Chapter 1 DISCOVERY: Part 8

The weeks that followed were filled with nervous energy.  As soon as I heard the mail drop into the lobby three floors below, I’d run down the stairs, hoping against hope for an envelope with “New Zealand Immigration Service” stamped on the front.  The days were spent chasing up bits of missing paperwork required for sale of the flat; though we had a buyer the process was proving to be protracted and painful.  I made lists of what we would and wouldn’t take with us and took my little silver Vespa on trips to bits of London I thought I ought to see before I left.

A month later James and I were worried. We’d been promised a letter from New Zealand House within two weeks letting us know what was happening and who our case officer was:  Nothing had arrived.  Ever since we’d moved into my Lambeth flat our post had been being stolen at various points in the delivery system, something that we’d been unable to resolve with the post office in spite of James’s tireless efforts.  Now we were convinced that our promised letter had been pilfered.  Telephoning was an option, but a friend had cautioned us that the immigration service did not appreciate phone calls, and that to call would be to risk having our application put to the bottom of the pile.  So we bit our nails and waited.

Then one Saturday morning in October as we lazed in bed after our customary Friday night out clubbing we heard the post drop in the lobby.  Neither James nor I are morning people, especially after a party, but hope had our adrenaline pumping and he leapt out of bed, threw on a dressing gown and galloped down the stairs.  Something had to arrive sooner or later, why not today?  The way he was singing as he raced back up told me there was news.  He threw an envelope down baring the NZIS logo and I took a sharp intake of breath before tearing it open, heart in mouth.

“We are writing with regard to your application for residence which was accepted for consideration on 21 August, 2002.” I read, “We are pleased to inform you that your application for a residence visa for New Zealand has been approved in principle.”  

There was a tangible silence while we took it in.  I read it again, skimming quickly through the rest of the letter that outlined the fees we needed to pay and the money we should deposit into a New Zealand bank account – things we were already prepared for.


“Oh my god.”  I hardly dared smile.

“What does it mean though?  Is that it?  Are we in?” asked James, not wanting to be let down when he discovered he’d been fooled.  We read it through again, slowly and carefully, just to be sure.  There were no loopholes, nothing unexpected.  We stared at each other for a moment, smiles daring to creep up our cheeks,


“We’ve got it!” we exclaimed breathlessly; hugging hard and bouncing up and down on the bed.

“As long as we can get this bloody flat sale through.”  I added as a gloom-filled caveat.

But we couldn’t believe it.  It had only been two months since I’d taken the paperwork in; they were efficient, these Kiwis.  I immediately liked them even more.


From that point on I became solely focussed on our move and the new life I was going to have in New Zealand.  I made more lists, got quotes from shipping agents and hounded my solicitor and the council about the desperately slow flat sale.  New Zealand House provided us with all the information we needed and I set up an account with a New Zealand bank, ready to receive the money from the flat when it was finally sold.  Nothing was going to stop me getting to New Zealand now and I wanted to be there for Christmas.


When my solicitor called two weeks later to say that finally everything was in place to exchange and complete the sale, I couldn’t feel relieved.  Not yet.  The British system is such that until you ‘exchange’, usually just a few weeks from your moving date at most, nothing has been signed by either party, no money has changed hands and either side can pull out at any time.  We didn’t dare book flights to New Zealand, just in case.  Then, on a blustery November day, the shipping agents arrived to help us pack and wrap the furniture in heavy brown paper.  We were moving out - exactly six months to the day since we’d agreed on the sale.  Countless trips up and down the wide stairs of our old Victorian building later and the removal van pulled away into the night.  I slung my leg over the seat of James’s scooter and pressed myself into his back.

“Okay.”  I said simply, and as we moved off down damp, dark London streets.  I didn’t give the house so much as a backwards glance.

Motherhood: Example - Thursday 16th June 2011

Hello Readers,

I thought I'd start to add a little to my blog. Break up the book posts (though they'll still be coming).


I've just got my two children settled into a new daycare for a few days a week.  The idea being that I can, at last, focus on my writing.  Ah, the best laid plans.  Here's how Thursday (supposedly a work day for me) went... 


Thursday 16th June

3 ½ has a bad cough/cold.  17-months has it too.  They should be going to daycare so that I, mother, can get stuck into my new, soon-to-be-burgeoning, writing career. They are going nowhere.

Cat 1, the girl cat, pees on 3 ½’s bed.  Again. We moved a month ago and this delicate-natured feline is having issues.  I shouldn’t risk washing the sheets since the washing machine is on the blink and last night flooded the laundry.  No option – I stick it on a short cold wash and cross my fingers. I ‘Google’ the cat pee issue and discover she might be ill, so I should ring the vet.

I wonder what I should feed the girls for lunch? Quick rummage in the ‘fridge comes up trumps with some wraps and various things I can put inside.

After breakfast (washing machine not leaking so far) I stick the girls in their playroom (it feels damp, mental note to buy another oil heater and a dehumidifier) while I sort out the house.

In the girl’s bedroom Cat 2 is coming through window I’ve opened to let the cat pee smell out.  Something disgusting is running out of his rear end.  I think.  It's hard to tell since it’s all over his lower back, tail and what not and is dripping everywhere.  Oh GOD. I grab paper towels and mop him – he yowls.  There’s a nasty wound on his back. Oh GOD.

Girls are whining.  I find a DVD and some crackers and ensconce them in the living room while I ring the vet.  Washing machine looking good.

I wonder what we could have for dinner.  And are there any muffins or anything about for afternoon teas later on?  The fruit bowl is quite full – good.

I can take the cats to the vet in a couple of hours. Make an instant coffee. Grab children and dress them.  3 ½ thinks every moment of the day is a game and is currently refusing to dress herself.  Take a deep breath.  Not working.  Take another deep breath.  Wonder whether to take up smoking again.  Banish the thought.  Tell 3 ½ I don’t believe she’s able to put her top on.  Bingo.  In about 6 minutes she has most of her clothes on (provided I watch her prove she can do it) while I manage to dress 17 months.  Get teeth and hair done.  17-months has a tantrum (she’s good at these). 3 ½ cottons on and whines for cuddles.  Phone rings. I take deep breaths.  Shit – I should have locked the cat flap.

Oozing cat is in the garden – I go out slowly and gently and manage to get him in before he scarpers.  Actually he feels rather limp and un-scarperish. He’s a lot lighter than usual.  Think.  Hmmm.  Been sleeping a lot these past few days…. Off his food… I put the guilt on a shelf somewhere and concentrate of finding sticky tape to keep the cat flap shut (yes, it has a lock – and the cats know how to use it!).

Washing machine is on spin and no signs of flooding.  Phew.

Right – get myself ready; brush through hair, basic 5-minute makeup job, find shoes.  I guess I should cook some muffins or a cake sometime soon.  I wonder what we could have for dinner today, and then have leftovers for tomorrow. Is husband in or out for dinner tomorrow?  Must check diary. 17-month is crawling around saying ‘poo poo’ (not yet walking, but the child can TALK). Damn it, now I am in a rush to make the vets on time.  Speedy nappy change, 3 ½ quickly on the loo, everyone’s hands washed, grab bags, Argh – shoes for children.  3 ½ wants gumboots, I am not about to argue.  17-months screams and kicks when I try to put her soft little shoes on.  I ‘d skip it but it’s a chilly day.  I pull different shoes out of a box and hold one of each up.  She emphatically points to the new pair – tantrum over.  Shoe preoccupation at 17 months?  God help me.  Right, dump everyone in the car.  Back in for the cats.  He’s really, really limp.  More guilt to shelve.  She’s not - little minx, I have to tip her travelling cage upright to get her into it. Phone rings, I ignore it.

Speed to the vet (well, actually I stick fastidiously within the speed limit in built-up areas, today I am at 50ks on the nose the whole way).  Cats in cages times two up the steps and dumped. Run back to the car and children times two up the steps and in.  When WILL this child learn to walk?  Oh yes, the vet door is a ‘pull’ and not a ‘push’, damnit.

While 3 ½  fiddles with all the things in the vet’s surgery and 17-months crawls around the floor picking up germs, the vet informs me that Cat1 may have a urinary tract infection or may be suffering from anxiety – cures for which can include dosing with Prozac. I’m wondering whether she might like to share her prescription…  The vet needs a urine sample (from the cat, not me) but Cat1 has just recently emptied her bladder onto 3 ½ ’s bed, so will need to stay at the vets until she produces.

Cat 2 has an infected cat bite that’s apparently about a week old, if not more, and all that goo flooding out of him this morning was a burst abcess. The guilt falls off the shelf and I explain to the vet how much we love our cats, that I only de-flead them yesterday, a process that included combing them and paying them not inconsiderable attention, that the children love them, that I feel terrible for not noticing a fetid wound on my darling moggy’s back.  After listening to my complaints for a while he assures me that under all his fur the abcess was easy to miss and states that he thinks none the worse of me.  Bless him.  Then he shows me the hole in my cat’s back, that is still oozing, and gives it a squeeze for my benefit.  He recoils slightly when a bubble of yellow pus squoozes up through the flesh.  My stomach relocates to my throat.

One cat down we meander home through the gloomy streets.  Find old cloth for oozing cat to sleep on.  Find lunch for two children and me.  Nothing yellow.  Field an unfeasible number of phone calls.  I go DAYS without a call - why today? Then it’s back into the car to run some errands I’d promised to run that I can’t get out of. I’m trusting that the two small ones will sleep in the car and thus do some getting better, which was the idea when I kept them out of daycare.  17-months has about a 30-minute nap. 3 ½ doesn’t so much as doze. Them’s the breaks. 

In the interests of not banging on more than is pertinent, I’ll sign off for right here. I think you get the picture. Yes, I did succumb to yelling at at least one child at least one. Yes, that did result in more guilt – and cuddles, and apologies, and everyone agreeing that we are all human and mummy sometimes gets a bit stressed.

My tip for the day?  (This is not a cheese-free zone):  Don’t even try to pretend to your children that life is a bed of thornless roses – just help them to understand that prickles mend, that you can learn better ways to lie down, and that the smell of the roses makes it all worthwhile.

Chapter 1 DISCOVERY: Part 7

It was the year two thousand and the economy was taking a dive, companies were being taken over left, right and centre and redundancies were rife. James’s small investment bank was bought out by a larger one; suddenly he found himself jobless. Furnished with a little spare cash and a lot of spare time it made sense for him to take a holiday.

“Would you mind if I went and visited my sister in New Zealand for a few weeks?” he asked. This sensible woman had gone travelling fifteen years previously, turned up in New Zealand and had never left.

“Mind? No, I think it’s a fabulous idea. Then you might understand what I’m going on about!”

It was perfect. James’s sister was ten years his senior. Their father’s air force job had meant that the family moved around a lot and the children were placed in boarding schools. James and Jacqui had only really spent time together in the holidays and her memories of James were of a brattish younger brother, while his of her were of a grumpy, teenaged sister. Now that they were both adults, he was keen to meet her and strike up a new relationship on better terms. This trip would give him the chance to spend time with Jacqui and see a bit of my beloved New Zealand as well. If James didn’t fall in love with New Zealand, I doubted I’d fall in love with James. His holiday would decide whether a move to New Zealand would be alone, or as a couple. Before his trip was half way through, James called to pass his judgement.

“Let’s do it,” he said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm “It’s amazing here.”

On his return our relationship seemed closer than ever. I’d really missed him – I couldn’t remember missing anyone before, I just wasn’t that kind of person; it took me by surprise. Added to that, James had experienced something of what I had been droning on about for months, and our mutual understanding ran deep. We confessed our feelings to each other and started talking excitedly about the move we would make, together. I downloaded information from the Internet and found out what we needed to do to emigrate. There were seemingly endless forms to complete and whole books explaining the immigration system. We could either apply for working visas that would allow us two years in New Zealand to consider our future, or we could go the whole hog and emigrate straight off. On my part there was no question, I wanted to be a fully-fledged New Zealander as soon as possible. I knew absolutely that I wanted to live there forever, I didn’t want to fuss about with working visas or anything else, I wanted residency. James was never in love with England, he wanted out and for good, so the decision was made.

Never the best at filling in forms, they sat and gathered dust while we talked and dreamed about what we might do if our residency application was approved, and made contingency plans in case it wasn’t. Every other week when work was getting me down, something that was happening with increasing frequency, I’d dig out the paperwork and fill in a little bit more.

As my thirtieth birthday loomed, I began to think longer and harder about immigration to New Zealand. The assessment system awarded points based on a number of things, one of which was age. I sat down and worked out that if I didn’t apply before I was thirty, I wouldn’t have enough points to get in. Together we knuckled down and filled in our forms, with me ever nagging James to get his done. Almost daily I checked the New Zealand Immigration Service website to make sure I was up to date on requirements and what I saw there one day made me nervous. Eligibility for immigration was determined on points scored against various categories such as age, education, work record and how much money you had. The pass mark had remained at twenty-four for years, but this week it had suddenly been put up to twenty-six and they’d changed all the forms. We had to start again.

With a groan I printed off piles of paperwork and we diligently pored over the information. Somehow more than two years had passed since I’d returned from my trip, since I’d met James, and since he’d moved into my flat. Friends we’d told of our plans had left the country themselves for a year in warmer climes, returned and asked us how our own trip had been. We began to feel like frauds when we had to explain that we hadn’t actually been anywhere – though we were at great pains to emphasise that we weren’t planning a trip, but a move. Then I was given a shove that forced me to act. The fledgling company I’d been working for folded and I was suddenly unemployed. Usually this wouldn’t bother me; I’d worked on contract for years before I went travelling and never had trouble finding work. But over the past two years I’d grown to hate the environment of the corporate office – it didn’t matter what the subject matter. Office politics and inflated egos turned my stomach and I knew that now I was free of it, I simply could not return to the corporate world. The fact of the matter was that I didn’t give a monkey’s for someone else’s business and I trying to force myself to just made me miserable. Perhaps I was just too self-absorbed for that sort of thing. Perhaps it was a deep-seated feeling that I had more to offer the world than attending endless meetings, producing fancy pie charts and reports that proved that all my ducks were in a row, that I could sing from the same hymn sheet and toe the corporate line. Whatever the reason, I’d hit rock bottom in the city with a sudden thud. My business life was confined to the history books and its absence left a yawning gap. I had to do something new. I had to move to New Zealand.

The first thing I did was to put the flat on the market, assured by the estate agent that there would be no trouble selling it. I hoped he was right. Violent crime in the area seemed to be escalating; an increasing number of requests for witnesses to indecent assaults, kidnappings and shootings appeared on yellow police boards by the side of the roads and on the nearby common. It made us all the more keen to move, but it wasn’t a great advertisement for the area. I tried to put my worry aside and turned my attention to my future career. Six months before someone had recommended a book-based course to me aimed at rekindling creativity and I went to a bookshop and bought a copy. Ever since I’d left college I’d harboured a desire to work in creative areas – to write and act. Acting had been my passion since I was twelve, I’d studied drama and theatre studies for my degree and I’d written stories and poetry ever since I could pick up a pencil; until Life and London had taken over. New Zealand would be different, I told myself, there I would do only what appealed to me, what rang true, I would not become another corporate clone; I would be different. The book helped – I began to feel the creative juices flowing through my veins again, I felt more active, lively and alive. Finally in August two thousand and two, with a sense of ceremony and portent, I took our application for immigration into New Zealand House on the Haymarket in the centre of London.

Chapter 1 DISCOVERY: Part 6

Back in England some months later, New Zealand occupied many a waking thought as well as my dreams, but I didn’t feel that my time in my homeland was finished, just yet. I quickly found an exciting new job – changing tack from working in financial institutions to getting involved in a brand new media company. I rented a flat, caught up with friends and made the most of what London had to offer; hard work and hard play. During the summer a Kiwi work mate introduced me to a friend of hers, James. Although he was an investment banker – not a good advertisement for character I thought - James was into rock climbing, played the guitar and wrote songs. For some years I’d harboured the desire to learn to climb, and to sing with a band. I took singing lessons and was encouraged in my ability by my teacher, but I hadn’t approached anyone about actually singing in public. Alethea had evidently already made up my mind,

“This is Naomi,” she said, introducing me to James, “You two should go rock climbing together and make music.”

How I love that up-front nature that New Zealanders display, so refreshing compared to the English way of tip-toeing round a subject and waiting for the ‘right’ moment, that so often never comes. At the thought of singing out loud and in front of someone other than my teacher I clammed up, but James was insistent and finally I agreed to accompany him and his friends to a climbing wall and passed him a copy of some lyrics I’d written while I was away. Full of compliments, he had worked out a tune in no time and suggested we meet at his house for a singing session. I pushed my crippling fear aside and agreed to go along.

Six weeks and several meetings later, all I had managed were a few whispered squeaks and my resolve was ever failing. Each time I told myself ‘Don’t be afraid, you can sing, you can sing,’ but as soon as James started to strum, my mouth became cursed and glued itself shut. It was a farce, but through it a friendship developed and we began to spend more and more time together socially. When I started to hunt for a flat to buy I asked James came along to give advice and opinion. After a couple of months of looking at tiny apartments in over-priced locations I fell for an unfeasibly large loft apartment a mile up the hill from the station in the borough of Streatham, an area south of the notorious Brixton. While the house purchase was under way, James and I spent more and more time together. One night in a trendy East End bar we found ourselves in a passionate clinch and realised that our friendship had become a romance.

So far I’d told no one of my desire to move to New Zealand, though I bored my friends silly with my endless tales of my time there. Now, as my relationship with James grew, I confided in him. New Zealand was going to be a part of my life and if James was too, he needed to know. Disillusioned with the English weather and grey politics and having grown up in various warmer countries, he was keen to leave. I regaled him with tales of how wonderful New Zealand was, how relaxed the lifestyle, how friendly the people. Both of us had Kiwi friends in London, it was one of them who had introduced us, so he had an inkling of what I was talking about, but he didn’t quite get it.

“How about Spain?” he would say. He spoke fluent Spanish and had lived there for a year and loved it.

“Only if I can’t get into New Zealand,” would be my response.

“Hey, there’s a job here going in Italy.” He’d exclaim from behind the newspaper.

“Yes, lovely. But only if we can’t go to New Zealand for some reason.”

After a while his endless suggestions became frustrating.

“You don’t seem to understand,” I’d drill, “It’s not that I’m desperate to leave England, I just want to move to New Zealand.”

“Oh,” He’d say. But I could tell he didn’t get it at all.

Chapter 1 DISCOVERY: Part 5

The weather meant that I had to retrace my steps. I’d been advised that the higher path I’d wanted to take was treacherous in the rain, but as I walked I recalled a couple of dry sandstone slips I’d crossed the previous day. The channels running down the hillsides made it obvious that in wet weather, these sections of the supposedly safer path would be moving. Singing against the deluge, I kept up an urgent pace, keen to reach the slips before the path was washed away. Sure enough, the slips were acting as a run-off from the hills. The path, really just a trodden strip of mud, was breaking away in chunks before my eyes. Sooner rather than later, I told myself and picked my way carefully across. Fully immersed in my adventure my over-active imagination dramatised all sorts of potential disasters and I envisaged slipping and falling, my nails scraping futilely at the ochre mud as I slid toward my doom. It was all so exciting. How sensible I was to have purchased a bright orange pack-a-mac; they should have no trouble locating my body when they finally came looking.

In spite of the rain, or perhaps because of it, the day’s walk was wonderful. Heading towards the tidal crossing where I would have to wait for the water to become shallow enough to make walking or wading possible, I relished my solitude and the continuing luxuriance of the forest. Inevitably, other trampers were already sitting on the bank of the estuary and I got talking to a couple of chaps from the States who were taking time out from a business trip to see a little of the country. As we sat in the shelter of a tree, I realised how wet I was and began to shiver a little with the cold. Quickly revising my plans, I agreed to walk to the next hut along the track and keep the company of the two amicable Americans. My new friends proved to be perfect walking companions, keeping silence when there was nothing to be said, exchanging words when something was to be remarked upon or pointed out. We arrived soggily at the hut to find a soaked couple attempting, without much luck, to light the fire; a large wood stove rammed with rather damp-looking wood. It took some hard graft, but an hour later we had a blaze going and our wet gear dangled from lines slung across the room. My sleeping bag, it turned out, was soaked through and I was glad indeed that I hadn’t walked further that day. By bedtime it was not only dry, but warm and smelling comfortingly of wood smoke.

Our next day’s walk, for now we were three, was a six-hour stretch commencing with another tidal crossing that we had to make before seven-thirty am. We set off after a hasty breakfast, arriving at the designated place little more than ten minutes later. Already the water was quite high and we made a swift decision to get into our swimming things before it was even deeper. Bikini on I followed my leader as he picked a safe route across the little estuary. The scenery was never anything but stunning and now that it wasn’t raining, walking was easy and less time was spent looking at our feet. Unfamiliar as we were with everything we saw there were constant remarks to look at this, or listen to that, and stops to photograph weather-sculpted rocks against taffeta sea and cotton sky. We were as happy and excited as five-year-olds on their first ever nature trail. At our final inlet crossing for the day we took off shoes and socks, squelching across the shellfish-strewn mud flat to the sandy bay, delighting in the cool, black goo that oozed satisfyingly between our toes. With long stretches of yellow-white sand against twisting tea-tree, black beech and the ferns that were green beyond green, I was almost dismayed that the hut at the tree line was the last of my walk. A quick chilly dip in the sea followed by an even colder shower was like sugar after fresh, bitter lemon. Refreshed and hungry I cooked in the company of a full hut and ate on the beach with my new friends as kayakers paddled in and joined the party. Travel tips and fanciful stories from all corners of the globe mingled with the wind and waves whispering on the sand.

My initiation into the New Zealand outdoors had sown a seed that was to grow into an endlessly branching tree of fascination. By the end of my two month stay I’d heli-hiked on a glacier; jumped out of an aeroplane trusting my life to my tandem instructor – twice; completed numerous walks through landscapes that included dramatic granite cliffs, wide turquoise lakes and high, barren volcanoes; I’d seen sea-lions, penguins and albatross; abseiled a hundred feet down into the bowels of the earth; kayaked on eerily still fjords and left little bits of my heart and soul in every place I’d visited. I boarded my plane to my next destination with a lump in my throat and only one thought on my mind – I had to live in New Zealand.

Chapter 1 DISCOVERY: Part 4

For three hours I didn’t see a soul and merrily sang my way through my meagre repertoire of songs feeling whole-heartedly that this was exactly where and how I was supposed to be. The track meandered from lush bush to sandy beach, occasionally rising high enough to give views of the coastline with undulating bush-clad hills sweeping down into golden, crescent bays and turquoise tidal inlets. I felt like a true pioneer as I stopped at a small cove to heat water for my cup-a-soup lunch and detoured to see fur seals at a lonely granite headland called Separation Point.

Mid-afternoon I arrived at the hut where I was to spend the night. The log cabin was nestled against the trees in a small clearing, looking very deserted indeed. I pushed the door gingerly and went in. No one was home. With no locks on the doors, no electricity and no means of communication with the outside world, my brain clicked into overdrive. Now it was ‘Friday the Thirteenth’ parts one to fifteen that screamed unnervingly in fast-motion through my brain. I breathed deeply and reminded myself that I was independent and bold – and no doubt other trampers would turn up as the evening drew in. Meanwhile there was kindling and wood for a fire as well as a few candle stubs that I judiciously packed away for later; I’d totally forgotten that I might need a torch. As the flames crackled comfortingly I settled down to read until it got too dark.

Sometime after five o’clock a middle-aged man arrived. He said barely a word, hunching over the flame of his Coleman fuel stove heating instant noodles. The potential dangers of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with one man were not lost on me, a city dweller who’d been around too many bad stories. Clouds blackened and the light dwindled, night falling fast in the forest. A stalwart couple in well-worn gear marched in with cheery hellos, set up their stove and disappeared again, tent in hand. The rain began. Forest rain. Heavy drops, fresh and clean. The campers could be heard laughing and joking as they pitched their tent together in the deluge, unimpressed by the suggestion of spare beds inside. We sat in the kitchen on heavy wooden benches at rough-hewn tables, shadows accompanied by the hiss of burning gas, the wandering light of flames on walls, the harsh scrape of fork on aluminium and the scratch of pen on paper; travellers intent on the business of eating, writing diaries by torch and candle light and saving their breath. Horror movies and crime were long forgotten as I settled down a little later in my attic room, snug in my sleeping bag and let the song of clean rain sing me deep into a satisfied sleep.

The next morning it was still pouring. Giant drops hurled themselves from the clouds, intent on drowning the earth and everything on it. I was undeterred. This was an adventure to be faced, whatever the weather. Within minutes of leaving the hut my shoes and feet were soaked, but I didn’t care, it would take a lot more than a bit of water to drown my spirits. I was English after all. Hadn’t my parents dragged me over hill and dale as a child come rain or shine? If anything, the downpour just made me happier, as though washing my cares away. There is nothing quite so special as the feeling of drinking hot tea outside on a rainy day, or reaching shelter after striding resolutely through a cloudburst. Half an hour later, however, I realised that my sleeping bag, still slung under my little pack, was also getting wet and I certainly cared about that – I had another two nights in huts to survive. Though I hadn’t packed much, I did have a spare black plastic bag and I stopped under an ancient looking, twisted tree to fashion a makeshift rain cover, giving myself a hearty pack on the back for my ingenuity. I wasn’t such a clueless city chick after all.