At Kuku Beach

Kuku Beach is a wild place. There's no town at Kuku and at first view, there seems to be no beach at all. Leaving the road, you have to clamber across piles of washed up timber to the water. It's not the sea you reach, it's a shallow estuary, separated from the Tasman by a sandbar. You can hear the roar of the waves in the background but you can't see them.

All this was a bit of a surprise to us, who were expecting more vast empty stretches of sand, like you get up and down the rest of the coast. But Kuku Beach is a different kind of a place. Whilst its not exactly an unspoilt wilderness (there's a scrubby pine forest running along the back of the dunes rather than native bush), it has a real back to nature feel. There's ducks on the lagoon, birds twittering in the bushes and not many cars because they can't really get through the fallen tree obstacle course.

And there's hardly anyone around, unlike at Waitarere where the beach is road and the cars and quad-bikes are tootling past.

It's not deserted though and for the time being it has a unique attraction: a replica wigwam made of driftwood. It's big enough to sit in and a feature unlike any in my experience of beaches the world over. It must have taken a couple of schoolkids all day to knock it together.

Levin Idol Update

And the winner of New Zealand Idol 2006 is.... Matt Saunoa from Levin! Hooray! He was so overwhelmed he could hardly sing. Gawd bless him.

Beach Facts

It's well known that the population of the world could squeeze onto the Isle of Wight. Horowhenua is a small place which is quite sparsely populated and it's 30,000 people could easily cram itself onto a rugby pitch.

The district has around 30km of beaches reaching all the way from Waikawa at the south to the Manawatu River in the north, in a single long stretch of beautiful flat sand at least 50m deep all the way.

What this means is that, even if the entire district turned up at the beach at the same time, there would still be 1m of sea frontage for each person and 50 square metres of sand. This is an area 5m by 10m, which is big enough to put a small house on. If you compare this with Margate on a sunny day, or Marbella, where there is barely room to move, then you get some idea of how deserted the beaches might be in this part of the world. Even if the whole of Palmerston North City turned out as well, there would still be 13 square metres of sand per person. In the UK, that's enough room for a garage and plenty of space for a picnic.

And of, course, even if all the people of Palmy went to the beach at the same time, most of them would probably head for Himitangi, which isn't even in the district.

So, we can head to the beach in the summer and fully expect that it won't be too crowded.

Levin Idol

First there was Pop Idol. Then there was American Idol. In Europe, there's Italian Idol, German Idol and Norwegian Idol, amongst many others including Albanian Idol. In this part of the world, there's Australian Idol and inevitably, there's NZ Idol as well. That sounds reason enough to avoid the TV on a Sunday night, I'm sure you'll agree. Afterall, Idol without cartoon baddie Simon Cowell is as pointless as The Apprentice without cartoon baddie Alan Sugar*.

And the statistics don't lie. All in all, out of approximately 642 series of Idol around the world, only Will Young and Kelly Clarkson have emerged as half-way credible artists. In a country with a potential audience of 4m record buyers, obscurity surely beckons for the NZ Idol winner within months.

But recently, something has happened which has made me revise my opinions of the Idol phenomena..

Doing nicely in the NZ competition is Levin's very own Idol, Matt Saunoa. He's made it all the way to the last two, to the grand final in Auckland and the town is going mad for it. Levin is a small place and this kind of thing is a big deal. Nothing much happens here at all, ever, to make the rest of the country take notice and Matt is putting the place on the map.

So, when he returned to town yesterday, to film a grand homecoming in the shopping centre, Jo, Lily and I were determined to be in the audience for possibly the biggest single event in the history of the town.

The venue was the Levin Mall, the central indoor shopping parade. The place was packed and the atmosphere was feverish. We entered through the side door and squeezed up with the crowds until we could see the side of the stage. The town had turned up in force, to the extent that they had to close the doors soon after we arrived. And I must say that there was a lovely atmosphere, a real sense of occasion, with kids on shoulders and lots of screaming.

When Matt did eventually appear the crowd went predictably bonkers and it was touching to see how moved he looked by the reception. How he must feel, leaving the town three months ago as a nonentity and returning to a heroes reception is anyone's guess. This is the kind of place where people would know his face, even if they didn't actually know him, and I almost felt like I was watching a huge family reunion.

As for our man on stage, he has a good voice and he knows how to entertain the crowd, but there's a touch of the honey-monster about him; he's a bit chubby and his moves are slightly awkward; he certainly can't dance. It just adds to his appeal though. With his cheeky grin he's like a young Tom Jones. That's like Tom Jones now, mind, only younger looking. He's not like Tom Jones was when he actually was young.

The final is next week and all of us will be glued to the telly. Pop Idol. It's a wonderful thing.

*Today's not the day to go into the American series of the Apprentice, in which tycoon Martha Stewart is nice (nice!) to the contestants.

The Face of the Horowhenua

I am now a media star.

A couple of weeks ago, the head of personnel rang me at home in the evening. I must admit that I was quite spooked. Afterall, why would the head of personnel ring me out of the blue in the evening? I naturally assumed he had decided to end my contract there and then and he couldn't wait for me to come to work to tell me.

But I was wrong.

He wanted me to do an interview to promote working for the council. They have quite a few vacancies to fill and they want to appeal to people from outside the region. Levin is something of a backwater on the main road to Wellington. It's just slightly too far to commute everyday and as a result it is mostly known as a place people pass through when they are on their way somewhere else.

So, my job was to tell the people of New Zealand why they should move to Levin. And there are plenty of good things about living here. Needless to say, I was delighted to be asked for an interview; There's nothing like a bit of media exposure to make you feel more important than you really are.

So, floating about in the New Zealand press at the moment is a full page article, featuring me and my drivel on the region, filtered through the word processor of a middle aged journalist.

I've been quite worried about whether I said enough good things so I made Jo read it first. She said I sounded OK and I kind of skim read it. I have become a bit self conscious about the whole thing.

Besides, us media people don't like to read our own press.

Stuck in the Mud With Two Dogs and a Baby

I should have heeded the warning signs. God knows there were enough of them on the way into the Tararua Ranges Reserve. "This is a multiple hazard area" proclaimed one as we drove past. "Proceed only in groups of four" said another, in large letters. We should have known it was dangerous. But we carried on just the same. We thought to ourselves: "Surely those are just for stupid people". Possibly, they are.

The Tararua Park is about 10km out of Levin. We had taken the dogs out for a walk at the Gladstone Reserve, a small park by a bend in the river. But having just moved to the area, we're keen to see what it has to offer and we ventured further out. The Gladstone Reserve, pretty as it is, is strictly for a quick mooch and covers only a few acres. The Tararua Park, however, is a real tramping track, leading up into the mountains where serious weather can happen. There's a seven hour walk to a Department of Conservation hut, where the intrepid can camp for the night. From there I believe you can cross the ranges, over peaks as high as Snowdon, to Masterton, some 50km away. That's real hardcore though.

We were only driving through and we felt safe as we passed through a field of cows, huge green mountains rising before us. I drove slowly onward along the single track, pausing for a baby cow to cross the road. There didn't seem much to see though, really, for a casual vist, so I just thought I'd turn the car round by backing into the field.

Big mistake that.

There comes a point when you are getting stuck in the mud, that you realise that you are getting stuck in the mud. At that point, there seems nothing to do but carry on in the hope you don't get stuck in the mud. But you probably will get stuck in the mud. As we did.

Then a kind of panic sets in. The car can't be moved by normal means and it is just too heavy to push the front wheels out of the holes they have dug. Things are much worse on a cold day with a baby and with two delinquent dogs howling away in the boot.

By some amazing stroke of good fortune it was at this point that a saviour arrived for us in a gleaming new Toyota Corolla. I reckon you could easily wait all evening and no-one would drive past. A Kiwi bloke and his wife got out and he took charge of the situation. Between us, we pushed and bounced the Mazda out of the mud and back onto firmer ground. Then we shook hands, he cleaned the mud off his boots and drove away. What a man.

By the look of it, I had reversed directly into the worst patch of mud in the field. Three feet to the left or right and we would probably have got away with it. But if that man in his blue Toyota hadn't been there, the situation could have been awful.

Next time, we'll be more careful.

D Day

Our Furry Children Arrive

There can be few sights more pathetic than a small dog that's been shut inside a wooden box for 36 hours. Dishevelled, bedraggled and smelling like week old laundry, Molly and Jake were presented to us in their crates in a large warehouse building at Wellington airport at the end of their long hard slog to get over here from Margate.

They are quite different and behaved in character. Molly was the most excited King Charles spaniel you could imagine and she squeaked furiously in her crate the moment she saw us. When her door was opened, she leapt frantically into and out of our arms, running between myself and Jo, yapping manically. Poor Lily, ignored by everyone in the excitement, burst out crying with jealousy.

Jake, on the other hand, didn't want to come out of his box and showed few signs of recognising anyone, let alone being pleased to see us. He limped grudgingly across the floor like an old man, glaring at us with a long suffering expression. He'd quite clearly had enough. We were a bit worried about his limp, but the reason soon became clear. On the long grass outside, he did a huge five-minute wee as if he'd been holding it in for the whole time. Poor thing,he's such a good boy he probably had. It was all a bit much for him.

Importing a dog into New Zealand is not something to be undertaken lightly. It costs a fortune and involves several trips to the vet for blood tests and microchipping (for which they use a needle almost as wide as the nozzle on a petrol pump). But the good news is that they don't have to be quarentined, as long as they get the all clear.

Which means that our dogs are now with us and we are glad to have them here. We have been taking them to some of the few places where they are allowed, the rules about dogs being quite strict here. They are not allowed off the lead in public except in a few designated areas and the nearest walk is a car ride away.

It also seems that it is quite easy to have them designated as a problem dog. If a member of the public was to complain about a dog barking at them, the council convenes a hearing and the dog can be labelled as dangerous, meaning they have to be muzzled in public. Molly has already worked out what the postman looks like and our delinquant lap-dog throws herself at the window in a frenzy when he glides past on his bike. I can see trouble ahead and a course of dog-training is on the cards.