Depending on just how fat/unfit/sizzling and muscular I'm feeling, the climb up to the Scott memorial on the hill overlooking Port is either an arsebusting ordeal or an act of semi-senescent affirmation. The route is a compressed passage through various miniature clines; town, outskirts, rural then bush within about one click of the main street.
The shitty old tarmac gets slimy under the macrocarpas in winter. It skirts the Port then opens out into the cemetery overlooking Careys Bay, although the view is getting overgrown.
Kereru come down to drink the water pooling on the oldest graves, waddling across the turf on their stumpy cherry legs.
The shitty old tarmac gets slimy under the macrocarpas in winter. It skirts the Port then opens out into the cemetery overlooking Careys Bay, although the view is getting overgrown.
Kereru come down to drink the water pooling on the oldest graves, waddling across the turf on their stumpy cherry legs.
We take pictures from the top but they're never really satisfying; there's something about the layout of the town and harbour that defeats meaningful capture or at least relegates it to chocolate box inanity. It's a shitty little camera. A poor work person always blames their tools.
The walk down is extremely satisfying.
The walk down is extremely satisfying.
The church looks like some sort of gigantic petrified goblin, peering over its shoulder or glaring monocularly down on the houses it will one day mash underfoot once the (largely) unsuspected curse is lifted. No groups of dark-garbed heretics should ever pour out a forty whilst doing anal in a circle around a modest burning effigy within sight of this malefic clocktower.
Just saying.
Just saying.
 |  Closed closed fucking closed. Chinese wet (they mean wildlife trafficking/torture) markets slapped the hot chocolate right out of my hand and may yet fill my lungs with pus and kill my partner; I'm not alright with that. I'm not alright with bat delicacies and bullshit medicinal claims. But it could just have easily been pig concentration camps in the American South or some crap chicken farm in Auckland. Quackery and cruelty got us here. Let's remember that. |
 See? Baleful. |  |
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 |  Well I've always thought that but no one ever listens to me. |
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No I haven't finished; more to come.
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