Roger offered to take Robert to the head of the Abel Tasman track (partly to assure that he’d leave) about seventy kilometres from Nelson and I jumped along for the ride. The ghastly weather didn’t much let up for most of the ride there, but I could see the beauty of the landscape in promise – golden sand still golden despite the sea, curving bays and estuaries and cliffs yielding short views into the murk. How I wish to return for proper tramping through the Kiwi bush!
Gray days make me want to nap. Instead, Roger (aged seventy) watched American Wedding with me, which proved even more crass and unentertaining than the previous two (the first of which I highly enjoyed as a film). Between that and plunking away at his piano, I quickly passed the afternoon away in the safety of his home. In fact I decided to remain there most the rest of the day, quite successfully scared away from busking at all. Torrential rain also assured it’d be a soggy affair, anyways. I improvised some roasted brussel sprouts to serve with bok choy and fried rice for dinner, after which Roger enlightened me on the workings of Rugby League.