There's many aspects of life in New Zealand that have been hitting the back of my retinas in the three or so weeks that I've been back, but one that sits quite strongly with me has been the white crosses seen planted on the roadside verges.

I remember this started happening about six or seven years ago, a white cross being planted by the family of a road accident victim to mark the site of the accident, and to act as a warning to other road users. However, inevitably, since this started happening, the number of white crosses has grown with the occurence of accidents over the years, and it is sometimes startling to see so many over the course of a short journey, and not always in places which you could appreciate as dangerous spots on the road.

As well as being struck by the number of crosses that have appeared, it is also startling and saddening to see the number that are regularly maintained, with a bunch of flowers left at the base or a wreath placed over the cross. One on the main road not far from where I'm staying is a simple white cross, but having the name of the unfortunate victim ("Fiona") painted across it means that it catches my attention each time I pass it, and makes me feel a little sad.

Talking about it with my mother, she told me about passing one on her drive into town where there is often a young boy seated next to the cross playing a guitar, and it left me to speculate whether it was a mother, sister, girlfriend or other that the boy was playing to.

These white crosses do remind me that death is not so far away, and make me think how little we sometimes appreciate our lives and those around us until they are taken from us, while of course serving in other ways to allow the families affected to grieve and act as reminders to other road users.

The road safety message is spread in other ways too; although much on New Zealand television is unmitigated crap, each christmas period there are usually one or two ads that feature on the box concerned with reminding the public about the dangers of the roads, and these ads are almost without exception chillingly effective.

The current ad features sequences of domestic and holiday interiors, such baches and caravans, with a camera panning across holiday snaps of people together, families in couples, and others, say pinned up on walls and fridges. As we are presented with each photograph of people enjoying themselves, one or more people fade away from the photograph, denoting deaths on the roads. All this to a soundtrack of a cover of Tears for Fears "Mad World".

A few years ago, while hitching up through the country at the start of the university holidays, I remember ending up one evening standing in a small pool of light underneath the solitary streetlight in a small place called Himitangi, trying desperately to cadge a lift from one of the few passing motorists. Eventually a car pulled over, and after a couple of questions from the driver, who had just finished a shift at a local processing plant, I was kindly offered a bed for the night at the house he shared with his wife, as it was pretty obvious I was going to have little chance of finding a lift. They were both lovely people, but both were almost unbearably sad, as their young son had died in a road accident about a year back, the son having been in the back of their car when they were hit by another vehicle pulling out in front of them. Although it's a number of years since that night, I'll always remember the mixture of generous hospitality and sadness that I experienced, and in spite of what I've been experiencing in the last little while, I know that it just can't compare to the loss of a child.

A New Zealand road trip demands the consumption of New Zealand road trip junk food.

I've just been down to Wellington for a few days, and on the six hour trip on the way down I kept myself going with a meat pie (steak and oyster), a twin-scoop icecream (fig and honey, and boysenberry), and a Cookie Time cookie (apricot and chocolate).

Arriving in Wellington with my hunger sated, I found a beautiful city basking in the sunshine, wooden villas straggling across the step hillsides. It seems that almost everyone lives in houses with fantastic views across the harbour, or out into the Cook Strait with the Kaikoura mountains rising up from the South Island in the distance.

There are some things that appealed to me immediately, such as the geography of the city; there's something about living in a flat city that is a bit soul-deadening, and the abundance of hills fringing Wellington's harbour defines the routes one takes and provides many spots to get viewpoints over the city. The presence of hills changes the accessibility of certain parts of a city, with some parts becoming more remote and intriguing, and they become hard-won destinations if reached on foot or by bicycle. As a result of being sited on a hillside, sections of the city develop more of an identity, being distinguished from their surroundings and becoming more visual because of the elevations.
One evening I sat with friends on the grassy slopes of Mt Victoria and watched the sun disappear over the far hills, picking out landmarks in the city below while eating kumera chips.

Another feature of Wellington that I can't help relating to is the closeness to the sea; though truely sandy beaches are few, it feels so good to walk around the rocks and through the coarse sand while watching breakers crash a few feet out from shore, and there's something that's cleansing and good for the soul about surf beaches.
The friends I stayed with had a dog that was born to swim in the sea, and indeed he'd be in the water and a good part of the way to the South Island before you'd even found a stick to throw for him to retrieve.

Walking along the beaches, there's something about the flax bushes, the paua shells in the sand, and the scrub-covered cliffs looming overhead that ties into so many childhood memories, and so quickly makes me feel at home again. With the hills and the harbour hemming Wellington in, it is easy to get away from the city and to find oneself in more natural surroundings, and there's many places to go walking or mountain biking.

As for the social side, there seems to be more culture available than the city deserves (more than you can shake a stick at, as the kiwi expression goes), and there's no shortage of music, theatre and the arts. On the night I arrived I was taken to check out some local bands, while the next night saw us at a Calexico concert, who seemed genuinely surprised at the appreciative reception they received.

While I was in Wellington I managed to significantly increase my knowledge of the layout of the city, check out some of the culture, catch up with good friends, and get a flat organised for when I move down permanently after christmas.
Although it was a busy few days, everything seemed to dovetail together quite nicely, helped by the fact that no place in the central Wellington area is more than a few minutes away from another place, at least by car. Indeed, after being used to planning hour-long journeys across London, it's almost too easy to find yourself on the other side of town within ten minutes.

For the time that I was there the city seemed to be showing me her best profile, and my curiosity about the darker side of Wellington showed when my friend told me I was asking too many questions about the bad weather (Wellington has a reputation for foul weather and high winds, being as it is on the Cook Strait).

One of the first purchases I'll be making when I arrive is a mountain bike, which seems essential given the accesibility of the city and the temptations of the hills fringing Wellington.
All told, it seems to be the right place in New Zealand for me to be living in, and luckily I'll have the advantage of getting to know the city during the summer months.

One thing that I've yet to get my head around since arriving back in New Zealand is how to deal with pronounciation, specifically Maori placename pronounciation.

Over the last twenty years or so, there's been quite an emphasis on pronouncing Maori placenames correctly, so the "wangeray" that you used to hear on the TV news when I was a kid has become "fangharay" (the actual spelling of the placename is Whangarei).

This was all well underway before I left the country, and now that I'm back, thinking that the correct pronounciation is the one to use, this is what I've been trying to employ in conversation.
However, it seems there are still plenty of people who are very happy using the old-style pronounciations, but not in all cases, and it's really hard to know which is more acceptable or comprehensible.

For example, my mother lives at a place called Apata, which correctly pronounced should be something like "Ah PAH ta", but the typically Kiwi squashed vowel pronounciation that seems to put the flicker of recognition on people's faces is "A pi tuh".

So, it's a bit of a cultural minefield to have to negotiate. Yesterday's interview went well, and it all sounds very promising regarding my chances of getting onto the publishing course. During the interview the big "M" question appeared, as I knew it would, which goes something like are you familiar and comfortable with Maori culture and Treaty of Waitangi issues?.

I guess eight years out of the country means that they'll cut you some slack, but happily I was also able to relate to the interviewer my time at university studying the Treaty of Waitangi and New Zealand history, and I think this qualified as a good enough answer. The Maori culture question is one that pops up again and again - there's no particular problem I have with that, but it is a question that you do have to have an answer to - "I don't know" just doesn't cut it.

The great thing about running is that you can do it almost anywhere.

I've been conscious over the last little while that I've not been doing too much exercise. The swimming that I took up earlier in the year has petered out, though I'm keen to continue once I find myself settled near a pool. In the meantime, the one form of exercise I have occasionally been doing is putting on my trainers and going for a run around the neighbourhood every now and then.

Although a long time ago I remember thinking that it was a boring form of exercise (i.e. before I really attempted it), the thing about running is that it provides much more than just the physical exercise. It gives me a chance to get my body into a rhythm and let me mind work on some of the things I've been experiencing recently. It also provides a good way of checking out the surrounding neighbourhood; it's amazing the sorts of things I've discovered about the areas in which I've lived by running down some of the paths and streets I'd otherwise never have a reason to explore. It also lets me take a bit of time to enjoy the day, as I typically go running in the morning or the late evening, and on a fine day it's a great experience to be soaking up some sunshine while noticing the workings of the community around me.

This morning was quite nicely typical. Currently staying between Tauranga and Kati Kati, I took the car down to Omokoroa, a small beach suburb separated by about 15 kilometers from the urban sprawl of Tauranga, and ran through the roads leading around the harbour and along the foreshore. Being a fine day, the air was clogged with pollen, sitting like a transparent blanket over the landscape, and everyone I passed wished me a good morning (I'm still getting used to how spontaneously polite and good mannered people in NZ can be).

So, after an hour or so running around Omokoroa, I feel quite nicely chilled out and relaxed, which is going to be important as I've got a phone interview this afternoon for a year long publishing course that I'm keen to get into in Wellington. I'm pretty confident and relaxed about the interview, but at the same time it's been quite a while since I've had to go through any sort of interview process, and I really want to find myself in this publishing course come next February.

Ever wondered about some of the big questions?

Over the last couple of days I've found myself reading a book called "What Should I Do With My Life" by Po Bronson. It didn't so much leap off the bookshelf at me as sidle up and give me a nudge in the ribs. The question the title of the book asks is at least partway valid for me at the moment as I'm in transition between lifestyles and careers, but it's not occupying all of my waking time as I think I've got a good idea of what I want to do with myself, at least over the next little while.

Still, flicking through the pages I realised the author had done some good work, getting many people to relate to him their experiences in the process of looking for what they felt they should be doing with their lives, and for some what it means and feels like once they know what they should be doing with their lives.
And the thing is, he's interested in these people and not just using them as an excuse to pop out a book.

I think I've learned more than ever over the last few month's how illuminating other people's experiences can often be, and this book is crammed full of just that, filtered beneath the author's very sharp gaze. In fact, in asking his question to the people that he encountered, Bronson ends up becoming involved in their process of discovery and exploration - his subjects let him know that his involvement in their lives is not a one way street, and they make him think deeply about what he is contributing and reflecting back to them.

Regardless of whether the title of the book is a question that you're asking yourself or not, it makes incredibly fascinating reading, partly because of the perceptive style of writing, but also because there is much in these people's experiences and philosophies that sings out about the human condition, and what it is to be human.

Well, I've made it to the other side of the world, and emerged blinking from the aircraft into the strong sunlight.

Twenty six hours in transit was enough time to read two novels (As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning by Laurie Lee, and Youth by J M Coetzee), read two magazines (The Economist and Forbes,), watch five movies (The Incredible Hulk, Spellbound, T3, Notting Hill, American Wedding), eat two breakfasts and two dinners (Red Thai Chicken and Beef Casserole), and have two showers in the hospitality longues between flights.

With so much to pack in you'd think there'd be no time to sleep. Well, actually, there was plenty of time to sleep and this would have been my number one preferred activity, but the experience of flying seems to prevent my body from doing much dozing, and I think I managed four hours in total.
The combination of the fetid atmosphere, upright seating position, and constant engine hum is more than enough to prevent me from falling into a comfortable sleep, so bleary eyed I find myself squinting at the movie playing on the seatback video screen while miles high above Indonesia and between time zones.

Now that I'm back on firm ground, I've been doing lots of sleeping, and after two days, almost feel human again. Next time I do this trip a stop-over is definately on the cards.