3 years ago, I spent the evening with a friend, quietly keeping him company on his birthday, taking turns to share our favourite music with one another, while drinking red wine.
His wife, of many years, had died after a long battle with cancer. And although time had past, he was exhausted, body and soul because that isn’t something you recover from easily.
We met in The Church, a quietly gnarly Fiordland pub, where deer and sheep farmers, truck drivers and all kinds of other Kiwi blokes meet in the evenings, wearing their Swanndri shirts and Red Bands, to talk of the weather, their farms and the rugby. To drink beer. It was the best pub in the tiny village called Manapouri, so I had made it my local too.
He stood out, as a gentle man. We talked for a while, and ran into each other occasionally, as we lived not too far from each other, and our friendship continued to grow. Helen, my flatmate, and I organised a party with everyone but slowly Ken and I started spending more time together.
He had an old black staffie/labrador dog called Chief, I had Helen’s dog and we would occasionally meet up, out wandering the bush tracks and Lake Manapouri’s edge with the dogs, and share those quiet birdsong bush tracks, and chat.
Eventually he invited me on a road-trip, just for the day. We were friends, who enjoyed the same music, he was developing his taste for red wine - inspired his sister’s enjoyment of it, and he loved wandering too.
I was delighted. That first trip was a lovely slow exploration of roads in the south of the South Island.
Within a few months we were road-tripping seriously. I don’t really remember the dates and, because he’s not a creature of social media, I found my prolific posting and sharing of my life, slowed down quite a lot too. I was caught in the moment, with my friend and his dog, in that wild west corner of New Zealand, never expecting all that we have now.
3 years later, and it’s his birthday again, and here I still am … still protective of his privacy because what a wonder that level of anonymity is, in this crazy old world.
It was his notion, as a very young man, that he might enjoy a hippie kind of life, that saw us move 700+kms to our beautiful bay, located on the north coast of New Zealand. It was all about him having the courage to leave all that was familiar and see if he could carve out a new life, not imagining it would become so full of good music, jamming and friends. And while we never forget the life he lived before, he is living again.
This post is all about wanting to write a small post of gratitude, to this man who has become my love, my teacher and that person who nags me when I don’t take care of myself.
He has lured me into the land of eating only organic foods. He maintains a prolific garden, that is small but mighty. He has introduced me to, and turned me into, a woman who loves wild meat like venison and pork … and if you didn’t know it already, there is nothing in the world that is better that Back Steaks off a wild venison. Nothing.
And then there’s the exquisitely edible fish I didn’t know existed … Gurnard, Rig, Kahawai, Grey Mullet, to name just a few. So now I’m fishing too. Give me another year, and I believe I’ll be hunting … but only for food because he’s taught me the pleasure that comes from fending for myself.
We’re disappointed when one beats the other to light the fire in the mornings but really, he’s the supreme champion of fire-lighting.
We both love dogs (we have a second dog now), empty beaches, bush tracks, the mountain views from the deck, and all that Golden Bay offers. And friends …
Thank you, mister. I do appreciate you.