Some dance to Remember, some dance to Forget

My top Favourite Five, in no particular order (mostly because they would all fight and argue over who should occupy the Number One spot!) 

Thank you so much to Don Henley and Glen Frey (1976),  Bob Geldof (1979), Bryan Adams and Jim Vallance (1984), David Bowie (1971), and Don McLean (1971) for the memorable words and the countless musical artists who have performed these five works for our enjoyment...

Here are five excerpts which I have often "hummed" to myself when walking around or doing some monotonous task.

1  (6:30)

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim

2  (3:56)

The silicon chip inside her head
Gets switched to Overload
And nobody's gonna go to school today
She's going to make them stay at home.

3  (7:42)

Standin' on your mama's porch
You told me that you'd wait forever
Oh, and when you held my hand
I knew that it was now or never

4  (4:02)

It's a God-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go

5  (8:42)

But February made me shiver
With every paper I'd deliver
Bad news on the doorstep
I couldn't take one more step

The Times They Are A-Changing

Released just before I wrote my final school exams in 1964, Bob Dylan wrote:

"...Your sons and your daughters

Are beyond your command

Your old road is 

Rapidly ageing.

Please get out of the new one

If you can't lend your hand

For the times they are a-changin' ..."

Whilst there are all sorts of explanations as to what he is saying, there can be no disputing that places change with time. Familiar places can change dramatically over time, and a visit down Yesterday's Lane can be quite sobering sometimes.

Just before leaving Cape Town in 2013, we drove around a bit, visiting familiar spots and ones not quite so familiar. 

Like the site of one of the first schools in which I was incarcerated I was taught at Simondium. I stopped and parked on the verge under some ancient oak trees, probably planted by the founders way back in 1852. It is now known as the Simond Private School.  

It amazing what one can learn from Facebook half way around the world, who would have thought?

Wow, even a school-badge! From 1954 to 2016 the time has been a-changing!

The country road through the Drakenstein Valley was quite on that hot afternoon, and my mind flashed back to 1954-ish as my foot trod awkwardly on a large acorn : I remembered us having to collect all the acorns in the grassy school grounds on what-they-called a "lawn" so that the new-fangled lawnmower blades would not be damaged! At the time I was tiny, and the school was also tiny, held in the old church building -- I suspect our class was conducted in the vestry. And the class teacher did the mowing of the "lawn" - and his pigs were given the acorns -- we were told.

What brought on this bout of nostalgia? Well, I was checking something on Googlemaps and somehow I saw a Google Earth photo of Reikorangi. Curious to see whether the date, I found that the aerial shot is 2016, and sure enough, the roof of our extension (yellow arrow) is now clearly visible. For other readers, who have asked the question, Goat Hill, home of the famous ex-refugee Jean-Pierre Goatiere is the area in the yellow rectangle:

53 Kents Road, showing the roof of the 'North Wing' extension and the Goat Hill 'camp'

They say I'm an inquisitive busybody, but I like to called myself a curious explorer-discoverer. So, true to form, I checked what Number 53 looked like in 2008 and 2009. Google Earth is good in that respect.

Taken last year, whilst Tyler was still on a 'Learner's Licence plate.
This was before August, before the driveway was cast and the wooden gate fitted.

2008 - See how small the trees were? Apparently the property was for sale at that time.

A year later in 2009

Staglands

Today has been another such fantastic summer's day ('epic', I believe is the more appropriate description) here in Reikorangi, so Jeanette dares me to go see the ducks in the zoo. Not only ducks, but peacocks and geese and swans and pigs and horses and goats and stags. Not at the zoo either, but at a similar venue, at a nature preserve called Staglands, just across the Tararua mountain range behind us. And, as icing on the cake, we would travel the winding zig-agging mountain pass road of Akatarawa Hill Road, guaranteed to bring on car sickness for some people.

The sign declaring the road 'OPEN' and indicator board to Staglands 17km outside St Andrew's Church

Either my driving ability and Jeanette's confidence in my safety standards have vastly improved, or she has become more travel-resistant in mountainous areas. More New Zealand-proof. Good on yer.

Rolling mountains and valleys all around us. In winter, this may all be snow-capped. Great views from the top!

Detailed farming scenes in the valleys. That's the Tasman Sea coast in the distance.

Some pics around Staglands...

Donkey talk: Do my ears make my bum look big?  Naaaw... Don't behave like such an Ass!

You must give me the name of your stylist, darling!
I washed my hair last week, and now I can't do a thing with it!

I can still hear that baritone William Warfield in Showboat singing Ol' Man River
... he jes' keeps rollin' along.

If you put your mind to it, you can bring out the best in anything.
Here a bunch of weeds are made to look like prize florals.

Oooo! Tickles...

Now there's a good fella. You'd make a good pal for Jean-Pierre. Or would you?

A Bridge runs over it.

Next? Open all hours...

Now that's a real beer, no?

This is called a PILLORY -- not a lot of people know that. Hmmm. Pillories were set up to hold petty criminals in marketplaces, crossroads and other public places. They were often on platforms to increase public visibility of the offender. Often a placard detailing the crime was placed nearby; these punishment generally lasted only a few hours.
As the old back isn't so flexible anymore, and the sand-fleas bite like buggers, it was agreed that I could pretend that my head was in the proper headlock. BRIGHT IDEA -- this punishment could be brought back again???

I Broke The Law

The World, nay, indeed the Universe, is subject to all sorts of rules. Laws of Physics (I think). Most of them are universally accepted and then there are others which are quite localised, and perhaps only accepted by a small minority -- or even merely a few poor souls with nothing better to do.

I probably fall into the latter category. Like Einstein, I have developed certain Laws. Like, for instance, my Laws of Water.

Yes, Laws of Water, which have to be obeyed by water. Or else there'll be trouble. Even if we try to get the water to behave like criminals and break the laws. So, strictly speaking, I am probably the law-breaker by imagining that the water could be led astray. If you'll pardon the mixed metaphors. 

Yes, yes, I know. That's not even one metaphor.

Law 1: Water will not run uphill when not forced or encouraged to do so.

Law 2: Water has no hierarchy, and all parts of it are equal.

And, like a doddering old fool, I have broken these laws. 

Not inadvertently, either. I only did this deed after contemplating whether or not it was appropriate. And my wonderful grasp of physics enabled me to mess up big time, like they say in the movies.

In retrospect, perhaps I broke the Law of Pumps. Not a lot of people know about this law, but it is actually the foundation of my wayward ways. Yes, that's also not a metaphor.

As you will know, in Reikorangi we rely on the heavens for our water supply. Yes, yes, I know, everyone on earth relies on the heavens, but we in Reikorangi are special: we get our water "wholesale", directly from the suppliers, without any interfering councils or municipalities or reservoirs in the rivers. 

Ours comes off the roof and into the storage tank. And when it doesn't rain for a long time, our tank runs dry, and we're forced to drink our whisky neat. Which is quite inconvenient if you don't like whisky. That's not a metaphor, either.

We're currently experiencing one such dry spell and I have been entrusted with watching over the pump while pumping water from one storage tank to another. Not a tricky job -- just make sure that the pump does not run dry, or that the pipes don't accidentally pop out of the tank and spill valuable water, or something like that. Easy as.

And I take pride in my work, and I check everything all the time. I wouldn't want anyone pointing fingers and concluding that I'm incapable of even the simplest of tasks. After all, what could be simpler than simply watching a pump and a couple of pipes in the back yard? Even a four-year-old could do it! 

The pump atop the large squat tank drawing water and sending it UP to the tall skinny tank

Quick explanation: There's a flat squat very wide tank filled with about 5000 litres of water. I want to pump about 3000 litres into a tall skinny narrow tank a few metres away. Simple. I agree, a simple task, and all runs according to my grand master plan. That was yesterday. 

After moving about, say 2000 litres, I was reminded that it was time to go out for a while. So, I switched off the power and the pumping operation was put on pause. 

That's fine up to there. And this is where the criminality issue arises.

A properly-trained pump observer would disconnect the power lead, disconnect the pipes and pack all the equipment away, safely in a designated pump store. But I'm not properly-trained --- I'm not even badly trained, so I leave everything intact...  because... because, well..., because I'll complete the job tomorrow morning, won't I? 

And because, if I leave everything as it is, I won't have to mess with priming the pump afresh and I won't have to struggle to get it working again, not so?

Not so. 

But then I have this niggly concern in the back corner of my logic department. The water level in the tall skinny narrow tank (where the pumped water is being delivered) -- the destination tank , in the parlance of us pump watchers, the water level there is higher than in the flat squat wide tank (our source tank).

Won't the water siphon out of the destination tank back down the pipe, through the pump chambers, and then back into the flat squat wide source tank? Hmmm.

According to the Laws of Water, no water particles can be superior to others. But...

But, can our blood accidentally pump the wrong way from our veins to our arteries, or vice versa? No!... Or can it? No, surely not, there are non-return valves, so that can't happen.

I leave the job, on the basis that my blood can't flow backwards. But I had not yet encountered the Law of Pumps.

Next day (this morning). Whistle, whistle, whistle, I walk towards the pumping precinct (a posh term for the tank area in the yard).

Yikes! Alas! Nonny-Noo! Enter the Law of Pumps.

A=tall skinny tank; B=squat flat wide tank; P=Pump

Imagine my dismay (and the embarrassment!  Blush-blush a little) when I saw the water level in the tall skinny tank, which had been a small distance from the very top less than 12 hours ago... it was w-a-a-a-y down there!! The destination tank was almost empty, so to speak.

Conclusion -- The Law of Pumps states that some pumps don't have non-return valves! Who would have known? Obviously not me...

Hmmm. I wonder how many four-year-olds know that?

Next time, when I'm given a pump-observing task (if they ever give me one again), I will remember the Law of Pumps!

Whenwe's

Omigosh! Look what's happened to the time!

No, silly. Not the clock on the wall, the other one. The calendar. 

It's changed again. Since yesterday. And the day before. It seems like it was only yesterday that we were saying 'Happy New Year' - yet 38 days of the 366 (yes, we're in a leap year, in case you've forgotten,or didn't know) have passed. That's 10.38% of this year down the drain.

Or, in a more positive light, my life has been enriched by 10.38% of another year.

2016 is the 'Summer of My 69', so to speak. And, do you know what? It still seems as if I'm 22. Except for one or two aches and "can'tdo's". Or perhaps a few more than one or two. Maybe quite a lot, come to think of it. 

Jeanette's 'Collins 2016' Page-A-Day

What's brought on this sudden inspiration to rant about the time, like an old person? Well, 'inspiration' is probably not appropriate for such a simple issue, 'idea' is probably adequate.

Jeanette's Collins 2016 page-a-day diary. This is one of those things which she has religiously maintained for all close-on 50 years that's I've been part of her life. She has (typically stubbornly) refused to convert to some sort of electronic storage and records her 'Dear Diary' entries every day. 

I tried to maintain a written diary many years ago. The first few days I produced, like, quite a few pages a day. That didn't last a week. The trouble was that I failed to sift out the important stuff which would make memories from the rest of my activities. So, my diary-keeping habits haven't been what-you'd-call sloppy and sporadic --they have been non-existent!

The only record I can refer to, is the photo files on the computer. The trouble with the photo-record system is that Google was not around in those days. Or maybe I simply didn't make proper use of the available storage systems. So, my digital photos which started somewhere in the nineties(?) when I bought my first Agfa, have been lost to faulty computer backup, broken computers or simple negligence. Since acquiring the services of  Facebook and Google storage facilities, I can access my 'diary' entries a lot easier.

Back in time ('whenwe'), I can clearly remember receiving an annual page-a-day diary around Christmastime from the bank. I used these mostly for work purposes, and I still have the very last one which was in service at the time that health issues ended my formal work life in February/March 2000 -- that's a whopping 16 years! 

Where on earth has the time gone?   

A Rose By Any Other Name

William Shakespeare was a versatile guy, apparently. But, much of his time must have been dedicated to thinking and writing. To have produced so much literature required a huge amount of time and concentration, even if, as is frequently alleged, others contributed to his work.

A phrase like our title from Romeo and Juliet -- how long did he sit and wrestle with these few simple words before he hit on this perfect phrase? And many thousands more like it, to the extent that so many have become common idioms in use so many years after they were penned?

Highlighted area of swelling on the rear part of JPG's jawbone

Our refugee Goat seems in a state of good health, generally. Having no other similar goats against which to measure his performance, and not really having had much contact with such animals previously, he seems to be in good spirits and good physical condition.

However, a few  days ago, we noticed a little boil-like lump swelling just below his right ear near his lower jaw-bone. In response to Clayton's query  on a website, a reader commented that it may perhaps be bottle-jaw.  We researched the matter further, but I could not locate of 100% diagnosis.

I don't mind taking Jean-Paul for a walk on the lead (although the dogs would be green with jealousy and envy), but loading him into the back of the car is an option not on the cards. So, off to the vet, with a description of the situation I went, leaving J-P blissfully unaware at home on Goat Hill lazing and grazing (apparently) happy in the sunshine. 

Now, this is where Shakepeare enters stage left. 

Readers may recall that the star of my Blog was "officially" (by me) given his more appropriate name Jean-Paul Goatier. The name is entirely unofficial to all other goats and, indeed, to the 7-odd billion people on earth (except my faithful -- and attentive -- readers). 

I borrowed the name, with the slight spelling change, from a BBC TV series "Mad Dogs", when events take a sinister turn when the friends spot a dead goat in the pool and John Glenister's character jokes as Beesley's Woody digs a hole to bury the goat: 

"Decomposition- the new fragrance by John Paul Goatier!"

A scene from an early episode of 'Mad Dogs'

Back to the vet's office: I explain to the Vet about JP's condition. Right. Then, as with all modern-day encounters, the vet starts off with the formalities. Animal type? sex? castrated? age? etc... Then he reaches the bit, name?

I rattle off his full name (without any explanation of spelling).  It was only later, when I got home that I saw the name on the medicine label:The 'Paul' had become 'Pierre' and the 'Goatier' had acquired an extra suffix "e". I know that the original 'Gaultier' name does not have the extra 'e'

Label attached to the syringe of medication for JPG

The exciting bit about this whole episode is that JPG' s name is now much more formalised in print, including the addition of the surname and his genus-type.

I will now remember the classification "caprine" - namely "...any of numerous agile ruminants related to sheep, but having a beard and straight horns..."

I leaned across the fence later in the afternoon, and discussed the situation with JP. He appeared quite comfortable with the surname 'Andrews' as he did not show any adverse reaction to the proposal.

As regards the change of 'Paul' to 'Pierre' and the addition of the suffix 'e', he seemed to be in agreement with me when I suggested that it sounded quite 'French'. He seemed especially pleased when I suggested that the 'caprine' suffix really puts him on the map, and identifies him as a member of a specific sector, rather than a 'refugee'.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that he is still really a refugee. But it really doesn't matter --  A goat by any other name still smells just as goaty.

Hey! Allright, JP -- I'll tell the readers- JP has a very agreeable body odour -- in fact, he smells far better than dogs.

New Zealand Doodler

One of the benefits of the new communication age is the opportunities which are offered to talented people wherever and whoever they are.

For example, Oliver Lonsdale's aeroplane-based "Amelia the Great" drawing will feature today 3 Feb for 24 hours on the Google website.

He said: "If I could travel back in time I would go back and see Amelia Earhart. She was the first women to fly the Atlantic Ocean. 

She vanished in 1937 somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. She set the fastest transcontinental flight in 1933."


The 8-year-old's Doodle 4 Google entry was under the theme "If could travel back in time I would . . . ". It won the overall national prize ahead of about 7000 in the age group 5 to 15 year olds.

Lady Clementine's Seat

No, I haven't the faintest idea of whether Clementine Churchill ever sat on a bench in the grounds of Chartwell or not. But, you must concede, she might have. 

A Lutyens three-seater, perhaps. A white three-seater Lutyens?

I have tried to research the matter to ensure accuracy, but the closest fact that I can establish is that she buried a Bali dove beneath a sundial in the garden. Therefore, it follows that the garden would be a meaningful place to Lady Churchill (later titled The Rt Hon The Baroness Spencer-Churchill!)

Well, we live at Chartwell (a different Chartwell) and in the garden, we have a white three-seater Lutyens garden seat ( A different bench, but nevertheless a Lutyens). By common logic, I conclude that the spot chosen for our seat could well be referred to as 'Lady Clementine's Repose'

.

Having chosen the site on which to position the bench, the girls then debated, argued and reasoned its precise resting spot and the vista which should greet those seated on it.

I'm sure there's quite an intricate science and art behind furniture arrangement, but I must profess not to be knowledgeable in this arena. If I am tasked with placing such an article, it would probably be under a tree in a nook, or out of the wind against a wall.

Not being the designer or architect, I got the job of construction contractor. To place Lady Clementine's seat in a level position, facing the lawned pathway from the front of the house.

Here's a step-by-step of the process:

When sitting on the seat, these are the views:

(1)  View down the runway from the front of the house.

(2)  View to the left with the runway just to the right.

(3)  View to the Right, with Goat Hill in the distance.

(Above)  The bench waits for the process to be completed. The ground is measured carefully, the grass removed and retaining edging planks cut and fixed in position.

(Above): The plinths for the bench  are levelled with a spirit level, so that the bench will sit level and not wonky. The 8  plants for the area are 4 white roses*, 3 Gaura So White**  and 1 Gypsophila Bristol Fairy***. At the far end (spade in the hole) a spare hole for another bloom has been reserved.

(Above): With all the plants in their correct places, time for the stone mulch around each plant as a weed suppressant over the weed mat. Larger 20-60mm pebbles are used to fill in the larger areas.

(Above): The site is finally completed and the plants watered. Now for the furniture.

     

Flowers in this account:
* Rose -- var. Noaschnee.

** Gaura So White --  Masses of pure white butterfly shaped flowers on unmarked green foliage are features of this compact growing plant. A great subject for the mixed border, containers or a cut flower. Plant in well drained soils and full sun. Trim back after flowering to promote new flowers and maintain growth habit.  75H x 60Wcm


*** Gypsophila 'Bristol Fairy'  -- delicate clouds of pure white double flowers appear on long sturdy stems throughout the summer months. A most excellent cutflower or planted as  a stunning backdrop behind smaller growing lower plants in the flower border. Grows best in full sun in friable well drained soil 95 x 95cm.

The Presage

Foreboding. That's an interesting word. One which you may only use in the company of other nerdy people. And in accordance with my custom in this sort of situation, I checked the Reader's Digest "Complete Wordfinder", on page 583:

foreboding /n. an expectation of trouble or evil; a presage or omen. 

Yes, that is what it was. I had experienced a foreboding. A presage, if you like. It happened this morning just after seven, during my awakening ritual. 

Perhaps a short(ish) explanation would help here.

Part of our little patch of the valley in Reikorangi is a very steep incline, extending from the main lawn down to the western boundary in the shape of a rectangle about 50 metres by 40 metres -- the size of a respectable residential erf in town. Along the top end of this hill is a strong wooden fence, with a sturdy gate. From one top corner to the opposite bottom corner runs a wide diagonal pathway, which is flanked by wild fern and other low-growing vegetation - quite natural, almost wilderness-y. 

The lower quarter of the land is home to a "mini-forest" of, maybe, about twenty tall native trees. This mini-forest grows in a way which makes it impossible for the casual observer standing at the top fence to see into its interior. The height of the gate and fence above the mini-forest is, at a rough guess, about 24.8 metres -- let's say about 8 storeys of a city building. Or maybe 6, I don't know. Anyway, let's just agree that it quite a long way down.   

This chunk of land is called Goat Hill - not officially on any survey map. No, just by us. Because it is the home of a goat. A refugee goat, a (fairly useless) male goat without the milking capabilities like those of his female compatriots. So, we have named and re-named him (Jean-Paul Goatier), and have conferred refugee status on him, thereby protecting him from the curry pot.

You can probably see where this is going. Regarding what this has to do with foreboding thing.

Oh. Alright, perhaps you can't.  

But tarry anon. Or, as Shakespeare would have put it, hang in there, mate. We'll get down to brass tacks shortly. I'm actually padding out the description of an event which took, probably, milli-seconds, into a full-length novel. That's what my English Mistress at school would have ruled, when marking our essays.

There. We've now tarried enough. Back to the presage.

As I customarily do, I went down to Goat Hill shortly after seven with a serving of "Goat Breakfast" - actually standard balanced and nutritional pellets for ruminants. I expected to find Jean-Paul eagerly waiting at the goat as usual. 

Today was different. He was not there. He was not in his refugee accommodation (his hut) either. Clearly the most probable explanation was that he had already gone down the hill to the lower bramble vines near the mini-forest for a pre-breakfast chomp.

Or had he? 

I banged the empty metal feeding bowl on the fence, like a dinner gong, my usual practice. Nothing. No bleat, no m-a-a-a , no b-a-a-a. I rang the breakfast gong once more, this time a little longer. Again nothing.

There, we've tarried enough, and had the 'anon' bit as well. 

Enter the presage, the foreboding. [dum dum dum, ominously...]

Had Jean-Paul fallen and possibly broken his hip? Had he perhaps shuffled off his mortal coil and gone to meet his maker? But wait... listen carefully.

Sure enough, a crackled m-a-a-a came floating up from the depths of the mini-forest. Then the Sotto Voce slowly increased in pitch and volume. Moments later, you'd have sworn that a herd of goats on steroids had discovered the hill, and that free goat kibble was available for the grabbing. 

M-a-a-a,   B-a-a-a,  M-a-a-a!

Like that legendary Red Rum Grand National winner, Jean-Paul came hurtling up the steep incline at top speed, faster than Usain Bolt could ever dream of...  He was in high spirits, almost lilting in his stride (if goat are capable of lilting, that is), and kicking up his hind legs out of sync, as if Goat kibble is the best thing that can happen to a refugee goat...

I suppose it might be just that. I have never spoken to any other goat refugees before.

Jean-Paul arrived and started gobbling his breakfast between snorts of heavy breathing.

I gave him an extra pat this morning. I would have hated to have been tasked with extricating him from some steep edge where he'd accidentally hung himself.. or something like that. 

Moreover, I was ever so pleased that my presage had been a false alarm non-presage. 

Reach For The Sky

In the late 1950's the commercial jet age was arriving in Cape Town. One flight in particular, raised my awareness of what to me was the marvel of aeronautics. It was incomprehensible to me, as a 10-year-old that a huge metal machine could speed along the ground and soar up into the air and through the clouds, and out of sight. An uncle who'd served in the airforce during the war tried to explain how the air flows of the wings which were thicker in front and thinner at the back edge, thereby creating lift. 

I listened attentively, and then tried his theory using various wooden planks, but my planks refused to fly. 

Either his explanation was crap or my understanding was lacking. Or the planks were not aeronautic grade. As I regarding myself as intelligent, with a   grasp for things scientific, the planks seemed Ok, so, on balance, the Uncle quite obviously must have had fabricated the details of flight simply to rid a pesky brat nephew of asking  continual "How and Why?"

However, this lack of understanding did not prevent me from wanting to be able to control such a heavy craft myself and to be in charge of a machine in the sky. 

As far as I know, the term "bucket list" became a common-used term in the early 2000's because of Hollywood, but earlier, than that it was just a list of things you wanted to do before you "kicked the bucket." In retrospect, this early desire to fly a machine could be seen as one of the first items on my personal bucket list.

Today, 18 January 2016, I wake up early to a grey cloudy Reikorangi sky. Like an expectant first-time astronaut, during the next couple of hours I will be sitting attentively near the phone, waiting for a confirmation call from Roger from the Wellington Gliding Club at the Kapiti airport, Paraparaumu. Note: I don't know his real-life name, but the "Roger" for "received" in radio parlance always sticks in my mind. Roger, over and out.

Roger will confirm that my 10 o'clock booking for an hour-long LIGIE (Long Introductory Gliding Instructional Experience) is at status "G" for Go. Or not. Gliding is heavily dependent on air currents (warm rising air), and one would preferably want reasonably cloudless skies to be able to enjoy the panoramas. Outside the Reikorangi sky contains a mixture of a bank of heavy grey rain-cloud (this is New Zealand, after all!), patches of fluffy white cloud and some misty bits over the mountain areas. Roger is on the coast 15 km away (as the crow flies), so I guess he will be a better judge of the weather prospects for gliding.    

If I get no call by 9:30-ish, I will presume that we have a "G". But I will worry: Perhaps Roger has overslept, or perhaps Roger has lost my phone number, or perhaps I've got the date wrong. Anyway, I'm like an astronaut waiting for launch-pad communications. Waiting. 

I'm not much good at waiting.

What to wear? What did Douglas Bader wear? What did Gary Powers wear? The former has that brown leather sort of swimming cap, didn't he? And the spy plane pilot had a sort of space helmet, I think. I suppose jeans and a tee-shirt will be good. And shoes will be better than muddy gumboots. Yes, I'll do that.  I wonder what Roger will be wearing.

Just before 10:00 I arrive at the Wellington Gliding Club premises on the eastern perimeter of the Kapiti airstrip. My pilot/ instructor  is a most friendly fellow by name of Jake Brattle. I learn that he has been in the soaring/ gliding arena for the last 8 years and is a summer Godwit from Bristol in the United Kingdom. Jake introduces me to the Soaring world. I can tell he is a very capable pilot -- it gives one a ton of comfort to know that you're climbing aboard a craft in the capable care of someone who is quite at home in the sky of engine-less aircraft.

After completing the formalities, we walk across the airfield to the boarding point from which the tow-craft will take us sky-wards. With Clayton's GoPro Hero 4 strapped to my head and my Canon SX30 Powershot on my lap, I sit anxiously in the narrow cocoon, waiting for our craft to start moving along the grassed airstrip.

The tow-car takes our Glider out to the starting point on the field.

Staff doing last-minute cross-checks on the tow craft.

The array of instruments in front of me, with dual controls. I'm in the front row seat, while Jake is sitting behind me with mirror image hand- and floor  controls. Our call-sign is Golf-Pappa-Juliet GPJ

A short while later, we're up, up and away - the smoothest acceleration and take-off, seemingly much more effortless and seamless that a commercial flight that we're all used to.

In the sky, climbing above Paraparaumu, and heading for the Tararua mountain range.

From this point onwards, until we return back to Paraparaumu, I sit amazed and en-awed at the vistas and views of the beautiful countryside, second to none anywhere. The GoPro is busy rolling with virtually the whole flight being filmed minute-by-minute from my forehead. Maybe I can upload some video to YouTube under Kapiti_Soaring?

Instrument panel between my knees.

On average, we're doing 100 to110 kph and are soaring at 5,000 ft.

My certificate is endorsed on the rear: GliderType DG1000S, Time in Air 00h:54m;-First glider flight, over Hector, Kapakapanui and Riki Valley 18/1/2016

A bit more than an hour after leaving the airport, I was back safely on terra firma. A huge vote of thanks to Jake, my instructor-pilot who was physically instrumental in helping me achieve this bucket item and my fantastic family Bianca and Clayton, who generously gave me the trip as a fantastic Xmas present. Irrespective of the number of days I have left on this planet, I know that I will clearly remember this day.

Thank you guys!

The wonders of Google -- Our flight path.