We only have forty five minutes between our second and third flights so fortunately we land in good time. The Qantas lady whisks us through security without issues and we belt along the concourse, leaping on and off travellators, from one end of the airport to the other and breathlessly present our boarding passes only to be told. ‘We haven’t started boarding yet.’

When we are settled on board another half empty aircraft, we are presented with our third breakfast in succession. As aeroplane food goes, Qantas’ is not bad at all. The cabin crew on this flight, Belinda and Nathan, keep up a running banter and lighten our day (or possibly night – I have lost track but the lights stay on, so day presumably). Three hours later and we are in Christchurch. We run the gauntlet of immigration and security without being arrested, fined, deported or filmed for an episode of Border Force. No one questions why one of us has axes, saws and knives (albeit blunt ones) in our luggage. To top it all, our cases miraculously appear promptly on the conveyor belt. I did ask for clarification of a couple of questions on the immigration card and decided it would be prudent to declare my walking boots. I am sent behind some screens to present them. I fiddle around hunting for the key to one of my two bags. Inevitably, the boots are in the other bag. I should say that I have never before travelled with two items of hold luggage but half my belongings are seventeenth century outfits. As I scrabble for the second key, the customs’ officer decides it is all too much hassle and she doesn’t need to see my boots after all!

Next, to summon our courtesy car to take us to the camper van depot. This proves more troublesome, as no one answers the phone. We leave a voicemail and hope for the best. As instructed by the website, we assemble by Door 2. We accost every likely-looking shuttle mini-bus without success. After about twenty minutes I return to the lounge to phone again. I should say at this point that we have discovered, perhaps not unexpectedly, that Chris’ mobile does not work here. This time, I get through to a real person. I am not convinced they have a brain cell but they are at least not a machine. It seems that Chris’ rendition of his surname was not recognisable as any of those on their booking list. To add to the confusion, another party with a similar sounding name have arrived at the same time. I think they thought they were collecting them twice. The other party’s luggage mountain makes ours look insignificant. They have travelled from Hawaii for the surfing and have brought several gigantic surf boards with them. We join in the general fun, trying to wriggle these in through the side door of the mini-bus. It is a close run thing but they are in – it just means that all the passengers have to scramble over surf boards to get to their seats.

It takes an interminably long time to complete the paperwork for the van and Chris, who is chief in charge of all things van, is given what is known as a ‘walk through’. This familiarisation process seems to omit vital details, as we were to discover to our cost. We decide that we will save ourselves £100 and not hire a sat-nav. I am going to claim £100 for my map reading skills if we don‘t get lost. This could go badly. The first instruction on leaving the camper van depot was to turn right. I won’t comment on how we somehow ended up turning left. Let’s blame the jet-lag. We head west from Christchurch on the 73 and 77, along what is known as the ‘Inland Scenic Route’. It is winter here and overcast, so it is already beginning to get dark. This is when we discover the first thing that we don’t know about the camper van – how to turn the lights on. After much twisting, pulling and pushing of levers and even stopping in a lay-by to devote all our combined energies to the task, we have a very clean windscreen but have only discovered how to turn on the side lights. We do not linger, hoping to beat the dusk and fortunately there is very little traffic about. A thick mist descends. We have no hope of locating the fog lights. Fortunately, just in time, Chris discovers a well-hidden switch and we have headlights. We drive through several ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ places, including the prosaically named Windwhistle. The scenery is lush and green and the trees are beginning to turn. We pass a venison farm and the impressive Rakaia Gorge. Signs warn that roadworks are currently closing this road for twenty minutes out of every thirty. Either we have hit the favourable ten minutes, or the men have given up for the day. We see New Zealand falcons and large black and white Australian magpies, which I remember from our last visit.

Rakaia Gorge

We find Methven camping ground without too much getting lost, then head off for a cunningly disguised supermarket. With the exception of meat, the food prices are significantly higher than ours, perhaps half as much again. Instant coffee doesn’t really seem to be a thing here and certainly not decaff. I will therefore be caffinated for the duration; you have been warned. As we try to connect the van to the electricity supply, we discover knowledge deficiency number two. Where is the magic master switch to allow us to see what we are doing? By this time it is dark, so Chris is trying to see minute labels on switches in a cupboard by the light of my Kindle and without the aid of his reading glasses. We do eventually get light and power but no hot water. We also can’t work out how to get the gas to turn on for the cooker, although that probably (hopefully) just needs daylight. The van comes complete with a three volume novel about how to drive it, ‘Drive on the left’ etc. etc. but absolutely zilch about the necessary information required to actually live in it. We rise to the challenge of making the microwave work and will leave the hob for tomorrow. By the time we call it a day I have been awake for about twenty four hours. Goodness knows how this will impact on the jet lag.