A very merry Kiwi Christmas...

A merry Christmas to all the faithful readers of this blog (Rock flatters himself by using the plural). Wherever you are in the world, we hope you got lots of cool stuff, ate way too much, and have bookmarked this page to follow all the action in twenty oh eight. In the meantime, kick back, relax, fire up the barbie, and read all about Christmas in the land of (at least this time) no long white clouds.



It wouldn't be Christmas without a trip to the fairways (the world's biggest misnomer when Whitney is scoring). Defending North Shore Open champ Rock tallies up his latest putt as he looks to add the ritzy Remuera Classic green jacket to his collection. Unfortunately he should have brought a calculator instead of an ego, as his score baloons out of control under the intense pressure on the back nine.

When it comes to driving license tests, if at first you don't succeed, tr... buy a motorbike instead!

"I am one with the road". Or she will be, once she manages to work out how to drive up the driveway without stalling.

Next stop, Rangitoto Island - the distinctive volcanic island that lies just off Auckland harbour. A glorious calm day means that even Rock can pose for a few shots without having to spend the journey doubled up over the railing on the leeward side.

The star helmsman for Emirates Team New Zealand puts on a committed public face while he secretly waits for a billionaire from some landlocked nation to offer him a small planet in exchange for a few gybes here and there.

Old salts have long yarned about the mysterious mermaids who lure many a ship to their watery doom. It's hard to do much luring though when you can't swim...

Thar she blows! Errr... in this case let's hope not, since the eruption would pretty much put Auckland where every Kiwi south of the Bombay Hills wants it - at the bottom of the sea.

Christmas Kiwi style. A pohutukawa tree in full bloom on the pumiced shores of the volcano.

But they said this island was preditor-free! A pohutukawa gets a rude shock on an otherwise peaceful day.

The view from the crater. A nice pyroclastic eruption will wipe that grin off your face.

The reason it's so hot up here is because we're closer to the sun. Errr... and I suppose Taiwan is part of China...

It's cool how volcanoes these days come complete with handy viewing platforms.

Auckland bakes far below on a sweltering summer's day.

Remarkably, that's now two photos of Auckland in a row without a single raindrop in frame.

Remember grain waves? Nothing like a little sulfur to bring out the flavour.

Now here's a city with balls!

Rock suffers Weber withdrawal symptoms.

Christmas morning, and it's pressie opening time. Actually, it's not because these days the pressie opening schedule has to fit in with the KC's xmas raiding timetable.

Can't you just feel the enthusiasm? Wait for it, any day now someone will summon up the motivation to actually rip some wrapping paper.


And they're away! And what a way to kick things off - a pack of reese peanut butter cups straight off the plane from Houston.

Santa seems to have outsourced to the lowest bidder this year... Dick Smith.

Mei steels herself for another just-what-I've-always-wanted-thanks-so-much speech.

Weber withdrawal no more! Why I can practically chargrill a whole cow with these industrial-strength implements.

With the wrapping paper shredded, it's time to head for the Domain for the annual sports marathon. Mei's longest run of the day was to the ice cream van.

"Welcome to our viewers all around the world to our match coverage. I'm Richie Benaud and with me in the commentary box is Tony Greig. The visitors have won the toss and have elected to field first."
"It'll be Rock to take the new ball bowling here from the Museum end with a light breeze at his back. On strike is Dodge, who has been in formidable form for the home side since stepping up to the opening role last season. A good contest in store here."

"And that's a good ball, right it the block hole, but Dodge just gives himself room and cuts it away effortlessly to the long boundary. Simply maaaarrrvelous stroke play, wouldn't you agree Tony?"

You get the feeling Rock's subtle variations of line and length aren't being appreciated by the crowd.

Like any good soccer player, Whit knows when to take a well placed dive.

Ok, hang up the bat and ball, it's time to play some ball! The defensive tackle springs into action as QB Rock looks to rush on a fourth and long. I say looks to rush, because he got sacked shortly after. Darn it, I knew we should have pulled out the Statue of Liberty play...

Back to the gentleman's game. Rock's subtle variations of line and length are obviously a bit too subtle, because none of the batsmen seem to notice as each ball is carved to the boundary with ease.

Apparently, in NZ, a yellow "L" plate on the back means Legend. Who would have thought, eh?

Walking the Walk

Another glorious day in paradise. The perfect day the tackle the ludicrously picturesque Manly Walk. Winding its way for 10km along the fringes of the World's greatest harbour, the track starts at the Spit bridge and finishes at the famous beachside suburb of Manly. Along the way secluded beaches, rocky coves, stunning lookouts and bubbling streams vie for the walkers' megapixels. Cafes and ice cream trucks vie for Mei's megastomach.

The locals have seen it all before - another weekend horde of city slickers puffing and panting their way along in their never-seen-a-drop-of-sweat designer sportswear.

Not your traditional catwalk...

Hard to believe that if you keep sailing out to the glorious blue horizon you'll end up in a rainy, damp, cold land where the closest you'll get to a beach is stale re-runs of last year's Home & Away.

Rock takes a breather with some fellow rocks.

The half-way marker. 5km down, 5 to go.

But of course, because a quick boxing match is the natural thing to do on a magnificent hidden beach. Er, yes...

It can't be that deep. Rock wonder's if he's found a shortcut to Manly.

Dee Why... Dee X?

Wikipedia is unsure exactly why the Dee Why beach is called what it is. Perhaps some jaded explorer, after stumbling upon yet another pristine Sydney beach, was running out of superlatives and settled for the simple Beach A, B, C... D nomenclature. And ever since the city has been wondering: D? Why?

Rock, of course, had a different theory, a theory involving rates of change, plenty of dy/dx's, and the odd kinematic equation. But like all of Rock's theories, postulation ceased at the first sight of the cafes lining the picturesque expanse of golden sand.

Is there a better way to spend a balmy spring day in the Harbour City, than with a hunk of chargrilled meat hanging tantalisingly in front of one's face?



Gosh darn it, the Jetstar copyright lawyers aren't suing me yet over the trademark jump - it's almost like no one actually reads this blog.

The lazy curve of sand is framed by a row of Norfolk Pines - it's just like Manly, except without the drunken Poms.

Hey, it's a rock pool. Hur hur hur, a rock pool, geddit?

Of course it's cold! It's come all the way from bloody New Zealand!

It's obviously not quite summer yet... the tops are still on!

Looking back west from North Head, the jutting peninsula of rock that marks the northern side of the mighty Sydney harbour.


The sails are out as the city bakes in the hazy afternoon sun.

Road Trip!

It is surely one of the ironies of western civilisation that Labor Day - the day when workers around the country celebrate the right to hold down a decent job - is celebrated by doing anything but. I mean, if staggering into an office at 7am with the intravenous espresso drip in one arm is worth celebrating, then how come the F3 northbound out of Sydney was chocka at 5.01pm? Surely the eager workers should be celebrating their good fortune by filing an extra couple of Form B37s just for the sheer joy of it, or polishing off an extra account reconciliation spreadsheet just for the warm fuzzy feeling of two nicely balanced columns? Heck, shouldn't Labor Day be the day you splurge on a new stapler? You know, that sleek black model on Bob's desk down in Procurement that you've been lusting after?

A quick search on the all-knowing Wikipedia reveals that little Suri Cruise is an alien and... sorry, I digress. It reveals Labour Day started out as a movement to celebrate the 8 hour working day. Rock, not having much to celebrate on that front, argued that surely on that logic the 16 hour work day is worth double celebrations.

And so, like the rest of Sydney, off they went up the clogged freeway in search of fun in the sun... and Chinese takeaways. First stop - the picture-perfect Avoca Beach. It may only be early spring, but here in paradise that means 27+ degrees, cloudless skies, and beach babes aplenty. If you look really hard, you might see one in the background... muahahahahaha :)

Women's Weekly is out in force looking for salacious cover shots as the stars come out to play. Unfortunately this pic misses out on the coveted cover spot - the editor felt sunnies that cover less that 85% of the face are like, so yesterday.

A bronzed surf lifesaver stands ready to plunge into the deadly surf at a moments notice should his seasoned gaze spot anyone struggling... to tie up their bikini.

Another stop, another beach. This is Terrigal, a pumping beach front town with a nice array of eateries. Among other things...

Dude!, feeling a little defensive there with all those bronzed six packs on display? The only six pack Rock can manage is the ice cold one in the coke freezer across the road.

Welcome aboard ma'am. A friendly conductor welcomes guests aboard the first class carriage of the fabled Orient Express. Come on, back then that hat was in, I tell ya. But is that cool or what? A B&B consisting of old railway carriages converted into cabins.

Even the toilet comes complete with working brake wheel and lever! Mei just wishes Rock was so adept at manipulating the complex toilet-seat raising throttle.

Toot toot! Until Rock can afford the Trans-Siberian, this will have to do.

So after steaming through the night, the Express pulls into the World Heritage Barrington Tops National Park. You can't really tell it's the next day in the photos, because it's just another flawless blue sky.

Barrington Tops is a plateau perched above the verdant farmland of the New England district. Not sure what made the early settlers call it that - they were probably homesick what with the cloudless blue skies and lack of incessant driving rain and all.

The view from the top. Ok, not the top. Rock's lofty claim that the guidebook's estimate of an all day hike to reach the summit "is clearly a gross exaggeration for someone of my formidable physique", proved somewhat unfounded. With four hours of backbreaking uphill slog behind them, the party was forced to admit defeat and turn around. At least base camp comes fully equip with spa and takeaway shop.

They did say we might see some feral pigs lurking in the undergrowth...

Now here's a dining room view that even Aria can't match.

In hindsight, Rock is rather glad his "we'll make the summit or die trying" manifesto went down about as well with The Party as the Let's Give Taiwan Their Freedom bill. After all, now we can kick back and watch the Grand Final.

Nothing like roughing it the hard way with only a giant spa and private balcony between you and the uncaring wilderness.

How can anyone argue against the benefits of globalisation? Now even the most obscure country town comes complete with fried rice, sweet & sour pork and chicken cashew nut courtesy of the friendly local takeaway. If the WTO could taste this, you'd have free trade by the end of the meal.

Day three - time to race the Ferraris and Maseratis back to the big smoke. But on another magnificent day (mercury hits 30), why rush it? This is The Entrance. Which, by the way, is the rather cool name for a town, and not the moment when Rock strides into frame.

In fact, The Entrance is a rather practical name for the spot (and town) where the big Lake Macquarie connects with the ocean.

But, that's quite enough folks - my stapler is waiting for me...