“I drink much less than most people think, and I think much more than most people would believe.”

― Hunter S Thompson, Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

I slowly become aware of my continuing existence on this mortal coil.  Limbs seem to be unhindered , for the moment my gastric processes seem sound . But my head. God . My head. There is a bastard behind the eyes. It feels like a pig shat in my head. What do you mean we came all the way out here without aspirin ?!

I scrape myself together. I drink water. I make tea. I drink a whole pot of that. I lay longer. Then shower, then lay some more. If yesterday I had forgotten the ills of the world today they are all to clear and present in my thumping angry mind.

At 10 am when we were to be meeting Lee-Ann at the brewery for breakfast  Michael pokes his nose through the mail flap on the door of the retreat. “How ya going? , far off?”

10 minutes later , I told him 5, we load my bag into the van and head towards the brewery. Lee-Ann is making use of the cold snap to put down a bonus spontaneous brew. The sort of traditional Belgian style beer made like sourdough bread using the wild yeasts in the atmosphere. They can only be made when it’s cold.  When we arrive the space is full of the smell of the mash, Lee-Ann is boiling small portions of it in a side pot. Turbid mashing and Belgian tradition in action.

We drink strong coffee. I find a pew to hide in. A literal pew.

We go next door to a café. I shout breakfast. They will take no filthy lucre from me so I pay for last night’s beer and cheese in breakfast . Works for me.  The café is filled with a mish mash of different tables and chairs as is the current trend. I have to change chairs initially as my initial choice is designed for a rare end significantly more streamlined than my own.  The staff are young and lacking in proficiency of their trade. Incorrect coffee orders are delivered. Items are ordered from the menu whose existence seems to be news to the staff. And yet something about this pleases me. They are happy, their errors don’t seem to stress them and the food is great. I drink ginger beer with my breakfast. I’m relying on it’s curative properties.

The chef knows me . I don’t know the chef. Apparently he weathered covid lockdown in Waikanae. He is about my age, that is middle aged. His arms are covered in full sleeve tattoos. He talks warmly of Waikanae. It is pleasing to me to think how the ranks of the middle aged are now filled with the tattooed and pierced.  One minute we were all young and rebellious, now we sip coffee on mis matched café furniture some of which doesn’t fit our bums.

As we leave the brewery to go to the bus stop I step through the small hatch in the large rare barndoor. The twisting movement of heading through sideways results in me tearing something in my knee. Physically getting old is a trip, getting off that trip is not an option I’m keen on, staying the course can be bloody annoying.
I don’t’ let on to Michael and Lee-Ann but from here on I christen myself “Shuffling Jesus” a lot of walking I had planned in Dunedin just went out the window. At midday I bid them farewell and take the coach in the reverse direction to yesterday.

In Dunedin I stay in The Leviathan. It’s an old hotel, its central, it’s got ghosts, it’s got character. The Leviathan sits in the middle of State Highway 1, it’s south facing ‘wedge’ end has the north bound lanes to one side the south the other. My room has a good impersonation of a blood stain on the bathroom floor. If a murder hasn’t gone down in your hotel room it hasn’t really lived. I stayed at a hostel in Sydney once that had an outline of a body with a huge bloody stain on the carpet of the foyer floor. I don’t know if they were taking the piss but no one was laughing.

I’m booked into a fancy Scottish Restaurant for a whisky matched degustation that night. Nothing like a severe hangover to prepare one for a night of whisky and food. I tell Shannon she can have Rubes if this destroys me. I survive. The whisky matches are fantastic and considered. The desert courses in particular are amazing. Several middle aged and elderly couples share the dining room with me. One couple are visiting from Australia. The woman is loud and talkative, the man entirely mute. She goes by the name of Pixie. Pixie talks to our host, extracts the husband and wife restaurateur’s life story, delivers a thorough report on her own itinerary. I’m grateful, I’m interested in the former at least. There is something archetypally Australian about the way Pixie shamelessly asks questions and broadcasts information about herself. You see it in Americans as well. New Zealanders tend to follow the middle England path of minding our own business in such public environments. At least middle-class pakeha ones do. Part of it is an abhorrence of skiting or boastfulness , a suspicion of being up one’s self. This trait in us is often presented as Tall Poppy syndrome but I don’t think that is quite right. We tend to celebrate New Zealand success on the world stage , but those that succeed are expected to be humble.
I enjoy my evening. Check out Bracken if you are ever in Dunedin and in need of a whisky and food experience. But don’t do it with a hangover.

After my meal I catch an uber back to the hotel. I am done. I hobble to bed and pray for nocturnal absolution for last night’s sins.