Outside the palm trees are being battered by the tail end of a cyclone. Rain pours off the tarpauline roof as if from a jug. I’m in the Beach House Bar in Paihia, a small coastal town up near the very top of New Zealand. It’s jam night.

The audience is mostly locals, a mix of Maori and European. Anyone can get up and play - guitars, drums, singers and a harmonica. A couple of peope will start a song and the others watch for the chords, join in, complement, play little riffs. Sometimes it falters, mostly it’s as good as any rehearsed band. My Alaskan room-mate plays a couple of songs. An English guy sings a couple of his own on an out-of-tune piano. Outside the storm beats against the windows.

After a day hunkered down against the weather, I’m getting cabin fever and need to get out of Paihia. And there’s just the job.

If Transformers were real (sorry Singh, they’re not) and if there was one that happened to be a tour bus, my tour bus today would be it. It was the coolest coach I’ve ever seen. It goes where other buses fear to tread and it’s the only one leaving Paihia today.

I love my utter nerdiness in this photo - complimented by the carrier bag of lunch I'd just been given

We head out through the driving rain, passing through a misty, sodden green landscape of mandarin, kiwifruit and avacado orchards, overflowing brown rivers, mangrove forests and flooded fields. The driver reminds me of an excitable Paul Daniels with a broad Kiwi accent. He’s as fearless as his bus.

 In some fields we pass there are large heaps of wet, dark timber. These are kauri trees, dug up from the peat forests where they were buried 50,000 years ago after some cataclysmic event, possibly a tidal wave. The wood is still workable. It looks as fresh as modern timber. You can buy furniture and picture frames and wooden spoons made from the stuff.

We head to the very top of the North Island, Cape Reinga. Here the Tasman and Pacific seas meet, with a curious flurry of white-capped waves in the middle of the ocean. More importantly, it is here that the Maori believe the spirits of their dead depart New Zealand to return to Hawaiki, their homeland. You can just make out the jumping off point, the 800 year-old tree clinging to the headland right in the centre of this photo.

We cross to the tip of the west coast of the Cape, a landscape of improbably large sand dunes. From a distance they look like steep, rolling hills of golden wheat. From several miles away we see the colour reflected onto the base of the clouds, staining them yellow. Close up, the pyramidal heaps of dark gold sand look as if they have been offloaded by a gargantuan dumper truck.

Our driver is on the radio to base. To get to our next location we need to drive down a sandy stream. Base is worried about hidden holes in the stream after the rain storms of the last few days. No other buses have been here for two days. All insurance policies are void the moment we drive into the stream. Our driver is confident he can get through. He takes off his shoes and scouts out the route.  

We move off into the stream, going slowly and carefully over the bumpy surface. The driver finds a dry spot at the base of a huge dune and pulls up. We hop out, collect body boards from the boot and trudge up a 70-metre, extremely steep-sided sand dune. We do a test run from about halfway up.  Kneel down, slide your stomach onto the board, grasp the front and let yourself go. I whizz down the hill in a blur as my contact lenses dry up in the wind.

Then I had to go from the very top. About halfway down (doing about 20kph – which felt quite fast enough) I hit a bumpy patch and almost wipe out. A spray of sand goes straight in my face. I grip on tightly, blinking furiously. At the bottom I stagger to the stream to wash off. I have sand everywhere. Sand in my eyes, sand in my ears, in my nostrils, in my hair, everywhere in my clothes and crunching between my teeth. The red toe nail polish on both my big toes has been sanded off.

We continue down stream until we hit the open sands of Ninety Mile Beach, stretching as far as the eye can see. We drive south for 70 kms, low grassed dunes to the left, rolling breakers to the right and mile after endless mile of smooth, slick sand before us.

We pass the occasional 4×4 with fishermen or surfers, and once spot a small group of wild horses in the grassy dunes that back onto a pine plantation. But mostly it’s just us, the bus and the beach.

It might be the ‘winterless north’ up here, but it’s doing a very convincing impression of a blustery autumn. On my boat trip out into the Bay of Islands today I was having flashbacks to that horrific journey on the Tonle Sap.  The boat was rolling and pitching violently, crashing down hard onto the water, sea spray smashing against the sides. I rather enjoy the physical movement of boats but I’m distracted by a morbid fear of capsizing, my hands gripping the sides of my seat. This is an entirely different kind of boat, I keep telling myself, with a country that has words to describe the concept of ‘health and safety’.

You can see this place would be stunning in good weather - little wooded islands, fringed with dark gold sandy beaches or black rocks that the white waves breaks against, the foam draining off like milk.  This area is steeped in stories from the earliest days of European colonisation, many of them ending bloodily.  We pass an island that Captain Cook visited, another where some French explorers got eaten after trespassing on Maori sacred land.

Otehei Bay on Urupukapuka Island

We were in the bay in search of bottlenose dolphins. We’re in luck and pull up next to a large pod of about 25. They are dark streamlined shapes in the deep green water, darting around our boat, with the occasional flash of a white belly. They crest on the waves, or leap exuberantly. I involuntarily say ‘wheee!’ everytime one jumps. There’s no point even trying to photograph them. But I do anyway.  They’re fast. They would be able to easily outpace our boat (which is not too shoddy) with a top speed of around 60kph.

We would have swum with them, but a calf is spotted and we’re not allowed. Calves need to feed every three minutes and if they become distracted by swimming humans they can die. To be honest, I wasn’t terribly keen on getting in that water anyway.  Despite it being a few degrees warmer than an English summer sea, it’s still cold, dark and choppy and very unappealing. And I know dolphins don’t harm people, but they’re such large, powerful animals, entirely in their element in the water and I have a niggling feeling they must be pissed off at all the ones we’ve killed over the years.

Dolphin photos are notoriously crap, but this is the mother and calf

On the way back I stop off at Russell, a beautiful little town of old wooden colonial houses, craft shops and restaurants. Russell was the capital of New Zealand for approximately two weeks. It was also known as the ‘hell-hole of the Pacific’ due to its large number of whore-houses, grog-shops, freed-convicts and runaway sailors. Sounds like a blast.

With winter well on the way in New Zealand, I’m definitely starting to get the hint that it’s time for me to head on. Despite being a die-hard republican, I found myself enjoying the historical pageantry of the royal wedding yesterday. London looked greener and more appealing than I’d expected it to be. It made me feel, not homesick exactly, but slightly wistful for the city I’ve made my home, workplace or both for most of my adult life.

I haven’t written about food recently. There’s lots of good seafood up here. Yesterday I had a seafood chowder that contained the largest scallop I’ve ever seen. It was a meal by itself – the size of my palm.  Today I made a whitebait fritter. Mix whitebait (miniscule, whole white fish) with seasoning and an egg. It makes a light, almost fluffy, pancake with a very delicate flavour. Delicious!

I had suspected it wouldn’t necessarily be any easier the second time. And it wasn’t.

It doesn’t help that in order to reach the jumping off point of the Auckland Bridge bungy you have to walk halfway across the bridge on the slightly rickety-looking workers walkway. This gives you plenty of time to watch the green water of the bay getting further away as the walkway gradually rises. Finally you climb up to the jump pod suspended just beneath the bridge, 40 metres above the water.

It has a bit of a grim, industrial feel, not helped by the weather. Auckland is in the grip of autumn, the sky the deep grey of a particularly nasty bruise.

I don’t want to be the person who couldn’t do a second bungy jump. It’s like that difficult second novel. So now I’ve added performance anxiety to my fear of heights. I sit in a metal dentist-style chair and the cuffs are velcroed to my ankles. Then I have to sit around for a bit while someone else jumps and the bungy cord is adjusted. Not good. I chat to the jump master (also quite cute) to distract myself.

Then it’s time to shuffle to the edge of the platform, smile for the cameras, listen to the countdown and quickly fling myself off before I have time to think better of it.

This makes me look far happier than I was feeling

I had vaguely hoped for a more artistic swan dive, but when watching the video back later I’d managed the same half dive/half drop as last time. It’s hard to overcome your body’s natural desire not to go.

The jump master had told me to put my arms out in front of me and tuck my chin when I saw the water approaching. I wasn’t rating my chances of remembering that, but my self defence mechanism kicked in and I did it in time. For a split second I was dunked to my shoulders, head-first in cold sea water. I bounced back up, flinging wet hair from my face.

After a couple of bounces I had to reach up and jerk on a strap to release my feet so I swung around upright in my harness. Stray sea water drained into my nasal cavities. I waved at the people below watching from a jet boat. The winch pulled me up, making some ominous creaking noises but it was a bit late to worry about that sort of thing.

I was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t as exciting as last time, but I suppose you can never re-live the magic of your first bungy jump. I think there’s also something special about the Kawarau Bridge bungy. It’s such a beautiful location with a real buzz about it.

Special prize for anyone who recognises what’s on my t-shirt.

This afternoon I headed on to Christchurch where tomorrow I’ll catch an early morning flight back to Auckland for the last 2 weeks of my little holiday. When I first came to NZ I thought it might be interesting to see a city that had suffered from an earthquake, but it’s not, it’s just sad. You hear and read a lot about how people are dealing with the after-effects of the two big quakes and those that are still continuing – 5,000 smaller shocks in the last 6 months. Some people are leaving and not planning on returning. Reconstruction is slow. Sewage from fractured pipes has contaminated the beaches. While the receptionist from the YHA hostel was booking my hostel in Christchurch, they had a quake while they were on the phone.

I arrived in Christchurch after dark. It was fairly deserted, but in fairness it was 8pm on a rainy bank holiday Monday in Autumn.  I passed one cordoned-off building with a huge pile of brick rubble outside. My hostel is an old converted jailhouse – you sleep in the actual cells. I assume (hope) it has a fairly solid construction but when I proposed that to the receptionist he just responded in a less than reassuring fashion, “I couldn’t comment on that.”

I’m also sad to be leaving the South Island after three weeks here. It’s been an amazing time, surrounded by the grandeur of nature and pushing myself in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

Yesterday I walked up to the Mount John Observatory in daylight – the place I’d been stargazing the night before. From the lake you follow a steep track up through a peaceful larch forest and onto the slopes above. The wind hisses through the tussock grass. In every direction the view stretches for miles – gently rumpled yellow-brown plains and hills, rising to mountains, those in the distance snow-capped. There are tiny patches of dark green pine forest and on one side the huge milky blue expanse of the Lake Tekapo.  (You’d have more photos but I’m struggling to use a Mac and about to throw the damn thing out of the window. Intuitive my arse.)

Three of the observatory domes. I looked at Saturn through telescope in the one on the right

We sign in and are handed thick downy coats. The kind they wear on Antarctica. I had sweated just walking down to the office in a fleece and light raincoat.

At about 8.45pm we board the minibus and head out of Lake Tekapo Village. After five minutes the driver pulls into a single track side road and gets out to remove the chain blocking the road. Back inside, he covers his dashboard instruments with a thick cloth and douses the lights on the minibus. We continue slowly up the winding track in darkness.

At the top we are met by several shadowy forms carrying dim red torches. We put on our coats. There’s a chill breeze at the top of the hill. Below us is the pale grey mass of Lake Tekapo and the orange lights of the village. The moon has not yet risen and bar the subdued illumination of red torches and the occasional dimly glowing green strips marking steps it’s a monochromatic world.

Above us is the pinprick light of billions of stars, the hazy glowing arm of the milky way (our own galaxy) arcing overhead.

And that, of course, is why we’re here at the Mount John Observatory. To see the stars. This is one of the best places in the world for star-gazing. There are clear night skies and almost no light pollution (Lake Tekapo Village – population 350), hence the reason for dimming our lights as we approached. A community of astronomers live a strange nocturnal life up here with a variety of powerful telescopes. They do things like track near earth objects (asteroids that could turn us into a chapter in history like the dinosaurs) and they search for planets like Earth.

The guides point out stars and constellations of interest: The Southern Cross; Alpha Centauri (actually 2 stars) our closest neighbour a mere 4.3 light years away; Sirius – the brightest star and part of Canis Major; the imaginatively named ‘Triangle’ constellation.

There’s a lot up there. In fact, there are more stars in the Milky Way galaxy than grains of sand on Earth. And there are more galaxies in the universe than grains of sand on earth. It is mind numbing. Looking at stars always makes me feel insignificant, but in a good way. There’s something perversely reassuring about being so unimportant in the grand scheme of things.

We use two large telescopes on tripods to look more closely at the stars. They have barrels the size of a 3-year old child. I ask the important questions. “Whats your favourite sci-fi movie?”, “Why is the telescope making a clicking noise?”. Turns out it’s moving to track the star it’s focussed on – compensating for the movement of the Earth. They are controlled by remotes. You plug in the star you want to see and little servo motors whirr as the telescope swings round to fix on it.

Then we get to use a really big telescope. Not the biggest – that’s reserved for the real astronomers. I imagine a shadowy sect with enlarged eyes like Golem, shuffling around in their dark world, muttering to themselves in code. Our telescope sits in a dome and we peer through the eye piece with one eye. We look at the Tarantula Nebula, the spidery mass of a star-forming region, a stellar nursery. And then the piece de resistance – Saturn. It’s miniscule and an intense bright white, but I can clearly see the encircling rings and the specks of its larger moons.

We finish with hot chocolate in a glass-walled cafe lit only by dim red table lights. I’m ready to go back to a world of light and colour and leave this dark hilltop to the astronomers.

*There are no photographs for this post as neither my camera nor my photographic skills were equal to the task.

As some of you know, I like clouds. I have a little cloud spotters guide book I carry around with me so I can tick off the ones I see and collect points. I actually swore out loud when I spotted that rarest of the rare, a Kelvin-Helmholtz, last year. 

 

New Zealand’s Maori name is Aotearoa – Land of the Long White Cloud – and not surprisingly  is cloud-spotters heaven. The clouds interact with the landscape in a way I don’t see at home. Long and thin, they settle on the midriff of the mountains, stretching for miles. They drift, struck silver by the sun, before shadow-black slopes.

 

Long white cloud, Lake Wanaka

Yesterday I had a day of enforced inactivity due to feeling like I had er…fallen off a horse. In the morning I took the coach back to Wanaka, where I’d thought I might do some more flying . Unfortunately my whole body was aching – particularly my torso – so I thought I better take it easy.

Last time I was in Wanaka about a week ago I visited the Cinema Paradiso, a funky little cinema where all the seats are random collection of sofas (including an old car) and you can drink wine and beer and get pizzas brought in during the intermission. It’s like being in someone’s front room – very sociable, full of locals who seem to know each other.

Today I took a coach to Lake Tekapo. We climbed over the Lindis Pass, a rather bleak, almost alien-looking landscape of tussock grass (the native grass) that looks like a head of silky blonde hair. Wispy white mist drifted over the slopes or settled in dense clouds in the hollows.

Rubbish photo taken from bus but gives you an idea of the landscape

We passed over dry, barren plains, purple mountains rising in the distance on either side. Large green fields of irrigated land supported cattle and merino sheep. They have a huge rabbit problem out here – they eat the place into a desert - hence the Easter bunny hunt where big cash prizes are awarded for the most rabbits shot.

Lake Tekapo (a small town on the margins of the lake after which it’s named) is small. Small enough that I start to get a bit twitchy after an hour here. That should remind me why living in this country would not be advisable. Much as I love the landscape – and I’ve been moved to tears on more than one occasion by the beauty of this place - it’s just too quiet. I’ve been having an incredible time the last couple of weeks, but I can’t very well spend the rest of my life bungy jumping, skydiving, rafting and messing about with helicopters. Well I could if I was a commando, but I think that career path is probably closed to a short-sighted 36-year-old woman of middling fitness with mild asthma.

The lake is a milky blue from a suspension of finely-ground rock dust created by the action of the glacier upstream. It’s drier here than other places I’ve been. The yellow-grassed slopes and the autumn foliage give it a subdued, rather melancholy aspect.

Lake Tekapo

And just for dad, some of those large trout I mentioned. Apparently they get up to about 20lbs in Lake Wanaka and you can’t very well fish without catching one.

Large fish. Duck for scale.

Well, my luck finally ran out.

This morning I was up bright and early for a three-hour horse ride through Middle Earth. I’ve only seen the movies once and I might have slept through large portions of them.  I think it was my friend Vicky (reader of this blog – hi!) who said, “I feel sorry for those who just see the second movie. They have a crap beginning and a crap end.” But it was a scenic horse ride for experienced riders with lots of cantering.

I was given Omargh the stunt horse to ride. He was a grumpy-looking dark bay gelding – lots of flattened ears and bared teeth. Apparently he doesn’t get out of bed for less than an apple. He’s been in Voyage of the Dawn Treader and Little Hercules and probably some other stuff back home in Oz. The stables acquired him after one of their own horses (who was acting as a stand-in) was injured when they tried to helicopter him up a mountain in a wooden crate. Only in New Zealand…

Omargh and me in happier times

He seemed ok to ride but during canters he was prone to crowding the horse in front and weaving from side to side, trying to get in front, despite my best efforts to steady him up. He got a bit stronger and more excited each time. On one canter he swerved and I lost my balance and stirrups but managed to stay on. On the next he jerked to the right and I checked out the left door.

I was flung down from 5 foot at about 20 mph onto a dirt track. I landed on my left side and had the wind knocked out of me. I heard a shout and the blur of horses legs and thumping of hooves as the three horses cantering behind me managed to avoid me. The leader, at the front of the ride, was surprised to see Omargh overtake her with no rider.

I lay still, winded and a bit dazed, gasping for breath for a few minutes while the guide checked I hadn’t broken anything. I was just rather sore around my left midriff and back and had pulled a muscle in my left calf. I was convinced I’d smashed my camera (tucked into my coat) to smithereens but it was unhurt. Even my sunglasses in the left pocket were intact. Well, you know what they say – I had to get back on the horse. I was a bit sore and didn’t feel like any more cantering on Omargh the psycho horse so rode back to the stables at a walk.

It was my biggest fall for years, possibly ever (I use to bounce better when I was younger) but I’ve done that particular manouver a few times before (stop laughing, Deb). I got off pretty lightly considering I was riding at speed in a pack. I’m usually in quite a lot of pain after a 3-hour ride anyway, so it’s hard to tell what’s different.

I can’t believe I’m about to write these words. Today I skydived and it wasn’t quite as exciting as I’d imagined it would be. I think I’m broken. It didn’t have the pure adrenaline rush of bungy jumping and for straightforward flying I prefer helicopters. I think there’s also something less satisfying about the fact you’re not in control.  But anyway, back to the beginning and you can decide for yourselves.

For years I’ve been aware that there were two things I ought to do but really didn’t want to. One is run a marathon. (Well done to my friends who complete this in London this weekend!)

The other was skydive.

I’m not an adrenaline junkie and I don’t like heights. Stop sniggering at the back. Yeah, yeah, I might have to revise that opinion of myself. But anyway, it was a much bigger deal to me to jump out of a serviceable aircraft at 12,000 feet than to bungy off a little bridge. Yesterday I decided it was another challenge I really should get on and tackle, so I booked it for this morning.

In Queenstown all the activity shops line Shotover Street. The skydive shop next to the white water rafting shop, next to the quad bikes, next to the bungy shop etc.  It’s like a giant sweet shop.

So, by about midday I was introduced to my ‘tandem master’, a rather scary ex-military Bulgarian called Kras who has  done 17,000 jumps. I did begin to wonder at that point what I was letting myself in for.

I’d decided to get the video taken (it will give the old folks a laugh anyway) so I had to do a pre-flight interview for my cameraman. Many of you know my feelings towards media work. I’d rather have my fingernails pulled out with pliers. Luckily I had other rather more traumatic things on my mind.

After dressing up in a jumpsuit and harness and a briefing we climbed into the aircraft. Inside it was like a cigar tube with windows. We sat on the floor on a plastic, padded floor covering. eight of us squeezed in: 3 jumpers; 3 tandem-masters; and 2 cameramen. We took off from a grass strip and climbed very steeply over the bright blue expanse of lake Wakatipa. To our left were the beautiful Remarkables mountains. We drew level with their snow-dusted peaks then climbed higher.

The plane levelled off, the door slid open and the jump light changed to green. People started exiting the aircraft until we were the last left. Kras started to shuffle forwards and I was obliged to go with him as he was clipped securely behind me.

There was a huge rush of air from the open door. I was sitting on the edge trying a) adopt the banana position we had been taught b) not think c) breathe d) smile (which had also been drilled in to me). Then we were over the edge.

There was a falling sensation to start, then it stabilised. Freefall is like being in a 200 kph wind tunnel. I was trying to smile for the camera, the flesh being blown from my bared teeth, but mostly I was just trying to breathe. I find that challenging enough when using a hand dryer on my  face. We had 45 seconds of freefall then there was the jerk upright as the parachute was deployed.

must...sm..i..l..e...

Once I’d equalised the pressure in my ears, which felt like someone was stabbing them, this part was far more enjoyable. The panorama below was of Lake Wakatipa, Queenstown, fields, autumnal trees and the mountain ranges. We wheeled slowly as we lost altitude. I got to fly for a bit. Tug left to go left, right to go right. Pretty straightforward.  I felt slightly vulnerable, dangling there in front of Kras, but mostly I enjoyed the ride down after the maelstrom of freefall.

Kras took over to land, making some steep twisting turns to lose more height. These were good fun – a bit like banking a helicopter. The ground came up quickly and we made a neat landing.

I had a bit of an adrenaline shake but not as much as I’d thought I would. I’m very glad I’ve done it but feel no great desire to do it again.* I suppose I better get my running shoes out…

*unlike bungy jumping and flying helicopters

Queenstown is surrounded by mountains. They are a constantly changing and ever-fascinating backdrop. Sunlight filters through the clouds and plays across the slopes like it would on your wall at home through curtains. I woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow on the mountains. A cold sun seeped through grey clouds. It was 5 degrees C at ground level. A week ago I was swimming in the sea at Abel Tasman park.  Lots of countries (including my own) like to think they have changeable weather. NZ takes the biscuit.

Sunrise, Queenstown

It’s also funny to think that less than two weeks ago I was more or less ready to come home. Hahaha. Let me quote for you from my notebook. This would have been about the 6 April, when I was in Picton.

I’ve been feeling tired for the last few days. I’ve had a cold and the temperature has plummeted. It’s the first time I’ve needed to wear a jumper, jeans and a coat. If I’m being honest, I’m just about ready to come home.

Hahahaha. Sorry, I just had to stop there a moment to laugh. Let me continue…

I miss having work, having a structure to my life. I don’t mean routine, I mean working towards something, achieving and creating things. When you’re travelling or on holiday, you really just spend a lot of time looking at stuff. You’re consuming, not creating. This is good and can be inspiring, but for a limited time, I think. I am also increasingly concerned about my dwindling funds and having to find a job when I return. I’m really looking forward to working again, but finding museum jobs is not the easiest thing in the best of times, and it’s certainly not the best of times at the moment.

Blah, blah, blah.  Anyway, today’s photos are brought to you from the Fiordland National Park. It’s a World Heritage Area (i.e. protected land) the size of Wales. There may or may not be extinct giant Moa wandering around.  The beech forest pretty much looks the same as it has for the last 120 million years when NZ split off from the rest of the countries in the southern hemisphere. It’s ridiculously scenic, like most of this flippin country.  Towering mountains, clear rivers and waterfalls, lush green foliage. The vast scale defies your brain’s ability to make sense of it.

See road in bottom right for scale

 Down in Milford Sound it was more of the same, except the colossal mountains fall into the waters of the fjord.

Our boat for the night

Spot the boat in the middle of the picture

We anchored in a sheltered cove overnight and did a spot of kayaking before dinner and a few glasses of wine. The next morning at dawn we cruised out to the Tasman Sea, then back to Milford Sound harbour, spotting a couple of young male fur seals having a fight on a rock. As we approached the harbour we passed through a pod of bottle-nosed dolphins. They swam beneath our bow, their lithe, muscular bodies keeping effortless ahead, breaking away from time to time, leaping into the air.

A misty Milford Sound early this morning

I have spent the last few weeks carefully avoiding thinking or talking about bungy jumping. But all the time I was getting closer and closer to Queenstown. Queenstown is the site of the world’s first commercial bungy, the 43 metre Kawarau Bridge.  If I was going to do it, this was the one. I was still pondering whether to do it (and or a skydive) but made my mind up on the bungy yesterday. I can sky dive anywhere. Doing the Kawaura Bridge is like visiting a museum. With one exhibit.

I don’t like heights, believe me. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a phobia, but I’ve never had the slightest desire to do a bungy jump.

The bus took us out to the site where we signed away all rights, were weighed and then directed up onto the bridge.  I carried on my plan of not thinking about it. I didn’t watch other people jumping. It was pretty cold up on the bridge and I wanted to do the jump in a pink t-shirt (contrasted well with the background vegetation) so that was a distraction. We put on a climbing harness. After about ten minutes of not looking over the sides I was called to sit down on the jump platform. The guy wrapped a towel around my legs and tied it reassuringly tight with straps. Then I was clipped to the thick rubber bungy cord by the leg wraps and the climbing harness.

The guy was making conversation, discussing how deep in the river I was going to go. On this bungy you can be dipped in the river below. They can’t really guarantee how much – just a hand or to your ankles. I wasn’t sure about this whole bit. We agreed on maybe being able to reach out and touch it. I was carefully not looking at the edge the whole time.

Then you have to get up and shuffle (your feet are tied together) to the edge of the platform. This is by far the worst bit. Your toes approach the edge. You feel terribly exposed. The man’s hand on my harness at my waist was my only link with humanity. He pointed out the two cameras to look at. This was not high on my list of things to do. I just wanted to jump. Then the count down starts.

Ah, that camera

3..2…1

I leapt off. I knew I had to do it immediately.  There was a huge rush of cold air. The sight of the blue, blue river rushing towards you. Shouts from the spectators and then, almost gently the bungy draws you back up. My eyes were streaming. A few bounces and you see the yellow recovery raft below you. Dazed you reach out for the long pole and they pull you into the boat. One guy grabs my hands, ‘look at me,’ he says and they lower me gently onto my back in the raft. I lie there. The other guy detaches the bungy cord and makes idle conversation. I think this is just to make sure I’m not doolally. He’s cute, I think, but frankly anyone would look cute right now. Pure adrenaline flows in my veins where there used to be blood.

Immediately I want to do it again.