The Rape of the Lock

The door might have been green. I didn't record the colour at the time, didn't think to, but that's how it appears in my memory when I call it up. A green door. Scratch marks, loose flakes of paint at its right edge from my fingernails and a thin makeshift drain cover I found nearby. A sliding door, gliding easily back and forth along its little metal track, one way open, one way closed. It might have been green. I'm holding thirty rooms, people will be anxious to get out before the traffic gets heavy: flat Dublin voices in a hotel bar, midday tea to my midday stout.

Halfway down the far side, a keyhole set in a square of steel and a furrow for purchase. I obtained the key from a combination box on the wall. Advertised as an 'entire home'—a steal!—the reality was a futon, an unplugged fridge, a sink and an electric kettle: everything you need to sleep and heat water. The bathroom facilities were shared in a room down a concrete corridor. Squat toilet, shower with bung door, washer hooked up to nothing. Thematically unified by mould and cracked tiles. But I can unburden, see Osaka and worry later.

At some point I had locked the door from the inside. A clockwise turn unlocked it, loosed the latch. I slid open the door and stepped into the corridor, sliding the door closed behind me. I am alone now but for the woman tending the bar. No music, only traffic and gulls, soft lamplight. I carefully inserted the key and twisted my wrist but the lock didn't give. Funny. I tried to slide the door back open but it was firmly stuck in its place, as if it had already been locked. Passport, medication, clothes— Thinking it jammed, I made an effort to force the thing with my fingers and a drain cover I initially took for a doormat until I saw, upon lifting it, that it covered a man-sized drain at the foot of another guest's door. No avail.

I took a train to a phone box. Blue, I think. Emerged unsuper, flustered. Finally a response: this has never happened with previous guests. How exactly does imparting that piece of information help matters? My host resolved the issue, at cost, and explained that the latch mechanism must have stuck shut as I had failed to fully unlock it before closing the door. Give me five stars, he joked, seriously. You can have four, you fucker, and a mixed review. His public review of me is here replicated in its entirely: "He caused a trouble but it was ok".

Joy in the Evening

It was dim and drizzly and probably Friday. Stepping off at Kichijōji, I had no plans beyond welcoming in the evening with a drink of some description. I would have been well served parking myself in some tiny inlet of Harmonica Alley, perhaps the very spot my brother and I enjoyed shōchū and complimentary bar snacks on my second trip to Tokyo, but instead I was lured inside a nearby HUB by the prospect of Happy Hour prices. It took one brief pan to realise I had chosen poorly. Designed to resemble a British pub, the place had all the charm of somewhere designed to resemble a British pub. But—and this is crucial—it did appear to offer liquid with alcohol in it. There was nothing for it, then, but to follow my right foot in and ride the thing out.

When one bounces between bits of the world, having a coffee here, a beer there, and perhaps a light lunch over there, the act of ordering and paying, so intuitive in the homeland, quickly becomes something of a quagmire; having witnessed every conceivable variation, one is left milling about awkwardly at the threshold, unsure of how to proceed. In this particular instance, my customary milling was cut short by lurking floor staff and I was promptly escorted to a table in the non-smoking section, very much like you wouldn't be in your average British pub. A brief survey of the drinks menu revealed only cocktails were priced in the spirit of the hour, none of which sang off the page, so I resigned myself to the least exorbitant beer and awaited the server's return.

Five minutes elapsed before a Good Samaritan in a baseball cap leaned over from an adjacent table and told me I would need to order at the bar if I actually wanted anything. Slightly embarrassed, I thanked him and rose to do just that, knocking over a menu stand with my grossly overstuffed backpack as I did so. True to form, the Samaritan again intervened, springing from his seat and waving me on my way with a reassuring smile. Not wishing to put him out, however, I decided to tend to the matter myself. In respect of the stand, the operation could be considered a success, for I managed, with no great exertion, to restore the thing to an upright posture. In respect of the contents, on the other hand, I must confess to coming up short, in as much as their ideal placement is inside the stand from whence they came and not scattered about the floor. Now looking a touch exacerbated, the Samaritan stooped to collect the stray menus while I flashed crimson and vanished around the corner to obtain a much-needed tonic.

I had in mind to take my drink to a different table, out of sight of anyone who had witnessed the previous scene, but, alas, nowhere suitable was available, and I was forced to negotiate my way back to my initial spot under the television. Having done so, and completed three eager sips, I was approached by a member of staff and asked if I wouldn't be so kind as to move tables to allow for a party of more than one. I did not actually understand any of the words, mind you, as none of them happened to be 'movie' or 'pencil' or 'train station', but the context was clear enough and I dutifully rose to find another seat. Dumbly scouring the room, I noticed I was being beckoned to occupy the spare spot at the Samaritan's table.

Up close the Samaritan revealed himself to be the person I had seen earlier, only closer. Beneath his propped cap was a broad pockmarked face whose textured appearance added character to the whole, somewhat in the manner of Edward James Olmos. Opposite him was a tall gentleman with prominent incisors and a sense of humour perpetually visible in his eyes; to his right, a man with a wave of orange-dyed hair and a scribbled-on moustache. One married, one divorced, one single, they had the makings of a terrible sitcom. They were here, it transpired, to meet girls. I must have been something of a disappointment in that regard.

Upon discovering I had not seen Tokyo Tower (in truth because I hadn't wanted to, but I didn't say that), I was whisked away to visit the thing, all expenses shouted. Now I'm afraid I will have to leave it there, as the evening proceeded pleasantly and without incident.

Biggles Intact

For those concerned, or merely curious, turns out God made a typo: the tower block I am staying in is in Kennington. He assures me he has taken it as a sign I should be spared.

Spiral

Though its major cities bear an increasing number of espresso-championing Third Wave outlets, Japan is still very much a country of filter coffee. One café in Shimokitazawa, a short trot from where my brother and I were staying, obscured its facade beneath defiant 'filter only' signs, some of which even instructed latte-seekers to hightail it to Starbucks. If you believe that good coffee requires eye-wateringly expensive espresso machines, Japan's coffee culture will seem to have flowered relatively late. If, like me, you prefer your drop to have been circularly poured through a filter from a skinny-necked kettle, then Japan's mastery of coffee can be traced back a century or more. During my time in the country I had some of the best coffee I can recall. Sometimes the default option, always black, is drearily flushed from a cheap filter machine and priced accordingly, but it is not at all difficult to find decent-to-excellent pour-over if you bother to look.

My most memorable experience was at a small place in Kyoto that used a traditional filter method known as 'Nel Drip'. Once I had selected the beans—by scent, no less—the proprietor began the careful 5-7 minute process of heating, pouring and waiting. A Nel Drip filter is essentially a cotton flannel (hence the 'nel') and requires twice the amount of coffee as an average filter cup. The water is added slowly and at a lower temperature, resulting in a dense, layered flavour that can be savoured even as it cools. Before I was served, the proprietor sampled the results of his labour from a wine-tasting glass to make sure it was satisfactory. It was the most care I have ever seen anyone take in preparing coffee.

If you prefer espressos and hate friendly customer service (you should probably leave Japan if the latter is true), head down to Bear Pond Espresso and try a mythical smear of 'Angel Stains', a steal at only 690 yen. Get there early, as the maestro can serve as few as 20 on a given day before refusing to make any more, and no one but him is allowed to touch the espresso machine. His wife, meanwhile, will greet you with all the warmth of a clenched ice cube and vigilantly enforce the café's no-pictures rule. The muddy taste of semi-diluted raw cocoa goes perfectly with the frigid tension.

Crises

My haircut is broken. I am by the mirror in a toy-sized bathroom and the air is thick with steam. There was a time I would see a barber every six weeks, when my natural quiff reached a particularly loathsome crest, but of late I have held off longer, opting not to incur the wrath of a Frenchman's scissors. I regained some confidence during these days in the wilderness by leaving my hair to dry mostly of its own accord, rather than continue the quiff-encouraging practice of vigorous towelling. By this method I was able to extend the time between cuts by as much as three weeks. I am, as I write, at the sticky end of one of these extension, and each day it has become more of an endeavour to mould my mop into a satisfactory state. Today uneven lumps of hair won't be tamed, won't flatten in accordance with their surrounding topography.

Here I am seated in a Russian toilet stall, the RFC having dispatched me to Moscow. I may look calm, even satisfied, but mere moments earlier I was frantically trying to layer together a crude oval of toilet paper while fighting off hateful gusts of air from the dryers. I would lift my hand from placing the final piece only for half the bloody thing to take flight before I could so much as unbuckle. You may wonder why I bothered at all. Though I'll concede its medical benefits are probably negligible, there is an immense psychological comfort in knowing you are not coming into direct contact with a surface that has been enjoyed by so many men's bottoms.

While we are on the subject, I learnt, in New Zealand, how to wash my hands. First you wet your hands with running water, preferably warm. Actually, first you do something grubby to justify washing your hands but we'll take that as read. Next you apply a generous amount of soap and work it into a lather by rubbing your hands together for at least 15 seconds. That's right: at least 15 seconds. Count along next time. Finally you rinse off the soap under the tap, a process which should also last at least 15 seconds. No shortcuts, OK? Sure, you can stroll past the sink entirely, as many folks do, and probably no one will be the wiser. Or maybe you just give your hands a quick splash and skip the soap part. But inside you will know what you have done, and it will weigh heavily upon you, eating away at your soul until, thirty seconds later, you forget it entirely and get on with your life.

George Clooney Charms, Discreetly Vomits

Agreeing to a second naan, a second bedsheet of oily dough to mop up a thimble's worth of saag paneer, was, I realise, ill-advised. I was flagging even before the halfway mark, but somehow I forced myself to persist. Swallowing that final dripping handful, I feared the poor proprietors would have to witness the exodus of my insides. It's not a critique, I would say, desperately mopping up the brown-green melange spreading out before me. Fortunately my digestion calmed down and I was able to finish the remaining gulps of an oversweetened lassie and head out to find a proper drink. If that sounds unwise, I ask you, what is food, really, if not a means of avoiding drinking on an empty stomach?

The bar I settled on was named G7, after the chord, and was one of those small owner-operated joints that cater mostly to aging salarymen. Shortly after entering I was treated to the opening track from Donald Fagen's The Nightfly, which I immediately recognised and announced. The bartender, silently curating the soundtrack between pours, asked me if I also liked Fagan's dildo-inspired main act, though not precisely in those words. When he approached the subject of Japanese music, I had to confess to knowing little beyond film composers and the occasional oddball act that filters into the West. He nodded and keyed up a few tracks on the bar's impressive stereo, among them a Tatsuro Yamashita song I have come to cherish. The rest were mostly forgettable soft jazz numbers, but the bartender's accompanying air-drumming helped them go down. He was, I later discovered, a drummer himself.

"Jyo-ji Kuru-ni!"
I turned. On the next stool a middle-aged man with gawky features and a tired suit was pointing at me and drunkenly giggling. He repeated himself a couple of times before I realised what he was trying to say. Beyond having greying hair and sharing a race, it was an absurd observation. There followed a series of questions that I would have to answer more than once before leaving Japan:
"Where are you from?"
"Are you on holiday?"
"Why did you come to Japan?"
"Do you like Japanese women?"
My answer to the first question prompted the bartender to mischievously cue up Olivia Newton John and Air Supply records; I couldn't have felt less homesick. I was asked the last question by at least three other Japanese men, and all of them followed up by revealing, with varying degrees of seediness, their partiality to Australian women. Despite his opening gambit, this particular gentleman proved to be an agreeable sort, interrogating me with genuine curiosity and conversing in English even though, by his own admission, it was very difficult for him.

The company as easy as the listening, the evening was threatening to vanish into pure pleasantness, but lo, my earlier culinary misstep began to reassert itself, and I realised, barely a finger through my second draught, that I would need to be excused. It was less urgent then you might suppose; something inside me just said, calmly, Hey, you should probably find a bathroom. The ensuing outburst was so violent and voluminous it could not be contained within the bar's modestly sized toilet bowl. Is there anything sadder than having one's post-vomit elation sullied by the prospect of cleaning up? I couldn't do much about my pants or shoes, but I did, through studious application of paper towels, return the bathroom to the state I had found it in. It was as if I were a temperamental interior decorator who, having executed a freeform, curry-inspired paint job, had changed his mind and ordered everything to be undone.

I re-emerged and smoothly resumed the conversation like the Hollywood professional I was. Post bleghxit I opted to stick largely to water, while my comrade continued to sink half-pints of whatever was on tap. He had now reached the sentimental phase and was haphazardly listing things he was fond of, including the bar's sound system and an older patron whom he considered like a father. Then I noticed he was leaning in towards me.
"I... love you," he said.
I blinked, unsure if I had heard him correctly.
"I love you," he said again, articulating the words as carefully as his level of inebriation would allow.
Noticing I was having difficulty forming a response, the bartender intervened.
"Not gay," he said, pointing at the man. "Not gay." They both laughed, but I was no less baffled; you'd think I'd be used to fan adoration by now.

Half an hour later I liberated the rest of the curry and walked home.

Afternoons in Spring

My initial impression of Yoyogi Park was formed from brief glimpses of treetops by its bordering wall and nothing more; for most of the journey to Little Nap, my destination at the time, I stared fixedly ahead, with the purposeful determination that comes with bad weather. I spied the shop's facade on a side street lined with bare trees, just off one of the entrances to the park. Sheathing my sodden umbrella, I ordered a filter coffee and claimed a stool by the window. In my notebook I compared the dark swaying trees outside to alien skeletons and drew a childish picture of a wolf. I need not have bothered; the coffee shop, cosy and thoughfully designed, required no such intervention to justify the visit.

On my second trip the sky was clear and calm, and any chilliness was offset by persistent sunlight. I passed through the park's main gates with my sagging backpack and quickly discovered I was in no hurry to be anywhere else. Just the right amount of people had been scattered over the park for it to feel lively without being inhibitively crowded. People walking small, jacketed dogs. People sitting alone at communal tables, flipping through textbooks. People holding hands and tracing aimless paths. I remember them all in black or grey or muted colour. I wandered under a dark, vertebrae-like canopy, over dirt and fallen leaves and shadows. Down the central strip I heard the saints marching and fumbling. Ducks drifted under a bridge. Beyond the lake, a vast field dotted with picnickers. I sat on the concrete border of a pond and watched nearby branches turn black with murder.

The famous shrine next door could not match Yoyogi's deft way with a crowd. Here, itinerary whores stream down the wide gravel path and compete to take identical photos at each feature. Despite the considerable efforts of its architects, serenity is stamped out. I flitted through and finished my day elsewhere.

Flash Forward

I'm in a small, faultlessly executed coffee shop by the canal in the 19th arrondissement. I am sitting on a plastic chair, my legs crossed at the ankles, and I am wearing my uniform: green plaid shirt over off-white T-shirt, slim navy pants bulging at the pockets, pointed dress shoes with gutted interiors. My black hooded rain jacket, which houses my notebooks and surplus tissues in Velcro-enclosed pockets, is draped over the back of the chair. A woman with a pierced nose, faded white sneakers and an Apple laptop shares my table.

I am standing by the door, examining the menu and preparing my French. I finally settle on an Americano and begin my internal mantra: un Americano s'il vous plaît. I enter and approach the counter. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. The owner, an initially intimidating gentleman with an upside-down haircut (or bald with a beard, if you prefer), is stacking glasses on a high wooden shelf. Un Americano s'il vous plaît. He turns and asks me for my order, or so I presume. It is time.
"Un espresso por favor," I say. Yep, that's what came out.
"¿Lo tienes aquí o para ir?" he asks.
I freeze, trying to remember the only phrase I had perfected, the phrase I was gaily singing to myself while wandering the streets this very morning.
"Je ne..." I begin, all but swallowing my tongue. "Je ne... parle... pas français."
"I know," he says, switching to English. "You said 'por favor', that's why I answered in Spanish."
Later he asks me to move tables in needlessly voluminous French, as I have clearly demonstrated my mastery of the language. Salaud.

It is after midnight and the cat at the apartment has become a black and white cushion. I remember I am low on toothpaste.

Tokyo Limper

My first hours in Tokyo were coloured, to some degree, by a medical issue. The colour was tango pink and it appeared on a comically swollen right foot. Some combination of factors, including, no doubt, my hiking expeditions, had led to the formation of painful blisters between and on my toes. I began to notice them on the way to Auckland airport, and then most acutely shortly after I arrived. There, in the corner of a food court, I removed the shoe and sock from the offending foot and undertook primitive surgery before a gallery of horrified travellers. My toes red and weeping, I felt almost as if I were about to faint. During the flight I had to remove my shoe again and prop my foot up on my backpack in the very limited space underneath the seat in front of me. Rest was elusive. As we neared Narita airport I put the shoe back on and noted that it seemed an unusually snug fit.

Limping determinedly with my luggage and guitar, I managed to negotiate the airport's labyrinth of retail outlets and secure an adaptor, some shampoo and a SIM card. It was then a further couple of hours by train and about ten minutes by foot to my accomodation, where, over a tatami mat, the grisly discovery was made. It was as if, by removing my sock, I was unveiling a child's drawing.

One shouldn't catalogue one's symptoms into an online search engine but one invariably does. My research informed me I was in the throes of Diabetes. I imagined inscrutable Japanese clinic visits and tortuous exchanges with my travel insurance company. I took the only sensible course of action: I went to sleep and hoped the thing would bloody well deflate by the morning.

It didn't, at least not noticeably, but the pain had largely subsided and I was able to venture outdoors. Walking the grey streets of Suginami, the initial impression is of extreme uniformity; but gaze headlong down a road and you get the sense of a subtle aestheticism, signposts and lamps arranging themselves into fanned decks. Just remember to snap out of your reverie before you are cleaned up by one of the cyclists wobbling along the periphery.

It was raining on my first day out and even though I was among the skyscrapers of Shinjuku, shelter was scarce. I drew my umbrella from my bag with great reluctance, knowing I was trading the problem of being soaked with the problem of dealing with a wet umbrella all day. I then chose a direction at random and, after a short while, found nothing. Cursing Kerouac, I rejoined the ranks of tourists holding out their phones like bewildered dowsers.

Wistfully, Biggles

I was seated around the communal table with two hikers and a software engineer. In front of me were my remaining portions of toast, on which Marmite had been delicately applied, and a mug of tea. The English hiker, solid and tanned, was eating porridge from a saucepan. In between large mouthfuls he sketched out a narrative of the time he had had to bunk up with four shivering hikers in a two-person hut during a storm, the wild conditions lasting until they were almost out of supplies. Later we were told of a death-defying trek through fierce waist-deep rapids that had claimed the lives of previous hikers. When he finally made it across, having been pushed some way downstream, a couple of observing Australians called him a fucking idiot.

The Irish hiker, sandy blond hair, scruffy but fashionable beard, talked of returning to civilisation after days in the wilderness. The first day is bliss, every basic comfort feeling like the greatest of luxuries. But come the afternoon of the second day and a certain restlessness sets in. Soon everything feels hollow and you are yearning to return to the wild. Finishing the last of my toast, I was glad I was not similarly afflicted; I was glad I could find contentment sitting at a laundromat with a good book, watching my clothes crest and fall in the drum of a dryer.

Mountain Man

When I booked a place in Te Anau, the plan was to spend one day gaping at sounds and the rest of the time sitting in quiet areas of the national park, pretending to have profound thoughts. Toe-blistering hiking was very much not on the itinerary. It was a little strange, then, that I found myself setting off to scale a mountain on the first morning I was there. I had been looking into walking spots near my accomodation when I came across a one-day version of the otherwise multi-day Kepler track, one of New Zealand's Great Walks. You would hike up a mountain to the first overnight hut and then simply turn around and head back, investing about 10-12 hours all up. Sure, I thought: that sounds like me. As I had not really planned for it, I set off later than I should have, around 10 am. Knowing that if I were too slow I would be hiking back in darkness, I was somewhat panicked and hurried during the initial stages—which is exactly how I would recommend anyone embark on a 10-12 hour hike.

If you walk to the setting-off point from town, as I did, there is a preliminary white gravel trail that curls along the western shore of the lake. It takes about 45 minutes all told but the monotony of the scenery makes it feel longer, and no shade is cast to offset a beating sun. Had I the luxury of time I would have peeled off the path and sat for a spell by the lake, enjoying the pristine weather. Sitting is the method by which nature can be properly observed and enjoyed; barreling through it seems rather to defeat the purpose of being there at all.

The Kepler track begins in serene natural forest and continues to run parallel to the lake on a soft dirt path, where crosshatches of sunlight mark the way. Occasionally the foliage clears to reveal pebble or white sand beaches, the largest of which connects with a camping ground. You can break up the repetition of the forest by stopping at them. You could; obviously I didn't. At the camping ground the path veers suddenly inland and you are drawn towards the mountain.

The pathway up the mountain takes the form of a rising zig-zag through dense forest. A few zigs and a couple of zags in, I realised I had been foolish to have wasted so much energy running along flat planes and downward slopes. It was here that energy was required. The climbs are manageable in and of themselves but there is a cumulative strain when they're piled one after the other, with little respite. It wasn't long before my footfalls fell heavier and I began to trudge. At my weakest I could only operate in short, pitiable bursts. Leaning back on a mossy stump, trying to make a meal out of Vegemite sachets and dry biscuits, I felt very unfit and very old.

Even now I'm surprised I persevered. I actually cleared the forest trail far sooner than I had anticipated. I was taking so many breaks by the end that I was sure I was well behind the estimated time, but it turned out the opposite was true. I was now on the final stretch, the mythical hut a mere 45 minutes away. The view from the top would have been breathtaking, had my breath not already been taken by the journey to reach it. The mountain was covered in straw-coloured patches of grass and a narrow path ran along its ridge. The inclines either side seemed relatively gentle, though I couldn't help but fixate on the ground most of the way. When I reached the hut I rested for a while in the sparse wooden living area, drinking water that a sign informed me was 'probably' safe to drink. Returning over the mountaintop with the knowledge of what was in store, I was able to enjoy the ludicrously clear vista of rivers and lakes and mountains more than I had the first time round.

My writing at this point is not concurrent with my activities. Presently I am seated in a McDonald's opposite Checkpoint Charlie, having left New Zealand some weeks ago. I am here only because my digestion is amis and the McDonald's presented the nearest toilet. Actually the nearest toilet was in Starbucks but—I guess fittingly—it was occupied. This information was imparted to me in an unfortunately graphic fashion, thanks either to the absence of a locking mechanism or the absence of mind of the young woman I stumbled upon. And now back to our story.

You would think a return journey that was largely downhill would be a breeze. In fact it presents a number of challenges. These include an increased pressure on your knees as well the likelihood of blisters forming on your feet from the friction inside your shoes. There is also the sheer strain of continued exertion after half a day's worth of hiking, whatever the topography. Even with the momentum of gravity, the descent seemed endless. When I finally reached the bottom I felt as if I could scarcely walk another step.

Unquestionably the worst part of the whole endeavour, perhaps discounting the obligation to exchange empty Hellos with fellow hikers, was reaching the entrance of the Kepler track and realising that I still had that dreaded lakeside path to walk. The hard gravel was punishing on my feet and it took me over an hour to get back to town, fortunately while there was still some light remaining. Falling on my bed, I vowed never to set one foot in front of the other again.

Two days later I tackled the other end of the Kepler track, a mostly flat trail to Rainbow Bridge. It would have been unremarkable but for the fact I had not sufficiently recovered from my previous hike and was in a measure of pain most of the way. A return journey was out of the question so I ended up hitching a ride back to town. 

I returned to bed and renewed my vow.

Lakefront Drive

Te Anau (pronounced 'tee-AH-noo') is a small lakeside town distinguished mainly by its proximity to Fiordland National Park. The town itself has little to recommend it, as with any town where the chief industry is tourism. A proliferation of overpriced restaurants, mostly serving greatest-hits Italian fare, runs along the main drag, competing for space with hiking shops and sightseeing merchants masquerading as tourist information hubs. It does, however, offer the single cheapest Fat Duck dining experience currently available, even factoring in the airfare. But no one comes here for the town.

I was staying in a hostel on the accurately named Lakefront Drive. After my last experience I was prepared for the worst but it turned out to be surprisingly decent. The dorm room, though comparable in setup, had its own bathroom and a separate living space. There was even a balcony from which you could comfortably study the lake. Best of all it was clean and neutral-smelling. At the end of my strenuous daytime excursions it was bliss to be able to sink into an armchair and read about peregrines undisturbed.

I would step out of a morning to a grey rolling lake and fog-eaten mountaintops. Whatever my destination, I would always start by spending a few minutes on the pebbled lake edge, often in enlivening briskness. In the evenings, an orange sun dipped to cast perfect light across the water and phone photographers lined the shore, offering their tech to the gods.

Outro

I had not travelled to Dunedin expecting to engage with a vibrant live music scene; rather, I was there to root around the remnants of a dead one. I did, nonetheless, make a few passing attempts to find out what the present sounded like. My research could hardly be called exhaustive, but there did seem to be a paucity of musical activity at the time of my stay. I ended up dragging myself to a relative few gigs and I can't say the presence of a thriving musical culture was felt at any of them. But the first experience may have soured the rest.

The venue was the Inch Bar, conveniently located an the bottom of the hill I was staying on. I turned up an hour prematurely, as I'm wont to do, and sat in the band-room listening to a cycle of '60s pop on the PA. Two nursed pints later and the beer-keg stools were filled for the show. The opener was a young woman who sang competently over an occasionally fumbled guitar accompaniment. At the insistence of friends she closed with a couple of her comedy numbers. My joy was incandescent.

Actually, she proved to be the highlight of the evening, if you discount the radio and the bar's ambient noise. The headliner, as it were, was a three-piece outfit whose signature song, 'Funk It!', detailed the singer's predilection for righteous funking. I should clarify that it was their signature song in the sense that terribleness was their signature and it presented them at their most terrible. Or perhaps I'm being unfair. I mean, they were functional. They were in key. The tempos were adhered to. And their friends—or the crowd minus me—bopped along supportively. But holy hell. The only mercy was that the thing was free. Of the handful of songs I stayed for, at least half were covers, betraying a warranted lack of faith in their original material. Juxtaposing tunes about funking with a rendition of 'So Real' would be enough to make the latter's composer roll in his ocean grave. A weak-willed critic, I opted to walk dipsily uphill in the rain instead of enduring another note.

The second gig was one I actually paid for, the band being enough of a known entity to command a $10 cover. Preliminary YouTube research convinced me Auckland's Dictaphone Blues were decent enough to justify the expense—crisply melodic indie pop with a varyingly successful sense of humour, though they were often poorly serviced by their video clips. The location was a bar in Otago University that was strangely absent of life for a Friday night. I was the first there at doors and remained the only patron for at least an hour. The opening act was passable, though I forgot there was one until I got around to writing this sentence. By the time Dictaphone Blues emerged the crowd had swollen to 10, maybe 15 people, most of whom sat or leaned around the perimeter. Though the band put in a creditable effort, they can be forgiven for not generating much energy from an empty room.

The next excursion wasn't exactly an attempt to locate a new Dunedin Sound. At the recommendation of my housemate, I headed down to Dundas Street one night to check out the Dunedin (nay Edinburgh) Folk Club. The attendees, all of whom had a couple of generations on me, were gathered on plastic chairs in a temporarily repurposed church. The event was split between local amateurs and a nomadic folk group called The Bollands. Tea, coffee and homemade cakes were available from a side room during the break—rock and roll. I bristle at elements of the folk ethos but there was an undeniable charm to the proceedings, thanks especially to the night's affable host, who had to do double duty as the sound man due to an unforeseen absence. The main act was solid, though I can already feel them evaporating from my memory. Before I left I was thanked by an elderly lady for bringing down the median age a shade.

"Is it as bad as it seems?" I asked, my nerves making the question blunter than I had intended. It was posed to a panel that included, among others, Graeme Downes and Francisca Griffin, of The Verlaines and Look Blue Go Purple respectively. I was referring to the current music scene, rather boldly considering I had scarcely seen any of it. Abby Wolfe, a young artist based in Auckland, countered by enthusing about the diverse music coming out of Dunedin, and the rest of the panel politely agreed. Closer to my corner, in fact the other end of my row, a former resident commented on the fact that there were no longer any venues you could trust for good new music. I met him and his wife at a nearby bar shortly after the discussion and he said he had formed a similar assessment to mine, having lived in Dunedin during Flying Nun's heyday.

Later that evening Flying Nun alumni traded sets in the seniors' centre to a well-mixed crowd. Francisca Griffin appeared to have acquired her rhythm section from a shady bus shelter, but they gave the material a kick that was lacking from most of the other performances. For his set, Graeme Downes played guitar only, outsourcing the vocal duties to a local singer named Molly Divine. This would be forgivable if he had not opted to perform to a sterile backing track. Maybe it was the speakers but the instrumental flourishes had all the grandeur of a Midi symphony. Sporting a slept-in suit and wild greying hair, The Verlaines' mastermind attacked his complicated chord progressions with proud vigour, but there was something faintly embarrassing about the whole affair. I caught The Verlaines a few years back on an Australian tour, and they were similarly problematic, though at that time the issue was grating lead guitar parts. So yes, The Verlaines have a live problem. Like a tonic after poison The Chills' Martin Phillipps closed the night with an on-point solo performance that even made something of the Tears For Fears-via-Gary Jules track I thought I never wanted to hear again. After the show, Francisca Griffin rather kindly introduced herself to me to provide some tips about how to find local gigs, though I was flying out the next morning.

I by no means possess enough information to make any sort of assessment on Dunedin's current music scene; this is merely a series of stray observations and opinions. The most interesting groups I was aware of, courtesy of my brother, were not in town, and I'm sure there was plenty of other things that sailed right by my notice. No matter; on the next leg I will be an outdoorsman.

Pine Hill

It is, perhaps, unfair to compare an AirBnB experience to that of a dorm room in a hostel. Even so, I could not have imagined the differences to have been more stark. A private room with cupboards, drawers, a queen-size bed and a sizeable wall-mounted television felt especially luxurious after top-bunking with a rotation of loathsome youth. The rest of the house was shared with only one fellow guest, a very pleasant and very sharp American-Danish woman of 84. The house itself was spacious and relaxed, with a neat garden and an attractive mountain view. Staying in was actually an option here. Perched atop Pine Hill, the place was a bit further afield than the admittedly well-situated hostel, but it was easy enough to stroll into town and there was a nearby bus for when that wasn't practicable. Before settling on a gentler path down Pine Hill Road to George Street, I tried a steep, twisting route suggested (through some algorithmic error) by Google Maps. Returning home this way was like walking up a corkscrew.

The Dunedin Botanic Gardens, which lay at the bottom of the hill near a small shopping strip, was an ever-pleasant stopover on my journeys into town. The topography and diverse selection of flora form handsome views that can be enjoyed from a range of vantage points, the steeper the better. I was partial to the native forest areas buried in the hills, despite getting thoroughly lost in them on my first encounter. They are reached via a flat open section that runs from the main entrance and provides many decent spots in which to enjoy minimum chips and polite drizzle.

The gardens lead into several streets of student accommodation, just outside Otago University. Most of the properties were identical two-storey Victorian townhouses in varying states of decay. On a sobering morning it's a wasteland of broken bottles, discarded plastic cups and weatherworn leather couches. I would push on to reach the grand stone buildings of the university proper. As with some of the historical buildings in town, there was restorative work going on during my stay, and the iconic clock tower was blotted out by scaffolding. I never ended up gatecrashing any lectures, but I did wonder if I was a convincing grey-haired student.

Breaking into Cargill's Castle

The house with the bay window is on a corner towards the steep end of Stuart Street. It appears largely unchanged, though there is no evidence of a rabbit infestation, and no snotty Prince Valiant-type lurking about. Warm from the walk and a bit shaken from the steepness, I cautiously traced the property's exterior, peering inside where I could. I wasn't quite up to knocking on the door and asking its perplexed residents if I could scope out their living area and reenact a music video from the '80s, though I did, on a later trip, stick my idiotic hand-drawn 'Architects of the New Dunedin Sound Wanted' flier in their letterbox. I stuck one over a plaque at the Octagon, too, and it remained there for a day or two. No bites.

The other part of the video, the part where the band and co. dance recklessly about a derelict building, was filmed at Cargill's Castle. Built at the behest of Edward Cargill, the son of Otago-colonising William Cargill and brother of Tunnel Beach-commissioning John, this cliffside castle and one-time cabaret joint is resolutely off limits. It stands abandoned on private property behind a dreary beachside housing development. There are no signs announcing its location and it does not exist in brochures and guides. Operating on limited information, I looped the Corstorphine bus route before an intervening driver showed me where to get off. Stepping from the bus in high fog, I made my way through tumbling streets to the nearest publicly accessible point. This turned out to be a grassy field between two houses. A sloping plain led down to the ocean, but its gradient required a clearer day to gauge. The castle, apparently somewhere to the left, was blocked off by a barbed wire fence with a stern warning sign. Through the fence I could see another field, with a stone fence at its far side and gnarled trees beyond that. I presumed the castle lay somewhere near those trees, but the fog made it impossible to tell for sure. I did not fancy my chances of scaling a barbed wire fence unscathed. Had I come all this way for a photo of a fence?

A photo of a fence.

I did the right thing first and knocked on the door of the adjoining property. There was no answer—the occupants must be elsewhere. My conscience satisfied, I snuck round the side and scoped out their backyard, looking for some sort of entrance that would lead on to the castle grounds. Though I had assumed that the nearest property would be my best option for access, it turned out that their territory only extended as far as the next field, meaning the castle itself lay on a neighbour's grounds—and it was not at all clear which one. Feeling at this point that further transgressions were beyond my mettle, I wandered back to the road, deflated, and began the return journey. As I passed the next house up, however, I noticed there was a private road into the property that curved in the direction of the castle. This looked promising. Seemingly no one about, I quickly stole my way along the path and found that it indeed led to the section behind the stone wall I had glimpsed earlier. From this vantage I could finally see the walls of the castle, though they lay behind another barbed wire fence with another stern sign, this time warning of multiple hazards.

I followed the fence until I was out of the view of any of the neighbouring houses, all the while looking for a way in. I fancied an overhanging tree might grant me access but its branches proved to be far too dense. Then I noticed that there was a small gap at the bottom of the fence. If the wire had sufficient give, it might just be possible to crawl underneath. Of course, I would still have to contend with those barbs. My backpack turned out to be an ideal solution. Using its bulk to prop up the wire, I created a space large enough to accommodate my horizontal form, while one of the bag's clips allowed me to safely pin back the lowest row of barbed wire. With this set-up it was surprisingly easy to slide under and reach the castle grounds.

It didn't take long to spot the promised hazards. These ranged from stray metal objects in the overgrown grass to collapsed floors and dangling detritus in the building itself. Keeping it from the public—at least in its current state—was a sensible move. The interior walls bore years of graffiti and there was evidence of smashed bottles on most of the floors. Some rooms were blocked off by gaping holes, so I had to climb through the large beachfront windows (seen accomodating silhouetted figures in the film clip) to cover the whole building. The fog-aided ambiance, slightly unsettling, slightly mysterious, justified every effort I had made to reach this point.

At the perimeter of the Zone.

Beaches

My first expedition to water was decidedly unspectacular. Going only by a blob of blue on a pamphlet I had picked up at the airport, I ventured over the over-bridge at the railway station and into some sort of industrial area on a day far too sunny for exposed urban landscapes. I cursed Dunedin's tourism board for not signposting this amazing hidden bay for the benefit of pedestrians as I continued on past drab factories and empty lots. T-shirt lightly moistened with sweat, I reached the location I had seen on the map and was disheartened to find the waterfront comprised solely of shipping yards and entirely fenced off to the public. Probably explains why none of the propaganda told me to go there. Still, nothing a bacon buttie can't fix.

My second attempt was Portobello, on the Otago Peninsula. I had hoped it would be a neat public transport-friendly hub from which I could independently trek to the must-see sites, such as Lovers' Leap (of 'Pink Frost' fame). Though it was indeed an easy and pleasant bus ride out, there were no walking paths that originated nearby, and the tiny town was hardly a destination in itself. Undeterred, I put my faith in Google Maps and set off up a road towards Sandymount, whatever that was, from which place Lovers' Leap was apparently accessible. It was another too-sunny day, with no sign of the fabled Long White Cloud, but the temperature was mild enough to convince me that the three-hour journey would be endurable. And, for a time, it was. I tramped up the steepening road with confidence, sticking mostly to narrow roadside ditches to avoid the occasional passing vehicle and making great time. But about a third of the way there I hit an incline that triggered my fear of heights. Not only did the road get even steeper, but the surrounding scenery appeared to fall away, suggesting nasty plummets on either side. It was around this point that I, history's greatest detective, realised that Sandymount was a mountain and that a road leading to it called Highcliff Road was not the best place for someone uncomfortable with heights to be. I returned to town for an average toasted sandwich and a suspiciously artificial-tasting banana milkshake before grabbing the next bus.

Port Chalmers, on the opposite shore, is not somewhere that inspires many words. The town is often described as 'quaint' and 'artsy', though the more accurate descriptor—if I may make an extremely superficial assessment—would be 'boring'. A short, unfriendly walk from the drabness of the shopping precinct takes you to the promisingly named Black Beach. Except it isn't a beach. A harbour, sure, but there was no beach-defining landmass between the water and the walkway, let alone a black one. It did, however, offer decent minimum chips for less than AU$2, for which I'm willing to forgive all.

The most successful trip—from a visual perspective, certainly—turned out to be to Tunnel Beach. Its name is derived from a tunnel carved through a cliff that leads down to a secluded beach, an extravagance commissioned by a 19th century politician so that his family could enjoy the seaside undisturbed. Or drown, as in the case of one of his daughters. This scene of hubris and horror made for a pleasant afternoon.

Empire in Ruins

To some degree my stay in Dunedin was a musical pilgrimage, albeit a fairly narrow one. This was the city which transformed a niche record label that by rights should have vanished in a puff of market reality into a going concern that exists to this day. Though Flying Nun was based in Christchurch at the time, its role in fostering what is referred to (sometimes contentiously) as the 'Dunedin Sound' remains its most enduring achievement. Of the many Dunedin acts that emerged as part of this movement, The Clean, The Chills and especially The Verlaines hold the most interest for me, and it was their footprints I endeavoured to follow. In many cases this meant poking about in places that have fallen into disrepair, or whose significance has been obscured by later development, necessitating some tame breaking-and-entering on my part. Some places, I was deflated to discover, simply don't exist anymore, such as the perfectly named record shop Records Records that acted as a hub for aspiring Dunedin musicians. Others, including the portion of the Otago Peninsula where The Chills' iconic 'Pink Frost' video was shot, were not accessible via public transport—and I wasn't willing to stump for expensive guided tours just to say I had been there.

Among the more significant landmarks is the Empire Tavern, an erstwhile live music venue sometimes referred to as Dunedin's Cavern. All the bands featured on the myth-making Dunedin Double EP—The Stones, The Chills, Sneaky Feelings and The Verlaines—were regulars of the Empire, the proprietors of which were unusually sympathetic to amateurs who performed their own material. Wandering up Princes Street from the Octagon, I was pleased to see that the building still existed, though it had developed a rather advanced case of scaffolding. A sign informed me that it was in the process of being restored and preserved as a historical building of architectural and cultural significance.

Through its open doorway, fenced off but easily accessible, I could see sawdust and grit and discarded tools on its carpeted hall and stairway, but no sign or sound of the handipeople tasked with the restoration. It was a Sunday, so it was reasonable to assume work was off for the day. Hesitantly I made my way inside and climbed the stairs to the historic first-floor bandroom. The room was as small as I had heard; it would not require a great deal of people to satisfy a young musician's ego. Presently it resembled a storage attic, but it was possible to picture what it may have been like in its heyday. One only hoped it did not smell quite so much like an upturned urinal back then.

Before I left, I did the only responsible thing: take idiotic self-portraits of myself on the stairs using the 10-second delay function on my camera. All in all it was worth the probable asbestos exposure.

Santa's last trip.

Hostel: Part IV

Arriving late from an airport shuttle, I found myself outside the Dunedin backpackers that, according to Booking.com, was deserving of an 8.3. Tentatively I peered through the glass to a vacant reception area accessible only via keycard. Had I missed an instruction? Spectating from halfway up the stairs, an occupant kindly popped down to inform me that I would need to check myself in at the adjoining bar. Well, of course. The bar turned out to be a rather sizeable pool hall, with low-hanging lamps illuminating the red-topped tables in use. I approached the counter and a young woman, evidently working for free accomodation, perked up in that hateful manner favoured by American customer service industries. Paying in full, I was rewarded with a keycard, Wi-Fi stubs and the promise of discounted beer and free pool anytime except Friday and Saturday nights.
"Our busiest nights," she explained.
I hadn't asked.

I was sent to locate my bed for the next week alone, the American returning to tend the bar. Trudging uncertainly up the carpeted stairs, I wondered if this had been a good idea. It would not be the last time I had occasion to wonder that. I christened my keycard at the head of the stairs and stepped into the common area. The immediate impression was that I had stumbled upon a house party. Raucous youths had gathered in an outdoor seating area to my left, to laugh and drink and be young. I looked down and noticed that the walkway was covered in a black plastic mesh, presumably because it was cheap and easy to hose down. My room turned out to be in the section nearest the festivities.

The room was small. It would be small even if it were intended for only one inhabitant, let alone the six in this case. But it was not the size that bothered me. It was the junk. Everywhere one could put junk, one had put junk. Unzipped sports bags vomited their contents across the floor. T-shirts and socks dangled over railings and mattresses. Phones with smashed screens drank from powerboards tangled in cords. And footwear could be found in every configuration except upright pairs. I stood in the centre of the room trying to decode which bed was mine from the relative proportions of junk on the sheets. Perhaps this was just a simple mix-up. I should ask. But I could not move. I could not even relieve myself of the weight of my bags. I just continued to stand there like I had seen a snake. Finally I gathered myself together and returned to the bar.

A different young woman was there to greet me.
"I've just checked in to my room and I'm afraid I don't know which bed is supposed to be mine," I said, a little feebly.
Wearily she accompanied me back up the stairs and into the mouth of hell.
"This is for the longer stays," she said, by way of an apology. "I'll go and find the boys."
Oh joy. The boys. Seven nights with the boys. I can scarely wait for them to burst through the doorway and chuckle at this stuffy newcomer and his fetish for basic cleanliness. To my immense relief, the woman re-entered sans boys and promptly moved me to a different room.

Though identical in set up—three bunk beds of dubious construction—this new room had a much more manageable room-to-junk ratio. I climbed onto my assigned bed, a top bunk in the far corner, and unloaded my bags. I had no desire to mosey out into the seating area and announce my arrival so I lay down and closed my eyes. Thanks to the luxury of paper-thin walls I was able to hear every word uttered nearby. Someone from the British isles—I cared not to decipher which—belched something about this being a hostel, what does one expect? I presumed this related to me and that the orator was one of the famous boys.

The great advantage of substandard accommodation is that you want to spend as little time there as possible. I quickly fell into a routine of rising, showering and leaving, returning only to sleep. A couple of times I deigned to make an appearance in the kitchen, but it was invariably infested with topless males and strangely non-repulsed blondes. On the walkways I was occasionally treated to the sight of said males forming perfect right-angled triangles with deck chairs as if incapable of bending at the waist. Nonetheless, the toilets worked and the showers ran. Admittedly the shower taps controlled the temparature of the water the same way a kite controls the direction of the wind, but this was a minor gripe in the circumstances.

When encountering new people, it is critical to disregard one's first impressions, to resist easy judgments, to remember that everyone was born, that everyone has experienced joy and sorrow in some form. It takes great imagination to perceive things as another might perceive them, and a generousity of spirit to want to. These people were probably not so different from myself. If I only got to know them a little I'm sure I would discover similarities and shared interests. I'm sure I would be moved by their individual triumphs and tragedies. But it was hard not to wish them all cancer.