Cheating on Silversea - Edgy!

October 2024 was a long time ago, right? The world has been busy since then - so it's entirely understandable, isn't it, that despite having researched it thoroughly and writing 800 words of advertising copy about it, my first visit on board Celebrity Edge today was a, cough, voyage of discovery? It was fun to be invited, along with other travel writers, for a tour and a lovely lunch; and despite, thanks to my long-time Silversea connection, my prejudice against big ships, I actually came to see its attractions.

Because Celebrity Edge is BIG. It literally loomed over everything in Auckland's port, dwarfing the ferries and blotting out the Hilton. It is properly massive. It's not actually the biggest there is, by some margin (Icon of the Seas, 7,600 passengers) but, accommodating nearly 3,000 guests on 15 decks, with 30 bars/restaurants and three main swimming pools, it's far from intimate. And it’s way, way bigger than Silver Muse’s scant 600 guests.

The clever thing though is that the designers have catered for snobs like me by their ‘ship with in a ship’ scheme (which is probably not unique). On Edge, the cunningly-named Retreat is accessible only to those who have rooms suites there - some of which have two storeys and private plunge pools. It's all butler service, fancy restaurants, spa, complimentary this and that. Basically, Silversea. 

But, Silversea with access to big-ship add-ons like a decent-sized swimming pool, massive theatre, wide choice of restaurants and entertainment - and the Magic Carpet. This is a tennis-court sized deck on the right starboard side that slides up and down for 13 storeys, as tender access, a lounge or a restaurant. One Aussie passenger I spoke to on it was a loud Celebrity fan - he's done "about 20" cruises with them. Out of 56! (He also took the trouble to inform me that both Celebrity and Silversea are part of the Royal Caribbean group. Gee, thanks, OWM.)

It did help with the ambiance that most of the passengers were, of course, ashore - the bulk of them, it looked to me, queuing for the Waiheke ferry. So it was nice to wander through lightly-populated spaces, enjoying the elegant décor, the artworks, even the remarkably realistic plastic plants. And finishing up in a restaurant where friendly staff delivered a delicious but, afterwards, painfully generously-sized long lunch, followed by cheerfully juggling martini servers, was the crowning touch. So, would I? Would you?

Mooo! (boo hoo)

It was a wild night, weather-wise (for me, there's never any other sort). And though this morning it was still pretty wet, I doughtily grabbed my umbrella and set off to re-acquaint myself with Takapuna, starting with the Firstborn's recommendation of a Beach Cafe almond croissant. Oh, yes. Mouth watering now, at the memory.

Duly fortified, I set off along Hurstmere Road, admiring all the gorgeous houses that are such a contrast to the simple (and infinitely cheaper, despite that $68) campsite life. I cut down then to the coastal track, about which I have written several times in the past and, dodging decent-sized waves breaking over the pathway, and exchanging cheerful greetings with equally wet dog-walkers, made my way back again to my Big Little Campers van, which I am happy to report does not have a vanity mirror. I had a prowl then around central Takapuna's shops and eateries, before setting off for my final - and finally independent - destination.

I felt like an old hand now, driving the van, and the route was initially familiar, so I cruised along the motorway through the city like a professional. A professional who had forgotten to plot the route, so it was a bit of a muddle at the end, but I did eventually roll up at Ambury Park, on the opposite coast's Manukau Harbour, just north of the airport.

It's a working farm open to the public, with camping facilities and lots of walks, and really well presented and especially child-friendly. Except, not today... (foreshadowing). It is also CSC (Certified Self-Contained) like Shakespear, so all I did was access the gated campsite and park. Done! The campsite was neatly mown, open, with lots of trees and views across the farm and the harbour. Peaceful? Hardly - cows mooing, dog barking, sheep baaing, roosters crowing, hens clucking, ducks quacking, pukeko squawking, cicadas clicking... Lovely.

The weather was back to proper summer, so I set off on the Foreshore Walk, an easy stroll through tussocky flats along the harbour edge, with hides, info boards and, again, plenty of pukeko for company. Keen to keep exploring, I headed off in the opposite direction, but the route wasn't clear and I got distracted by meeting Connor. He is a lovely Shire horse who let me pat him, and was willing to eat the grass I picked for him, but was clearly depressed, poor thing - and understandably so. What a shame. I hope he gets a new companion soon.

The other sad thing about today, I was informed by the farmer doing the rounds of every camper on her quadbike, was that the ruckus from the cows was because they were today separated from their calves, who at 6 months old were to be sent to market. They were now in paddocks about 100m apart, well within hearing range, and were calling out to each other continuously. Boo hoo. 

I really regretted having a tin of beef chili arranged for my dinner, especially when I went out for another walk and got up close to both calves and cows - one of whom was a gorgeous Jersey, with enviably long, lush eyelashes, and all of whom were clearly well along in calf again. I tried to distract myself by visiting the goats, pigs, hens and turkeys, but just got hotter and damper in what was later reported to be 100% humidity.

But - no mosquitoes! So I used the van's gas cooker to heat up my dinner outdoors on a picnic table, watched closely by a pukeko, a duck and seven hens/chicks. I shared my dessert cherries with them, charmed to see the hen making sure all the chicks got some. And then, as the evening cooled, I sat in the van with the door open, smugly watching a movie I had cleverly downloaded, and thoroughly enjoying the ambiance. Apart from the constant cow chorus, that is.

Big adventure, little itinerary

My first night in my Big Little Campers van was quiet, snug and comfy, the only disappointment being that I didn't hear a kiwi in the night - Shakespear Regional Park is a wildlife sanctuary, protected by a very serious pest-proof fence, with a good population of little spotted kiwi (accurately named, it turns out). Well-rested, I was up early and energetic enough to test out the upper sleeping area, which is easy to install, but a challenge to clamber into and, I thought, a bit claustrophobic, though other family members disagreed.

We explored one of the reserve's many walks, up a steepish hill past many busy pukeko to a little lookout tower with a very impressive 360 view. Unfortunately, part of the view was looming rainclouds, and they arrived just minutes before we did back at the campsite, so we got soaked. It's still so warm, though, it didn't matter. 

Then I was off by myself again, heading to my next campsite back down on Auckland's North Shore - I am not challenging myself, distance-wise. This trip is all about the journey, not the destination. Nevertheless, I took the scenic route to Takapuna, along the East Coast Bays, having a snoop around seaside suburbs that were once familiar. On my second day now, driving the van was feeling easy, backing and manoeuvring it not at all challenging, and I cruised down to Castor Bay for a break feeing very laid-back. Oh yes, you're right - drama coming up.

I parked above the beach for a snack, and then drove around the turning circle to head back up to the main road, passing underneath a classic big old pohutukawa tree. And then, augh, bang, crunch, scrape. I had forgotten my extra height - 2.7m with the rooftop extension, remember - and I had snagged a low-hanging branch. Oh, the pain and self-recrimination! Coming out the other side, cursing and feeling so stupid, I stopped to review the damage; but I couldn't see high enough. At least, the solar panels weren't hanging over the back.

Chastened, I carried on to Takapuna, where I had booked at the beachside campsite there - this one privately-owned and charging a stinging $68 for the night, compared with Auckland Council's $22 for Shakespear. It is well-placed, though, just down from the busy shopping area with all its restaurants, and only a path's width from the water. The facilities are a bit tired, but I wouldn't normally complain - though this time I am, because of that fee.

Meeting up with the Firstborn and partner (also a BLC partner) I was embarrassed to admit my mistake - but was calmly reassured that there was no serious damage, this sort of thing happened all the time, often much worse, and not to worry. I still did, a bit, but that was good to hear. A tasty dinner from the deservedly popular Beach Cafe right next door settled the remaining nerves, as did a stroll along the beach - famously used as a landing by Charles Kingsford Smith in 1933 in the 'Southern Cross', the plane in which he'd been first to fly across the Tasman Sea in 1928.

And then I settled down again for the night, feeling calmer and more at home - and, incidentally, reassured in this busier, smaller campsite, that the window shading is remarkably effective, so even with the blinds up, no-one can see inside. On a windy, rainy night, the campervan was a very snug and cosy place to be - especially since that stinging $68 includes WiFi, and I'd got my devices charged during the drive.

Vanlife experiment

Today I did some work! Which, of course, for a travel writer, means gadding off on holiday (sorry). But this one wasn’t without some tension, mild drama and anxiety - so, not your average downtime. My assignment was to write an account of campervanning for beginners, which I honestly thought I was. Turns out, back in 2009 (pre-blog) I did a week-long tour in a Britz van through Australia's Northern Territory, which included locking our hubs to bump along dirt tracks and plough through creeks with the water up to the top of our wheel-arches. Pretty vivid experience, you'd think - but I had quite forgotten. Lots of other stuff has happened since...

Anyway, instead of being part of a group, with guides, and sharing the driving duties with another writer, this time I was all on my own, so I reckon it counts. The van this time was a Toyota Hiace with a roof-top extension that made it a towering 2.7m high, lent to me by Big Little Campers. One of the partners of which is a family partner, to be transparent. That meant my pick-up was made convenient for me (only involving one bus and two ferries) and my introduction to the vehicle was probably a bit more casual than usual - though I do know they provide full support to their renters.

So it wasn't too long before I was off on my adventure, driving cautiously along familiar roads, even to the supermarket for some provisions, and then, gasp, onto the motorway. It was reassuring that my bulk made me noticeable to other drivers, and that handling it quickly became easy. I enjoyed sitting much higher than usual. At no stage did I get into car-mode, though - the sloshing of the watertank right behind me, and the rattle of cutlery in the drawer were constant reminders that this was a proper campervan.

My destination was modest - Shakespear Regional Park, just a bit to the north of the city - but the actual location was a novelty: a self-contained campsite. That is, only for campers and caravans that have all their own water, power and tanks. So when I had wound my way along to the end of the Whangaparaoa Peninsula, all I had to do was pull on the handbrake, open the sliding door to the main body of the van and there I was, set up.

BLC calls this van the Big One, because its roof extension means it can sleep one person more than the Small One's two occupants. You'd have to be on good terms, though - it's amusing (and realistic) that the company recommends everyone has their own headphones and eyemask - and I was glad to have it all to myself.

Full disclosure, though: the Baby and family, experienced campers, were right next door, full of advice and reassurance.

Shakespear (named after the original farming family, hence no final -e) was new to me, and lovely: quiet, rural, wide sandy bay looking across to distant Rangitoto and the city beyond, hills behind, big old pohutukawa trees scattered over the site, which was far from crowded (apart from a remarkable number of pukeko/marsh hens). It's become a very warm summer, so the sea was inviting despite today’s cloud, and the afternoon passed pleasantly, finishing with a bbq and family chat.

Getting ready for bed I got fidgety, but entirely because of being a novice. The too-dim lights I didn't know had 3 settings. The flashing CO2 monitor was easily covered up. The noisy fridge can be turned off overnight. My phone would have been charged up if I had brought a cord with the right plug. And the reserve had a toilet block, to my relief, because I was a bit anxious about using the in-van loo - but turns out that was no big deal either.

And the bed was comfy, cosy and spacious (for one), and the night very dark and peaceful, with only cicadas and the occasional shrieking pukeko breaking the silence. Good start.

Super Bowl Monday

It was both a trip back in time today, and also into an alternate reality - one where I am interested in sport. Specifically, the weird world of NFL, where bulked-up real-life avatars with helmet heads run around on artificial grass in a strange sort of choreography, apparently avidly followed by millions.

The reason I was nominally one of them was an out-of-the-blue, but very welcome, invite from Brand USA to the launch of Louisiana's new 'Feed Your Soul' promotion. Regular😄readers will recall that, having been to New Orleans for IPW in 2016, after spending a few days exploring Lafayette beforehand, I am both very familiar with, and a huge fan of, Louisiana cuisine. Sadly, FISH restaurant on Auckland's waterfront couldn't come up with any really authentic dishes, but they did their best, and I tottered away after a delicious lunch very satisfied - and also clutching a gifted table flower arrangement which coincidentally matched the top I was wearing. I hadn't actually registered that gold, purple and green are the Mardi Gras colours, so that was fortuitous. Shame the receptionist who took this photo as I left was even less on the ball than me.

The Super Bowl game (taking place in the New Orleans Superdome, the Philadelphia Eagles v Kansas City Chiefs, for readers as vague about such things as I am) was live on a big screen above us as we - other travel writers and reporters, Brand USA reps, the Australian promotors Gate7, travel agents - sat and ate and chatted about all sorts of things, and occasionally glanced up to see what the score was. Apparently it was not an exciting game, the Chiefs falling well short of what was required to secure their three-peat and, according to the Americans in the room, the play overall was less than gripping. Can't say it was much of a disappointment to me. I preferred to remember my own time in the Superdome, for the IPW opening, when there was music of all sorts, ditto dance and food, and finally indoor fireworks.

What was lovely about today (which really was Monday because we're ahead on time here in NZ, as well as on much else) was being able to share stories and impressions of our various Louisiana experiences (including my terrifying self-drive from Lafayette to Avery Island and - thankfully still in one piece - back again); to envy the lucky writer soon to head off to take part in a Mardi Gras parade; and to get a taste of the Before Times, when events like this were regular, and often accompanied by similar invites to me. Sigh.

Big news

 Well, how about that? Some good news! Though with a tinge of sadness, of course. This is Burma who was, until just a couple of months ago, the star of Auckland Zoo. Never mind tigers, giraffes, even orangutans and rhino, the sheer bulk of an elephant is always going to make the most dominant impression. Plus, Burma was sweet and lonely, having been on her own for the last two years since her companion went overseas - as Burma was meant to too, but it fell through (not literally, thank goodness).

But finally a new set-up was sorted, a herd for her to help found after too many years of loneliness, and she was trucked then flown away in her specially-built container. Right about now she should be meeting her first fellow herd member, another female, with three more including a young male to follow later. Add in a much bigger enclosure with varied terrain, and the comforting presence of her keeper, 25 years in the job and now also translocated, and it looks like being a happy ending. Yay.

There are still, though, plenty of elephants in other countries not just imprisoned in zoos, but also being made to work in poor conditions - I’ve seen them myself, in India and Thailand. I’ve even, ashamed to say, ridden on them a couple of times in tourism set-ups. Those are starting to disappear now, hooray, as we all become more aware, and there are some really good sanctuaries working hard to rescue them from poor conditions, like Elephant Hills in Thailand, where I haven’t been, and the Sheldrick Wildlife Trust in Kenya, where I have.

African elephants are too big and wild to be domesticated and mistreated like Asian ones, but there they are not only poached for their ivory, but also get caught in nasty bushmeat snares, fall into wells and are attacked by farmers wanting to protect their crops. The Sheldrick Trust does brilliant work rescuing them (expensive business - helicopters are involved) and looking after orphans till they can be released again (expensive business - takes years). Their nursery just outside Nairobi is a great place to visit, and it’s guaranteed you’ll want to support them (I do). 

King Charles is following in my footsteps today

Having (see Update, right) officially given in to the inescapable fact that all my blog connections are now disaster-related, I could hardly ignore today's horrific anniversary. Eighty years since the Red Army arrived at Auschwitz and stunned the world with what they found.

I visited the site in 2012 and, while I can't remember what today's Wordle was, I can still feel that awful combination of shock, disbelief and depression that just got stronger and stronger as we were shown around by Monika, the granddaughter of a survivor. The focus and organisation that went into making the whole process impressively efficient was in its way almost as appalling as what was actually done there: ie the murders of more than a million men, women and children, 90% of them Jews, plus Russian POWs, gypsies, homosexuals, and Poles. 

The place was neat, and empty apart from shuffling groups of silent tourists like ours, listening to our guides giving the numbers, the details, the stories. We were shown the displays of mounds of hair (the Nazis harvested 7 tonnes, for use as ropes, or woven into cloth - "exploiting corpses," Monika said), tangles of spectacles, heaps of assorted shoes, piles of labelled leather suitcases (they thought they were going to a new life), stacks of crutches and artificial limbs. Nothing was wasted, even the victims' ashes used as fertiliser in the fields.

We went through the brick barracks where the prisoners slept crammed into tiered bunks, exhausted after 11-hour days of physical labour on starvation rations. They, of course, were the lucky ones - most went straight to the gas chambers, though some were selected for whimsical medical experiments.

We went into the courtyard to see the rebuilt Wall of Death, where prisoners were shot, and the two sadistic punishment posts for hanging people by their wrists, which were tied behind their backs. 

We saw the tiny standing cells in the blacked-out basement, each one metre square, to hold four prisoners. We passed the yard where they all stood for the daily Appels, which sometimes took 12 hours (the record was 19). We went into the gas chamber, which masqueraded as a shower block but it was Zyklon B gas that came out of the ceiling vents, not water. Next door was the furnace, with a cleverly efficient transfer device for loading corpses into the flames. And then we stood and looked at the gallows where SS Obersturmbannführer Rudolf Höss was hanged in 1947.

We drove then to nearby Birkenau, to see the row of reconstructed wooden barracks, each one crammed with 3-level bunks. Thin walls, no windows, open latrines, stifling in summer, literally freezing in winter, overrun by rats. Outside is the railway line, which ends here, in both senses. Beyond were the foundations of row after row of more barracks, destroyed by the Germans before they fled.

"Forgive, but never forget," said Monika. And remember, too, that this not a uniquely German phenomenon. People all over the world have done, are doing, similar things - if perhaps not quite so efficiently.

Have a good day.