Craggy Range perfection on plate and glass followed by sunset on Waimarama Beach.

It’s a long time since I been called “Dear” as I was twice in Waimarama – once by the older Maori guy selling fruit by the side of the road; and then by the guy who served me coffee at Jark’s Café over the road… it was such a friendly gesture that I concentrated on not negatively reacting.

Waimarama had lived in my memory as having one of the most beautiful beaches in New Zealand – although there’s certainly plenty of competition in “God’s Own Country.” The province of Hawke’s Bay is one of the warmest parts of the country on the East Coast and the little town about four hours driving from the capital New Zealand city of Wellington.

Walking on the long deserted Waimarama beach at sunrise and sunset is one of the joys of life, but during the day watch out for the modern intrusion of quad bikes on the beach and tractors pulling boats. Walking round this growing-in-popularity spot, I found that almost every holiday house boasted a tractor in their yard and a massive motorboat. Such is the growth of affluence, recession or not.

Early one evening I was passed on the beach by a quad bike driven by a boy teenager pulling a small trailer of friends. He was hooning around, circling and turning to look at his friends, when a Police Van purred up behind him – a pertinent wake-up call.

I had stayed the night before at Mangapapa Petit Hotel in Havelock North – the former home of the late Tinned and Frozen Food Magnate, Sir James Wattle. Set in 50 acres of laden fruit trees, surrounded by well-kept lawns and magnificent old English trees, the property is now Japanese-owned and sports a sauna and gym, tennis court, petanque and croquet ground, plus a golf course – a charming little self-contained resort. It also boasts a Picasso in the dining room, Renoir in one of the suites and two Chagalls. A Magic Carpet lift takes you down to an impressively stocked cellar of Burgundies and local wines. The owner also has a vineyard nearby by the name of Chateau Waimarama.

My only problem in this major wine region of New Zealand was my lack of time to check them all out. However lunch on the terrace of the Terroir restaurant at Craggy Range - one of my favourites the next day, under rocky Te Mata Peak was such a magnificent experience, that I’ll be back shortly. Venison and beetroot, The Quarry Cabernet Sauvignon 2007, the attention of Sommelier Stuart and gorgeous black-aproned wait staff – Hawke’s Bay – you are a destination for hedonists and nature lovers alike.

And the Band played Waltzing Matilda...

“Keep in time with the town hall clock, “ the serviceman said at my spontaneous decision to join the march down the main street of my little country town. Why not? I hadn’t remembered to polish the medals won posthumously by my father and had trouble matching them with the right ribbons in the box on my dressing table, but had proudly donned them on this one day of the year.
Anzac Day is part of my heritage – of every Australian and New Zealander and becoming acknowledged by younger generations every year.
Since my early childhood I had worn them to the Dawn Service in Christchurch, New Zealand, more recently, Melbourne, Australia and the year before last in China - Shanghai. That was special as the service was held jointly by the Australian and New Zealand Consulates – with the Turkish Consul as a progressively invited guest. In a rare occurrence, I got to sing both National Anthems and realize both sides of my identity.
I was made to feel special as a young child baring those medals. I hadn’t known my father – he was killed in a freak accident after 17 missions flying a Wellington over Europe with the RAF’s Bomber Command, four months after I was born.
Nor had he known me – his only child and wife of only a short time back home on the other side of the world. Like so many others, his life was cut off before it had really begun – at the age of 25.
Much as I tried, I could never conjure him up, although I wrote a film script of his story a few years ago in that vein, but Anzac Day was Dad day to me – the day I honoured him.
There were three or four of us marching behind the eight or nine so diggers and straggle of scouts behind the Kyneton Band. The years walking of boarding school “crocodiles” made it natural to keep in step. The rain had stopped as we marched down the short stretch of street to the town hall. My cheeks were wet with the unexpected poignancy of the occasion.
The service was short and the least formal I’ve attended. School children gave readings, a local singer guitarist performed “I was only 19,“ and a country and western singer sang “And the Band played Waltzing Matilda, “ flat and checking the words.
All over the country, in New Zealand and many parts of the world – particularly Gallipoli where it began 94 years ago, similar commemorations are happening. It has become more than a day of remembrance – a day of reckoning, of identity, an audit of life purpose. As I age, this solemn day affects me more each year.
This is our culture – formed by war as throughout history, rather than peace. Australians and New Zealanders are never more conscious of their national identity, than on this day.
The little local service in my new life in the country is as significant as any of the massed ceremonies – and the bugle player’s Last Post was far superior to the Oriental rendition in Shanghai!

Tears, dust, ashes - and celebration.

Last Friday I cancelled a lunch and went to St Paul’s Cathedral in
Melbourne to attend a memorial service for the bushfire victims – twelve days ago, today.
Tears, dust and ashes – a service for those affected by the Victorian bushfires – of prayer, hope and remembrance.
It was Friday 13 February – a day regarded by many as full of gloom. Gloom there was not on this occasion, just sadness, reflection and celebration. Candles were lit and white stones placed on the altar by representatives of each of the communities affected. Tears were shed at the devastation and bewilderment at the scale of the crisis. Explanations? How can anyone possible attempt such?
At the crux of the crisis, on Black Saturday as it’s now known – the day I arrived back from the New Zealand mountains and drove into the holocaust, I wanted to flee this country for that verdant land where I had just come from – the land of my birth and no bushfire history or forecast.
Suddenly New Zealand seems the place to be facing the onslaught of Global Warming.
My resolve firmed during that stressful night during my listening to the urgent fire alerts on the radio, checking the CFA (Country Fire Authority volunteer force) website and paranoiacally looking outside for any signs of fire on the horizon.
We sang the Australian National Anthem during the service in St Paul’s – the first time ever for me during my forty years’ residency and my raw emotions overflowed into the thought, “ This is my community. How can I leave it?”
It’s the fate of an ex-pat to have that dilemma never fully resolved. You belong here – and there, but never fully in either. At some stage you make a choice, but not necessarily for ever. Or you divide your time – if you are lucky enough to be able.
It's at times like this that you think of home and Australians round the world are rallying right now. Among the consolatory calls I've had from around the world was a homesick Australian friend in Beijing.
The dust may have settled, but the fires are not out and the bushfire season far from over. The debate is raging over the prevention strategy and will be paramount in our planning for long to come, but the lives of those affected and surviving the maelstrom of the Victorian bushfires of February 2009, has been changed for ever.
Our emotions are on a raw edge, and we are still in shock - and I'm talking about those not directly affected, but the community spirit is high and everywhere you go there are bushfire appeals. More offers of help – clothes, food, accommodation and pairs of hands, have been offered that can be utilized
Victoria might no longer be the place to be in the long term despite its considerable cultural clout, but the spirit of the people is a powerful force.
The vineyards of the Yarra Valley have suffered enormous loss, but tourists are the restorative needed. Come visit you wine lovers and culture soaks. There are great galleries amongst the vines in this corner of the globe. And always a plethora of delights in Melbourne.
ADVANCE AUSTRALIA FAIR.

New Zealand Mountains, Pinot and Bushfires

After three days of intense wine talk and tasting in the burgeoning pinot district of Central Otago (English Wine Guru Jancis Robinson said last time she attended – in 2005, that it could be the most exciting area for Pinot Noir outside Burgundy. She came back this year - and said a lot more this time), it was a salve for the palate to take a walk up the mountains – actually one of the Great Walks of New Zealand – the Routeburn Track.
After driving to the bottom from Kinloch at the head of the lake – Wakatipu, on which the international alpine resort town of Queenstown is also located and where the Pinot Celebration was held, it was embracing to lose myself nature and the process of trudging up the track. I had forgotten the marvellous camaraderie of mountain people – that everyone you encounter is your immediate best friend. It was a glorious day – not too hot, not too cold, the rivers sparkled turquoise below the dark line of the bush. And despite the volume of fellow walkers, there was plenty of time alone with the birds, just walking in the bush.
Even more refreshing was the friendly Ranger at the Routeburn Falls Hut who offered me a cup of tea and the query,” What’s Pinot?”
I was wearing the relaxation as the plane touched down in Melbourne and I stepped out to a temperature of 46 degrees – the hottest ever on record.
My son collected me with the words that I needed to keep tuned into Emergency Radio. I had walked into a crisis, with bushfires erupting by the second and it was almost too sudden to keep track.
I drove back to my home in the Victorian countryside on instant alert, not knowing whether the fire had crossed the Calder Highway towards my hamlet as it had the day I left (and came within the outskirts of the nearest small town). My mind was in a whirl of survival plans and worry about my lack of water. There is a problem with my bore that I hadn’t succeeded in having fixed before I left.
Well my property was and is OK and I’m OK. It was a sleepless night that night for me and many others. Unlike others, I’ve been lucky so far, but with a 12-year drought and predicted further high temperatures, it’s not over yet.

Up the Gondola with a glass of Champagne in my hand.

Up the gondola with a glass of champagne in my hand and I’m on top of the world – surrounded by the indescribable beauty of The Remarkables mountains ringing the lake (Wakitipu) at Queenstown, New Zealand.

It’s the final night of the Pinot Noir Celebration of the Central Otago region – the climax of an intense two and a half days of homage to the wines of this increasingly important region. There’s a magical element to the” terroir”- the rich mineral soils of this former goldmining area, developing the regional identity further each year, as the vines age and the makers embrace the land.

We tasted the wine of the twenty four participating companies – in a couple of hours the first morning – 9am and it’s taste and spit (and talk); we’ve conflabbed with the winemakers over lunch (I was lucky enough to enjoy the hospitality of owner Nigel Greening and winemaker Blair Walter at the celebrated Felton Road winery in Bannockburn); we’ve tasted the wines of thirteen extra wineries in the magnificent setting of Mt Soho in Arrowtown; and partied with the winemakers over dinner. We’ve familiarized ourselves with evocatively-named wineries such as: Wooing Tree, Three Miners, Wild Earth, Desert Heart, (actor Sam Neill’s) Two Paddocks, Sleeping Dogs (named after the first film of owner Roger Donaldson), Shaky Bridge, Pisa Moorings and Judge Rock.

We’ve listened to experts such as Allen Meadows alias “Burghound’ – one of the world’s leading commentators on Burgundy and Jean-Pierre de Smet recently retired winemaker and director of Domaine de l’Arlot, keeper of the cultural heritage of the Association de l’Abbaye de Saint-Vivant – home of the original Burgundy vineyards.

As we listened to Jean-Pierre telling us the history and gazed longingly at the four Burgundies we were about to sample –a flight of 2004 Romanee-Saint-Vivant (How long can we hold out – my hand kept creeping towards the glass!), there was much talk of the parcels of land from which the prized drop is made. We watch a misty film of a horse and plough working the vineyard (they’re going back to organic) and the romantic interior of the Abbaye – and it dawned on me that these parcels of land are the same size as my newly acquired home block in Central Victoria, Australia! Olive-growing neighbours tell me that the land and soils are rich – and it’s also an old goldmining area. I could be sitting on a fortune. The estimated value of the four glasses facing me is around $AUD4,000.00. Burgundy beware! (and Central Otago!). Drummond may yet rise!