Linda Herrick travels the length and breadth of New Zealand by rail, heading for the town she grew up in.
It might seem strange to travel by train from Auckland for three days to somewhere you can fly to in a couple of hours. Actually, make that three days on a train, a ferry, two more trains, then a bus.
But when you really need to wind down, the train is a great tranquilliser - you don't have to think about driving carefully, air turbulence, or airport security. You simply get on, sit down and go with the click-clack rhythm of the swaying carriage. It's something to do with that saying about it being the journey that matters, not the destination.
If you're flying, you don't see much of a country, but a train is the perfect vehicle for fans of minutiae - animals, birdlife, bush - as well as the grandness of mountains, lakes and coast. And then there are all of those people who wave at the train as it passes by. They still do that in New Zealand, and it's charming.
But there is a rather significant drawback to travelling by train in this country: our trains go hardly anywhere, and they certainly don't go to my destination, a place easily accessible by plane, Westport.
Friends asked: why Westport? Call it a delayed form of homesickness. I grew up in Westport. I hated it then.
It seemed all right when I was little, when the world was no bigger than the distance between the beach and the ice cream shop. But with adolescence came change. There was nothing to do in Westport, or so I thought, except dream of life in the big smoke.
And so I left almost as soon as it was legal to quit school. Westport was blocked from my mind, with one proviso: my parents still lived there. Annual visits were mandatory - long, expensive journeys by plane.
Those visits stopped when both parents died, many years ago now. My sister and I popped down a year after mum's funeral to scatter her ashes and enjoy some whitebait sandwiches.
No reason, we thought at the time, to bother with Westport anymore.
But over the past few years, Westport has started to bother me. I've become rather nostalgic, dwelling on good memories, of which there are quite a few more than I bothered to tally in those confusing teenage years. Friendly people. No crime. Good food, like crayfish and whitebait. Peace and quiet. Wild lonely beaches. Fantastic bushland. Amazing sunsets ...
And so, with a nice break ahead of me, I decided to go "home" again, slowly, by train, and savour every minute.
A word of warning: if you intend to travel by train, don't be like me and waltz in to buy tickets a day before departing. Organising petty details, like booking Tranz Scenic routes in advance, will save you a bucket of money.
My first rendezvous was on Platform 3 of Auckland's Britomart Centre, to catch the Overlander, departing at 9.15am. Well, that was the plan, but by 9.30am we hadn't budged.
In the days ahead, the timetable often proved elastic. But my goal, remember, was not to stress, to be laidback at all times. Late is cool.
Eventually our collection of carriages started and we were finally clicking smartly through the backyards of south Auckland - it certainly gave a sociological perspective not afforded by other modes of transport.
I hadn't been on a train in New Zealand for decades, but the bad old bone-rattling days have gone. The Overlander has modern stuff like reclining seats, heating and a buffet car (I recommend the bangers'n'mash with onion gravy).
A glassed-in observation area at the rear offers the luxury of 360-degree engagement with the panorama.
Train travel also means you have to tolerate some of your fellow passengers, like the older American couple at the far end of the carriage who delivered loud Republican worldviews to a captive audience.
Best to surrender to the windows, as the suburban backyards gave way to emerald Waikato farmland and the excitement (for a city slicker) of seeing outdoorsy-type animals such as sheep and horses and cows.
Come mid-afternoon, as we raced through National Park, the land changed from careful cultivation to bare and wild, with ingeniously engineered bridges and passes, such as the Raurimu Spiral, spanning the chasms and gorges. Misty views of Tongariro, Ruapehu and our very own Mt Doom, Ngauruhoe, were gasp-making.
Inconveniently, darkness fell at around the time we got to Palmerston North, and it was time to think about other things, such as the buffet car, until rattling into Wellington well after 9pm - late.
The next day, after cruising on the Interislander across an azure Cook Strait to Picton, the TranzCoastal took us along the Pacific coastline down to Christchurch.
This six-hour journey was rather remarkable, not just because of the spectacular scenery on either side. We seemed to be trapped in the company of a guard or steward, or whatever they call themselves these days, who was doing a comedy club audition. Over the intercom, he hammered us with the cheesiest jokes, but people were in a good mood and laughed, and groaned.
Outside, the view on either side was phenomenal, with snow on the Kaikoura Ranges on the right, and wild rocky coastline on the left. The land is spartan, with vineyards creeping further south. Dozens of small tunnels bore through the rocky outcrops - but in terms of engineering effort, the TranzCoastal is a doddle compared with the next day's big kahuna, the TranzAlpine through the Southern Alps.
It's a ride rightly nominated as one of the most dramatic in the world, cutting across the Canterbury Plains, then heading through Arthur's Pass National Forest and all that evokes: huge, soaring mountains, icy rivers and streams, lush forests, the scars of erosion.
Everything on this route seems dramatic and looming - and very lonely. Which made the departure at Otira, one of the most isolated places on the journey, of a large party of tourists from Taiwan, odd. Where were they going? Why were some still wearing Sars masks?
I was even more astonished to discover, as we hurtled out of the 8500m-long Otira Tunnel, a new millionaires' holiday suburb at Moana, on the shores of Lake Brunner.
"The new Wanaka," our commentator informed us. Yes, there's money in them thar hills . .
We were about an hour late getting into Greymouth, well after the timetabled 12.45pm, but the linking bus to Westport was still waiting, and my excitement was mounting. The driver made up for lost time on the coast road, a sweat-inducing exercise regularly marked with hair-pin bends above high cliffs.
That stretch of the coast, north of Greymouth, is semi-subtropical and gorgeous, lined with the nikau palms iconised by Stanley Palmer's prints. Smoke puffed out of little huts' chimneys along the coastline, the road was dotted with penguins-crossing signs, and the bizarre rock formations that characterise Punakaiki became more defined.
At Punakaiki itself, where the tourists raced off to see the Pancake Rocks, I lingered over a whitebait sandwich, sprinkled with black pepper and salt - surely one of the most delicious culinary treats in the world.
Then we were back on the bus and the countdown was on - my own Daughter For the Return Home mini-odyssey.
The names rang familiar: Fox River, Four Mile River, Madmans Creek, Totara Flats, the old cemeteries for the gold miners (one for the Catholics, one the Protestants), the turnoff to Cape Foulwind, then - woo hoo! - across the mighty Buller River and into town.
After three days of getting there, I was knackered. Thank god the Westport Motor Hotel on the main street lived up to its motto "where a friendly welcome awaits you". It offered some very fine food in the restaurant - hosted by ginger tabby Baillie, who strolled around the tables meeting and greeting every guest - then it was lights out in a bed that felt like air.
Early next morning, the town was bathed in a low mist with not a breath of wind. I walked out to my old family home, on the other side of the Orowaiti River on the northern side of town. The lone white heron we used to watch through the kitchen window was still in the middle of the estuary - or maybe that was one of its offspring. There was no sound, except for dripping water and the gentle wash of the tidal waters.
As I walked back to town, a kindly old gentleman stopped his car and asked if I wanted a lift. Anywhere else, I'd be writing down the licence number.
I spent the day walking around the streets, looking at places where my school friends used to live. People still lingered at their gates at 3pm, waiting for the delivery of the Westport News. A lot of them said hello, even though they didn't have a clue who I was.
It all seemed comforting and familiar. Except there was something I hadn't noticed when I was young: Westport people appeared to be awfully cheerful. When I mentioned this to the lady who runs the hotel, she answered quick as a flash: "That's because they've got time to be cheerful."
I had a good look around, and even eyed some real estate, but I didn't stay in Westport for long. I had obligations back in Auckland and I needed to get back faster than the three days it would take on a train. So I boarded the bus that would take me back up to Picton, and suddenly noticed with a pang the hotel where my eldest sister, now dead, had her wedding reception.
I think it was the same hotel where the week's big crime had been reported in the Westport News: a youth broke into the hotel and stole - a tent. Boy, what a crime wave.
Now, where exactly is that place called home?
TRANZ SCENIC JOURNEYS
The Overlander travels daily between Auckland and Wellington, leaving from Britomart at 9.15am.
The standard fare at peak times, such as school holidays, is $123, but you can make considerable savings by advance booking: economy fare offers a 15 per cent discount, saver and super saver fares offer 30 per cent and 50 per cent discounts (not available in peak periods).
The Northerner runs between Auckland and Wellington overnight, leaves at 8.25pm and has a super saver fare of $64.
The TranzCoastal between Picton and Christchurch is timetabled to meet the Picton ferry; full fare is $99, with discounts on offer. The special backpacker carriage fare is $35.
The TranzAlpine between Christchurch and Greymouth, leaving at 8.15am, has a full fare of $99, and offers a super saver of $50.
The InterIslander sails between Wellington and Picton five times a day, with a full fare of $50 an adult, and advance-book discounts of $35 and $30. Fares and discounts for children and vehicles vary considerably depending on the season; check www.interislandline.co.nz
Greymouth-Westport: InterCity bus, daily, $27
Westport-Picton Atomic Shuttles bus, daily, $45.
