New Zealand

Home Stays in Rural New Zealand:
Added-value vacations explore local lifestyle
By Carole Jacobs

We were descending the friendly skies to the South Island of New Zealand. Even from 10,000 feet, I could see that the island, a land of brilliant green and gold afloat in an azure sea, was making no liars out of the Kiwis who call it the most beautiful place on Earth.

But I wasn’t here merely to soak up scenery. I wanted to get a sense of the people who inhabit this southerly half of New Zealand, an island more mountainous than Colorado yet only half its size.

"In a few weeks, you’ll have no room left in that little red book of yours," said Steven Shephard of McCall, ID, predicting a full address book. Steve, owner of Salmon River Outfitters, leads small groups of mature travelers on upscale home-stay tours of New Zealand from January through March, summertime there.

To Steve, the residents are even lovelier than the landscape. "It’s as if you’ve turned the clock back 50 years," he said. "The people don’t lock their doors, and they still get their milk delivered in bottles each morning."

The plane glided over upholstered hillsides that were ripening to a glorious fall, then landed with a gentle thud in what appeared to be a cleared cornfield.

"No getting lost in this airport," he quipped as we loaded the rental van for our 21-day loop around the island.

Steve began exploring the country during his off-season, at the invitation of one of his river guides who was from New Zealand. When rafters on his summer trips in Idaho asked how he spent the winters, he shared his adventures Down Under and discovered many travelers wanted to join him. So he started doing tours.

We would begin our trip in the Marlborough Sounds, at the northern tip of the island and proceed counterclockwise south to Queenstown, South Island’s own Aspen. Then we would loop north to Christchurch, a city of stone church spires, elegant gardens and the tranquil river Avon seemingly lifted whole out of the British Isles.

We would sample the island’s myriad moods, seasons and climes – from tropical coves to the base of glaciers, basking in the warm hospitality of everyone from fishermen to sheepherders to two transplanted Brits who own one of the most posh hotels.

Because the heart of New Zealand is rural, our focus was on villages tucked in the bush (forest) or wop-wop (Wilderness), the sorts of places Mother Nature lets her hair down, and the action is likely to revolve around a sheep-shearing contest.

A Bleating Traffic Jam

It only took about 10 minutes to get into the rural swing of South Island. "Damn traffic jams," Steve mumbled as he dodged the snarl of four-footed, bleating congestion.

First stop was Havelock, a small seaside town and launching point for our trip into the Marlborough Sounds and the Pohuenui Island Sheep Station and Lodge. The remote sheep station occupies its own 5,500-acre island amid a siren seascape sculpted by pounding rain and thundering surf.

A storm was brewing at sea, tossing up angry whitecaps, when we arrived at the dock. Ranges of fog-shrouded ridges receded into the horizon; our home for the next two nights was a lone dot in the dark, swollen sea. A jovial fellow and longtime friend of Steve escorted us to his boat and put a kettle on for tea.

As we set off, the little boat rocked in the rolling sea, foghorns sounded and a trio of dolphins trailed alongside the boat as if safeguarding our passage. Before long we were a chatty party of three: Winken, Blinken and Nod adrift in a cozy boat, sipping Earl Grey and munching biscuits. I looked out a porthole to the wind whipping up water devils and shivered at the thought of making this voyage alone- the way I usually travel.

Seeking the Small World

Rarely have I returned home from a foreign country with more than a nodding acquaintance of the locals and their lifestyles. This made me wonder if maybe I was missing the most important facet of travel -- the people. Hunker down with the home folk for a spell, hear them squabble about whose turn it is to take out the garbage, and it doesn’t take long to realize it’s a small world after all.

I wanted to experience a slice of daily life as others lived it. Steve’s tour – the result of his exhaustive research roaming the island in a camper, asking locals for leads – seemed the perfect vehicle for such an epiphany, combining the right ingredients for an intimate tour: incredible scenery, a peek at hot tourist spots, and home stays with unforgettable families who welcome you into their hearts and homes with a hug and "hallo!"

Near midnight, we glimpsed a light blinking in the vast void: Pohuenui Ranch. We docked in darkness, followed a trail past the wooden sheep-shearing barn to a tidy white house nestled among bizarre trees and tidy gardens. I tiptoed up to my antique-furnished room, pulled the quilt around me and fell asleep. The storm had ended; the still of the night was nearly deafening in its silence.

Come morning, the aqua sea and green ridges sparkled under brilliant sunlight outside my window. The house was set in a small cove by the sea beneath nearly vertical pastures dotted with sheep.

My hosts and Steve had been up for hours, enjoying small talk, classical music and a gourmet breakfast. Brian and Fiona Brakenridge were a thoroughly modern couple who had left the rat race for a tranquil home in the middle of nowhere, their radio phone their sole link to civilization- a group of tiny islands within calling range.

We spent two idyllic days tramping about the islands amid spectacular views, boating to meet the neighbors and tour their respective patches of paradise (one island had an ice cream stand; another a salmon farm where we pointed out dinner). We cruised the sound past fanciful rock arches and tiny, uninhabited islands with sliver beaches just perfect for picnics.

As for the work side of the ranch, one day we persuaded Fiona, a two-time world championship sheepshearer, to give us a live demo. "I’m a little rusty," she apologized as she circled a sheep like Kung Fu. Before the creature could say Baaa, she had swooped, pounced and pinned. Within seconds, wool was flying.

With hugs and promises to write, we reluctantly boated back to Havelock for a brief drive to our next stop: The Awaroa Lodge and Café, a wilderness lodge at Able Tasman National Park nestled in the hinterlands between the sea and impenetrable bush.

Kiwi-Style Surprises

Normally we would have boated to the lodge, which was at least a mile away. Unfortunately, the tide was out – so out, in fact, that the shoreline was a faint thread on the horizon. We hiked and waded across swampy flats, my curiosity of Kiwi-style camping piqued by the unusual trail. Finally, the wilderness lodge.

"This is what I call roughing it," I cracked as we settled into our designer cabin for the night. Inside the glass and wood dining lodge, a group of congenial Kiwis settled before a roaring fire, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres and sipping wine.

The next morning, we were astonished to find the lodge at the edge of the sea, and yesterday’s footprints five feet under. The lodge was well-equipped for fits of nature, though; a small boat carried us to the foot of trails that wound up to spectacular vistas, and then on to shore.

By the fifth day, I was becoming pleasantly accustomed to Kiwi-style surprises. Our next home away from home was Kairuru, a 4,000-acre family sheep and cattle farm nestled in steep gold and green hills tumbling to the Tasman Sea – like Wyoming with water.

"The Waltons of New Zealand" raced up as we drove to the ranch house, a striking, multilevel home perched on a hillside. Tall, tan and muscles rippling, Dave Henderson bare a striking resemblance to the Marlboro Man while Wendy, like Fiona, was sophisticated and polished.

No sooner had we said hello than their two young daughters attached themselves to me and insisted we go for a walk while "Mum" made lunch and Dad herded sheep. Grabbing me by either hand, Jessica and Amanda led me down a steep, winding path to the foot of a small pond.

They parted the grass to reveal a small cave – their secret place. Would I come in, they wondered? We lowered ourselves into a tiny opening- I was grateful that Wendy’s "farm lunch" was yet to come – and lighted our candles. The flickering flames illuminated crystals: I felt as if I had stumbled into an enormous geodome. After a few moments of awed silence, we all giggled. I treasure that moment – it was the highlight of my trip.

Later that afternoon, the girls and I spotted Dave far below, dwarfed by the towering hills. Cupping his hands, he barked a command to two dogs in the next valley down. On cue, they raced across a meadow to where the sheep were grazing and rounded them up. Another bark, and the sheep streamed en masse across the meadows, like an undulating amoeba.

Luxury in the Wilderness

The next day, we headed over hill and dale to Moonlight Lodge, a colonial estate on the banks of the Maruia River in the wop-wop. I mistook a co-owner, Peter Somerville, for the butler as he opened the door and ushered us into a formal drawing room. I later learned he was trained in Europe’s finest hotels and was fluent in six languages.

At first blush, the other co-owner, Margaret Foyle of Foyles of London bookshop fame, seemed seriously misplaced in this rural patch – until our tour of the French restaurant, the health pavilion with a pool-sized Jacuzzi, and elegant riverfront cottages with CDs, spa baths and verandas proved otherwise. We concluded that the lodge was a perfect hideout for a gentleman angler with a society wife in tow.

A few days later, we settled into the Fox Glacier Hotel, run by the same family for three generations. Roger and Ann Smith showed us old photographs of the property, where many a mountaineer has rested before his ascent of Fox Glacier, which squeaks, creaks and groans down the mountainside at the rate of five feet per day.

A helicopter whisked us up to the glacier in minutes – just in time for a one-of-a-kind sunset that spread form the glaciers down into the rain forest and over the aqua sea. Next morning after a farm breakfast, the couple scooted us off on an early morning hike around Lake Matheson. When the water is still, the island’s quintessential looking-glass lake offers a mirror image of Mount Cook and Mount Tasman.

Later in the tour, at Mount Aspiring National Park, adventure-loving Kiwis took us on a ultimate tour of the Wild West landscape. We soared over the park in a small airplane, landed in a high mountain meadow called Siberia, then hiked four hours to a river valley where a jet boat whisked us to another meadow for lunch.

By the time the trip was over, I had been dazzled by sunsets, stunned by bungee jumpers and awed by the eerie beauty of a cave lit by glowworms. And as Steve had promised, my address book was full of the names of new friends – my most treasured memories of all.