Skip to main content

Wanaka: Day 9

Photo (c) Wynston Cooper 2014
I stayed last night on a farm just out of Garston. I went out to breakfast at about 7:30 am and found the 9 year old twin boys in charge of things. They had scrambled a pan of eggs and made toast. Their 12 year old brother had cooked himself some porridge. They asked me if I wanted some tea and how did I take it? Then, as I ate my toast, conversed about their sports, their schools and their hopes for the future. One of them told me how much he had enjoyed hearing me speak about the Camino Santiago when I came to the parish in April last year. The 12 year old told me about his possum trapping endeavours, including the type of traps he uses and where and how are the best places/times to deploy them. I was intrigued at the sheer down to earth practicality of these kids; by their ability to relate easily to an adult; by their groundedness. They impressed me. In the middle of the conversation Wynston came in from taking the photograph above, and their father came in from his early morning farmwork. We talked about Life, the Universe and everything and I was shown something that I have been seeing all this trip: an appreciation of the church, a desire for its survival and immense good will to its ministers.

It was cold, almost frosty, when we left this warm, alive, lived in family home and drove in the great big Fiat towards Kingston. We arrived on the pier at 10:15, just before the ferry arrived from Queenstown. Right on the dot of its scheduled 10:30 it arrived with a large contingent of people all wearing dayglo yellow Hikoi caps, singing Te Harinui while being conducted by Clemency. Silhouetted against the still rising sun, it was a wonderful sight.

Amongst the passengers was the Archbishop of York, the Most Rev. John Sentamu and his wife Margaret.They are too briefly in New Zealand and had taken a couple of days to take part in the Hikoi. The Archbishop has been to New Zealand several times before and has a pretty good understanding of how we Kiwis tick. In the course of the day I enjoyed chatting to him about the plight of rural parishes, and other areas of mutual concern.

It was at this point we said goodbye to Wynston Cooper, who had been our main support person. The four of us had formed a very cohesive and mutually respectful little team, and we will miss him. His place on the front seat of the van has been taken by Dion and Tash, a young couple from Dunedin who have made a pretty promising start.

The ferry took us up lake Wakatipu on a beautiful still clear day. It was cool enough to want a jacket when standing in the shade and hot enough to want to promptly remove it when standing out of it. We arrived in bustling, vigorous Queenstown around mid-day made our way through the crowded lakeside market to St. Peter's church and had a magnificent barbecue on the front lawn. Around 1:30 we set out for the airport about 6 km away.

We had been gifted a helicopter flight across the Crown Range by Heli Tours, a young but rapidly growing company operating out of Queenstown airport. Paul, whom I had met at St. Peters a few weeks ago flew us in a spick and span looking Hughes 500 across the Lake and the town and then over Cardrona skifield to Wanaka.

We were met at Wanaka by a large group from the Upper Clutha parish for the 4km walk into St. Columba's. There was, of course, an enormous afternoon tea, Phil John and I spoke briefly then we were ferried to tonight's accommodation. We are staying tonight, Clemency and I, with a couple our own age. It is very congenial, comfortable and pleasant indeed, though I do miss those kids a little.

Comments

NIE said…
Such a full and glorious day, Kelvin. The sounds of TE HARINUI across the water would have been heart-warming, I think. May today's shared worship touch the hearts of many more as the Good News continues to travel with you.
Thank you so much for these daily writings.

Popular posts from this blog

Ko Tangata Tiriti Ahau

    The Christmas before last our kids gave us Ancestry.com kits. You know the deal: you spit into a test tube, send it over to Ireland, and in a month or so you get a wadge of paper in the mail telling you who you are. I've never, previously, been interested in all that stuff. I knew my forbears came to Aotearoa in the 1850's from Britain but I didn't know from where, exactly. Clemency's results, as it turns out, were pretty interesting. She was born in England, but has ancestors from various European places, and some who are Ngāti Raukawa, so she can whakapapa back to a little marae called Kikopiri, near Ōtaki. And me? It turns out I'm more British than most British people. Apart from a smattering of Norse  - probably the result of some Viking raid in the dim distant past - all my tūpuna seem to have come from a little group of villages in Nottinghamshire.  Now I've been to the UK a few times, and I quite like it, but it's not home: my heart and soul belon...

Kindle

 Living as I do in a place where most books have to come a long way in an aeroplane, reading is an expensive addiction, and of course there is always the problem of shelf space. I have about 50 metres of shelving in my new study, but it is already full and there is not a lot of wall space left; and although it is great insulation, what is eventually going to happen to all that paper? I doubt my kids will want to fill their homes with old theological works, so most of my library is eventually going to end up as egg cartons. Ebooks are one solution to book cost and storage issues so I have been  using them for a while now, but their big problem has been finding suitable hardware to read them on.  I first read them on the tiny screens of Ipaqs and they were quite satisfactory but the wretchedness of Microsoft Reader and its somewhat arbitrary copyright protection system killed the experience entirely. On Palm devices they were OK except the plethora of competing and incomp...

En Hakkore

In the hills up behind Ranfurly there used to be a town, Hamilton, which at one stage was home to 5,000 people. All that remains of it now is a graveyard, fenced off and baking in the lonely brown hills. Near it, in the 1930s a large Sanitorium was built for the treatment of tuberculosis and other respiratory ailments. It was a substantial complex of buildings with wards, a nurses hostel, impressive houses for the manager and superintendent and all the utility buildings needed for such a large operation. The treatment offered consisted of isolation, views and weather. Patients were exposed to the air, the tons of it which whistled past, often at great speed, the warmth of the sun and the cold. They were housed in small cubicles opening onto huge glassed verandas where they cooked in the summer and froze in the winter and often, what with the wholesome food and the exercise, got better. When advances in antibiotics rendered the Sanitorium obsolete it was turned into a Borstal and...

The Traitor

A couple of people have questioned me privately about the Leonard Cohen song The Traitor , and about Cohen's comments on the song, "[The Traitor is about] the feeling we have of betraying some mission we were mandated to fulfill and being unable to fulfill it; then coming to understand that the real mandate was not to fulfill it; and the real courage is to stand guiltless in the predicament in which you find yourself". What on earth does he mean, and why am I so excited about it? For the latter, check with my psychiatrist. For the former, my take on the song is this: The Traitor is another of those instances, as in The Partisan , where Leonard Cohen uses a military metaphor to speak of life in general and human love in particular. Many of us hold high ideals: some great quest or other that we pursue. These are often laudable things: finding true love, finding the absolute love of God, becoming enlightened, spreading the Gospel, writing the great novel or some such ...

Camino, by David Whyte

This poem captures it perfectly Camino. The way forward, the way between things, the way already walked before you, the path disappearing and re-appearing even as the ground gave way beneath you, the grief apparent only in the moment of forgetting, then the river, the mountain, the lifting song of the Sky Lark inviting you over the rain filled pass when your legs had given up, and after, it would be dusk and the half-lit villages in evening light; other people's homes glimpsed through lighted windows and inside, other people's lives; your own home you had left crowding your memory as you looked to see a child playing or a mother moving from one side of a room to another, your eyes wet with the keen cold wind of Navarre. But your loss brought you here to walk under one name and one name only, and to find the guise under which all loss can live; remember you were given that name every day along the way, remember you were greeted as such, and you neede...