Q

Flew across glacial mountains, back home to Singapore, just a tad changed. Where do I begin to describe the magic that was New Zealand? As the last large habitable land touched by mankind, there is a specialness to the space. Am I naïve to claim it remains less sullied than any other parts of the world I have experienced?

Queenstown, backyard of our hotel. The crisp air and quiet waters. Here we had a cup of coffee, starting our pleasurable habit of seeking comfort in a hot beverage in the near zero weather.

I particularly love this about NZ. At any time, your vision is framed by vast nature; postcard perfect yet unassuming. It does not fight for your attention, it simply and confidently is, as natural as nature is land and sky and sea.

The day we were joined by friends and their tots, departing Queenstown on a cruise to Lake Wakatipu.

You don’t mind at all the chill and its harsh kiss on your cheeks as the ship pulls against the wind. At a little farm we marveled at sheepdogs’ professionalism, speeding off to stare down their eponymous wooly pals into submission.

We watch the kids skip stones, tumble down hills, collect pinecones for first snowman. We doodle ships and landscapes on the journey back to land.

Departing to Wanaka, K and I spent some cozy nights under heated blankets in a little hut, rising early to drive up winding mountains towards their caps of snow. Daft Punk’s Giorgio by Moroder on repeat.

Skiing. That familiar routine of wake; drive; squeeze into boots and helmet and goggles and gear, duck walking in pain and snow; ski, lift, ski, lift; lunch and cider (maybe two); ski, lift, ski, lift; some tears and tantrums in between (mine and the kids’). You end the ski day at 4pm deeply satisfied: you have done so much and earned any indulgence that may come after (and there is still many hours left to the day!)

How much more perfect can it be? On our days off-skis, K and I (and the rest of our gang) took hikes, one of our favorite activities together as a couple.

We went on Routeburn trail near Glenorchy, a fairytale path of moss green even in the winter frost. An easy, serene route, friendly enough for the whole family. We slipped under a bridge and waved to a family across the lake.

On another day, there was Meg’s trail, a sunset hike we took sans kids. The kind of trek up that is thoroughly my joy, a little burn to thighs as you push against gravity. I relished particularly our little puzzles across streams: it is horizontal bouldering if you have shorts legs like I do.

It hits me today that everywhere there is quiet from man-made mechanical noise. There is the wind rustling flora, whisper of a hare’s hop, myriad song of birds, and a shout from the kids, but not much else, as it should be. The quiet is a big factor to the peace I found there, sensitive as I am to noise.

We moved southward to Cardrona, kickstarting the most precious phase of our trip: living in a homestead with our friends and the tots.

The space and backyard is immaculately laid out to facilitate tranquility. Hot tea with a view that runs for miles, snowcapped mountains foregrounded by undulating hillscapes.

Everyday, some form of chaos and adventure, never unwelcome. Every night, grilling dinner by the fire we made, sipping wine, sitting on the comfiest foldable chairs (and falling through all three of them), nodding off to the warmth at the hearth.

One night, a dinner whipped up by the lovely homestead owners. Possibly the best roasted potatoes I’ve had, definitely the best potato cheese soup I’ve had. In fact, everything from the steak to grilled greens were excellent, excellent, excellent. If one could eat like a king, this is the definition of it.

Other days, lunches and dinners out at, really, the only hotel bar & restaurant in the area. The kids getting their knees muddy at the playground while we dig into loaded wedges, alfresco, in 2°C. Sometimes with a nice cocktail.

Entertainment all around the clock, with ‘good morNINGs’, ‘big pasta!’, gathering a ridiculous amount of branches, an entire world map drawn with newly-charred branch by the hearth.

Oh, New Zealand, you have been wonderful. Something about your air and land and waters spoke so deeply to me. The serenity, the idyllic and content, the slowness, the lack of pretense and lack of need to be so. The walks and hikes, mud and dust a-flying. The crunch of snow beneath my boots, powder and windstorm. I thank you for all these memories.