The esteemed Lady X once again demonstrated her extraordinary organisatory skills, smoothly amassing our assembly to the faraway country of Enzed. Furthermore, she, and good old PW, Esq, have made it painful not to submit the required report to the society archives.
Short and sweet does it, except if talking of port, of course.
The equippers of Backpackers stolidly explained the deepest secrets of their caravan, and after a couple of hours' lecture, we steered our ride toward Queenstown. Mr. McEwings outfitted us with trusty planques to plow the snow on, and off toward Arthur's Pass we sped...
...to find this. Whereas this Land of Eternal Cloud is well blessed with the adorable white fluff, its meaner skyborne ilk constantly patrol the peaks and valleys.
Except, of course, when they don't, and one suddenly remembers why burnt sclerae are such a bad idea. The local optiquearian gained a new customer, and rhum-and-cocoa were applied liberally to help YT forget the prickling misery.
The population of Enzed - quite friendly, as such, and both markedly more stressed and agreeable than their Ozzian enemies - apparently consists of
- tourists and other ski-planqueures
- secretive land-sculptors capable of turning the meanest mountainside into pastoral idyll
- lamb, and occasionally elk
- jovial, but territorial motör-cyclistae
- rich and idle Da Vincian heli-copteuristas.
Having chauffeured Lady X around the isle, I continued my journey to some of the further reaches alone - always bearing in mind the hunt for snow, and for rhum-cocoa.
Anticipating the esteemed panel's question, yes, one has formulated a Staunch Opinion of the suitability of these southern Alps for the well versed gentlebeing. The views - when available - are uplifting and refreshing, jolly well. The snow - when available, and not swept away with wind or shrouded in fog - is quite excellent when fresh, but horrid and unhealthy frozen by spring thaw. The height of the mountlets is sufficient for brisk excercise, but not enough for sustained effort and snow conditions. Oddly enough, the cozy alpine lodge with its crackling fire, furred floors, hearty timbers redolent of coniferous sap, pitchers of port gently swaying in the currents of mirth and merriment - all this is lacking, as the silly sculptors-of-pastoralities have neglected to build said lodges on the appropriate slopes. Instead, one is instructed to descend to the sea level for night, and trudge back up first thing in the morning, quite before a gentleman should ever consider opening the weary eye. If then; the ultra-violent antipodean solar radiosity scrapes the eye harshly indeed.
Yes, regrettably; these mountlets are beautiful to behold and good to shred, but they can't hold a candle to those looming spines of the world where port-laden lodges hidden lie.
