you find warm hugs you find (duuuh) warmth. Possibly a bit incongruous in Invercargill, but hey—the City Council has twinned this southern town with others in Asia and we have little monuments and mementos scattered all over. It keeps the Mayor warm in winter, I suppose, ‘servicing’ those links …
AND NOW INTO IT
the summerhouse thing in Queens Park. I hadn’t allowed for the warm muggy inside air condensing on the still-cool-from-outside lens and was rapt with the effect—
—is that warmth, or what? Boom boom~!
And moving on … I caught the below on a warm misty morning last year. Aptly named ‘Cuckoo Spit’ (no cuckoos that I know of in New Zealand) by the Brits of ye Olden Days it’s attractive (in a blobular sort of way) but annoying if you’re weeding—
And perhaps not readily identifiable with the ‘warmth Challenge‘ by northerners of the world, this Mother comes out of storage every November to stand atop the rear entry stairs in H & Js in Gore to scare off customers—
AND IF YOU WANT
warmth coupled with unthinking routine you can’t beat any place in New Zealand in the full blast of summer. Especially Southland. I’ve often noted that Southlanders make superlative petty officials, utterly inflexible with an intransigence that would border on arrogance but lacking the necessary awareness—they are almost innocent in their naivety; as exemplified by the untold tale in this final shot—
—kiwis believe that grass should be dominated. In vain you can bleat that in the full blast of summer grass should be allowed at least a minimal amount of substance, but no, grass is ever to be shown who is boss. Hence the traditional ‘short back and sides’ and damn the torpedoes. This sight (taken on a walking track that passes through a local town) is common. Too common, traditionally down here the warmth of summer is also the period of drought alarms and newspapers being filled with photos of seabeds taken in local reservoirs, coupled with dire warnings and frequent dark interspersions of the words “Global Warming”.
You’ll notice that the above homesteaders are now well into first aid measures, desperately emptying the emptying reservoirs* onto their balding patches. (And before you ask, in summer I set my own mower to the highest cut) (the locals are scandalised, but never make the connection between their deserts and my oases).
* Is there some law of cause-and-effect at work here? Don’t ask me … I’m just a dum Aucklander …