as it is quite a strange spelling. The flyer, btw, is fantastic, and was in part due to a press release I had prepared after the Media seminar the other day, which also has a follow up on Monday. So things are heading in the right direction, and fast.

A change of drivers at Palmy North results in a more bluff than gruff Kiwi of a grand stature who makes himself known immediately to all and sundry. During the next hour and half trip he acknowledges and waves to at least thirty or so other vehicles, all rather large ones of course, but he just knows everyone, whereas our earlier driver seemed oblivious to everything.

 The trip winds down through beautiful green lamb covered hills, indeed a delight on the eyes. Wanganui appears and it was exactly as last time. I find the Opera House in five minutes, pick up my tickets and then descend onto the Grand Hotel which looms at the end of the same street. Checked in immediately and see Irish bars everywhere, and photos of ancient Rugby Gods on the walls. The hotel is most likely owned by an All Black. I find my crisp white room and collapse on the very soft queensized bed  and quickly fall asleep. I knew I needed a nap.  Refreshed an hour or so later I descend to the foyer to pick up the password for the Wifi. All is good and my emails are replied to. However I can't find G's phone number but peu importe, I am seeing him at six in the foyer for a quick bite.

In the meantime I take a stroll around the town, it's not difficult to cover it in half an hour. The museum is closed at four thirty unfortunately, but the mammoth tree in the park is worth much more than any remains in a museum. It is one of the most majestic trees I have ever seen, possibly because of its position on the hilly side of the main park. I do a few photos and and sit in the street on a convenient bench to finish this.  Hear a female voice, French accented, asking me where the Information Centre is. As I don't know, I hail a local who kindly says it's on the river bank. I wish the heavily laden SUV 'Bonnes Vacances' and receive a smiling 'Merci' in response. The French love New Zealand.

The chimes of the town clock remind me I have half an hour to shower and change before dinner and the concert. The weather is sultry and a few tiny drops of rain try to squeeze on to the rather dry street scape. It is good weather for Beethoven.

Leaving a wet Wellington

A rather lush foyer at the aptly named Grand Hotel