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There are times when life’s serendipitous moments just take my breath away.
The night that chatting to a random friend of a friend at a dinner party in London many years ago kick-started my career in a way that I could scarcely believe, for instance, or the passing comment on a Tube ride that lead [...]

I was wrong about Twitter.

There, I said it.

For the longest time, I was probably one of Twitter’s more vocal critics. I absolutely could not see the point of it. As far as I could tell from media and other coverage, Twitter merely provided a platform for narcissistic, irrelevant posturing from celebrities and wanna-be’s. I don’t care what Paris Hilton or Ashton Kutcher are doing. No, I really, really don’t. To make matters worse, such posturing had to be done in 140 characters or less. Given that ppl ritng lik ths in text messages or on the internet annoys the hell out of me, that particular feature wasn’t likely to endear me to the product any more. The silly names (tweets? tweeps? what the … ?) and esoteric punctuation (@ this and # that) seemed to confirm my suspicions about the target audience. From the outside, Twitter appeared to be some kind of teenaged version of Facebook at best and a marketing tool for clueless PR departments at worst, and despite protestations from a couple of workmates in particular I wasn’t even inclined to try it.

How many packs are too many? For many years I’ve laughed at a good friend of mine who seemed to have more backpacks than he did pairs of underwear. As I stood and gazed upon the contents of my wardrobe a few days ago however, I came to the realisation that I’m not much better. There seemed to be luggage for every occasion, from the super small black bag that fitted only a bottle of water and a city guide, to the stained and dirty blue suitcase that carted most of my stuff home from the UK several years ago. Several day packs of different shapes and sizes, plus the 90 litre behemoth that accompanied me on my last round the world trip. In this apartment, I swear half of my storage space has been taken up by storage space. Obviously, therefore, it was time to go pack shopping…

Gather round, children, and let your Uncle Dave tell you a story about the good old days of air travel.

This story starts back in the foggy mists of time. Back before Michael Jackson died and Britney lost the plot. Before Enron went bust and commuters started sprouting white earphones. Before Bush stole the presidency and Gore became the Climate Crusader. Yes, that’s right, I’m talking about those mystical decades known as the late 20th century.

Now I know you’re not going to believe this, but back in those halcyon days air travel was actually quite exciting and going to the airport was almost fun. The security lines didn’t take two hours to get through, and you didn’t have to take your shoes off and stand there like a naughty toddler while you waited. Klaxons didn’t go off if you had a bottle of water in your hand luggage. You didn’t get to star in your own soft porn film as you walked through full body scanners. There was even a chance that some goon from the TSA wasn’t going to rifle through your bags and pick out the best stuff to sell on eBay.

Welcome to the first in an irregular series featuring people, places and experiences that are off the beaten backpacker and tourist trails. Today’s post showcases a few of these hidden gems from my old back yard, the South Island of New Zealand. I hope you get the chance to enjoy them – but don’t tell the locals I sent you, they might well prefer to keep these places to themselves!