Copyright 2009
There have been complaints that I have fallen silent. Yes it is true that at times there are things more compelling than Facebook, But, just for anyone who might be missing a wry smile for their day here is a true story from this quaint place so very, very far away from the world.
Tuesday in Godzone, this place called New Zilland, is without doubt the worst of all the days in the week. Especially if you are a journalist looking for a tasty bite to get your teeth into. For as you are no doubt aware, very little that might represent a truly tasty morsel does come an aspiring journalists way as rule. And by Tuesday, all the truly gritty pieces have been well worn through the weekend papers and are now simply appearing via the local chippie as wrapping for tonight?s dinner.
But here is one story that will inevitably travel that much farther than most and by tonight will be high up on our TV stations must-view features.
Cromwell is a small town at the head of a beautiful lake at the bottom of the South Island of New Zealand. You may be unaware of this but South Islanders call this the Mainland. Then again they call Australia the East Island.
And Cromwell might well not be there, had they not shifted it a few meters up-lake a few years ago as our Electricity company built a downstream dam which miscalculated somewhat and what once had been a small town became a pleasure seeker?s boating paradise.
Yesterday in Cromwell a somewhat unusual event occurred.
Now let?s be clear here. It is not unusual to witness the hard working, gruff and uncompromising South Island bloke epitomized as a ?good, keen man? who characterises this half gallon, quarter acre pavlova paradise driving his ute into town. In his torn drizabone coat, battered cockie hat and in his obligatory gumboots, he?ll always be seen with his faithful sheep dog barking happily into the wind.
In case you are wondering whether this might all be some made up form of romanticism, let me assure you that on Saturday nights, in prime time, TV One in New Zealand (our main viewing channel) devotes a full hour to show called Country Calendar, in which men whistle incongruous tunes whilst dogs bark at sheep. Not much else seems to happen in this riveting hour-long spectacular. And if that weren?t convincing enough proof for you that this is truly God?s own country, it is not uncommon for our half-time spectacular at big rugby matches to consist of men throwing gumboots at a barrel in the middle of the field. The winner gets them in.
Back in Cromwell however, our partially drowned town life is lived at a more leisurely pace. The town is best known for a wharf side village of small stone huts now turned into jam and pickle bottlers run by local women in the town with much time on their hands.
So, for a story to emerge from that sleepy hollow that really does get the journalists into gear is an entirely remarkable event and it is especially so when the good keen man?s dog, rather than the good keen man himself drives the ute into town and straight into and through the local café.
?Dog drives car into café? you will agree is a catchy headline.
Here is how the local Constable, one John Chambers described it: Wilco, a staffordshire ridgeback cross, was sitting by himself in his owner?s ute when he pushed down the column gear change about 5.30pm yesterday. The vehicle rolled forward 15 metres before crashing into the front bifold doors of the rather jauntily titled Fusee Rouge cafe.
It was lucky the vehicle was travelling slowly, and the unusual incident was a reminder not to leave the keys in the ignition, he said.
Now you might come away from this story thinking how wonderful it is that we have dogs that not only understand the complexities of a ute?s gearshift, or marvel at the ingenuity of a dog that might not only notice the keys in the ignition but have the dexterity to turn them appropriately.
Or else you can just smile gently at the fact that throughout New Zealand, people do happily get out of their cars and go in for a quick chat and a coffee comfortable in the knowledge that leaving one?s keys in the ignition only constitutes an invitation to inventive dogs.