A tale of three houses

At last, crimbo over with and the new year looming, I've found some time to fire off the last blog of 2009. It's ending well, everyone fit and well with work picking up for me and our housing situation finally sorted out for the foreseeable future. How we got here, the lovely old wooden bungalow we're now calling home, is a bit of a saga going back to last October.

A wet Saturday morning it was, when Pete, our ex-landlord, rang from the little old Ardèche B&B he & Lois were running. He sounded unusually businesslike and a little nervous, but quickly got to the point: while things in France were verging on idyllic, their restaurant in here in Lyttelton was hemorrhaging cash and, long story short, they were coming home early. Something like a whole year early, in fact. Just days before that phone call we were congratulating ourselves on having properly landed at last, how happy the kids were, how good it was to have all the boxes unpacked, feet under the table, all that sort of dangerous talk.

Tempting fate, me Mam calls it.

I was shocked, Nik was really devastated and neither of us knew how to break it to the kids. That afternoon we received 3 months formal notice by email and all was doom, gloom and long faces, wandering round letting it slowly sink in, but kind of panicked too, as if we had to be out the following day or something. In the day or so that followed we started mentally packing again, began searching the small ads for a new place, had friends offering us a place, still said nothing to the kids, just in case. At times it felt like the best thing was to accept Diane's offer of her garage, which is decked out ready to use as a self-contained flat, and storing our stuff somewhere. For all it would be fun, we would surely miss living up on Voelas. I found myself taking shots of the place – those views from the windows I posted on the losNemo site were part of that – like you do when you're about to return home from holiday and realise you have nothing to remember it by.

And then it all changed again. On the Tuesday we got another email saying he and Lois had had a chat and decided it was a bit unfair to boot us out so soon after we'd moved in, and – sorry for the messing around, but – how about they found somewhere to stay until we got our new place sorted out? They had a friend with a place in town that they rent out, the lease was up for renewal, they'd know by the end of the week for sure. Of course we were hugely relieved and when they confirmed it at the weekend, verging on the euphoric, but something wasn't right. When Lois emailed a list of stuff she wanted to retrieve from the house when they got back, it started to sink in: this was their home, not ours. It would never feel like home to us while they were camped out round the corner. It felt more like squatting. Nik had an urge to start packing again, even though we were probably 6 months away from eviction time. I was completely fine with the squatting thing and carried on taking pictures.

In hindsight I can see I was in flat denial about how comfortable we could be in that situation. Hell, we'd just suffered a bitterly cold, uninsulated winter in a house so summer-oriented, it barely had functional doors and windows. There we were in late spring, the garden bursting with flowers and ripening berries, our little veggie patch just about to yield up its beans and potatoes... there was no way I was giving up all that pained investment so easily. Worse, I'd just spent better part of a month trying to find a rental place for Matt & Antonia who were trying to move here from Auckland and there was nothing even remotely like Voelas Rd on the market. This wasn't deterring Nik, who was finding potential new homes on a daily basis; one was a subdivision of the house next door, but not available til the new year; another just down the street turned out to be little more than a prefab with a driveway. So when she spotted a "to let" sign on the little cottage at the end of the quay one morning, I wasn't holding out hope.

We arranged a viewing that evening and met Sally, the agent, on the doorstep. What a place. It had a familiar smell of old wood and carpet that I couldn't quite place, but belonged somewhere between taxi booking office and school stationary cupboard. The wood-panelled hallway and institutional paintwork gave it a stuffy, unfriendly atmosphere, but the rooms were all full of light and the high ceilings made it feel airy and spacious. Everywhere were the sort of odd little details and quirky anachronisms you only get in houses that haven't been touched in decades; a larder hung on the outside of the kitchen that you access through a little hatch next to the sink; an open fireplace with brass-edged tile hearth and thick wooden sill that was only missing a bakelite clock to be my grandma Huntley's, gawd bless her soul. The new owners, who'd bought it to rent, had added a load of MDF wardrobes and cupboards everywhere, apart from which it was pure untouched Kiwi-ana. It was also quite a bit less expensive than our current place. I really didn't know what to make of it. Deep inside, I knew I would have no say in the matter anyway. Before we even left, Niki was shooting me looks that gave me little doubt. As we said goodbye to Sally I found myself telling her, "We really like it. Can you hold it for us until the morning?"

By suppertime we'd pretty much realised what it would mean to move out of Voelas and into the cottage on the quay. We would definitely miss the garden, and... er... well, that was about it. For all it was a lovely house, it was a pain to live in. More than that, here we had the chance not only to have a place that really felt like home, we'd also be solving a really prickly and complex problem. As chance would have it (or more likely, as is often the case in a small town) Sally was also the agent for Pete & Lois' temporary let. When we explained why we were interested in the cottage, she immediately put two and two together. The owners of that temporary let had decided not to renew the sitting tenants' lease in order to let P & L move in, and she was having trouble fixing up the people who were getting booted out with a new place. That coming Saturday they were due to move out and into a friend's back room, putting their stuff into storage, with P & L to move in on the Monday. A very familiar situation... and for all this craziness was not our doing, it felt like it was in our power to let not only ourselves find a home, we could let two other families have their homes back too. I guess sometimes it's not about desires, it's about wider needs, doing the right thing and all that stuff.

I rang Pete on the Friday, as soon as we'd been and paid the deposit. He was a bit stunned, I think, to hear they were moving back into their own place after all. It was also very much the 11th hour by then. In a minor twist to the saga, the owners of P & L's temporary place had asked Pete to take over from the agent (logically, as he would have been living there) so if the sitting tenants were no longer moving out, he was to be their de facto landlord. Pete therefore asked me to sidestep Sally and contact these guys directly with Pete's details. Not having their phone number, it was a case of trial and error, catching them at home. No-one there Friday lunchtime, I drew a blank in the evening too. Saturday morning I finally caught up with them in their garden, along with all their furniture, piles of boxes, bags, bikes and houseplants and two big blokes with gloves on who clearly owned the van I had to squeeze past in the driveway. I wasn't sure whether to expect hugs & kisses or a good hiding... but they were lovely people, completely gobsmacked at the news that they didn't have to move out after all, which apparently had been breaking their hearts. I saw them in the market a couple of hours later, all chuffed to bits. Apparently the weirdest thing of all was unpacking their boxes into the same house they'd just moved out of. Result!

So here we are in our new place, and feels great. We've grown to love it way more than we thought, much quicker than I imagined. Barely a month on, it feels like we've been here a year, which is always a good sign. The nieghbours are lovely, have two kids slightly older than ours and couldn't be more helpful, introduced us to June, the lady who lived here for almost 50 years before selling up to go and live with her son, at a barbie they threw for the whole street when we moved in. Our first crop of rocket is filling out the veggie patch and the boxes are all unpacked again. Christmas was lovely, relaxed and cosy, largely because it's summer here (duh..) but also cos when that sou'westerly blows, the doors and windows actually keep it out. The view across the harbour are amazing, the port that never sleeps is the source of endless fascination, town is a short walk away and somehow, in all the excitement, we seem to have lost sight of the section up the hill. This is now the challenge, to keep pressing on with those plans without the pressure to move that we always had before. Next year might well prove to be a test of our commitment and determination but at least it'll be free from disruption and cardboard boxes. Touch wood!

Home on the range

View over the Wanaka © Me, Oct 2009

Hey there campers, it's that time of year where we in the southern hemisphere break out of winter hibernation and openly gloat to you in the northern half about longer days and lighter nights, the sun streaming into our bedrooms first thing in the morning, mister bluebird on my shoulder, all that springtime stuff. We just finished celebrating this fact (purely by accident) with a trip south to the barely-out-of -thermal-underwear Central Otago region. While it's been buds and blossoms for several weeks here in Canterbury, 6 hours south of here the seasons are only just turning over. It snowed as we arrived on the first night and half way through the first day, dressing up the low-lying hills in brilliant white coats but also clearing the air so much that you could just about reach across the lakes and make snowballs. Right on cue the clouds drifted away, still really cold but bringing out a powerful sun to melt the snow and make bike rides and beach barbies happen just like they do in summer, albeit with an extra layer of defiance.

We'll be back before winter returns, for sure, but the spring there was a magical, rarified experience. Anyone out there who was ever tempted to visit the greener grass, now's the time and south of here is definitely the place. It's astonishingly beautiful; no matter if you're primed to be impressed, it completely takes your breath away. Even the kids tore their eyes from the DVD player long enough to gaze out the car window aghast at the scenery. Of course nothing's more interesting than DVDs. Oscar drew a picture, after we finally arrived and everyone got ready for bed, of a lovely dramatic scene, all neatly framed in a big black rectangle...

On the way back, thanks in part to genuine interest and partly utter boredom with the same film over and over, they both got a bit of a kick out of looking out the window instead at the sheep and cows and deer, and even the awesome beauty of an unspoiled wilderness – although to be fair nothingness is something you have to really point out to your pre-tweenines. In my experience, on any given day, they only really fully absorb the essential reality of playgrounds, movies and fish 'n' chips, in that order. Which, when all's said and done, is a pretty enviable state of mind.

Two weeks later, I've finally got round to posting the pics up on the losnemo gallery and quaffed enough vino to sit down and recount the last few weeks for the blog. Despite not wanting to leave, it was surprisingly good to get home, and some stuff has come good since. Niki's volunteering a couple of afternoons at Ellie's school next door, which she's really enjoying apart from the desire to be there permanently tainting her appreciation of her real job in town. It really is an utterly brilliant school, relaxed and approachable, totally devoid of the airs and graces you often get with other schools. It's a special place even before you meet the staff and kids, quite apart from the stunning setting on the steep sides of an extinct volcano, without appreciating the unique ethos they seem to inspire in the kids. It's a small school with a big heart, the true center of the community; we feel privileged enough to have Ellie there, never mind Niki. Ok, it might not end up working out for teacher, but it'll always be a great asset.

While we were away Jessie rabbit moved in with Dianne for the duration (she's the lovely neighbour over the valley from us) and apart from having a lovely time, developed a strange condition: two large swellings between her hind legs. That's right, Jessie turned out to be a boy rabbit after all. Explains a lot, as he's extra feisty and looks at you with such a determined, fixed stare, you'd think he'd caught you looking at his pint. Maybe he objects to being called Jessie... anyway he's very bright; I've already trained him to go back in his hutch at night, more through necessity than a cute trick, as he was becoming impossible to catch. He's a lot calmer and more affectionate now too, hardly surprising when the sight of me approaching now means carrots and celery tops, rather than carrots, celery tops and persecution by a big blonde bloke with a torch in his mouth.

I'm struggling a bit in all departments, to tell the truth. Work is patchy at best and the new build is taking a lot more to get started than I thought. Aiming for a late-summer 2010 completion is looking more and more ambitious and less likely with every new discovery. According to Dave the Designer our best option at the moment is to aim to build in two stages, initially no more than we need to get a roof over our heads, then sit out the wet and cold seasons until a second phase can be realistically finished, sometime after this time next year. The only real consolation there is that I probably got all my sums right, I just failed to appreciate the way things get done here, and what you need to do to get things done fast.

My timings have been based on one stage moving seamlessly on to the next, with contractors and materials turning up right on cue, and you only really get that sort of assurance if you're an established builder with plenty of clout. As Dave pointed out, if my electrician is booked in for Monday morning and a big builder client of his wants him in Timaru instead, who's he going to let down? Right. So instead of being ready for the concrete pour on Friday that's been booked for weeks, I have to rebook them, costing me another load of weeks. Better to work it all out, add a month, tag on 20% for the weather, then double it. It's not the end of the world, just a bit of a cloud over a big project that's got the silver lining of freeing me up to get some paying work in.

The kids are splendid. Ellie seems to grow an inch a day, reads everything in sight, wants her ears pierced and doesn't care if it hurts, bites her toast with her back teeth and likes to stick her tongue out at you through the gap in her front ones. Did I mention she decided to change the spelling? I never liked "Elly" that much anyway and when we named her Elizabeth it was largely to give her the option of changing to another variation in later life. I wasn't expecting it to happen on a monthly basis but at least it seems to be working...

Oskie's just brilliant, getting on very well at kindie but wants to go to the big school. We've been to see Andrew, the principal, more than once and each time had to convince him that he needs to grow as high as the school gatepost before he's allowed in. He started a Saturday morning music class this weekend which he loves, basically because Brooklyn, his bessie mate from kindie, is there as well. They're amazing together, run riot all day long and have to be separated for meals as they're fond of swapping lunch boxes, and Brooklyn's a vegetarian...

It's an another amazing place, that nursery. Tagged on the side of Ellie's school, owned by a lovely local couple and run by the nicest bunch of people you could ever want to meet. Like the school, it's refreshingly devoid of any dogma or obvious, in-your-face regime, just dead open, relaxed and loads of fun. Did someone mention dogs..? Oh yes, the owners also have a Spoodle, a Cocker Spaniel / Poodle cross so-named (I'd imagine) to provide a better alternative to the ever-tasteful American breeders calling them Cockapoos, for crying out loud. "Spoodle" isn't that much better, I'll grant you, but at least it doesn't put you in mind of the erm, Greek olympics. She's a lovely dog too, and so are her puppies... one in particular, the Big Black Boy we're calling – as a working title – ThreeBee (geddit?) is coming to live with us next weekend.

We're very excited, if a little unprepared. Our back garden might be the perfect run for him except that a couple of weeks ago, a Very Big Black dog that we called VeeBee (only kidding) suddenly appeared there while we were having a barbee... I realise the wafting smell of sausages is the reason why, but exactly how has us slightly worried. I cant see a single gap in the undergrowth around the border (I'm not sure if there's a fence there or not...) but if Veebee could get in, Threebee will definitely get out, probably the first time next door have a fry up. So I'm off now to have a good rummage about up where the bamboo grows thickest, and no, that's not another euphemism for alternative bedtime practices, it's high time we got ready for whatever the Threebee might throw at us.

Look out for a special bulletin dog blog next week!


Once again, two new albums of photos are up on the losnemo gallery. Enjoy :-)

Something new under the sun

Looks like folks back in the northern hemisphere are having a hellish winter at the moment and I guess we really shouldn't complain about the NZ summer, especially considering what's going on across the ditch (as they say here) with high summer and countless bushfires pushing temperatures up into the forties. Victoria is a real horror story right now, enough to make you want to spend the rest of your life on a freezing Hebridean island: nearly 200 dead and loads more injured, upwards of a thousand homes destroyed, half a million hectares reduced to fields of charcoal. We could have boiled our heads and still have been relatively well-off. At times though, boiled – or maybe steamed – is pretty much how your head feels in Auckland... I thought I'd lived in some hot places but this week's been an eye-opener.

When I checked the forecast last weekend it looked good – maximum 25 degrees, light nor'westerlies, dropping to 20 overnight... nice eh? Er, No. Not nice at all, in fact bloody awful, with humidity turning out to be more than "a bit on the high side" and actually reaching 100%. If you've never experienced 100% humidity, imagine going out on a hot summer's day wearing a black polythene bin liner, with just your head poking out the top (this is one of those drawstring bags, right, with the white cords tied in a nice bow at the neck, like you might be going somewhere posh for dinner. Only not, cos you'd wear, like, a nice dress or whatever, but you get the idea) then, just as it's getting good and sweaty in there, you take a deep breath through the tiny holes thoughtfully punched out of the bottom of the carrier bag you have over your head. You can breathe, but it's as if you've swapped your lungs for gills. Terminal humidity feels a bit like that, but without the public ridicule and sudden weight loss.

Tuesday was just insufferably hot, even though it was only 28º... I had to find out why. I was sweating so much I thought I would short out the keyboard, but I eventually Googled something called a heat index, which is (appropriately enough) sort of the opposite of your English wind chill factor; a way of expressing how hot it feels at a given level of humidity. It's really interesting, but if thermodynamics isn't your cuppa, you could skip this bit:

The higher the water content of the air (ie relative humidity), the hotter it seems to be to us humanoids, because we rely on the air to carry away our perspiration and thereby cool us down. Max out the relative humidity and no more water can enter the air, sweat will not be carried off, flapping your arms up and down like a pantomime seagull has no effect whatsoever, and it feels oppressively hot even when it isn't.

Geddit? No? Ok, look under the kitchen sink, you'll find some black bin liners... or, using a handy online heat index calculator, dial in 100% humidity and discover that 28ºC translates into a "feels like" temperature of 37ºC and when "normal" temperatures get up to 30º (as they surely will) our solidarity with the Aussies' 40+ will have been achieved, or at least it'll feel like it has...

I kind of remember some occasional very humid days in Spain but I'm sure it was never this oppressive. Apparently the Middle East is the worst, getting up to heat-stroke-inducing HIs of 55 and beyond. A few years back the Canadians, inventors of the wind chill factor, set up heat index thing called the humidex to give their citizens a meaningful forecast of the day's "feels like" temperatures. They also worked out that a humidex factor of 40 is enough to cause "great discomfort". I tell you what, they're not wrong either. Wednesday was almost unbearable. Going outside for some air was exactly like walking into a small bathroom after someone's had a really hot shower. No wind, no air, just a strength-sapping outdoor sauna. Eventually, as night drew in and the air cooled a little it started to, well, not rain as such, more break out into a wispy, directionless vapour, drifting about rather than falling, as if the air itself had broken into a sweat.

Niki spent the whole week trying to get cold, which will sound as bizarre to her friends up north as I'm sure it will to herself, come July. I know I keep harping on about it and I'm sure It'll all seem quite normal after a couple of years here, but it is a very odd thing to be feeling in February. Even Elly remembers seeing out our last winter in wind-battered Chester-le-Street, with the cold howling up the high street and straight through several layers of clothing. Tomorrow it'll be one year exactly since we moved there from Spain, steeled against it all, full of hope that we'd end up somewhere warmer before the year was out. Put like that, we really can't complain at all.

I just realised I've been moaning on about the weather so much I forgot to upload those pics. I'll get it done this weekend, somewhere between the beach and the barbie, I guess :)

Time flies

It's the last weekend of the summer holidays for our two ruffians. Work and school will recommence in earnest this week, giving all of us a much-needed break from the relentless routine (beach, lunch, play, sleep) and endless, task-oriented time management ("what are we going to do now?", "are we nearly there yet?", etc) – it'll be great to get back to the 9 to 3 for five days of the week. They've had a spectacularly good holiday, the evidence of which shines out of them both. Amazing how much they've changed in such a short time.

New things during January:

Elly now tells the time (just about), reads really fluently, rides a bike without stabilisers (again, just about), constructs and delivers an a priori argument from a distinctly Kantian perspective, still has a near-pathological inclination to spill any drink within arm's reach and hence learned to shower herself clean of Ribena. Repeats everything Oscar says.

Oscar can really "talk" now, having discovered sentences if not quite up to speed with punctuation, has accidentally learned forward rolls while practicing his handstands, can draw proper faces, complete with eyes, nose and mouth, and has generally become a fully-fledged Little Boy, right in front of our eyes: he's even out of nappies. Repeats everything Elly says.

They both love to watch movies. Lots of movies. Current faves are High School Musical 2, Toy Story, Mary Poppins and Bee Movie. We just got back from seeing Bolt at the cinema. Brilliantly done but a bit disappointing, I thought, it was Oscar's first ever big-screen experience, unfortunately coinciding with his afternoon nap time so he was unconcho for the second half of it. This love of movies was the only reason we even dared think of taking a vocally exuberant two-year-old to the flicks, and he did us proud right up to the point where he realised Elly had eaten all the popcorn.

Elly's unspoken excuse was that she was completely absorbed from start to finish. It's a lovely thing, despite the odd Hollywood-inspired side-effects: Elly (and therefore Oscar) is prone to saying "Awww, meaaaann!" at the drop of a hat and Oscar likes to insult people by calling them "hockey puck", after Mr Potato Head in Toy Story. He also likes to wear his underpants on his head, though I'm not quite sure which movie that's from...

I'm sure I'll find the time to post some more pics up this week. This one of Oscar sofa diving kind of sums up the mood of the holls, they've had such good fun, at times you're not sure if they're jumping for joy or levitating with excitement. Roll on the next ones.