Susan Buckland: Poplars frame lakes with gold

COMMENT


When autumn arrives I feel the tug of Central. The heart of Otago celebrates the "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness" in spectacular style. Under piercing blue skies and mountains dusted with early snow, leaves turn red and gold. The mountains, rivers, lakes and valleys bathe in crackling alpine air. I like to think that the Romantic poet John Keats, who so exquisitely captured the English autumn in his ode, would have been impressed by Central.

At Easter I flew out of Auckland, where the change in season has been struggling to make an impact, and landed in Central.

In this southern part of the world there's no half-hearted slide from summer. Central anchors her seasons. Already I had seen the Clutha rushing past the trees and dancing with the reflected colours of autumn; the alps plunging into lakes and everything glistening in the bright sun. I had to see them again. And I felt sure that the cold, windy weather forecast for the start of Easter would disappear.

The wind settled after a defiant one-night stand. By morning it had taken itself off, leaving a cloudless sky. Perfect weather for Warbirds over Wanaka, the ninth international airshow to have thrilled the crowds since its creator, Sir Tim Wallis, got it off the ground. In between their daring aerobatics, the pilots of the fighter planes from various parts of the world must have got as splendid a view of the terrain below as we had of them soaring and looping against an etched background of mountains.

I craned my neck beside an elderly man who knew the names of every aircraft whooshing skywards. He hadn't missed any of the biannual Warbird events since they began in Wanaka in the late 80s. Don Middleton is his name, one of the first two pilots to fly supplies and passengers into the Southern Alps for Mt Cook Airlines. And he wouldn't want to live anywhere else but Central.

On our left was the second man to walk on the moon, craning his neck at all the aircraft with the rest of us.

"Good afternoon," I said to Buzz Aldrin, the special guest at this year's Warbirds event. "Magnificent," he said, gesturing towards the mountains.

You're so right, Mr Aldrin. It's hard not to be gobsmacked by the gorgeousness of our South Island high country. Especially at this time of the year. If I hadn't felt the famous astronaut had probably talked himself hoarse with people like me asking him what he thought of our patch, I would have tipped him off to my latest discovery in these parts.

Just beyond Treble Cone on the banks of the Matukituki River, a two-hour walk up through beech forest brings you face to face with the Rob Roy Glacier. I sat on a rock up there, silenced like the few others who had hiked up to Rob Roy. A kea alighted on the rock to inspect my jacket just as there was a sound of distant thunder beyond the icy wall above. The kea continued his inspection while an avalanche gathered speed and crashed down the precipitous walls of ice and snow like a waterfall. He (this audacious parrot must have been a male) had seen all this stunning stuff before.

So now I'm home again and comparing the gentle attire of Auckland's autumn with its dashing southern counterpart. Right now, poplars are framing the lakes and fields of Central Otago with gold.

Oh well, they say the humid air of Auckland is kinder to the skin than the dry mountain air. I'll try to keep that in mind as the damp of winter arrives up here and I think of Central hunkering down for her own season of brilliant skies and crystal, dazzling whiteness.