DEliTOUR: Fiord of the rings

The Fiordland region of South Island New Zealand is deservedly regarded as one of the Earth's natural wonders. It is true wilderness. It is very, very, very wet. And it is spectacular. While even monsoon bound tropical regions might receive 2-3 metres of rain a year, parts of Scotland might get 4m, southern England gets just 75cm - Fiodland gets a whopping 7m of rain a year. It rains pretty much every day, especially in winter and spring - and it is big rain. While this is not good for your tan it is particularly handy if you have stunning glacially eroded Fjord-like cliffs plunging vertically into the ocean - and you like to see them plastered with awesome cascades.

Milford Sound is the most popular Fiord but we were there just before peak. With more spending power we would have considered a kayak trip or a trip to more remote Doubtful Sound but we were chuffed when our 99 capacity boat only had 11 passengers. Plied with free coffee we set out into the mist as Mitre Peak towered over us and waterfall after waterfall avalanched around us. We didn't even see it at its most spectacular - even more rain would have turned on the Cathedral group of falls, but it was jawdropping. We saw more penguins and seals and then we put on big sailors' coats and went to get close to one of the falls as the captain and commentator edged us nearer. Then one of the hands needed help with a tray of glasses. I took the tray and then it was too late. I had unwittingly fallen into a highly dampening game of cat and mouse. As the ship (for it was bigger than a boat) was adjusted with its prow under the falls, I had to side step under the rain of water in order to fill up the twenty glasses in the plastic tray I was holding. And there was a lot of water. And I got very wet as I disorientatedly shuffled back and forth. But they were filled. We laughed and we drank Fiord-rock-permeated-fresh-New-Zealand rainwater.

The road to Milford Sound, cunningly named the Milford Road, is pretty unforgiving. There are no petrol stations for 300km, plenty of passes, high alpine scenery, the long and treacherous Homer Tunnel and Gunns Camp. Just off the main road we stayed at the most wonderful caravan park. Passed down through the Gunn family from one of the area's original pioneers, the place was a marvel, packed with frontier trinkets and history and lavished with the most awful visual gags and puns around the grounds. The washing lines of burnt toast being readied to become clocks were a personal highlight.