Flatlining in our slice of heaven

To most New Zealanders who know and love it, Golden Bay could not be better named -- a hidden treasure, rich and warm; the people accommodating and non-judgmental, the living so laidback that it verges on flatlining ... a paradise found, at the end of the road. Though just a couple of hours' drive from Nelson's main drag, in feel and pace of life it might as well be half a world away. Therein lies its subtle charm, and the reason so many people make the population-swelling annual summer pilgrimage. The rugged beauty, the treasures and simple pleasures associated with the sea, the fresh clean air: it is hard to imagine a more therapeutic place in which to spend time unwinding from the stresses and strains of modern life.

That, at least, is true for those whose relationship with the Bay is more an occasional, eagerly anticipated, delightfully casual fling than a fulltime and permanent, for-better-or-worse, richer-or-poorer, commitment. For one big-city dweller, who took up residence a year ago near Takaka, the Bay's quiet delights ultimately faded. In his latest article in The Daily Telegraph, British journalist Peter Foster reports that living in perpetual contentment has its downside. "Whisper it softly but bliss is, well -- I'll say it straight out -- boring as hell. Or should that be boring as heaven? After a year in the pristine seclusion of Golden Bay tending the vege plot, I crave the internal stink of the big city and the juice-inducing competition of the rat race." He adds that his metro-mate naysayers had predicted he'd go bonkers in a week. "They were only half right. It took me at least two."

As is the nature of many an op-ed article, it is likely that some of his comments are more about hyberbolical effect than accuracy. His column contrasts markedly with some earlier reports about life far from the big smoke. In November's posting, for example, Foster writes with "shameless excitement" of his first catch of summer, having hooked a reasonably sized kahawai off the rocks. He talks of watching the sun set and sucking on a beer which, "fish or no fish, is a great way to unwind", and goes on to describe a 20-minute one-man viewing of three "very chatty" penguins, ending: "When we first arrived here, we laughed at the penguin warning signs that you find on the roads here. I never seriously thought I'd get to see one, let alone three, and especially not for so long and in such proximity. Sir Dave (Attenborough), eat your heart out." Earlier efforts talk of "unconfined joy" on catching a snapper and concern that oil rigs might yet be seen in beautiful Golden Bay as a result of the oil shock. Scant trace of the cosmopolitan cynic there.

Foster's latest report begins with an account of his nearly four-year-old son's delight at hearing a skylark, adds that if he had a gun he'd have pleasure in blasting it from the sky, and concludes that, while it's wonderful for young children to have their father around all day, a dad's not much use if he's become a "lunatic lark-slayer". And so, he hopes they'll forgive him for taking them back to a high-rise city and will adjust again to Dad disappearing into the office for long hours. Perhaps there is some truth in his notion that a platonic paradise is ultimately, and increasingly, unsatisfying. In chasing his own nirvana, it is to be hoped that his family are not robbed of theirs. Good luck then, and au revoir to Peter Foster. Each to their own. Perhaps he will come to miss the Bay more than it will miss him.