The 95,000 visitors in New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup, which culminates its 45-day run on Oct. 23, are about to learn a bittersweet lesson. As hard as it is to get to this country on the other side of the world, especially from such distant places as North America and Europe, it can be harder to leave. And not because of the post-rugby crowds at Auckland airport. The place grows on you from the minute you touch down.
It captivated me while still in the air as my flight slipped under the clouds on the last leg of a 30-hour journey from Toronto to Queenstown. The Southern Alps, frosted on many of the peaks, often glowed with a bright, grassy green below the snow line. Ireland meets the Rockies, I thought.
Regrettably, my travels included no rugby games. I had come for two more placid sports, eating and drinking. World Cup frenzy notwithstanding, New Zealand has come a long way since Rod Derrett's 1960s working-class anthem Rugby, Racing and Beer. I was keen to bear witness.
For starters, I intended to eat my weight in fresh seafood. I had heard in particular of a prized delicacy called the Bluff oyster, mainly harvested near the town of Bluff on the southern coast. I was told it's illegal to export the mollusk, and in a contemplative moment while crossing the Pacific on Air New Zealand's non-stop service from Vancouver, I fancifully imagined little hands emerging from their shells to deliver the one-finger salute to the tide of globalization.
My main destination: Central Otago, the world's southernmost wine region and source of some of the most compelling new pinot noirs outside France. If you love pinot, you probably know that finding a few good ones often entails travel beyond your local Canadian liquor store, and planning a vacation around the pursuit can seem entirely reasonable. Like the All Blacks, New Zealand's national rugby team, pinot has a way of breeding fanaticism.
The delicate, highly perfumed variety rises to its greatest glory in Burgundy, where some grand crus literally sell for as much as a discount economy seat to Auckland. Notoriously fickle to grow, the thin-skinned grape favours cool temperatures to preserve its food-friendly acidity and demands well-drained soils to concentrate its berry-like flavours and earthy overtones.
Central Otago, near the bottom tip of this twin-island country, has caused a stir among the pinot cognoscenti during the past decade. It lies at 45 degrees south, similar to Burgundy's latitude in the north. The mountainous region also boasts an asset Burgundy sadly doesn't, reliably sunny summer skies. Ripeness comes easily, yielding concentrated, intensely fruity wines. Thanks to the high elevation, brisk nights also keep the acid in play, pulling the grape back from the jammy, high-alcohol abyss that can be pinot's demise in certain regions of, say, California, Australia and Chile.
This is an ideal time to plan a wine pilgrimage to Central Otago – winter in Canada means summer there. The flight from Auckland, the capital in the north, to the wine-exploring base of Queenstown, at under two hours, is bliss not just for the scenery but also for the security screening, which is to say there is none. Domestic air travel in New Zealand is almost as hassle-free as taking a city bus. The biggest differences: a guaranteed seat and fewer concealed weapons.
Regardless of the season, you'll be sharing Queenstown with no shortage of tourists, especially young ones. The place bills itself as the adventure capital of the world. Located on the shores of Lake Wakatipu and easily explored on foot, it's home to such extreme sports as skydiving, paragliding, jet-boat rides and, of course, bungee jumping. Between winery visits, I nervously opted for what I calculated would be the tamest option only to be propelled at 85 kilometres an hour down a fast-flowing canyon river on a shallow-displacement boat that performed no fewer than eight 360-degree spins. It was like being on a waterborne tilt-a-whirl. Mercifully, I was not required to test the buoyancy of my life preserver, but the mandatory full-length spray jacket came in handy. So did the gulp of pinot noir I later downed – still wobbly-legged – at Amisfield, a pretty, stone-walled winery just 15 minutes from Queenstown, where I also ate in the excellent, relaxed bistro.
