This is our fourth, possibly fifth visit to New Zealand’s most remote and Southern island.  A village called Oban sits nestled in Paterson inlet on a beach/bay called Half Moon bay.  There’s about 400 permanent residents on the island, and they definitely all know each other.  That number would include the semi-seasonal travelers who come here to work with RealNZ tour company or score am job at the South Seas hotel for a season.

We brought my youngest son Jamie with us this time.  He will be ten in a couple of weeks. He’s had significantly reduced screen time and a marked increase in time with nature and playing happily on his own at the beach.  This a safe and lovely island where nobody drives more than 50km per hour and people look out for eachother, so we’ve felt confident allowing Jamie to venture down to the beach on his own to build his fortresses along the shoreline.  

This is a wild and often windy/grey island.  It is as far South as you can go in the archipelago of Aotearoa, but still two or more degrees closer to the equator than the vast majority of my country of birth, Canada.  Canada exists almost exclusively above the 49^th parallel.  Being here has whet my appetite to disappear into the Canadian Tundra or melt away into obscurity in the Maritimes maybe.  We’d planned to purchase a plot of land and do a biodiversity/eco-tourism project in alignment with the work we are doing in Matkaana. Alas that plot seems to have been sold before we were in a position to purchase, so the oracle is steering our sites North rather than here it seems. And that’s okay. 

We will likely always return to this island regardless of having a project here or not.

The silence and birdsong here is somehow addictive.  The sound of wild kiwi and ruru at night is flanked by the sound of waves lapping on the shore, raindrops in the forest canopy, and deafening silence devoid of human technologies whirring or intrusiveness.  It sends you a little loopy at first, and then there’s a clarity that comes on the third or fourth day here, and the prospect of returning to my high-flying and undeniably stressful existence quite frankly pisses me off.

I like the quiet.  I like being far away from the people and things that annoy me.  Birdsong and crystal clear water feels much better to my weary soul than forecasts, projections, people (including myself) missing deadlines and not hitting targets, or boring insecure assholes showing ineptitude and hubris.  I am so sick of all that shit.  

Lately, I find people are mostly incredibly disappointing.  I’d say that the exceptions to this are my large community of kind and curious people, and of course, the team we have working at the farm.  Our farm team are a motley but magnificent crew indeed.  We’ve seen so much growth across the infrastructure, eco-tourism offering and plantings.  Growing confidence and competencies among the individuals who are involved has also been a joy to behold.  That includes me.  I have a heap to learn about regenerative agriculture and Rongoa still, but it has been an honour and privilege to get this far over the past five years.  I cannot understand why more teams can’t manage to be as clearly meaningfully impactful on other projects.  People seem unwilling to look at themselves or share spotlights, and that seems to be where the trouble lies. Just an observation…

So, back here to Rakliura and the present moment as I write this blog.

As is often the case when we travel the South Island, Damon is related to some of the residents here.  Although not as strong a connection as happens on the West Coast, where even the name Birchfield strikes fear or excitement into the hearts of many local who realizes you are related.  The Birchfield clan are quite famous, or infamous, depending on who you ask.  

Here, however, we are wedded to this island through my father-in-law’s elegant and very charming wife Jen.  Jen’s daughter was adopted, as it was a time when that is what you did if you were a young unwed mother, and she was welcomed into the Leask family fold as a baby and spent a lot of her childhood here in Rakiura in Leask bay.  Jen is incredibly close to her daughter who I believe lives in Invercargill and still has firm ties to the island.  

Aotearoa.  None degrees of separation it seems.  We are all very much connected.

After many visits to the island I have only one true friend here.  An elegant, kind, brilliant artist named Rebecca.  She’s very Southern in her humility and pragmatic approach. Fierce but gentle is the sense that I get, and a very talented artist as well. She has a beautiful family and a very lucky husband.  I finally met him this visit which was a lovely added bonus to our trip.  

What a different life they lead in a village of 400 people on Rakiura. They fish and forage and grow and preserve and are undoubtedly causing a fraction of the carbon footprint our international adventures are polluting this already stretched to her limit planet. They are closer to nature and the ocean and probably better humans compared to the busy, bustling, frequent flying life Damon and I whip around living.  My annual visit to see Rebecca is always a highlight of my year.  I’m not recruiting for any more friends, but feel quite lucky to count her among the few that I have and cherish.

Our time here is drawing to a close and we are heading back to Invercargill on a 8:30am flight tomorrow morning.  

Mixed feelings.  I feel we need to put together a decent post about the weird things that happen in our heads when we are here, and the amazing natural encounters we keep returning to the island to enjoy.  

But for now will just post this pithy little reflection on our time here.

Hope you are having a lovely week, whatever you are up to.  

Thanks for reading.