With windy Wellington still blowing about my baffled brain and the effects of a night in the only Welsh bar in the southern hemisphere (fittingly situated in a former public toilet) still giving me reason to complain and curse like an angry Glaswegian who's hammered a nail into his hand, I made my way into New Zealand's South Island. The South Island is a lot like the North Island, only exaggerated. Where you can jump off stuff in the North, you can jump off...

"Mate, you're an idiot. That's daft even by our standards, and as you might have noticed, we can be pretty crazy round here." Such were the words spoken by Ian, the fine Kiwi gentleman in the pub as he handed over my enticingly pint-shaped prize for becoming the first man anyone, be they backpacker, local or tourist guide, had known to be dumb enough to walk New Zealand's famous Tongariro Crossing in flip-flops. Sweet. As. Such is the re...