As a born and bred Cantabrian and a stranger to Hawke's Bay until 18 months ago, I continue to be amazed by the weather.
Some of the more vivid memories of my student days in Christchurch include waking up to the winter frosts. So cold was the temperature inside theold student flats, lying in bed my every exhalation looked like steam from a boiling jug.
Each morning it was a painstakingly slow wait for the shower to warm, and the puddles on the pavement were treacherously frozen over during the walk to class. These frosts could sometimes linger until midday. And on a bad day, the bone chilling wind felt like it was attacking exposed flesh.
These are fond memories and this is no complaint. Intertwined with these frosty memories are the Saturday morning sports victories, the cold beers beside bar room fireplaces and the steaming hot bowls of pumpkin soup.
Here my mid-winter morning drive to work is often sunny, blue and bright. MetService's overnight low for Christchurch last night was forecast to be -4C, while Hastings and Napier were 0C and 2C, respectively.
But I'm sure the day I leave Hawke's Bay, the memories will be just as fond, just as vivid. The summer surfing, continuing until the sun dips completely about 9pm, is in water which feels like a lukewarm bath. The summer's blazing hot Saturday afternoons are spent lazily watching cricket, the wineries are abundant and the beach days relentless.
The two regions and the respective seasons do have their differences, but neither should be condemned. Because while I'm well aware I'm looking back through rose-tinted glasses, I like to think the two sets of memories give me a firm appreciation for their counterparts.
