Hitchiking is famously easy in New Zealand, but it’s also a competitive sport since there are so many people doing it. Luckily there are enough friendly people to pick us up. Nearly all of my lifts have been from tourists, which is slightly disappointing, but good for photo stops. I’ve had lifts from a Chinese couple who couldn’t speak English and would stop in the middle of the road to photograph sheep, young working-holidayers who wanted to tick off ‘picking up hitchikers’ from their bucket list, two Czechs whom I bumped into five times, a German who talked about EU politics incessantly (fifth item lost: one earring), a Californian ‘hippy-redneck’, and so many others in between.

Hiking here is known as tramping, and what a tramp I’ve become, camping for weeks without a shower or clean clothes (I’m surprised anyone still gives me a lift). Everything is so expensive that when a German giving me a lift offered to let me sleep in his car (we’d already spent two days together – he wasn’t a total stranger), I was very happy to lie across the front seats. That simple act of generosity, however, had infuriating consequences. I’d thought we were sleeping by the public toilets so, disgusted by their smell, I took my boots off and put them under the car. But we were actually going to sleep somewhere less obvious, and so drove off… leaving the boots behind, of course. The following morning the boots were gone. Those lovely comfy brown hiking boots that have been the affectionate subject of so many photos. I wandered around barefoot in the rain, asking every person and vehicle I saw, going into every motel and backpackers and campground, but still NO BOOTS!!! Sixth item lost (this one was hilarious, but hurt).

As we drove the 60km to the next town I wondered if I really needed shoes in my life. This journey was supposed to change me: maybe I could now be one with nature, my connection with Mother Earth pure and direct. It would be much healthier, and I might even turn into a Hobbit. But there was the good old voice of German reason next to me (are you eating enough vitamins to stay healthy?). Finally arriving in Westport, I bought a new pair of boots (pale blue, so now I look a total dork) and was, in fact, absolutely delighted to be well shod once more.

It felt like a turning point. I have reached a low, and could go no further. I, Iona, am a tramp no more.

But I’m really enjoying tramping. I did one of the official ‘Great Walks’, the Routeburn, a three day alpine trek. The weather got more and more abysmal. By the last day, soaked to the bone with nowhere to spend the night, I was cursing all kiwis and wishing the rain would turn their already fuddled brains to mush, and thinking how New Zealand really was the arse of the world. The mountainside had turned into a continuous series of waterfalls which was feeling increasingly dangerous. A marked flood detour had become swamped and to get back to the track I had to clamber up the waterfall. Definitely exciting and one of the highlights of the walk, but tense.

I reached a hut and tried to dry myself. There was a group of people on a guided walk. What ponces. Their huts have sofas, en suite bathrooms, kitchens and spas. All they have to carry is their lunch. Every time I saw one of their luxury huts I just stopped and gaped and gazed in envy. It really felt like we were the lowest of the low next to them. But we all expressed our moral and physical superiority, and as we huddled around the stove we tried to convince ourselves that our experience was the more authentic. In doing so, I befriended an On the Road-reading Trump-refugee from Colorado who, in a moment of boredom in his tent two days before (having failed to bring any entertainment), had eaten all his food and was now starving. I gave him some oats, but nothing else. He had to learn his lesson.

The weather improved. In the sunshine, everything is forgiven and forgotten, and it is heaven again. I hitched to the Milford Sound with my favourite Czechs (they just happened to be passing, and just happened to be going on the same boat trip – says something about how original my itinerary is). It was ridiculously overcrowded and buzzing with helicopters, but still really lovely: a fiord with mountains and waterfalls everywhere, and dolphins swimming and jumping alongside us.

On the way back we stopped to watch keas, the only alpine parrots in the world. They are extremely friendly, inquisitive and intelligent, and you can even play with them. But because they are so endangered and tourists feed them, they do whatever they like. They enjoy eating rubber (and asphalt, apparently), and so they will jump on or inside cars and start attacking aerials, tyres, window frames and anything else. And all the owners, or usually hirers, can do is watch!

The following day the weather was even better. Still feeling annoyed at having missed the famous views of the Routeburn, I decided to turn back and do the whole walk in a day. It was 12 hours of walking (with pack) and I was quite hysterical by the end, but the views over the Southern Alps were totally worth it.

The view that first time round looked like this:

turned into this view:

Amazingly, at the end I managed to find a lift to a campsite. Three very blond Swedish girls then suddenly appeared and offered me dinner – it was like a miraculous angelic appearance, exactly what I needed, since all my matches were wet and my stove wouldn’t work. They were in Queenstown for the usual extreme adventure reasons. They each had their own challenge: one was going bungee jumping, one was getting a tattoo, and one was going on a date.

Carrying on along the West Coast I encountered weather, weather, weather. Rain, cloud, mist, wind, sun(burn), ice, rain, rain, rain. I went in search of glaciers (glayshers I should say) and passed depressing signs like ‘In 1750 the glacier was here’. Even in 2014 they were quite a bit closer.

Being a tramp was fun while it lasted. I would get into a car and say, grandly, ‘Anywhere’. I would steal toilet paper from public toilets, even the soap from the sinks, would eat the leftover food on tables, and simply turn my socks inside out every morning. There were some beautiful moments – sitting drinking icy beer by a spectacularly blue lake of melted glacier, watching a hedgehog rummage through the rubbish in my tent, cooking pancakes by a lighthouse in the spray of waves from the Tasman Sea. But it’s tiring. Wandering the streets barefoot in the rain is too much for me. Maybe I’m a wuss, but it’s just not very fulfilling. I’m sure there are better ways to discover New Zealand.