Gisborne Spink to the Plenty Embassy?

After a comfortable and quiet night in the Flying Nun, I stacked the bike and headed to the local Honda dealer for an oil change. The customer service was excellent. They booked me straight in, the manager on the front desk was from Devon so we swapped notes about pastures green. It is different from travelling in America when someone hears the accent.
"Where you from?"
"Bristol, England." I reply in anticipation of the predictable
"Oh, I have a relative in Yorkshire."
"Do you? That's great.. No, I don't know Bill from Hull."
I usually don't use the biting sarcasm I'm tempted by. A simple retort "That's a nice part of the world." (even if he did ask about his Great Aunt Ethel from Scunthorpe) usually kills the conversation in precisely the intended manner.

People here are tempted by the same mind dumbingly improbable comment - except the odds are relatively realistic. Let's face it, I had a different connection with each of three housemates I met in the same flat in Wellington. Keith, one of the mechanics, linked my Britishness to the fact that his grandmother was an ex-pat, who married into the Family SPINK, nee Amey. At this point, I am genuinely intrigued. The family SPINK in Bristol could well be related (how many Spinks have you ever met?!) and I leave the garage pleasantly lightened by the (still) minute possibility that I might be separated from Keith the mechanic by just 2 or 3 degrees of separation. Oh, and the fact that my bike is freshly oiled and my head lamps work again. And the fact that all the time I have been swapping family history with Keith, I have been sealing my boots with liquid rubber. Which stopped the leaks by the way, and because I had to leave before the rubber was dry, I gathered most of the gravel dust between Gisborne and Wairata to what are now two-tone black boots with a sandy speckled set of go faster stripes.

The rain kept coming but I didn't care. When your feet are dry the road can be awash and you sloosh on through. I took the gravel route along the Whakerau Road, 50 odd kms through a winding valley with fjords, and up hills to the Kaipono peak (927m/3000ft) where there was snow on the roadside and low hanging mist just above my head. Then down to Matawai and up through the Wairata Gorge. At the top, looking back down the valley gave breathtaking views. The hillsides with neat sections of trees, some dark green, some light purple, forming round the pointy volcanic slopes like a stepped military haircut.

Ahead, at last, was the blue sky I had been chasing. The rain and wind behind me seemed unable to surpass the top of the gorge, stopping at the peak as if on a meterological restraining order, banning it from coming any closer to the Whakatane District. The road was dry, almost empty and a fabulous ride. The very edges of my road knobbley tyres scrubbing in round the grin factor 10 twisties. (Apologies to non-bikers that I sound like a pretentious bike journo).

I arrived at my Te Puke hosts and the most excellent hospitality. The long driveway, lined with Kiwi trees, led to the house nestled in it's own three acre plot, classic Jaguars and a Triumph TR3 lined the forecourt (all cream with red leather). The Union Jack wafted elegantly on the lawn. I had, it seemed, arrived at the British Embassy, High Commission, Te Puke.