Day Monkeys: In full bloom- the Rhododendron Dell, Port Chalmers NZ.

Read the first part of this walk H E R E.
So anyway, we descended Grey St , past the surprising number of eateries that lurk in the pit of George St (without succumbing to their mysterious starch-laden traction) and then headed uphill, voluntarily.  I know.  

< The first item of interest encountered on this particular leg is ye olde Chicks Hotel, that ancient bastion of moderate-to-ill repute, perennially half-ruined and yet still a live venue to reckon with.  If you can't afford the door charge, just stand around outside- it's all the same.  BELOW  The beauteous Monkey Puzzle tree, Araucaria araucana.

<  Another bloody hill, this time up and around the Iona Church (1871), looking pagoda-esque at the moment with all the scaffolding as its clock gets its... clock cleaned.

ABOVE RIGHT  No shit.

At this point in the topographical game, it's 30º and more all the hairpinny way and even with the promise implicit at left, you do sort of long for the one featured at right to end your suffering, because I don't know about you but my lungs are trying to exit my chest through my mouth.  There's another 250m of altitude to gain before we attain the peak overlooking the upper harbour.

LEFT   See what I mean?  45º (the wide angle flattens it out).  This bitch is my personal bête noire and at any point in its conquest I look like the wind changed during my audition for Aliens XVII: Fucking Kill Everything.   BELOW  Oh hey, another hill.  Rhododendron Dell entrance at left thank christ, because our lips are blue and our left arms are tingling.

Behold.  Two slightly wonky panoramas of the Lady Thorn Dell, an old quarry slathered in historic seamens' (lol) tagging and stuffed to its bluestone gills with those species of plants most pleasing to our elders.  It overlooks the Port Otago site (to the right in the shot below). 

A lot of people think of Port Chalmers as a quaint dump, and to some extent it still is, having neither the means nor will to outrun history, but the more we walk and compare, the happier we are in our choice of domicile. 

There are not too many parts of the developed world where you can enjoy this sort of thing without the experience being ruined by thick clots of your own species.  We arrived midmorning and the old amphitheatre was gloriously empty, except for a family of smoky blue welcome swallows who were nesting in the cliffs, diving after the loose clouds of midges drifting overhead and singing their chittery little songs on the rocks.  They are such a strange little bird, so puissant and self-possessed.

The southerly wind that had been scraping across the bay for a week was excluded by the hillside and the cool air it had dumped in this secluded little cirque was dew-heavy and fragrant with those pale green and gold-stained notes peculiar to scented rhododendrons.  Combined, they yield a smell that is something like honeysuckle at dawn and lily of the valley, twisted sideways by the disturbing sweetness of the last magnolia blossoms.  The ground was carpeted in wood chips, both new and old, and the stone itself offered another olfactory dimension, expanding and exhaling as the sun rose.  It was high enough in the sky now to prickle your skin pink after five minutes and the shade promised infinite evergreen respite.

If I've learnt anything in my 40 years, it's this: never deny yourself a simple pleasure.  Never apologise for doing so.  There is no time like the present to piss away an hour or two looking at and breathing in flowers.

Stop what you are doing and just enjoy this.  There is no why.  There is no later.  Now is perfect.

Part three still to come.

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