It's all gone quiet over here

Well, quiet isn't really the right word, but basically I've been drunk for the last two weeks and there hasn't really been any 'ooh, got to blog this beauty' moments to speak of (that I can remember, anyway, it's entirely possible I've left a trail of destruction stretching from Dunedin to Napier, blissfully unaware due to the miracle of booze), the Kepler Track being the last but one item on my 'Things to do in New Zealand' list.

The very last thing on the list was to swim with dolphins in Kaikoura (and that noise you hear is Docko's head exploding from potential joke overload) but thanks to beer, bad weather and bloody orcas it didn't happen. The one time the boat ran as scheduled I was still in bed, a haze of alcohol causing the air above my head to shimmer, and for the rest of my time in Kaikoura it was cancelled due to rough seas or the presence of killer whales.

But let's be reasonable, this blog can't be composed entirely of tales of illicit Scandanavian passion, Blair Witch-style nights in the forest and, um, blisters. There had to come a time when the most dangerous thing I'd done since last we spoke was beat Tom - who's played rugby for England's under-21 team - at pool.

I was going to inflict a selection of 'hilarious' hostel stories on you - wait, come back! - but I'm flying out of Auckland today, I've got a stinking cold and quite frankly I want to get this blogged and bugger off to have a coffee and perv at the girl behind the counter at Gloria Jean's Coffees on Queen's Street.

Instead, I'm going to finish as I started - with a recommendation. I've delayed bigging up Magic Bus until the end of my travels, because - let's face it - a glowing writeup halfway through the trip is just begging to be left behind/run over/kicked in the knackers by a disgruntled driver. We made it back to Auckland without falling out, though, and I can't fault them. Granted, it's not exactly hardcore backpacking to jump on a tour bus, but when you're like me and don't bother reading your guide book before you leave, thus having only the vaguest ideas of what you want to see (in my case, "mountains an' shit") it's spot on. There's a refreshing lack of the "dude, I totally barfed in your face!" gap year gits that are reputed to plague the Kiwi Experience buses, but neither is it an environmental beardfest like Stray or Flying Kiwi. The commentary is informative, the buses comfy, and if the on-board music occasionally lurched into madd techno beatz, all was forgiven when I heard Free Love on the Freelove Freeway on one driver's compliation tape, although this goodwill was tested to its limit by the mystifying Kiwi obsession with the Eagles' Hotel California.

And if anyone suspects that this shameless love-in has anything to do with the fact that they plied me with free beer and pizza at a post-tour focus group, well, shame on you.

*cough*

Anyway, it's been an awesome few months, and I'll see you peeps when I get back. For those that don't know me but were still kind enough to read this blog, normal wibblings - including thoughts on the Da Vinci Code and The Hitchhiker's film - will be resumed over at Insert Joke Here very soon. Probably.