An unexpected party in Golden Bay

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It's a curious little melting pot.

Situated off the main highway, The Mussel Inn is a couple of hours from any serious civilisation, but I have already spoken with a gorgeous French girl with elfin features and the soul of Buddha, a musician from Invercargill, an American from Pakawau and three drunk building contractors who seriously struggle to finish their nachos without smattering sour cream and melted cheese all over their faces.

I have never been here before. The fact that I am here now is not even planned. I needed somewhere to kill the evening light.

They don't come much better. The beer is cold, the company warm and the fire hot, and in a couple of hours the band will start to play.

Midnight Kitchen are a bunch from Invercargill who packed up their earthly belongings into a container and decided to go on tour.

Their home for the last few weeks has consisted of a beaten-up van and a trailer carrying a drum kit, keyboard, a couple of amplifiers and two guitars. From chatting to the band members before they start their set, it seems they wouldn't have it any other way, and they quite like Nelson, so they might stick around a while.

As the light fades and the embers from the fire start to glimmer, a chap wearing no shoes and a hobo beard gives the wood a wee nudge to kick it back into gear. Just as well, the band is about to start.

The atmosphere is subdued to start with. I walk inside to order another Captain Cooker, but there is nowhere to sit down. Everyone is awkwardly facing the stage as if in some New York poetry-cafe trance. Before too long, I am in it too.

The Inn has the feeling of a pioneer wood cabin that has been pimped somewhat with the useful addition of beer taps, benches, a fully functional kitchen and an array of miscellaneous memorabilia.

The music is good. As I stand awkwardly at the bar, the only reasonably free spot left to reside, I try not to get in people's way as they order another beer, cider or bowl of mussels. After the first set, the band takes a break. So do I. Back outside, a couple of people have moved. Most have not, including, thankfully, the French girl.

I try to engage her in the sort of conversation I think French girls might like.

We talk about where she might go next and what it is like to live out of a van for a month. Then I try to impress her with my meagre Spanish.

Soon I am flailing, but thankfully, the band has started again and my Captain Cooker is into the dregs. Time for another.

The Inn is different on this entrance. The benches have been moved away to some unknown corridor and people are up dancing, if that is what you can call it. A 60-year-old businessman whom I coincidentally meet the next day is sweating up a storm, doing what can only be described as the electric boogaloo meets the mashed potato.

I stand at the back tapping my feet. Before I know it, my hips are moving. It's not mashed – powdered perhaps.

I slip back outside with a notable sway. Usually that is the sign to stumble home and I usually pay attention to the signs. About 200 metres down the road from the Mussel Inn is a sign. It reads "Shambala". Another 1km down the driveway is a little meditative hideaway. It has soft beds and a faint smell of incense. Perfect night. Almost.

The Mussel Inn in Onekaka, just out of Takaka, is open from 11am and has live music most nights.

* Try This is a regular feature in which Nelson Mail reporters try out a new experience, or a new take on an old one, and report back. Email geoff@nelsonmail.co.nz.

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