And fortunately I didn’t have a flashlight. I discovered it after following a track up the left-hand side of the Kawarua Gorge, one I had seen from the road. I had to ask permission from the owner of Olssens Wines to use it, and it takes you alongside the river before up to a higher plateau and above the old gold mining settlement, now a museum and home to the Goldrush jetboat. I say I was fortunate not to have a flashlight because I have a fondness for holes and if I had I may have ventured further in. The minute I stepped into it years of extensive training kicked in (watching horror movies with best friend C and Housemate A) and I got the fear. It was one of those moments where in the film you’re screaming at the girl not to go into the sinister building, except I’m not a girl and it was a sinister mine not building. Common sense prevailed, mainly because I almost tripped over about ten metres in, otherwise I may have been lost, fallen down some shaft, perhaps hunted by some unknown predator of the depths. They would have found faithful Ol’ Blue, still waiting for me at the entrance after several years and would have said ‘oh that’s what happened to that English cyclist that disappeared’ and they would have finally been able to close that missing persons file. But maybe I would have survived, discovering a lake down there full of blind fish to eat. Over the years I may have changed, skin becoming palid, eyes enlarging and growing pale, lamp-like, to compensate for the blackness down there, fingers elongating  to better grasp the fish in my cold lake, and perhaps to strangle some stray goblin that ventured too far from safer tunnels. I may mutter to myself, in a whispering, gutteral way, and repeatedly clear my throat. Who knows, I may have even found a ring.

                  But I didn’t, I emerged safe and well, but I would love to go back there with some chums and some flashlights but I’m yet to convince anyone in the pub. I did manage to kick a bit of ventilation tubing rather loudly as I left, which reverberated menacingly behind me. As I ate my lunch outside I kept glancing rather nervously at the entrance, just in case a Balrog came out looking for a BBQ. Anyway enough of my flights of fancy, back to picking (no groaning at the back please), which continues apace.

  I think the most remarkable thing about this trip is the way New Zealand has unfolded day by day in front of me. Each time I have travelled further south fresh wonders assail my eyes and most of the time I’m there just gaping at it, fully deserving the nickname I briefly earned at school, ‘Gormo’. Either that or I’m trying to take a picture of it as I cycle along, perhaps not the most sensible thing. The cycle down from Wanaka to Cromwell was a lesson in point: Wanaka stands at the northerly-most tip of Otago and also has the most northerly vines along the shores of the lake, a winery called Rippon. As you head down the Wanaka Road toward Lake Dunstan and Cromwell this amazing vista unfolds. It is as barren as the West Coast was verdant. As I said to Gareth King, the viticulturalist at Felton Road, some parts look like the surface of the moon. Slashing through these are vibrant green swathes of Elm and emerald Pine. The road itself was gentle but long, sloping downward for most parts with the occasional climb. Alongside you runs the Kawarau River, and the valley gradually opens up in front of you. Soon the river is cutting a meandering gorge there, like a mini-grand canyon and in front of you, in the distance you begin to see your first vineyards across the valley, cuts of white on the hillsides beyond. White because the grapes are shrouded in netting to protect them. I assume these were the vineyards of the Bendigo region of Otago, the more northerly part of the Cromwell basin and one of the hotter subregions. A bit further on I saw the sign for Central Otago itself and started seeing vineyards on either side of the road and I got a similar excitement to that first day in the South Island, cycling to Blenheim and into Marlborough. It gave renewed energy to tiring legs.

                   But yet again, despite the Kiwi’s predilection for road-side signs, as I flagged toward the end I had no idea how far I had left to go. This is despite the fact that every stream is named and marked (Sheep Skin Creek, 1 Mile Culvert, 2 Mile Culvert, Lui Lui Burn, even simply No. 4 Creek) and every bridge over said streams numbered (I’m somewhere up in the 9000s at the last) there are simply no distance signs betweens towns. So I read the one as I leave Wanaka: 53clicks. Ok I tell myself, that about 35miles, 3 hours in the saddle with a break for lunch. Except despite 2 towns being marked on the map, once I got past the first one, Luggate, there was nowhere to stop, no shops to buy drink or fuel so I was denied my planned break. This was further hampered by the fact my map, bought that first day in Picton, choose to go walkabout from my panniers at some point along the way. I came to a lake and seemed to see a town some distance away at the end, but I was bushed, so pulled up, ate some apples, drained the last of my water and did what I usually do in these situations: skimmed stones. I rested about half-an-hour before continuing but there wasn’t much left in the legs. I had been riding for 2-and-a-half hours so I estimated myself still some 10-15clicks shy of Cromwell, but vowed to camp the next opportunity. I passed more vineyards on my right, those of the Lowburn valley and eventually came to the town. Which was Cromwell. I had stopped for my apples some 2 or 3clicks short of my goal. It was a fist-in-the-air kind of moment, but I resisted the urge: even with the stop it was the longest bit of sustained riding I had managed this trip with backpack and panniers and despite the forgiving road I definately felt no small degree of personal triumph. James is the King. If I had the map I would have know this was Lake Dunstan the town was Cromwell and may well have continued on and done the whole bally lot in one go.

                After camping I sampled some local Pinot Noir, ‘The Wooing Tree’ which is an estate on the shores of Lake Dunstand, right next to the town, and I passed it as I rode in. My notes say it is a wine to be despatched rather than savoured, the nose being of burnt jam, like the smell of an apple and blackberry crumble when you take it from the oven. I expect that from a Barossa shiraz, but not from the more subtle and complex Pinot, and I didn’t expect the wopping 14.5 degrees of alcohol. I little stewed I thought, but maybe it wasn’t the wines fault, but the storage. But I did buy it at a shop a stone’s throw away.

                 The next day I phoned up Gareth King and then rode the short hop (8clicks) to Bannockburn, turning right along the road the Estate is named for. Mt. Difficulty was the first up: I had tried some of their Riesling earlier in the trip and it was divine, but their Pinot’s commanded a huge price and were too rich for my blood. Hopefully I may get the opportunity to sample for free. On my left then came the Calvert vineyard of Felton Road, each row of vines ending in yellow roses. I stopped to take a photo. Then eventually I came the Felton Road itself, a beautiful couple of villas nestling in the heart of the Elms vineyard. I stopped to take a photo of heavy red grapes on my left. These turned out to be the Pinot Noirs of Felton’s famous Block 3. Yummy.

             And then meeting with Gareth, the aforementioned viticulturalist. Very friendly, as they all are down here and we had a good general chat about cycling, grapes and the nature of beauty. Ok I made the last bit up but it was very exciting to be there. When I mentioned my taste for Riesling, he bought out the 2008 off-dry Riesling (the way to distinguish the two is Felton’s dry Riesling calls itself dry, the off-dry is simply labelled Riesling) and oh my god it was perfect. Like a finely balanced spatlese it had delicious sweet fruit matched with an amzing rasp of acidity, but the levels of complexity were much greater than other’s I had tried (Mt. Difficulty, Valli, Three Miners to name a few). I immediately labelled it the best of the trip. He then introduced me to the recently bottled 2008 Pinot Noir, which was young and bit green but showed immense promise, with a wonderful prune and fig finish. Then, the real treat, a sample of the 2007 Block 5 Pinot Noir, which was like raspberry velvet in a glass. Scrumptious.

                There’s a real joy to tasting good wine. I love going to the big supplier tastings in London. After several hours yes your head may be slightly woozey despite all the spitting, but your palatte just sings, as your senses are stimulated by drop after drop of amazing wine. Hours after you can still taste echoes of them. And here again I felt my hand moving and twitching, in time with my mind flicking the pages of sensory reference books, looking for sympathetic flavours and smells. And to be there, with the viticulturalist drinking his wines, surrounded by those vines, after the journey I had just experienced of coming this far south, it felt like I had made it, it felt like home.

                And then the next day I had to set off to Alexandra to get my work permit, down this amazing valley with a river-cum-lake called Clutha, thanks to the dam at Clyde. Alexandra was 35clicks away but I felt dog-tired. I made it easily enough but to my shame decided to take the bus back. I had a guilt dream last night where my sister told me I wasn’t riding anough, that I should be doing a 1000 miles a day. I gasped in indignation and tried to claim 100clicks a day was good, but knew I was lying and doing short of that. Anyway I digress. Instead I’ll give you some trivia: in Alexandra there is a Wool Shop, called ‘The Wool Shop’. In the window it has a sign: ‘Support Wool Farmers: Buy Wool’. I think this a great slogan and a wonderful marketing tool. I can see it now: ‘Help Support Crack Dealers: Buy Crack’. I like the directness. In my next shop I’m just gonna put a sign outside and say ‘Spend money here, the more the better’. The other thing is near my tent there is a bird that sounds like George Lucas recorded it and used it to voice R2-D2, or else Keyop from Battle of the Planets, with loads of discordant whistles, bleeps and clicks. Name please.

Been reading about the early days of wine production here in Otago. I say early days but it is a very young region indeed, the first vinyards like those of Rippon, Gibbston Valley, Taramea and Black Ridge going in around the 1970s. At first the thought of growing vines here was met with general bemusement and gentle condescension by the majority. The region was thought too extreme, with too few hours of sunlight, low temperatures and unpredictable and unseasonal frosts in Spring and early Autumn. You do actually get plenty of sun here, very low rainfall and big extremes of temperature between night and day. These are key ingredients of cool climate vine growing, giving the grapes long maturation affording good complexity of flavour. Early growers had more to contend with that just the whether: the feral rabbits would strip the bark from the young vines, killing them, and eat the buds. Vines were protected by plastic cleeves, rabbit-proof fences, ropes soaked in bitumen and angry farmers armed with big guns and even Burmese cats. The Black Ridge vineyard was protected by several generations. Lord knows why the region is full of lurchers: my two would have a field day here to the point where they would probably burst a lung. I reckon with a pack of lurchers and maybe Jack Russels/Burmese cats you could earn a packet here. You would clear a vineyard easy, just will have to put up with them peeing on the vines and pooing in places. Not pretty killing the rabbits but given the fact New Zealand was a country of birds before we arrived and wrought particular devastation to a delicate eco-system with the rat, possum, rabbit and deer there is no other way to protect the countryside but a regular cull. Hence the pretty much endless boom of gunshot across the hills of Otago. In Alexandra there is the Big Easter Bunny Hunt. And no they’re not after chocolate ones; they even offer 10% off ammunition.

It all beFirst day picking was at Cornish Point, several rows of Chardonnay. I got up in the dark, donned all my cycle gear, put my head-torch on, switched on my rear light and headed off to work. I can cut across a field and down a short little downhill trail before joining to road which turns to dirt track. It’s makes for one hell of a commute. I was first there so got the number 1 snips, which you have to guard with your life. Loose one and you’ll replace it and suffer beer fines in the pub on Friday. Leave it in the bucket where you place the grapes, and it goes into the press and you cause $4000 of damage, cost the winery several days and suffer the wrath of an Otago lynch mob. I was suitably sacred as Gareth gave us the pep talk that first morning, but also gradually lapsing into a sub-zero state. There was a frost on.

                 Unseasonal frosts are one of the reasons that Otago was initially disregarded as a viable grape-growing region. They can strike in the spring or autumn and unchecked they can devastate the crop. Many of the vines are planted on north-facing slopes, which means the colder air drains away. On flatter sites the grapes may be sprinkled with water, which freezes around them and insulates them. Another way is to put blooming great propellers in the middle of the vineyards and they literally blow the freezing away off the vines. These fire up maybe 4 or 5am when a frost is due and sound like a swarm of helicoptors. Close your eyes, put on a Doors song and and bang! you’re punching mirrors.

                 And so we were there, 8am listening to Gareth tell us the ins and outs of grape picking stamping our feet and rubbing our hands in an effort to keep warm. I was wearing leg and arm warmers bought in Queenstown (an elegant and cheap solution rather than buying a long-sleeved t-shirt and trousers), lycra shorts, baggy shorts, merino base layer, t-shirt, cycle shirt, soft-shell and buff. By 4pm, when I got back to the hut, I was down to shorts and t-shirt and was stretched out on the sun-lounger. Within the span of the day I experienced an early English winter and by the end of it I was in mid-July. Surreal but amazing and an illustration of what makes this region make such special grapes. The diurnal temperature variation, i.e. the difference between the temperature at night and the day, is extreme and contributes complexity and flavour to the developing grapes. It also makes picking them complex, as you gradually peel off during the morning as the sun grows in strength, and soon us pickers and often the ends of the rows, are festooned with various items of excess clothing. Smokos, the mid-morning and afternoon break (although nobody smokes) gives you opportunity to chuck these in your bag. They one hell of a good bunch of people here abnd an eclectic bunch. Kiwis of course, but Germans, French, Czech, Aussies, Brits, Yanks and Swiss all add to our melting pot. Some are on exchange programs, from vineyards in Muscadet, Burgundy, the Valais and California. Others, like me, asked and have been invited to join the merry crew. As Gareth said, we are here picking some of the best grapes in the world. I think he followed that by ‘so don’t fuck it up’ but it does feel like a real priviledge to be here.

                 And lastly the grapes themselves. So far we have picked Chardonnay at Cornish Point, then Chardonnay and Riesling at Calvert, then young Riesling vines at Elms, before moving on to the famous Block 6 Chardonnay vines, 15 years old and bursting with fruit. You frequently taste the grapes for quality. As Nick said, if you’re in doubt try it, if it tastes shit throw it away. There’s a beautiful simplicity to that remark. Occaisionally there are errant vines in the rows, and best of this was when we found Gewurztraminer amongst the Chardonnay. It tastes incredible, sweet but intensely floral. Yummy. Finally we were picking Pinot Noir in Calvert. All the time I’m asking questions and hopefully learning something. Apart from the taste of a grape there are other things you look for; smaller berries which give a higher pulp to juice ratio, the berries should be crunchy with seed, the flesh should be beginning to brown, the skin should be opaque. And the biodynamism is evident all around you, from the weeds and other plants left to grow alongside the vines, to the spiders and other insects that live amongst them. One fellow picker bemoaned the fact she had just sliced a earwig in half but there is sometimes no avoiding it. I’ll cover biodynamic viticulture another time, when I have fully understood it, but for now just consider what herbicides and insecticides are: toxins, which when sprayed on the vine anter the vine and so enter wine it eventually produces. Biodynamics taps into a more ancient understanding of growth and nature that does not rely on chemical agents to promote growth but instead utilises natural compounds that bring out the strength and industry of the vine. My inner-hippy loves it.gins with an idea.

It all beginsOh yes grapes, been picking them for well over a week now don’t you know. Anyway who tells me I have never done a hard/honest days work in my life can officially fuck off. You pick up to 9 hours a days, with breaks for morning and afternoon smokos and lunch. So far we have picked chardonnay at Cornish Point, Riesling and Pinot Noir at Calvert and all three at Elms. And this includes the famous Block 3 there. And I’ve eaten them all. The variation in taste of the Pinot is particularly interesting: Calverts is sweet and jammy, while those of Block 3 are brooding with depth and intensity, echoes of the wine it is to become. We were told to be ‘less fussy’ in Block 3 because these are some of the best Pinot Noir grapes in the world. Gareth encouraged us to taste the shrivled grapes that we may have thrown away otherwise and they burst with roasted currant and raisin flavour. Not rotten or affected by bird peck, these are ever-so-slightly over-ripe and enrich the final product. The grapes also give you a welcome burst of glucose if you are flagging during a session, by the end of which gloves and top and face and in my case the center of my glasses where I push them back on my nose are sticky with this amazing juice. That and every bobble your clothes have are covered in spiderweb.

                  But these are great days, despite the unpredictable weather. Jerry, the grizzled veteran picker who shares my TV room and kitchen, tells me it is because of sub-cyclonic conditions coming from Australia which means we are experiencing a south-westerly rather than the more usual nor-westerlies which pulls in cold air from the South Oceans. So it’s the bloody Aussie’s fault again. Andrew expanded on this during smoko, as we looked out accross the basin on a particularly nasty day. Three weather systems pile into it, along the Kawarua Gorge to the West, from Alexandra and Clyda along the Clutha from the East and North from Wanaka, all of which run slap bang in to each other over the lake. From our vantage point you can see each of them, particularly from the West given our proximity. During picking occaisionally this grey mass looms out over us, accompannied by a light spray of rain. Only once has this threat manifestated itself, sending us running for the hut and eventually me for home. More often than not it the cloud that retreats, sucking its eldritch tentacles back up Mt Difficulty and back along the gorge. It is the mountains that deny the storms, only ones of peculiar vehemence breach their defensive line, and usually are then greatly disappated. You know at times like this Queenstown and the West Coast are getting a proper soaking, but the rain shadow formed by the Southern Alps keeps Otago dry for the most part. It is another reason this region is a such a special place for growing grapes, and it is fascinating to see it at such close hand. But it requires human diligence too.

                  And all this means the frost fighting continues apace. I don’t now how much sleep you get on frost-watch but I’m sure it isn’t much, but it didn’t stop Mike (from another vineyard up at Lowburn) drinking jugs and doing shots of Chatreuse at the Kareoke night on Thursday. It took me about three attempts to remind him and once he remembered the look on his face made we wish I hadn’t. I’m not sure he had a Good Friday. There is a genuine comarderie working at Felton. You’re picking alongside Gareth’s Mum, Diane and Nigel’s (the owner of Felton) nephew Andrew. Nigel occaisionally cooks you lunch, and you get food at both breaks too. Owen Calvert, who guess what, owns Calvert vineyards, flew in with his family at the start of the week and picks with you, before offering you a beer at the end of the bay (only for Gareth to tell you you don’t deserve the beer yet and make you lug around a huge grape bin). You’re fitting in with people than have been working there many months and years yet they are all eager to know your name and hear your story. I have a little UK contingent too, Ann and Bruce. Ann like me is blogging, but she’s doing it for Harper’s and Queen so I guessing the content may be a little different. Bruce has been here four years and it shows: it took him telling me he was a Brit for me to recognise it, so infected his accent has been by the local one. There’s Manu and Marian, the French who have offered me work in Muscadet for their harvest, and Fabian the mad Swiss from the Valais. There is also Andrew, a Californian ex-sommelier now learning viticulture and Martin a Swedish sommelier. After seemingly endless interviews where I would expound my philosophy of wine only to find it fall on stoney ground. I began to doubt it myself but here at least I have found some like-minded fellows. We all come from similar backgrounds, and in Andrew’s case from a wine bar/shop the same as me (‘Awesome’ as he put it) and all seem to have a similar tase for the more leftfield wines. From them at least I can draw inspiration and see a direction for me to go within the industry that at the moment seems to have spat me out (he says as he picks grapes for one of the finest wineries in the world). But quite frankly I am grateful for that. It is by chance I come here, but it seems to me that I should be here. I only know that I sent three emails to New Zealand, one to Marlborough, one to Canterbury and one to here and it was here that replied and said yes. And after the journey I have had, and the reception I have received now I’ve got here I grateful no-one else bothered to reply to those pleading emails. I’m yet to visit Canterbury but Marlborough sruck me as a bit boring. After the giddy excitement of crossing the Wairau and first night in Blenheim, which I would equate with seeing the Hollywood sign for the first time, the environs don’t grab you. The vinification too is far more commercial than Otago. Too commercial according to the rumblings coming out of the region, after over-production in 2008 and a reported 40million litres of unsold wine in tanks. Growers have been told to thin their crop this year and are being offered substantially less per ton than years before. Marlborough isn’t quite the goose that laid the golden egg it once was, and while it still makes stunning wine, one begins to wonder whether it’s Sauvignon can continue to excite, particularly when you taste something like the Neudorf one I had in Nelson. IMO it was streets ahead. So I ended up here, and here there is still the sense of the frontier, of a wine region still establishing itself amongst a landscape of immense and beautiful proportions. Here you touch the hem of nature everyday and truely appreciate your place within it. Here is a spirituality I had lost back home.  And after so much angst in previous employment suddenly there is an unfamilar sensation: that of working and living simultaneously. with an idea.