So I found myself right in the middle of nowhere. The air was wet and the road was quiet. There wasn't much to see but cattle. Lots of cattle. Lots of black, angry-looking cattle. Lots of big, threatening, menacing cattle. And they were baying for blood. My blood. When I told my mate Beth this story sometime later, she pointed out "They're herbivores - how the fuck could they be baying for your blood ?" Probably sounds a bit nuts. But I swear these big bovine bastards were following me along the fence, looking like they were preparing to charge. I started thinking about an escape route in case they found a weak spot in the fence. I worked out that I'd have to jump over the fence on the left-hand side of the road, and run to a nearby tree, climb up it, and phone for help from there. I looked at my phone. No reception. I saw an Australasian harrier circling about. No doubt if I got into the tree, she would assume I was trying to steal her eggs and peck out my eyes. My escape plan was clearly sub-ideal. It's funny where you're mind goes when you're alone in a strange place...

Fortunately, within a few minutes, I was spared the imminent stampede by the arrival of a car. I think this was one of the biggest reliefs of my trip, and it was a double bonus that they weren't creepy rednecks like the previous lift. Shae, Janelle and Kara were a bunch of really friendly gals in their late teens, on the way back to Greymouth from a DJ evening in Christchurch. Soon after they picked me up, the rain stopped and the mountains brightened up, which lends more credence to the theory that the weather is directly affected by my mood.

After a good old chinwag, they dropped me off in Arthur's Pass :

It's named after Arthur Dudley Dobson, a surveyor who found his way over the highest pass in the Southern Alps in 1864 (although I think Maoris used the pass prior to then). And it's pretty small - though a lot of people pass through, it only has a permanent population of 54. Here's a picture which - though not a great one - will give you some idea of the size of the mountains (look at the pylons) :

I dropped my stuff in the backpackers', and went for a drink at The Chalet. One drink turned into many, as I got chatting to a staggeringly beautiful gal called Jenny, with whom I discussed the idea for a tattoo I'd knocked up in Queenstown whilst influenced by Kilkenny, and who has the worst handwriting of anyone that signed my book. She was charming. I also chatted to the owner Hamish, who was the type of guy you couldn't not like, despite harbouring some pretty dodgy opinions; and I settled down on a sofa with a bunch of members of staff (hey to Rich and Stacy, despite the fact that she dissed the Super Furry Animals) to watch the rugby. I'm not really into rugby but, as this was the match that had caused me not to be able to party with a group of airbourne prostitutes that very evening, I figured I ought to make the effort. All-in-all, a very relaxed evening to end a surprisingly long day (two entire entries - phwew).