Alexandra Blossom Festival

As I may have mentioned before, I love a good road trip, so even if this was only a mini one, last weekend my friend Jo and I took off through the gorge to Alexandra. The purpose of our visit was two-fold. We wanted to see our friend, Alice, perform in Oliver! and we thought we would check out the Alexandra Blossom Festival. I have never been to this annual event before, but I have heard many things about it.

It’s been going for over 50 years and is a real community event as the town celebrates the arrival of spring. Alexandra (like much of Central Otago) owes its existence to the stone fruit and wool industries. Obviously the blossom denotes the start of the stone fruit, and there is a fashion and design competition where designers compete in a variety of categories to showcase the versatility of wool. Just as Arrowtown has an autumn festival when the leaves change colour (you make your own entertainment in the country) so Alexandra puts out the flags (and the floats) when the blossom first appears.


Because I had done a 5km race in the morning, we got there after the grand procession of floats, but we were in time for Saturday in the Park. Jo and I paid our $15 entrance fee and went for a stroll around the stalls inside. Our first stop, naturally, was at a food and wine tent. Various stalls promised ‘yummy food’ and ‘delicious whitebait fritters’ but we headed for Locharburn Wines where we matched a pinot noir with a venison spring roll. Later we heard rumours of rabbit pies, but I didn’t see any.



We sat on the grass in front of the stage and watched the ‘entertainment’ which included Shay Horay escaping from a straitjacket while leaping about on a pogo stick, and the coronation of the senior blossom queen.


As we walked around the park we realised what a family affair this was. You could try on hats, buy garden plants, enter raffles for nights at hotels, or pet a pig – should you feel so inclined.















We viewed the wood-chopping where men with big muscles and bellies sawed through chunks of wood and stood on blocks of the stuff which they hacked at with axes. The little seats that they made were snapped up by members of the public. Lucky folk could also challenge the local lumberjacks to shows of strength – some weird Southern rite of passage or mating ritual in which they demonstrated their attributes to the onlooking ladies. Apparently anyone can chance their arm as long as they don’t appear to be intoxicated – this is health and safety Kiwi-style.

Children clambered up and slid down an inflatable Titanic, which seemed slightly odd. When does it stop being a maritime disaster and become a fun-park amusement?


Ferris wheels and spinning contraptions could also make you nauseous and giddy. Jo wanted a go, but I get travel-sick on a train, so I’m not exactly a top thrill-seeking companion.


The alley of things to throw and shoot to win cuddly toys was as timeless as ever – do people still delight in being presented with a giant blue teddy-bear?


We continued to eat our way around the paddock. There was a huge variety of sweet treats on offer, from fudge and sherbet to toffee apples and plum puddings. I had a slice of liquorice cake which was like lolly cake, but all the sweets inside were liquorice all-sorts. It was very tasty. Jo had a truffle which she said was almost (but not quite) unbearably rich.



Enervated by our sugar fix, we admired the floats which had earlier paraded up and down the town. Winnie the Pooh didn’t look out of place with his crepe paper honey pot for the Lions club float, and the Plunket Monsters Inc float was very blue – it won the prize for the ‘most floral float’ which was vaguely puzzling as it doesn’t actually feature any flowers. The folded crepe paper decorations are handcrafted, and everyone who mentions them talks about the hours of work that goes into making them.

An old-fashioned fire engine was drawing a crowd of fathers with their children anxious to play with the hose and ring the bell. The kids were fairly interested too.


The coffee cart was catering more to the mothers in need of caffeine. Awards were presented and more blossom princesses were crowned. I believe they have to do tasks throughout the preceding week to showcase their regal virtues. I’m not sure what these are: wearing a sash and matching shoes? Sleeping on a pile of mattresses on top of a pea? Kissing frogs? Who knows, but they were all blushing smiles, fetching dimples and elaborate hair-dos as they trooped across the stage.

People parted like the Red Sea as the pipe bands came marching through to the stage. All decked out in tartan and full clannish regalia they drummed and piped through a couple of songs before dispersing. There was a pipe band competition earlier but we missed it so we don’t know who won. Some of them seemed to be taking it all very seriously indeed.


Jo was slightly disappointed they didn’t play more tunes en masse and although we decided they probably didn’t share enough musical commonality, we felt sure they should all have known Flower of Scotland if not the Skye Boat Song.

With an hour to kill before the Wellington International ukulele orchestra, we went to the local art exhibition hosted by the Central Otago Art Society. We saw a lot of local landscapes, some of which were beautiful, others were bland. The artwork had already been ‘judged’ but members of the public could vote for their own favourite.

I liked the texture of an oil painting depicting a stone wall, although I didn’t get the name of the artist, and the blurred effect of Nigel Wilson’s Clutha Morning (which won third place among the judges). Sue Wademan’s textile designs stood out as being something different and the breadth of dramatic light in Debbie Malcolm’s canvases was also intriguing (She actually won the people’s choice award with her painting Storm Over Leaning Rock).

However, I went for a stunningly deep ‘stylistic’ landscape painting by Rachel Hirabayashi. Five years ago I bought some of her feline wire sculptures at an art auction in Arrowtown, and it’s encouraging to realise that I appreciate her work in different media.

So it was back to the park where we sat down with a glass of Three Miners pinot noir to face the music. The chap selling the wine was operating a sort of honesty box system. He was milling about chatting to punters and serving folk when he saw them standing at his stall, but he seemed just as relaxed for them to pour a glass themselves and leave the money in a gold pan overflowing with notes.


The orchestra played a variety of numbers ranging from Haere Mai to All Through the Night. Usually ukuleles combined with country music (Jolene; Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town) would send me running screaming for the exit, but this was tempered with the most unlikely of covers (New England; Sweet Child o’ Mine) to add interest.



Smiling and bantering throughout, the band were clearly of the opinion that if you’re having fun, the audience will too. We all did. The crowd went wild. I’m not sure I could sit thorough a full-length concert, or buy an album, but this outdoor 45-minute segment was entertaining and frankly quite charming.

Somehow we were hungry by now, so Jo took us to the Red Brick Cafe for dinner. She already knew of its existence, which was a good thing as it is tucked down a side street in a car park. She obviously wasn’t the only one with fore-knowledge as it was packed despite its inauspicious setting. The service was friendly if a little haphazard and the meals were good and wholesome with standard dishes including lamb rump, chicken breast, salmon fillet, beef steak and pork belly – not a lot for vegetarians, which fortunately we aren’t.

When we emerged from the restaurant, it was as though a parallel universe had descended. Gone were the family-friendly groups with little children covered in chocolate ice-cream; instead the streets were full of ridiculous low-slung vehicles crammed full of spotty teenagers leaning out of the windows, waving bottles and hurling abuse. I know I’m not their target market – even 20 years ago – but seriously, has anyone ever been impressed with this conduct?


Eighty people were arrested for breaching the liquor ban, and offensive and disorderly behaviour. The senior sergeant in charge said that most offenders were from out of town and that the ‘drunkenness among teenagers was concerning’. None of these arrests were made at the parade or the day in the park. Which makes me wonder – if you were a moronic adolescent intent on causing a nuisance, what would appeal to you? Cars – yes; booze – undoubtedly; sex – if only; blossom? I don’t see it myself.

After the production of Oliver! (of which more later, but suffice to say that our friend Alice was a star) I pulled into a petrol station to fill up before heading home. Jo advised me to find the one with the least bogans – we picked one flanked by a police cars with flashing lights. The young lad behind the counter came rushing out to help, probably relieved to spot a car containing two women over the age of 18 and therefore unlikely to be any trouble. Actually, he probably thought we were lost. He said they had been very busy but things were quietening down now as the pestilence departed – doubtless crawling back beneath the rocks from whence they came.

The Blossom Festival is a weird experience. It’s a fun family day out until the sun goes down, and then the imbeciles emerge like an influx of zombies. I had a really enjoyable time, but if I go again, I’m leaving before nightfall.

My newest favourite thing: spring flowers

I was filing some magazines yesterday, and putting them in chronological order – yes, I know… Anyway, they were dated seasonally, which threw me a bit because they were New Zealand magazines.

For me the year begins in spring (new beginnings and all that) and progresses through summer and autumn to finish with winter. Not so here. I presume it goes autumn; winter; spring; summer – which still feels odd. Things like this, after living here for 13 years remind me that I’m living abroad and am not home.

But whatever month of year in which they appear, I do love spring flowers. They promise fresh hope and renewal. The blossom on the trees suggests ripe fruit with connotations of blushing brides and birds and bees.

Spring, after all is the season of love. As Lord Alfred Tennyson wrote, ‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ We got married in April (in the Northern Hemisphere) and my bouquet was a riot of spring blooms.

Every year my mum sends photos of what she calls her ‘scruffy garden’. Complete with hyacinths and forsythia they are quite gorgeous, and she never neglects to write and tell me when the crocuses are out. It’s some sort of earthly connection that we share, and although I hate gardening, I love the results.

I once whiled away a very pleasant afternoon sitting outside in the spring sunshine with my feet up on a cushion, reading a book and drinking gin and tonic. At work the next day a friend told me she had spent the day in the garden – I think she meant something entirely more strenuous and less relaxing. I’ll stick to my version.

Whereas some flowers symbolise passion, beauty, desire, nobility, glory, pride and devotion, spring flowers seem to represent more subtle emotions. According to an internet site devoted to the meaning of flowers, a few examples are:

• snowdrops – hope
• daisies – innocence, loyalty, purity
• hyacinth – loveliness
• bluebell – constancy
• crocus – happiness
• daffodil – respect
• forsythia – expectation, anticipation
• iris – wisdom, faith, hope

I have been roaming the streets taking photos of these delicate flowers and blossoms. Their gentle nature is exquisitely appealing. 'Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May' indeed, even if it is September over here. The shy blooms bring out a feeling of tenderness and make me smile. And they distract me from the spring cleaning I really should be doing.

Young Victoria: we are amused

Elizabeth seems to have provided a rich seam for actresses and now it is the turn of Victoria. With a reign of 63 years, Queen Victoria, as the final credits point out, is the longest serving British monarch. To date. She came to the throne as a young girl of 18 with unscrupulous relatives and uncertainty over her suitability to rule the country, and she presided over an era of unprecedented social reform and scientific discovery.

Dame Judi Dench has got the role of old Victoria sewn up, and now Emily Blunt assumes the eponymous mantle of the Young Victoria with aplomb. It is wonderful to see the producers (the unlikely combination of Martin Scorsese and Sarah Ferguson) refusing to bow to Hollywood pressure and casting an English actress in the title role. Much of the explanatory narrative is described in her voice-over and what a beautiful voice that young woman has.

Victoria’s childhood was far from ‘normal’. She couldn’t walk down the stairs without holding someone’s hand, someone had to taste her food, and her mother, the Duchess of Kent (Miranda Richardson), slept in the same bedroom. Later someone does break into the palace and someone does try to shoot Victoria which makes us question how much of this is protection and how much suffocation?

Miranda Richardson has, of course, played Elizabeth I herself, and when Victoria has a small tantrum about her royal rights being questioned, you almost expect Richardson to demand, ‘Who’s queen?’ She is excellent playing the part of a mother who has made the wrong decision, and struggling to find a niche as a woman in a male-dominated world.

Her advisor, Sir John Conroy (Mark Strong with seriuos sideburns), wants her to force her daughter to sign a regency agreement so that they can rule in her stead, and attempts to remove her from the influence of her grandfather, the irascible King William IV, played brilliantly by Jim Broadbent.

There has been some comment about the lack of exploration of the sexual relationship between Conroy and the Duchess of Kent, but in a time when piano legs were covered with lace to prevent them exciting the gentlemen, this would have been out of place – thankfully not all historical romances have to be the tedious bonk-fest that is expected in the wake of The Tudors.

The history is simplified throughout and there is even a family tree at the beginning for those who aren’t sure of their kings and queens and line of succession. Of course some things are wrong – Albert wasn’t shot in the defence of Victoria; she would never have referred to her royal personage in the singular; there was no such thing as a regency agreement for her to sign; teenage petulance is a relatively modern construct – but it’s called dramatic licence.

This is not a documentary; it’s a drama. If it has whetted your appetite, there are a myriad of (very good) history books you can read about the period. This is entertainment not fact. Scriptwriter Julian Fellowes (who won the best original screenplay Oscar in 2002 for Gosford Park), clearly has a political agenda of his own and chooses favourites among the contemporary politicians.

Victoria must learn whom she can trust among those battling for the power of influence, besides her mother and Conroy. Lord Melbourne (Paul Bettany) is seductively persuasive but devious and uninterested in helping the common folk; Robert Peel (Michael Maloney) is stiff and buttoned-up but with a need to do good; and the Duke of Wellington (Julian Glover) is simply blustery and belligerent with a drinker’s nose.

Queen Adelaide (Harriet Walter: wonderful in her relatively small role and showing how fabulous acting can be) is the charming, cool, wise confidant that Victoria needs. Victoria learns (as Prince Charles found to his cost) that royalty and politics don’t mix. When she tries to make a stand, the people ‘punish’ her rebelling outside her gates.

She is mocked by the media over The Bedchamber Crisis of 1839. Cartoons and commentary erupted over her refusal to change her ladies-in-waiting at Peel’s insistence. He claimed he was unable to create a government without Her Majesty’s support and resigned. The incident is used to illustrate the essential dichotomy of Victoria. She wants to laugh and giggle but also wield power; she demands independence while she yearns for support; she’s a queen but she’s also a woman and she plays the dual role with a smile for which men would willingly conquer worlds.

And then there is Prince Albert (Rupert Friend). This is unashamedly a love story – which is fairly unrealistic but entirely forgivable, apart from perhaps the breathless song by Sinead O’Connor which seems a little odd – since when was she a loyalist? Albert proves himself as Victoria’s friend, lover, supporter and number one fan. He teaches her how to play the game better than those who wish to use her as a pawn in their own machinations, and the clichéd chess scene is unnecessarily laboured. But he has charm, fortitude and a twinkle in his eye. All letters addressed to him (including the blossoming courtship) are read first by a censor and he asks with languid resignation, “Will there ever come a time when I get to read them first?”

When Victoria has his desk brought in beside hers for them to address correspondence together, and when they walk formally into a room, or dance all night at a ball, it is clear that they will present a united front. Her love is evident in the girlish glee of jumping down steps or skipping down corridors, reflecting her childhood hopscotch on the tiles in the opening scenes before the pressures of monarchy descended on her shoulders. Albert has the ability to bring a smile and even a laugh to light up her face – a far cry from the perpetually mourning widow who was so famously not amused.

There will doubtless be Oscar nominations for this film – for the acting, production, screen-writing, costumes, and directing (Jean-Marc Vallée). It is beautifully shot and captures the pomp and the ritual but also the solemnity of the monarchy. The extravagantly sumptuous pageants, parades and palaces (Victoria was the first monarch in Buckingham Palace) are both sweeping and fleeting.

The Coronation, the dances, the dinners, and the grand tour only last for a few seconds. The enormity of the scene is established but the curtains are soon drawn. Like a stolen peek into first class on a plane, there is a tantalising glimpse of this incredible world of slammed doors and locked gates.

This is a privileged position and one to which very few gain admission, yet what goes on behind closed doors must remain there – we, the public, must be satisfied with the bountiful appearances on the balcony. It is all the more amazing then, that Princess Beatrice plays one of the ladies-in-waiting, in a brief scene – the dramatic connotations spiral off into infinity.

There is a lot more to the story and Fellowes has been necessarily selective with incidents. The closing credits elucidate events that are yet to come. Perhaps there will be another film to fill in the gaps between the young and old Victoria. I wonder who will play the middle-aged battleaxe with a secretly warm heart.

Late equalizers

It was a weird weekend for seeing people score goals for the wrong side in the final minute of the game.

Little Michael scored in the 96th minute at Old Trafford. Yes, the 96th minute. Although Manchester United and City were only meant to be playing an extra four minutes, and the result should have been 3-3 and one of the most exciting draws in derby history, we all know about Fergie-Time. As William Hill bookmakers pointed out, “We can only suppose that time passes more slowly at Old Trafford than anywhere else in the universe.”

Little Michael’s goal, however controversial the hour in which it came, was superb. He is still a genius in front of goal; I just hate to see him do it for them.

Meanwhile, the supporters of the Wellington Phoenix have spent the past week insisting that they are not afraid of Robbie Scouser. Well, maybe they should have been. His free kick in the 94th minute led to the goal which prevented the Phoenix from winning the match. Which proves you should never underestimate your opposition, or ex-Liverpool legends.

Twelfth Night reviewed and revisited

It's been a couple of months now since I performed in Twelfth Night but I found Ewen Coleman's review on the Theatre Federation website, and I thought I would share it. It's always interesting to me to see other people's reviews.

A couple of postings on You Tube that might also be of interest are:

The Box Tree Scene

The Yellow Stockings

Bird of the year

The poll is open to cast your vote for the native bird of the year at the Forest and Bird website. New Zealanders like their birds – well, they have to; they have no native mammals. The national radio station plays a bird call every day before the news bulletin on Morning Report. It’s a delightful introduction to a few minutes filled with war, financial machinations, politics and crime. A proposal to silence the bird call in 2005 was met with unprecedented outrage by listeners – so they do care for something other than rugby, which is nice.

I am intrigued by birds and think they make a good walk into something wonderful. So when I arrived on these shores, one of the first books I bought was The Reed Field Guide to New Zealand Birds. I thought it would help me understand my adoptive land. New Zealand birds are, quite frankly odd. Fantails (piwakawaka) attack. Or so I thought when we first arrived here and as we walked through the bush these feathered darts would whistle and hover around us. I know now that they are looking for the tasty morsels we disturb with our tramping (great word – so much more active than rambling, don’t you think?) feet, but at the time I thought they were somewhat sinister.

I love the cheeky kea, or mountain parrot, with its strutting walk and defiant demeanour – like a Mancunian chancing his arm in a fight he knows he has no right to win. The way it hops off laughing after it’s just destroyed your tent or your walking boots is less endearing and I have known climbers to throw snowballs at them to try and scare them away from their essential equipment along with one or two choice epithets.

When we went on a trip to Stewart Island, the dawn chorus was more of a cacophony. One friend hid beneath a pillow and ranted about the ‘bloody birds!’ A kaka screamed at us from a branch as we walked underneath – hurriedly. I was all for turning back but Him Outdoors told me not to be daft – ‘It’s only a bird!’ Easy for you to say – I have been dive-bombed while running and cycling by magpies, red-billed gulls (tarāpunga) and Australasian harriers (kahu) – in fact I have been knocked off my bike by a particularly aggressive magpie. Don’t tell me birds are harmless.

On Ulva Island we saw a kiwi in the middle of the day, plodding across the path with preposterous feet. It ‘hid’ behind a fallen tree – sticking its frankly ridiculous beak into the earth and trying to blend in, with a ‘if I can’t see you, you can’t see me’ attitude favoured of five-year-olds. No wonder this bird is practically extinct! This may be the national icon of the country and so stands a good chance in the polls, but as the witty and astute Michele A’Court points out, kiwis can’t fly, and isn’t that kind of the definition of a bird?

Which reminds me of one of my favourite jokes – Q: What do you call a fly with no wings?’ A: a walk. (My other favourite jokes are Q: What’s orange and sounds like a parrot? A: a carrot; and Q: Where do you find a tortoise with no legs? A: where you left it – which probably gives you an indication of my sense of humour.)

Having said that, I’m a fan of penguins from the Little Blue variety (korora) beloved of Oamaruvians, which I’ve also seen waddling up the beach at Seatoun (the penguins, that is), to the Fiordland Crested (Tawaki) who entertained us as we paddled our kayaks through the still waters of Milford Sound. I like the big fat green flightless and nocturnal Kakapo which has to be the crappest parrot in existence. And I like the kakariki, which is actually a parakeet from New Caledonia. Obviously an interloper, it is far too flamboyant to fit in with the New Zealand lifestyle but it escapes from the Karori Wildlife Sanctuary and streams through the skies brightening up the otherwise terminally dull suburb.

Another favourite is the little fluffy adorably cute morepork (ruru). Although I’ve never seen one, I’ve frequently heard their distinctive call. When we were on a sailing holiday with Scary Sis, her husband and friends, we discovered a close relative – the ‘moreport’; a creature with a similarly distinctive call found on mini yachts that come out after dark and fed on copious quantities of fortified wine.

I like kingfishers (kotare)whose brilliant swooping used to accompany me on my bike rides round the bays. The white herons (kōtuku) provide grace and style to Okarito (otherwise known for Keri Hulme). Bar-tailed godwits (kuaka) are commendable for their amazing flight (once round the world every year) while the tui and bellbirds (korimako) have beautiful calls and provide friendship in the suburbs.

The precision plunges of gannets (takapu) into the waves are exceptional and the silvereyes (tauhou) flitting about the garden with their shrill cheeping and their circular flight patterns would get the vote of my erstwhile cat, Hatstand. I’m also struck (though, thankfully, not literally) by the wood pigeons (kereru) who are nothing like the city variety found in London that remind me of rats with wings. These huge plump beautiful birds just look too tasty for their own good.

Various ‘celebs’ are getting behind their bird of choice – Kiri Te Kanawa favours the kereru, Sam Hunt the pied stilt, and Jeremy Wells the royal spoonbill. Okay, so I’m no celebrity, but I cast my vote for the humble pukeko, which is a far more evocative name than the New Zealand Swamp Hen. Their iridescent indigo blue plumage, flashing white tail feathers, orange legs and feet, and bright red beaks make them a favourite of children’s book illustrators and energy companies, and they are far more deserving of iconic status than the boring brown kiwi.

Although we lived there for 18 months, I don’t really like Christchurch, but the sight of these curious birds flipping and flapping by the poo ponds out towards QEII always made me smile as I drove or cycled to the swimming pool. And they can fly, although their legs trailing behind them as they do so makes them look rather ungainly. They also gang up on stoats and rats and drive them away from their wetland habitat. I am not a big fan of rats, so this is a Good Thing.

Chester once caught a pukeko chick and seemed to know he had Done Wrong. He brought it into our kitchen and dumped it behind the flour bin. The little ball of blue fluff looked like a flump. We nursed it, calmed its beating heart and splinted its tiny leg with toothpicks.

It lived in our bathroom for a while until it appeared ready to be released, and we could clean up the poop. A few months later I saw one running around with a limp and I can’t begin to tell you how guilty I felt. If for no other reason than atonement on behalf of my cat, I am voting for the pukeko.

You have until October 14th to cast your vote for your favourite native bird.