Road Trip - Blenheim

“Cruising on the Interislander,” I croon, attracting glances from tourists who have clearly not seen the ad.

“Taking my time... feeling fine.”

My boyfriend Finn and I had left Wellington in the morning. We have a rental car booked for three days, and a map of the South Island with a route scribbled in biro. Our plans are as rough as the weather, but neither concerns us one bit.

We leave the Picton Thrifty office in a sleek black Ford Falcon, windscreen wipers working overtime and Neil Young turned up loud. 

Before long we’re rolling through Blenheim – eyes wide and stomachs grumbling, as we pass wineries, breweries, a cheese shop and a chocolate factory.

“Should we just stop here for the night?” I ask.

Finn says no, we’ve only been driving for half an hour. Instead, we make a plan to head for Kaikoura – over a steaming bowl of mussels at the Allan Scott winery restuarant, Twelve Trees.

Skirting around the grassy foothills of the Kaikoura Range, we drown out the splattering rain with enthusiastic singalongs. As we near the coast I glimpse patches of electric blue water, lit up like neon signs against the surrounding grey. 

We follow the coast past picturesque bays, ballsy surfers and fur seals lazing on the rocks at Ohau Point.

Eventually we reach a town on a rocky peninsula, hemmed in by mountains and surrounded by bottomless sea.

Isolated and dramatic, Kaikoura has an almost sinister beauty about it. It has a timeless quality, too. There are boats that take tourists to watch whales or swim with dolphins, but many visit for the same reason my mum did 30 years ago – to pick a freshly barbecued cray from a roadside stall and eat it with bread on the beach.

We spend the night at a seaside motel, and awake the next morning to more rain and churning seas.

“It’s a sign from the gods,” I announce to Finn. “We’re supposed to go to the hot pools.”

We take the inland road up misty, pine-covered hills to Hanmer Springs, where we soak in the heavenly hot water and let the rain cool our faces.

“Should we just stop here for the night?” I ask. But we’ve only been driving for an hour.

We continue north through Springs Junction, Murchison, through forest thick with beech trees until we reach our destination – a place I picked simply because the name sounds romantic.

St Arnaud, nestled on the shore of Lake Rotoiti, is a picture postcard Alpine village. There are snow-capped mountains which disappear into the clouds, a typical ski lodge clad in pine timberwork, and not a soul on the streets.

We visit the village’s only shop – which sells everything from local beer to possum socks – and are told the Alpine Lodge is the only accommodation serving dinner. We check in and spend the evening playing cards by the fire, feasting on lamb shanks and watching ducks splash about outside.

The rain has finally eased by morning, and so we take the short walk from the lodge to beautiful Lake Rotoiti. Framed by deep green mountains and still as glass, it commands a meditative silence – the kind of place a more virtuous person might perform Tai Chi.

But I have other, less virtuous plans in mind. 

As something of a craft beer geek, I’ve insisted we spend our last night in Upper Moutere – a patch of rolling green countryside just south of Motueka.

The area was settled in the 1840s by Germans who planted hops in the valley, pioneering a strong brewing tradition which continues to this day.

We stay at the Upper Moutere Inn which, built in 1857, claims to be New Zealand’s oldest original pub. While that warrants a visit in itself, the inn is better known for having one of the best ranges of craft beer taps in the country.

At 6pm sharp the pub packs out with suntanned locals, who leave their gumboots at the door to sink a hard-earned pint. We join them with a tasting tray and sample English-style ales from the Townsend brewery down the road.

When night falls we climb up a narrow wooden staircase to our room, which seems impossibly cheap at $55 per night. There’s historic charm in the faded wallpaper, the creaky floorboards and the mismatched furnishings – but we’re relieved to find the bed is comfortable and new.

The following morning the sun is blazing – appearing just in time to bid us farewell.

But first we stop in to see Nelson and its replica historic village at Founders Heritage Park. We stroll through the quaint pretend streets, peering in windows to look at a dusty lolly shop, a barber and a post office frozen in time. There are a handful of operating businesses, too – including an artisan bakery, the Founders organic café and brewery, and a chocolatier which, devastatingly, is closed.

The final stretch of road is the prettiest. Following Queen Charlotte Drive, we wind along the edge of the Marlborough Sounds, taking in the velvety native bush and turquoise water below, before cruising down above the boats in Picton Harbour.

And then we’re on one of them. Cruising on the Interislander, sailing to the other side.