 ^ This is Victory Place, the start of our roughly 7 km circuit as delineated in the map to the right. This leg, our ascent to the hilltop over Scott Memorial, appears in fuchsia, with our homeward meander around Back Beach sketched out in satsuma. We'll be heading along Wickliffe Terrace, up Currie St, down Grey, up Mount, off road altogether, and then down Cemetery Rd blah blah. Confused? Never mind. | With the onset of spring and the prospect of extensive spring cleaning, we've become suddenly and incredibly mindful of our health and have decided to go for a lot of big fucking walks instead. Because housework; it can eat a bowl of dicks for a little while longer. What say you, constant readers? On my mark, unleash hell.  |
A year ago I would have beaten you with a switch for suggesting I walk uphill at pace for a sustained period. It's amazing what ditching a sizeable volume of delicious lard can do for a person; I highly recommend it to anyone looking to become an obsessive self-righteous health bore complete with lengthy exhortative monologues on a permanent basis. If all this sounds idyllic, as you're reading perhaps imagine me droning, slightly breathlessly, about the latest nutrition research whilst walking too fucking quickly up a 20º grade. Our dog drags on the lead a lot and raves at other dogs like a psychopath; we're constantly reassuring/apologising to strangers. It's the start of the good weather so we're already sweating under three layers; the sun is hitting you right in the backs of your eyes and we forgot our water bottle. You're wishing you were here right now, aren't you? Aren't you? Blink twice for no.
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 ^ Port is still heaving with Victorian dwellings in native timber, ballast Baltic Pine, local bluestone and various states of repair. This is Ida's (RIP) old house in Wickliffe T. It looks like two scoops of white ice-cream studded with frilly sundae wafers. | BELOW It hates usssss  |
 Those look like leather Chucks. Does anyone have a really long stick?   | < Up onto Currie St, with its rather lavish array of bluestone cottages and fancy two-storey homesteads.    |
^ Funny story. We almost bought this enormous rimu villa (above left) back when we first moved to Port, (it could have been ours for about 90 grand) but couldn't afford it. Did I say funny story? I meant true.
 | BELOW The huge and totally super-dooper Doctor's House on Currie, probably the fanciest private building in Port with a fantastic array of balconies that open to the north. I believe (hope) it has some sort of heritage status but you never know around here.  |
Many if not most of the Christchurch examples of this grand format were munted in the recent earthquakes, both by seismic activity and the dreadful attentions of overly expedient owners and insurance companies after the fact. As with most things, some of the worst aspects of any natural disaster are anthropogenic.
 BELOW We're hanging a left and heading downwards onto Grey St with the Town Hall to the right at the end of the street and the Port Otago buildings just past them in the centre background. George St, the main drag, is out of sight to the left, across from Port Otago at the bottom of the hill. I've lost you, haven't I?  | < Still on Currie st. Our house is pretty crappy too, so I shouldn't judge, but fuck it. This perplexing shitbox has been in this state since we arrived about 18 years ago, and for no small time before, obviously. Yes, it is occupied; yes, that is a satellite dish; no, I'm not sure if the doorknob comes off in your hand. Oozes charm. And other stuff. BELOW It hatessss usssss.   ^ Pink camellias beside the Manse on Grey St featured below. Another red brick Victorian monster, second only to the Doctor's House in grandeur. |
| BELOW The Manse Hound. This lovely silky chestnut sausage dog steps down toward the gate and delivers a considered number of highborn, resonant and slightly disinterested woofs before sighing and asking if you're coming in or not with his chocolatey eyes.  |  |
ABOVE RIGHT Rows of old shopfronts on Grey St. BELOW Town Hall, just across from them.
Right, so we're at the bottom of this hill and juuuust about to head up another and into the wilds proper when I cut this pictorial short and condemn you to the infernal limbo of yet another fucking serialisation. Will we make it past the Port Royal café with its beguiling and eternal sillage of frying bacon or will our scenic quest for fitness end with a face plant into a plate of crispy pig and cinnamon pinwheels with maybe some hot chocolate on the side, even though there are no marshmallows in that shit?
Right, so we're at the bottom of this hill and juuuust about to head up another and into the wilds proper when I cut this pictorial short and condemn you to the infernal limbo of yet another fucking serialisation. Will we make it past the Port Royal café with its beguiling and eternal sillage of frying bacon or will our scenic quest for fitness end with a face plant into a plate of crispy pig and cinnamon pinwheels with maybe some hot chocolate on the side, even though there are no marshmallows in that shit?
Find out. Next Week. In Part II.
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