Our route from Nelson took us east to Havelock for the sole purpose of eating the renowned local Green Lipped Mussels. Well, the plan was that I'd do the eating and Katy would hopefully find something other than a salad on the menu.

En route, we saw many vintage cars, several of them being Rolls-Royces. We think there must have been some kind of event going on. The only other point of note on the journey was a stop at Pelorus Bridge. It was a very hot day and there were loads of people swimming in the river under the bridge. The campsite looked rather nice as well.

THE place in Havelock to eat mussels is called, accurately but without great inspiration, the Mussel Pot. It's in all the guide books as the best mussel restaurant in New Zealand - but what the books don't tell you is that it's also the most nervous restaurant in the country.

We arrived at around 7.15pm and were told that even though the restaurant was half empty, we would have to wait 20 minutes because the kitchen was going flat-out trying to serve a party of 20 people. We said that was fine and we would just have a drink in the waiting area.

Time passed. A group of five people arrived and were seated - we charitably decided they must have booked. Then the manager came over and said again how the kitchen was really swamped by having to cook for 20 people, then the group of five and it would be a while before they could manage us. We wrung a plate of garlic bread out of them to stave off the hunger pangs, gave them our order in advance, had another beer and discussed how awful it must be for a restaurant to have - oh my god! - 20 people!

It was no joke to the staff though, because when another couple turned up they were given the heavy spiel about how it would be ages so promptly departed in search of somewhere more organised. A few minutes later - at 8.15pm, we noted down the time - one of the waitresses put up the closed sign! Obviously several of the kitchen staff must have collapsed under the strain of it all.

Anyone reading this might think we received our meal around midnight and that it was terrible. Not so. We were summonsed to our table only about 15 minutes later and had an excellent dinner. I had a big bowl of mussels in a coriander and chilli broth and some very good, real potato chips. And Katy's vegetarian lasagne turned out to be fresh and tasty, rather than frozen and like cardboard.

The plan the next day was to drive to Portage, a small place on a peninsula which sticks out between Havelock and Picton and is the location of the Queen Charlotte walking track. There were three possible DOC campsites nearby we could aim for so we thought we would just pick the one with the nicest location. (Well, Katy said the one with the nicest toilet, but I was trying to be more tasteful!)

The drive along Kenapura road was nice, though the cloudy weather made it difficult to take pictures which did the scenery justice. The first site we reached at Cowshed (honest) was a bit odd. The section nearest the water was quite small and already heavily occupied, plus the toilet appeared to be over the road. And the part on the land side appeared to be up a track which would have challenged a 4x4 - so there was no way we were going to risk Blanche up that.

Portage itself had nothing to offer, so we drove a couple of miles on and came to the world's smallest campsite. Most British suburban lawns could have accommodated more than the four tents which was the limit at Picnic Bay. The site at Nikau Cove was also a no-go so we drove along to Kenapaura Head. The site there was nice enough, but without a lot of character and very exposed to the strong wind. After lunch there (including an adventurous visit to the 'long drop' - ie non-flushing - toilet), we decided to treat the day as a driving excursion and headed to Picton.

This took us along one of the more scenic drives with views over Queen Charlotte Sound. It's another of those fearful routes about which tourists are warned. You know the scene… A grizzled local in a pub, clutching a half-drunk pint… A stranger mentions his intention to take this route the following day… "I did the Queen Charlotte Drive once," says the local, "Back in '79 that was, with old Fred Throttlebucket. Only one of us came back alive! Never again! Never again! You heed my warning!"

Ok, I'm exaggerating slightly, but then so do the books about are the difficulties of the road. The Queen Charlotte Drive's only challenge is about 12km of severe bends as it passes along the coast. They're not even up and down hill and there is a 50kph speed limit, so the few vehicles just chug along quite sedately with no genuine dangers.

Oh, one useful tip. If you have the choice about which direction to travel along a coastal, lake or mountain, take the route which means the vehicle is on the water, or open, side of the road. The views are always much better that way and there are usually more stopping places. We've found that to be consistently true since we've been over here.

Back in Picton, we went to the same camp as before - it's cheap and has internet. Since we were last here, however, a new attraction has been added. Ducklings. No, not with plum or cherry sauce. Real, cute fluffy ducklings. Quite a few adults were in residence when we came in November, but now there were six babies waddling around after their protective mother.

Mind you, she wasn't so protective that she wouldn't let us (and other campers) feed them by hand. We discovered that as well as the usual bread (which we gather isn't that good for them if they eat too much) ducks like cornflakes - in the case of the ducklings, they prefer them crunched up and soaked in water.

That level of food preparation actually surpassed the culinary skills of one couple who were here. Forget what you have heard about how every French person has instinctive skills in the kitchen, that it's part of their DNA. It's just not true. We witnessed this pair cook 'Home Brand' pasta (yes, the cheapest and least-tasty type around) and stir in some salt and cheese. They then put the resulting mess under the grill in what we think was an attempt to gratinate it. The only result was to crisp the top layer solid. Unable to wait any longer, they chiselled a lump out onto each of their plates, where they poured yet more salt and supermarket-brand olive oil all over it in a vain quest to make it taste of something. Anything! By the looks on their faces, however, they failed.

We thought it was particularly funny as we were cooking scrambled eggs and beans on toast and had been joking about how down-market we were. In comparison with 'Les Francais', we should have been awarded at least one Michelin star.

Monday saw us in the pub all day. No, not just drinking. How could you think such a thing? Sunday was the Superbowl in America, and given the time difference, kick-off was due at noon New Zealand time. We therefore headed into town and asked at a Scottish pub called the Flying Haggis which had Sky TV - the barmaid said they were going to have the match on, so we plonked ourselves down in good seats.

Come 12 o'clock, however, the advertised channel started a four-hour golf programme. Panic-stricken, I checked at the bar and was assured the TV was tuned to the correct channel. Then Katy saw an announcement running across the bottom of the screen that the Superbowl was now on a different channel. The barmaid switched it over and there it was. Phew!

It was worth waiting for, because the game turned out to be a classic, with several changes of fortune, some brilliant plays and only decided in the final seconds. The Haggis Sausages I had for lunch were pretty good too.

The next day wasn't spent nursing a hangover, but on a trip on the Mail Boat through Marlborough Sounds. The Mail Boat is a hybrid - part tourist trip, part working postal service for the people who live in isolated places dotted around the Sound and who have little or no road access.

It all seemed to work rather well. The recipients of any delivery obviously knew something was coming and were waiting at the end of their jetty. The boat would draw up alongside, the captain would hand over a package and that would be that.

Some stops were more interesting than others, such as the man who took possession of a case of wine and a new dishwasher. The glasses had presumably been stacking up beside the sink for a while.

But the best delivery was to a house on Arapawa Island. The whole family was down at the dock - Mum, Dad, three children and a hyperactive dog - to take delivery of a passenger (she looked very much like an Auntie), three cases of wine and a large amount of food including crumpets, cookies and a very big box of salt and vinegar crisps.

As we left, I turned round and saw that one of the boxes had fallen into the sea. Hope it wasn't the crisps as the kids would have been devastated.

The only time we set foot on land was a 15-minute stop at Ship Cove, famous for being where Captain Cook dropped anchor several times on his visits here. There's a monument and some information boards, but not much else.

That didn't stop a Japanese camera crew which was on the trip with us over-excitedly crossing a shallow stream via stepping stones in order to reach a good vantage point. If they had bothered to look ahead, they would have found the bridge rather than get their feet wet.

Mind you, they were an insensitive bunch - as camera crews often are. As soon as we set off from Picton harbour, they set up their camera right at the front of the viewing deck and stood around it, obscuring much of the view of those behind. Including us. Grinding our teeth, we waited a while to see if they were just going to be there a few minutes - I even asked the one who seemed like he might be in charge if they were going to be there long.

When they showed no sign of shifting, I'd had enough and went down to the captain and complained that we hadn't paid good money to look at the back of a camera and the backsides of its crew. He obviously had a word because they moved soon after to a less obstructive position.

They tried to get in the way once more when we next arrived to drop off some mail, but I was in no mood to put up with it. When the two of them attempted to barge their way past us to take up prime position on the rail, I shoved my shoulder firmly into the sound man and told him in good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon to 'go forth and multiply'. As Billy Connolly pointed out when I saw him in concert years ago, some words are universal no matter where in the world you are. I don't know whether they all understood English, but they certainly got the message and were as good as gold after that.

Richard

PS While travelling around, we've seen quite a few people of 'advanced years' in campervans and have wondered how my Mum and Dad would get on, given that we're sure they would love the country. In the communal kitchen just now, we saw a couple (Dutch, we think) who must have been in their late 60s. We both thought 'Aha! If they can do it then so can Richard's parents,' given the latter pair's general level of fitness.

Then we heard the couple of 'advanced years' talking to a young woman as they cooked. They weren't making their way around New Zealand in a campervan. They were cycling!