This is half-pie.

Unusually for Wellington, today is a day of vertical rain. The sun pokes through from time to time but generally it’s a soft light, a growing light. Sadly for our tree, the sparrows have returned again this year: it is they who account for the fallen blossom, not our wind. We are lacking a tuī to take a stand and own the tree against all comers.

And I regret now the freakshow filter I put on this hastily shot iPhone photo. But here are plenty from earlier years to make up for it.

Previous springtimes:

• 22 September 2010
• 4 September 2009
• 21 September 2008
• 10 September 2006
• 11 September 2005
• 29 September 2004
• 2 October 2003
• 22 September 2002

I’ve never been much of a sports fan. This is partly related to the fact that I am terrible at every sport I ever tried except the one that involved a good deal of lying down (small-bore rifle shooting, before your mind runs away with you).

At our country primary school there were two sports available in winter: netball (for girls) and rugby (for boys). Our school was very small, and there weren’t many boys in mine and the adjacent year groups, so it was semi-compulsory to play just so a team could be fielded.

I never really enjoyed it. I was much smaller than the other boys, and my lack of speed, complete unco-ordination, and poor eyesight (I couldn’t wear my glasses playing) meant that often as not I was placed on the wing where I could trail around after everyone else without being expected to either catch the ball or pass it on, two things I was pretty hopeless at. Many games I did not even get to touch the ball, and any attempt of mine at tackling the opposition usually resulted, at best, in being shrugged off like an errant piece of dandruff.

On the plus side, there was always the pie and fizzy drink at the end of the match. But the attractions of these were not enough, and I refused to play in my last year at primary school¹. The next year, at boarding school, despite the plethora of new choices available, I again refused to play any winter sport. At one point I was threatened with the cane unless I took one up (they were very interested in keeping the boys gainfully occupied at the weekends: sport on Saturday mornings, church on Sunday mornings) but by keeping a very low profile out of view of the masters I was able to quietly read books instead.

That year was the year of the Springbok Tour. A prefect, the same one who in the interests of science had once attempted to fold me into a small cupboard above a wardrobe², now visited each boy in turn, asking them pointedly as to what their views on the tour were. There was little doubt as to what the correct answer should be.

At that time I had no view (and at the age of 13, why should I have had?), but I resented being forced to have one under threat of violence. So then, and more so over the next few years as I came to an understanding of what happened in 1981, rugby became associated for me with fascistic compulsion, mindless violence, racism and societal conflict. I came to hate it.

That was a long long time ago. It became OK to like rugby again, after the so-called Baby Blacks won the inaugural 1987 World Cup (even though over half of the players in that team had been on the rebel tour to South Africa the previous year). And I have to admit to having enjoyed watching the occasional game over the years: many sports, when played at the highest level, can have a beauty and power that transcends their form, and rugby is no exception to this.

But even today I find myself disinclined to be interested in the upcoming Rugby World Cup, in a way that never happens for any of the other quadrennial sporting events that pass by. I am disturbed by schools having Rugby World Cup teaching programs; school holidays being moved to accommodate it; the government having a minister for it; sponsors trumping the rights of free speech; ad campaigns of unprecedented, though amusing, idiocy; tenuous but intrusive product associations; endless parade of “Official Providers” of this or that; the expense of the tickets; and the general implied assumption that all New Zealanders love the game and should be so jolly pleased to have the Cup here (and stop your moaning: This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things).

I feel like I have to give a shit: I am writing a blog posting; I am thinking about it. I don’t want to.

Countering all this long and complicated personal history, baggage, and (I admit it) general whining though: maybe I should just lighten the fuck up. Rebecca and the girls carry none of this and are more interested in rugby and the tournament generally than I am. For example, Bella proudly told me the other day that she had asked to play in a “tackle-rugby” tournament for her school³; while Rosa, out of the blue, explained to me who her favourite All Black is (Conrad Smith). Their excitement is uncomplicated and true, though perhaps borne of the hype that surrounds us like air at the moment.

Why should I be the wet blanket then? The Rugby World Cup is an Event, the likes of which we shall not see here again. Soak up the atmosphere; join the party; submit to the inevitable. Don’t think, enjoy.

So I relented and booked tickets for us all to see a game⁴; and the girls are very excited at the prospect.

I’m a little bit excited too. Just a little, even though I don’t really want to be. I will probably summon the kind of coolly logical interest that, with a bit of infectious situational enthusiasm supplied by others, leads me to follow the Football World Cup every four years with a degree of closeness. We’ll have fun at the game; we’ll stick up a wall chart and follow the teams we saw on the pitch. I may even come to know enough to have a passable conversation about rugby at work.

Let RWC Inc. chalk up a small victory.

And though I may be crushed, I am not completely bowed. A small piece remains mine. Yes: nothing, ever, will make me like Heineken.

¹ The one exception to this was in a weight-graded tournament – probably the only time I ever enjoyed playing the game – where I, at 12, was captain of a team of 9 year olds, and for once better co-ordinated, faster, and harder than my team mates and opposition. Not that it resulted in much winning, of course.

² I did not fit: my head stuck out. Even slamming the cupboard door repeatedly did not seem to alter this fact. (But I should also say that this sort of thing was pretty rare and in especially in later times, I was no innocent victim either. This was nothing like the Rugby School of Tom Brown’s Schooldays.)

³ Although the tournament is weight-graded, she has not played any contact sport before. And she’ll be playing against a whole lot of boys who have. I suspect she may have an idealised view of what all this will involve, in which case participation may prove traumatic. But I would be happy to be proved wrong.

⁴ Though not one with New Zealand in it as that would have been too expensive: we’re off to Tonga vs. France.

Last month I realised I hadn’t yet spent my birthday money from a few months back. This realisation coincided nicely with a resurgent interest in those ever interesting and cheap Russian watches, of which I have blogged about several times here, here, and here; and which now I track on a dedicated board at Pinterest.com.

Anyway, all this mindless cataloguing of stuff led to an inevitable purchase with those “spare” birthday funds, and yesterday the postman delivered the parcel¹.

Here it is, as modelled on my twig wrist:

As you can see, the day of the week is indicated by the red dot. I have decided that the week starts on Mondays, so for me the sixth dot shows it’s Saturday. I like the large and clear numerals, and the elegant fine hands. The overall design is that of a stainless steel rectangle overlaid by a black circle – very simple and strong.

It came with all its original papers, which seem to indicate it was made in September 1992. So a long period in storage may account for its stiffness of winding. Some of the sellers on eBay also caution that watches transported by airmail may need servicing afterwards – presumably the oil evaporates in low pressure environments. And then, this morning I noticed it had lost about 10 minutes in less than 24 hours. So it may have to go in for a lube and adjustment², even though it’s actually brand new (or in eBay’s parlance, NOS – “New Old Stock”).

Despite all this I am very pleased with it. It’s a lovely piece of engineering.

And yes, it has a lovely tick.

¹ Poor postie had to come down all our steps to get me to sign for it, for which I apologised. Great service though – typically the courier drivers just dump stuff in the letter box and bail, regardless of signature requirements.

² The next problem is that the major local watch servicing outfit refuses to handle Russian watches.

…both of them made by humans.

This is the second:

So, some of you will have seen this before, not long after I got it. It’s a watch, a cheap Russian watch, one of several such I own.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, bear with me here, OK?

It’s seen a bit of wear in the last four and a half years. Last year I broke the ricketty bracelet, and had it replaced with a decent leather strap. And even earlier, the numeral 6 fell off and stopped the minute hand from travelling. I had to send it back to Russia to get fixed because the local watch repairers refused to touch it (snobs!).

So I’ll make no pretensions to class for this watch. It is what it is.

And what it is, is engineering magic.

It’s an automatic; in other words, it winds itself. If I wear it every day, I generate enough kinetic energy to power it, and I never have to think about it, never a battery to change.

All I have to do is put it on in the morning. But before I do that, I’ll have a peek in the back, where the workings are exposed behind glass:

Sometimes I take it off so I can look at it, and be soothed by the sight of cogs and wheels; mainsprings and rubies; meshing together and never stopping. A tiny, precise, and wearable machine that announces itself by a gently fragrant ticking.

I think I like this about it best of all: I can pretend that if worst came to worst I could fix it myself. It’s just a complicated piece of mechanics after all, no electricity involved; like an old car there’d be a hope of me pulling it to pieces and building it back again. This is an illusion to cherish!

And a wonderfully cheap thrill compared to a quality Swiss Automatic, which typically start at 10 to 20 times more than this one cost me.

Maybe one day I’ll find a better automatic watch: it will have a 24-hour dial; it will be classier; and of a smaller diameter; and higher quality… but there’s no way it will be as good value as this one.

And anyway, the way this one’s going, maybe I won’t need another.

…both of them made by humans.

This is the first:

(Apologies for forgetting to take the camera off 1600 ASA. Duh!)

It looks like some flake of rock, maybe volcanic, but its purpose is clear once picked up:

One summer, about 800 years ago, a group of people came up from the coast and camped in the hills of what would one day be called Central Otago. They brought with them rocks of a peculiar and rare type found around the naturally burning coalseams closer to the coast: rocks made of a cooled and somewhat glassified melted clay.

Where the hills’ ridges narrowed to a waist they’d sometimes build a pit, and make a brush fence on either side. Then they’d hunt their prey down the ridge, possibly with the large-jawed dogs whose remains have been found in the region, and trap them in the pit.

And then they’d feast.

They were moa hunters. And this is a blade, possibly for a left-handed person, knocked out on the spot from those special rocks and used for skinning or butchering the large birds. Later, it was discarded; just one out of place rock chip among thousands of others on that hillside.

Hundreds of years later the land was ploughed for pasture, the mark of ages smoothed-over pits and ovens a clear black against the otherwise brown soil. A small boy could wander there, and did, finding many pieces of ancient rubbish.

I liked that I could find things once touched and shaped by the earliest inhabitants of the land.

This one in particular I liked because it was the only black one I ever found, and one of the most shaped (the few other shaped pieces I have are light grey, or brown; and the rest are just chips, the complement to something shaped that is lost). It feels nice in my hand, though it’s probably too blunt now to be much use, except maybe for skinning.

It’s been with me everywhere, even to the antipodes. And held in my hand, it reminds me of my other home, not far from that Central Otago hillside.

Over on the Wellingtonista I’ve written about the some of the various and interesting coffee-making methods being employed in cafés around Wellington these days. In theory this is all in pursuit of different shades of coffee flavour and feel… but I’m shallow: my favourites always seem to be ones involving elaborate glassware.

So today, on my weekly visit to Customs Brew Bar to pick up some more of their fresh Harrar beans, I was very happy when Ralph invited me to stick around for a little bit, as he was going to crank up the Cona Siphon.

Yes: yet another siphon brewing device, but this one is surely the coolest looking coffee making device (outside of, arguably, a balance brewer) available today.

Here’s a video of the action¹ taken with (and lashed together on) the iPhone:

Cona Siphon @CustomsBrewBar from dubh on Vimeo.

Oh, and the coffee tasted great too. Thanks Ralph!

¹ Because what the world needs, of course, is more videos of people making coffee.

Too often, when it comes to the hard choices, New Zealanders just take the easy option. And too often, the small minded among us object to the transformative and visionary changes required to position this country for the 21st century.

Such small mindedness is evident in Wellington right now with the controversy over Wellington Airport’s plans to place a 3.5 metre tall “Wellywood” sign on airport-owned land above Evan’s Bay.

Yes, you heard it right. 3.5 m tall!

Well, there’s your lack of ambition right there. The airport company has the Kiwi disease: lacking in vision, they’re just not Thinking Big enough. With so many thousands of Rugby World Cup visitors descending on the city in a few months we need to create something they’ll never ever forget: a Really Seriously Fucking Big Sign!

So here’s my proposal.

What we need is a large, preferably flaming sign spelling out “WELCOME TO MORDOR” on top of the Orongorongos. Because there’s nothing more innovative than fiery letters a couple of hundred metres high on top of a mountain range – it’s something no other city has ever done.

Below I lay out some of the advantages of my proposal over the Wellywood pygmy. In each case, you will see that my proposal is absolutely Bigger, and Better:

Attribute	Wellywood sign	Mordor sign
Visibility: who can see it?	Only visible to rich house-owners in Hataitai, and visitors on the left hand side of aeroplanes landing at Wellington Airport in a southerly.	Visible to most of Wellington, and also Space, thus widening Wellington’s promotional reach to the nearer interplanetary regions.
Appropriateness: does the sign reflect Wellington?	The film industry: what everyone in Wellington pretends they work in when they talk to people outside Wellington.	Government, Wellington’s real industry.
Derivativeness: what or who did we copy in order to come up with this idea?	Inspired by a sign above an American city.	Inspired by the creations of a deceased English professor.
Hated by: who will attempt to destroy it?	Hipster graffitists and petty vandals.	Al Qaeda.
Design: how quality is this?	Boring white capitals as used in both Mosgiel and Hollywood.	Fiery Glowing Marker Felt (because Comic Sans is, for some reason, no longer cool).
Local: what of New Zealand’s natural resources can we demonstrate being consumed in this sign?	Letters probably made on the cheap in Shenzhen by oppressed Chinese workers.	New Zealand artisan chippies and brickies will build it, with the fiery letters themselves powered by the finest Southland lignite coal. (A secondary option could be the collected methane of millions of dairy cows.)
Branding: does this enhance Brand Wellington?	Positions Wellington alongside Mosgiel as the premiere New Zealand exponents of the Hollywood-style miniature hillside sign.	Branding in its most literal sense: the fiery letters will be seared into the seismically trembling flanks of the Orongorongo mountains.
Size: how empowered will it make Wellingtonians feel when they gaze upon it?	Monumental, but only for mice.	Truly huge, and maybe even a little bit engorged.

I’m sure you can add some more reasons in the comments below.

And for inspiration, below is an artists impression (without the smoke) of my sign as it will appear from across the harbour at Frank Kitts Park:

After all – we want everyone to read the fiery letters.

I love Rieslings. In the last two years of trying to keep track of all the wines I’ve tasted, Riesling accounts for one in five wines tasted (with only Pinot Noir exceeding Riesling at one in four!). Riesling is so variable in flavour and scent; style and sweetness: and this is what makes it interesting.

New Zealand has plenty to choose from… and sometimes these can be had at superb prices too. Here’s five I’ve ranked highly in the last couple years.

• Larry McKenna’s Escarpment Riesling is a favourite of mine, though sadly his superb 2008 has long since sold out at Moore Wilson’s (an insane $15 a bottle: no wonder!) – my notes say “A little of apples on the nose, honey and grapefruit in the mouth, off-dry and completely mouthfilling yet somehow clean and refreshing at the same time.”
• Black Ridge, whose absolutely lovely 2006 Riesling was recently being sold by one of the North Island mail order wine shops for $11.99 – fantastic value for a now nicely aged vintage. My notes: “Pale straw yellow; on the nose lovely fruit, a little peach even. This is one to roll around in the mouth: dry; a little of those kerosene notes; lots of citrusy acids reminiscent of grapefruit, and a little bitterness at the end.” Keep an eye out for the Valli Old Vine Riesling: it’s also made with these grapes.
• And who doesn’t like Forrest Estate’s the Doctors Riesling? At $18.50 it’s a little more expensive than some of these others, but it’s worth trying. This is a beautiful sweet yet crisp low (relatively) alcohol wine which was a huge surprise to me when I first tried the 2009: “Very pale in colour, a full nose—even my kids could tell me about the apples in there. In the mouth more apples and some lovely citrusy acid. Very very drinkable, especially chilled on hot summer days.”
• Waimea Estates Dry Riesling 2005 was a $10.99 find for me at the local New World a while back: “Straw yellow and off-dry, honey and citrus in the mouth but very well balanced and clean with just the honey remaining at the very end.” On the strength of this, I should follow up on their later vintages if I can—I bought the ’07 for $12.99 from the same supermarket but haven’t had a chance to try it yet.
• Alexia Riesling 2007 is a $10.99 Wairarapa find from the same mail order house that supplied the Black Ridge. “ Yellow, off-dry. Honeyed nose with amazing citrusy mouth reminding me of a breakfast grapefruit. Beautiful. I want to find more, but it’s not listed on their website.”

Clearly though there are many many more good NZ Rieslings out there that I need to try. I’d love to hear some more recommendations…

Doing the Otago Central Rail Trail as a family was one of the best holiday experiences we’ve ever had.

We teamed up with my Mum and another family from Wellington and spread the 150km out over five days in late January. This meant that the daily distances were challenging, but doable for our seven and ten year olds. We could also stop lots (and we did – and took many photos).

Rebecca sorted everything out through Trail Journeys, one of a number of similar operators (their website has heaps of useful information, too). They organised accommodation and baggage transfers between our stops, and could have hired bikes to us had we needed them.

This freed us up to simply enjoy the ride. While we we could have camped, and carried all our own gear, we figured that if we were to subject the kids (and ourselves) to nearly 40km of bike riding in a day the least we could do was give them a nice comfy bed at the end of it.

There were lots of highlights:

• finding several full fruiting cherry plum trees at Galloway;
• stopping at the Chatto Creek pub for a much needed cold beer;
• staying in the old Omakau Post Office;
• the Poolburn Gorge and tunnels;
• the Ida Valley –yes, all of it;
• the Hayes Engineering Works;
• the wide open spaces –lots of them;
• dinner at the Otago Central Hotel;
• the passports that my Mum bought for Bella and Rosa, which they had a lot of fun stamping at each station along the way;
• The weather, apart from that first hot day, which was generally temperate and not too windy, and no rain until an hour after we finished at Middlemarch; and
• The other trail riders, the same groups of which we’d come across every day and chat with on stops.

But most of all, just being outdoors for days on end, away from cars and noise and speed and any external pressures was very very nice. And at the end of it, we felt like we’d really achieved something good. Which we had. Bella wanted to do it again, immediately, a feeling we all shared (except for the timing – the rest of us needed a rest!).

I’d thoroughly recommend the Rail Trail to anyone.

Yesterday we had been watching out the window as the little common skinks came out of the grass to bask in the sun on the retaining wall outside the kitchen window. They’re pretty spooky though, so I’d never managed to take any photos. They’re another one of those animals that seems to be intensely aware of when it’s being observed: the moment your eye flickers away it will disappear. Like magic.

Later I was mowing a very long patch of grass (we had a few left over from our holiday) when I noticed a sinuous movement across the sparsely grassed dirt left behind by the mower. It was another little skink, now trapped in the open.

Rather than trying to dash for cover, it kept freezing and hoping I would fail to notice it. I corralled it easily, and when it climbed on my right hand I quickly cupped it with my left.

I called for Rosa to get her insect viewer, and we were able to place it in and have a good look¹.

It was very beautiful; all stripes and scales (you can click through to Flickr if you want to see these larger – there’s a couple other shots there too):

As it customary, the girls awarded it a name (“Chocolate, the brown lizard”), and Rosa even tried to pat it. Unfortunately little wild lizards are not calmed by stroking, and it got a little agitated.

We thought we’d better put it back, so we found a spot on the lawn not far from some good cover, in the hope that we could observe its run across the mown grass to safety. To our surprise it did something else:

It had dived right under the grass, into the gaps between the shoots, with the interlocking sward above it providing cover. We tried to follow its progress by looking for the vibrations in the grass, which worked for a little while, until a moment’s inattention lost it from view.

It was easy now to re-imagine it as a terrifying beast of the grass-jungle, squeezing and twisting between the “trees” in search of prey: ants, slaters, and grasshoppers; and it is possible my colourful description may yet prove counterproductive to Rosa’s sleeping-patterns. We shall see.

And meanwhile, little Chocolate is, I hope, none the worse for its own terrifying experience at our hands.

¹ The last time I tried this, when I was a kid, it all went pretty badly. Not that the lizard–a larger one–tried to bite me, but that it voided its bowels all over my fingers, leaving a stink that took several days of hand-washing to disperse.