Having a (Jane Austen) Ball in Hamilton

Featured Image -- 3541


It is a truth universally acknowledged that man dressed in Regency clothing is sure to make a woman swoon.

Well it works for me anyhow.

Jane Austen Regency Costume Ball 2This is one of the reasons I was so excited about attending Dance Folkus’ Jane Austen Ball last weekend, which took place in Matangi Hall in Hamilton. (See – things do happen in Hamilton!) Seeing my boyfriend dressed in the manner of Mr Darcy was, for me, a dream come true. By the end of the evening I was almost literally swooning, though this had more to do with the tightness of my own costume than the effect of his!

Jane Austen Regency Ball Costume 3The ball itself was wonderful. A $30 ticket got you an afternoon of Regency dance lessons, a beautifully decorated hall, a Regency band, a light supper and drinks all evening. Everyone was dressed up and, though many of us often forgot the dance steps, great…

View original post 354 more words

A New Zealander’s View of Britain

Featured Image -- 3531

Can’t believe it’s been two years since I was last in Europe. So much has changed since then.


Hello, everyone! I just got back from my Grand Tour of Europe, so I’ve finally got time to write some new posts.

As you may know, I spent the last three months travelling with my Kiwi boyfriend, starting in my native Britain. In the last post I wrote before leaving New Zealand, (Back to Blighty, or Poms Away Up Top,) I said I was nervous about returning to England. Basically, I was worried that my boyfriend, spoiled by growing up amongst New Zealand’s spectacular nature, would think that my home was a bit rubbish.

Telephone Box Liverpool

Well I’m glad to say he didn’t.

I actually had a great time seeing Britain through the eyes of a New Zealander, so let’s invert the usual format.

Instead of a British immigrant’s view of New Zealand, let’s investigate a New Zealander’s view of Britain.

So here, in no particular order, are some…

View original post 1,344 more words

Is New Zealand Backward?

Howick Historic Village 02

One thing you always used to hear about New Zealand was how backward it was. Behind the times.

“It’s like how England was in the 1970s,” people would say.

This, apparently, was a good thing. New Zealand was a country living in the past, when life was slower and things were simpler. Certainly, when I arrived in New Zealand as a precocious ten-year-old, in 2001, this seemed at least in part to be true.

In the months leading up to my family’s epic migration, I’d been rather worried that New Zealand wouldn’t have things like electricity. I’d half expected, when I arrived, to see a tribe of excited natives rubbing their bellies and pointing to a large pot. Of course, I quickly found this wasn’t the case, but I still felt like I’d stepped back in time, if only a little.

old-1299417_960_720Coronation Street was years behind for starters, and we had to wait ages for any good television shows to reach us. The latest gadgets were slow to come, but that was never a problem. The biggest blow for me was not being able to find anyone to play Pokémon with. I remember watching an interview with John Cleese: he said that the first time he visited New Zealand, in the 1960s, people hadn’t heard of the banana split!

When I returned to England for a holiday in 2008, seven years after I’d left, I was almost blown away by what I’d been missing out on. What where these newfangled self-service checkouts?! It wasn’t until a few months later that New Zealand started getting them.

New Zealand gets things a lot quicker now than it used to. It’s not just caught up to the rest of the world – in some ways it’s surpassed it. The Internet is to thank, I think. New Zealanders demand to have things, especially television shows, at the same time as the rest of the world these days, and if they’re not delivered, well, people will find other ways of obtaining them.

sword(The Internet also makes it easy to buy goods from overseas – and you can usually get the same goods far cheaper from overseas than you can in New Zealand, even including expensive delivery costs. It amazes me, for example, that I was able to order a Lord of the Rings sword for my dad’s 50th from England – and have it delivered to New Zealand – for less than a quarter of the cost of purchasing the same sword in New Zealand. And to think The Lord of the Rings was made in New Zealand!)

New Zealand actually gets some things before the rest of the world – Eftpos, for example. The country is often used as a guinea-pig market-wise, in part due to its isolated population. We were one of the first countries in the world to get Pokémon Go – something I never thought would happen! (It was released here a full week before it was released in the UK.)

Thinking more widely, New Zealand has often been ahead of the trend socially too. It used to be known as a ‘social laboratory’ – again, due to its small, contained population. Women were granted the right to vote in New Zealand way back in 1893. (For comparison, women weren’t granted full suffrage in the UK until 1928.) New Zealand was also ahead of its time in terms of its treatment of indigenous people.

road-151436_960_720So, to the question of whether New Zealand is backward, I’d have to say… not anymore. It’s caught up quickly in the last few years. In some ways, such as housing, it’s behind; in some ways it’s ahead. Some people still feel like they’ve travelled back in time when they come here, but that’s due, I think, to the tiny population and wide, open spaces New Zealand possesses. (New Zealanders are more relaxed when it comes to work-life balance too – just like in the old days.)

Friends on a New Zealand campervan hire tour were astounded to discover, for example, that the old country road they were driving on was, in fact, a highway. A pair of Canadian hitchhikers we picked up recently had the same reaction. We promised to drop them off in the centre of Hamilton. When we arrived, they said, “This is the city centre?!”

Hamilton is the fifth-largest city in New Zealand.


Our Street

A Street in New Zealand

I grew up in a small, brick house at the end of a terrace of small, brick houses at the end of a street of terraces of small, brick houses. It was kind of a dull street. Cramped too. Late-nineteenth century houses all jammed in shoulder-to-shoulder; cars parked nose-to-nose down both sides, reducing the road (and pavements) to a single lane.

Our StreetEach house had a garden at the front and a yard at the back, and each terrace had a shared drying green. The gardens were like pens, so claustrophobic as to be unusable – not that the views were any good anyway. We never even used our front door. The path up to it was slimy with moss, never receiving any sunlight.

Running parallel to the street was a railway line. Trains were always thundering past, dragging endless processions of coal. Our whole house would shake, the crack under the bay window widening ever-so-slightly each time. I quite liked the rumbling, though. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I missed it when we immigrated to New Zealand, but…

You always had to be careful when you walked up our street; constantly look down to avoid the broken glass, nettles and dog dirt. There was a lane at the end of the street that we all called Dog Dirt Alley. It was on our way to school. In winter, you could go ice-skating down it. What we called ice-skating anyway.

I’m probably making it sound like I grew up in a Dickens novel. It wasn’t that bad. It was bad compared to the street we ended up on in New Zealand; it seems bad looking back on it. At the time it was normal. I had a happy childhood. I can’t remember anything really bad. If the street was in any way dodgy, I was oblivious.

In 2001, we sold our house for £27,000 and headed to the airport. It was time to leave cramped, overcast England forever. I wasn’t happy about it. I was ten years old and I didn’t want to leave my life behind. I didn’t care that it was for the best. I didn’t care that New Zealand wasn’t cramped or overcast.

A Street in New Zealand

One of the first impressions I got of New Zealand was of lightness. This wasn’t just because it was sunny when we arrived, despite being winter. The whole country seemed to me to be airy and open. No oppressive buildings towering over me, blocking out the light. It makes sense: New Zealand is larger than England and has a population far, far smaller.

My dad had moved to New Zealand six months ahead of my mum, my sister and I. When we arrived, he was living in a rented house on a street that seemed, to my jetlagged mind, oddly idyllic. More American than English. The road was wide, as were the pavements. The pavements had generous strips of grass either side of them – and little or no dog dirt!

The houses were all single-storey and spread out as though lounging lazily in the amber light. They all had large gardens surrounding them. Our house was actually pretty crappy. Dad was renting it from the school he was working at. All the new teachers got ‘school houses’ until they could find houses of their own.

stove-575997_640Our house wasn’t the worst example of a Kiwi rental property, but it was, if the news is to be believed, fairly typical. It was cold and damp, especially my room. There was mould on the ceiling. The carpet was thin and hard. I couldn’t understand why the kitchen and lounge had such an unpleasant smell, until I heard the rats scampering in the roof cavity above.

Old Kiwi houses are generally poorly insulated; their only source of heating being a small wood-burning stove in the lounge. My sister and I had never seen a wood-burning stove before. The first thing my seven-year-old sister did upon arriving at the house was plonk herself down in front of the stove and let out a disappointed moan: “That’s a very small telly!”

Being from England, we were used to having radiators in every room of every house. Old Kiwi houses weren’t built with radiators. Maybe people thought they didn’t need them, which is rubbish, because although it’s not as cold as England, New Zealand still gets cold in winter. Maybe people thought, “She’ll be ’right; toughen up.” Ha. That’s more likely.

Luckily, we bought and moved into our own house very quickly. And because back in 2001 the exchange rate gave us $3 for every £1, we got a house far nicer than I’d ever allowed myself to dream we could live in. It was warm and dry. It had four bedrooms, including one with a walk-in wardrobe and an ensuite with a spa bath!

It had an enormous lounge with a stained-glass window, a spacious garden with a pergola, and a long deck that my bedroom actually opened onto. My bedroom was pretty massive too. We could never have had a house like it if we’d stayed in England. There was just so much space. So much light.

Our House in New Zealand

In 2014, I took my Kiwi boyfriend to see the street I grew up on. It was a lot dirtier than I remembered. The one pitiful patch of grass and trees at the end of the road – upon which I’d spent many hours of my childhood playing – had been paved over for extra parking. Many of the gardens were in disgrace; many of the houses had broken windows.

As for my old house, the grass looked like it hadn’t been mown since I was ten years old. One of the windows was boarded up. There was graffiti on the wall. The big, metal butterfly was still above our backdoor, but its wings were now made entirely of rust. My boyfriend suggested I knock on the door and ask to look around, but I was too scared.

Our House

It seemed unreal that I’d grown up somewhere so oppressive. So cramped. My boyfriend grew up in the New Zealand bush. At his family home, you can barely even see the neighbouring houses, let alone touch them. It’s surrounded by trees, and you can see down a luscious valley to a beach. When I think about how different our two childhoods were… It’s quite staggering, really.

No wonder Tim was rather adamant about finding a flat on the ground floor, with a garden. He hates being cooped up. Well we found one, and I think we were very lucky to find a rental property this nice. It was renovated only a few years ago, so it’s properly insulated with double-glazing and has a heat pump (that we hardly have to use.)

If you buy or rent a house in New Zealand, make sure it’s properly insulated. If the property is pre-2000, there are no guarantees. Thankfully, recent changes to tenancy law are forcing landlords to improve the insulation in their properties. This might mean a slight rent increase, but it needs to be done, and will mean less has to be spent on heating, and fewer people will get sick.

Howick Historical VillageSo anyway, Tim and I were very lucky. Tim actually didn’t think the street I grew up on in England was that bad. To him, all the late-nineteenth century houses – so common and mundane in England – seemed wonderfully old-fashioned. New Zealand still has some nineteenth century houses, but they’re different: colonial-style villas made of wood. (Poorly insulated, of course.)

But you move to New Zealand for the space – the light – not the buildings. Space is rapidly running out in Auckland; high-density residential areas are desperately needed there, but everyone’s come to expect a house with a garden. One of those lazily lounging houses that made such an impression on me when I first arrived in New Zealand…

To me, the wide, relaxed streets of New Zealand seem to reflect the Kiwi attitude to life. The ‘she’ll be ’right’ mindset. In contrast, the claustrophobic streets of England like the one I grew up on seem uptight; stressed out. It’s like you can breathe easier in New Zealand. I don’t know. I’m probably talking bollocks. Typing bollocks. Whatever.

What We Did in Rarotonga


If you live in New Zealand, you’ll probably end up having a holiday in Rarotonga. Last week, I began the story of my own Rarotongan holiday. (You should probably read that before reading this. Here it is.) This week, the relaxing adventure continues. Where were we? Oh, yes. The resort.

A white, sandy beach fanned by palm trees… Recliners and thatched huts overlooking a crystal-blue ocean… A pool with a waterfall… Endless cocktails… The Rarotongan was pretty much exactly what I’d always imagined a Pacific Island resort to be like. Bliss.

Sunset on a Pacific Island Beach, Rarotonga

Except the sand was quite painful to walk on. Not that anyone else thought so. Most of the tourists there were Kiwis, and Kiwis have toughened soles from walking around barefoot. Needless to say, I don’t. Happily, the resort had an activities hut you could borrow reef shoes from.

It also had a giant chessboard – always cause for excitement. (Although one of the bishops got beheaded before Tim and I went to play.) The bar provided nice food throughout the day. We went especially crazy for the prawn twisters. (Although they ran out halfway through our stay.)

Rarotongan Resort

The restaurant at the resort was okay, but, on the second night, we found somewhere much better. It was recommended to us by the lady at the local dive school. (I didn’t actually go diving myself, as I have ichthyophobia and am prone to panic attacks.) The restaurant was called Coco Putt.

You wouldn’t expect a restaurant-cum-mini golf course to have amazingly beautiful food, but this place did. The seafood was so fresh and delicate. For the first time in my life, I enjoyed the taste of scallops, and am now obsessed with the Cook Island speciality ika mata – raw fish salad.

Of course, we played a round of mini golf afterward. We’d already had an incredibly good cocktail served in a nu (young) coconut, and now we set off with a golf club in one hand and a G&T in the other. I’m not surprised I fell over one of the holes rather spectacularly – straight onto my arse!

To be fair, it was dark. I saved one G&T and managed to escape with only a bruise on my leg. (A pretty enormous bruise that I still bear.) Luckily, no trip to the hospital was required, as Rarotongan healthcare isn’t exactly the best. The Cook Islands are a third-world country, after all.

Rarotongan Court House

If you’re seriously injured in Rarotonga, you’re better off flying to New Zealand for hospital treatment there. That’s why you should never go without travel insurance. A man at the resort said he’d taken one of his kids to hospital, but wouldn’t even let them put a plaster on – it was so filthy.

But anyway. As I wouldn’t go diving, the others insisted I at least join them on a semi-submersible boat trip. As I stared through the glass at the ocean floor, an enormous fish – I swear it was almost as large as me – wriggled past. They’d started throwing food in to lure them. I looked away.

The guide told us a story that will no doubt fuel my nightmares for years to come. A stupid tourist wanted to film the fish feeding from underwater, so he jumped in with his camera and the fish mistook him for food. They took many large chunks out of him before he was rushed to hospital.

South Pacific

Unfortunately, the coral around Rarotonga is nowhere near as colourful as it used to be, due to ocean acidification. The weather was also awful – storms the entire day – so we didn’t see much. We went past a shipwreck, though. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes as they played My Heart Will Go On.

We only had two days of bad weather. The rest of the week was glorious, especially for the middle of winter. I absolutely adored going kayaking around the island. In my opinion, the best way to see Rarotonga is from a kayak. (Check out my Top 10 Places to Go Kayaking in New Zealand.)

Rarotongan Jungle

We hired a comically small car – the last one they had left – and drove around the island. It only takes an hour. On our way round we came across a French bakery and celebrated Bastille Day, (completely oblivious to the terror attack in Nice.)

My partner’s father bought, for $25, a bottle of French cider so old that the label had worn off. Apparently, the previous owner of the bakery had brought it back with him from France, and they had no idea how old it was. Perhaps very old.

It was covered with dust and cobwebs and, at some point, an insect had burrowed partly into the cork. Possibly, it would be off, but for $25 that seemed a reasonable risk. I suspected it wasn’t quite as old as Tim’s dad was saying, as the muselet was a metallic shade of blue, but what did I know?

We opened it with a satisfying pop. It smelled revolting, but tasted quite nice. Still, I sipped it very cautiously. As the cork was passed around for people to look at, I noticed a number printed on its bottom: 2006. Ha. There went our dreams.

The other drink we had at the French bakery was a bottle of Lindauer Brut… a $40 bottle of Lindauer Brut! (For those that don’t know, Lindauer Brut is, in New Zealand, the bog-standard, barely-drinkable sparkling wine that I still quite enjoy, and usually costs about $10 at supermarkets.)


I didn’t just drink alcohol in Rarotonga! I discovered a love for fresh coconut milk drunk directly from the coconut with a straw. I only really like the nu coconuts, though. I like eating their slimy flesh. Most people seem to prefer the tougher flesh of older coconuts.

I was intrigued by the scavenging animals around Rarotonga’s restaurant tables. In New Zealand, we’re used to pigeons. Here, their place was taken by rather assertive Indian myna birds. And feral cats. Skinny, patchy, gashed, filthy… and utterly adorable.

I know, I know, I’m a crazy cat lady, but these wild cats are obviously well used to tourists being kind to them. One of them leapt onto my lap for a cuddle as soon as I showed it the slightest sign of attention. Yes, I was a little worried about fleas, but it was so lovely!

Anyway, back we got into the comically small car. The only reason Tim’s grandma’s wheelchair fit in the boot was because there was no back window, just a plastic cover! Mechanics in Rarotonga rarely do their job properly, we were told. Ah well – the maximum speed limit on the island is 50kmph.

We went to the Maire Nui Botanical Gardens. The café there only served salads, but – my goodness – they were beautiful salads, garnished with produce straight from the garden. The place was so peaceful, with plants unlike any I’d ever seen.

Wigmores Waterfall, Rarotonga

We also went to Wigmore’s Waterfall – a short diversion down a pothole-strewn road into the jungle. It wasn’t that great, really. One of the least interesting waterfalls I’ve ever seen. Still, it was nice to see and – hey – it was the deepest we got into the jungle all trip.

At some point, I foolishly agreed to get on ‘the party bus’ – an open-sided vehicle escorting revellers from club to club around the island. The bus was all flashing lights, ear-splitting music and drunk, yelling strangers pressing in… My idea of hell, basically. But I’m young – I’m supposed to enjoy it.

Apart from kayaking, the activity I most enjoyed during my week in Rarotonga was lasertag – but how could you not enjoy lasertag when it’s set in the real-life ruins of an old, abandoned resort? Running around it was actually quite dangerous – rusted oil drums, broken tiles, dark rooms…

The story of why there’s an old, abandoned resort in Rarotonga is quite interesting, told with relish by the locals. It involves the mafia. Really. The place is called The Sheraton, if you’re interested. You can also do paintball there, but you do not want to be throwing yourself to the ground in that place!

View from Highland Paradise, Rarotonga

On our last night in Rarotonga, we went to a fantastic cultural show at Highland Paradise. It was great because they didn’t take themselves too seriously, but, at the same time, were very interesting, informative and entertaining. I learned a lot about the history of Rarotonga.

The Maori migrated to New Zealand from the Cook Islands. It was fascinating to see the similarities and the differences between New Zealand Maori and Cook Island Maori culture. We heard tales of warring tribes and cannibals, and witnessed traditional dances from different periods in history.

The island drumming was thrilling. Apparently, the Highland Paradise show isn’t as spectacular as the one at Te Vara Nui, but it is better. Hearing about how the missionaries made the Cook Islanders wear their grass skirts above the belly button was hilarious. (They moved back below for tourists.)

Highland Paradise isn’t just a cultural show (with GORGEOUS food, I might add – I especially liked the taro leaves cooked in coconut cream.) It’s an archaeological site. A tribe lived there before the missionaries arrived. Now its descendants are re-discovering their history; teaching their children.

Ancient Marae

We were taken to see an ancient marae on a hillside. In New Zealand, a marae is a large meeting house. This was an outdoor platform carefully constructed of stone, with different levels for different statuses. Seeing this was one of the highlights of the holiday for me.

The view from Highland Paradise was breathtaking – alone worth the somewhat scary drive up. So make sure you go up during the day as well as for the evening show. I’m only disappointed I didn’t get to see everything. Apparently, on the full tour, you get taken to see the Sacrifice Stone!

View from Highland Paradise, Rarotonga

After the cultural show, we went back to the hotel to collect our suitcases – we would be flying back to New Zealand at three o’ clock in the morning! The show’s amiable host had boasted that at most airports you are greeted by security guards; in Rarotonga you are greeted by a guy playing a ukulele.

It turned out our flight was delayed until five o’ clock in the morning, so it wasn’t a fun night. Duty free shops are only amusing up to a point. I spent my last triangular Cook Island dollar and then realised I probably should have kept it as a souvenir. The night passed.

Amazingly, even though it was now five o’ clock in the morning, a guy with a ukulele was there to serenade us as we boarded our flight! Thus we left Rarotonga. How lovely. As well as a bottle of duty free alcohol, I took with me some awesome memories and a renewed appreciation for warm places.


I look forward to doing some more travelling within New Zealand itself. I probably won’t be able to get anywhere for at least a few weeks, though, and then it’ll just be daytrips. I’m running out of stuff to write about – this blog’s been going for over three years, you know!

Where New Zealanders Go On Holiday


If you’re wondering why I didn’t post anything last week, it’s because I was in paradise. And in paradise, Internet access is eye-wateringly expensive. I was also too busy drinking cocktails on the beach. Poor me.

I was in Rarotonga, one of the Cook Islands, a country in the tropical South Pacific. It’s a very popular winter getaway destination for Kiwis. Indeed, just about every other tourist I met there was from New Zealand.

The reason is more than mere proximity. The Cook Islands are a four-hour flight from Auckland – (New Zealand is so far away from everywhere that your only cheap holiday destinations are Australia and the Pacific Islands) – but they’re also closely tied to New Zealand politically.

The country was a protectorate of New Zealand until the 1960s, and still uses New Zealand currency. Cook Islanders are automatically New Zealand citizens. (The population of the Cook Islands is approximately 20,000, yet over 60,000 Cook Islanders live in New Zealand.)

Rarotongan Resort 01

You don’t need a visa to visit, just proof of accommodation and a return ticket, and at least six months left on your passport. It’s so easy for New Zealanders to visit the Cook Islands. Everywhere you go, you’re blasted with advertisements for holidays there.

In the lead-up to my holiday, every time I saw such an advertisement I had to pinch myself – I was actually going! And it couldn’t have been more welcome. The last few weeks in New Zealand have been freezing.

Our flight to Rarotonga arrived in the early hours of the morning. The Cook Islands are twenty-two hours behind New Zealand, so whilst there wasn’t much jetlag to be had, living through the same day twice (then skipping a day entirely on the way back) was a little confusing.

Crossing the International Date Line involves too much mental exercise when you’ve been up all night! It’s bad enough filling in your arrival card when you’re in that state. I unsurely put down my profession as ‘writer’.

Rarotongan Resort 05(I always get a thrill giving my job as ‘writer’. For so long, being a professional writer was my dream. Even though I’ve been getting paid for it for a while now it still seems unreal. Like I’m a fraud or something. The customs guy at Auckland Airport seemed to treat me with suspicion for it, anyway.)

The thing is, though, is you’re not legally allowed to practise your profession when you’re in the Cook Islands on holiday. This meant that every time I jotted down a story idea or made a note of the things we’d done, I was sort of breaking the law.

My partner pointed this out and named me a pirate writer. (A label I very much liked!) Beginning a new science fiction story whilst sitting in a hut overlooking the clear, turquoise ocean felt quite wonderful.

Landing in Rarotonga and finding it to be cosily warm was one of the best parts of the whole holiday. Several members of our party found the duty free cigarettes and alcohol to be just as exciting! Not so great was arriving at the resort to find that they’d screwed up our booking.

We had to spend the night in prison cell-like ‘emergency’ rooms with only half the number of beds we needed. (Well, apart from my partner’s dad. He was given the honeymoon suite!) But it was all sorted out the next day, so all good.

Rarotongan Resort 02

We decided to spend our first day in Rarotonga relaxing at the resort. I’d been looking forward to this so much. The last few weeks had been absolutely hectic and I desperately needed to spend a week relaxing.

The thing was, now I was here I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was wasting time. I was reclining beneath a palm tree and I felt like I should be doing something productive! It took a while – and a few cocktails – before I calmed down.

I started reading the first of Steven Erikson’s Malazan books and, I must say, I found the contrast between the resort around me and the gritty, gore-filled world of the book quite comical! The resort felt like it was inside a bubble of unreality.

Due to the expensiveness of Internet access, no news reached our party the entire eight days we were in Rarotonga. (Getting home to find Boris Johnson had been made UK Foreign Secretary and that there’d been another terrorist attack in France was like being hit on the head with a mallet.)

Rarotongan Resort 03

So there we were, festooned with flower garlands and strong, fruity cocktails, nicely sealed into our bubble of unreality, ready to begin our gently-paced adventure. I’ll save that adventure for next week’s post, though – there’s rather a lot to get through! Bye for now. Aere ra!

Next post: What We Did in Rarotonga

New Zealand and Volcanoes

Featured Image -- 3413

This was my very first blog post, written over three years ago! Funny how my writing style has changed…


When I was nine years old, my world fell apart.

There I was, living quite happily in a small town in the North of England, when my parents dropped a bombshell: we were moving to New Zealand.

New Zealand – wasn’t that the little triangle at the bottom of Australia? Wasn’t it millions of miles away, filled with bubbling lakes of lava and cannibals and sheep?

Well, I was right about the sheep.

It turned out that New Zealand was quite similar to England, but the differences were truly amazing. This blog is about what makes New Zealand different.

A bit of White Island See how different New Zealand is? This was taken on White Island.

You might be especially interested if you were thinking about moving to New Zealand, or coming here for a holiday. In my experience, the best way to see the country is by campervan. My family and I have driven…

View original post 923 more words