The Path of the Ancients

Mike Bodnar sets off an a short odyssey to try out the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua - a shared walking/cycling path along the western coast of Wellington Harbour...

The Walking Man

Wellington's harbour (wake up at the back there; we're in New Zealand...) was unexpectedly gifted some land in 1855, which made quite a few things possible that hadn't been before. This surprise donation didn't come daintily wrapped, or with a bow tied round it; it was an earthquake, of serious magnitude - 8.2 to be precise.

I'm not here to give you a lesson in tectonics though; just know that the quake uplifted certain parts of the Wellington coastline between 1.5 and 2.0 metres, especially along the western shore. Over to the south-east it rose as much as 6.4 metres. I know, right?

There's a certain irony in useful land being created not long after British colonials had bought (or 'stolen', some would argue) whatever useful land they could from local Māori, because the uplift of the terrain along the western edge of the harbour - and especially around the nascent city of Wellington - enabled much reclamation and development where there had been little or no opportunity before.

It also allowed a road and rail link to be established from the city to the north. Prior to the uplift, there had been no useful shoreline on which to build what we now call a 'transit corridor.'.

So here I was today strolling along the newly-opened Te Ara Tupua, the Pathway of the Ancients, which follows those same shoreline contours and serves all sorts of useful purposes - until the next major earthquake returns it to the sea. But let's not think about that right now (although I will return to it shortly. There's no escape. No, literally: there is no escape. You'll see.)

The northern end of Te Ara Tupua

This new pathway is a shared cycling/walking facility, running alongside the aforementioned transit corridor which carries a railway line and a major road - State Highway 2. In short, what they've done is build a rocky seawall/defence in the shallows, and on the inside of that have created a flash new dual-purpose pathway, safe from the railway and traffic on one side, and from the crashing waves that bless our harbour on occasion on the other. Having only just opened (at time of writing), it has yet to weather its first major storm, so we'll have to wait and see just how robust it is.

Today though the harbour was calm, with just an amateur northerly blowing. Wind? Pfft. I chose to do the trek from north to south so that the breeze and sun would be behind me. Wasn't born yesterday.

An infrastructure minister (left) and son
Image: RNZ

Pathways like this don't come cheap, and as soon as I'd set off after leaving the train at Petone station, a media story replayed in my head from the previous weekend. A man named Chris Bishop, (a minister of infrastructure, m'lud) officially opened it on 15 May, taking the opportunity to criticise the overall NZ$348.7 million cost of the project.

Which made me realise that even after just my first ten metres, I had walked along a section costing almost NZ$775,000. Ka-ching! (No, I didn't do the maths in my head - I cheated)

But hey, I'm not here to be churlish about it. Don't get me wrong; I believe in investing in car-free alternatives, and I'm sure those who now zoom along the new pathway on their bikes thoroughly enjoy passing the traffic in its rush-hour clog evenings and mornings. I do worry, however, that projects of this nature cost so, so much.

The arguments for this particular pathway are many and sound though. It's not just a pathway; it's a 'resilience project' - a buzz-phrase which actually has some merit in this case. In 2013, a major storm washed out portions of this coastline, undermining the railway line and causing fairly major disruption. Given the effects of climate change, it seems sensible to build a robust seawall to counter future such incursions, and within it place an alternative transit corridor.

In the event of an apocalypse...

I haven't read this anywhere else yet, but it seems obvious to me that if the western hillside were to slip onto and block the state highway (as it does on occasion), then the new Te Ara Tupua is actually wide enough for, say, emergency vehicles to use it. Or, in the event of an apocalyptic event, zombies would be able to shuffle from Wellington to Pito-One at a horrifyingly leisurely pace. In perfect safety.

But I digress. The pathway is split unevenly: two-thirds of it is given over to a cycling lane, while the remaining third is for those of a more perambulatory nature. This distinction hadn't made it into some people's brains though; I had covered no more than fifteen metres before a cyclist pulled over and stopped literally in front of me, blocking the whole walking lane. She hadn't even seen me. What am I? The Invisible Man? I gave her a full-on EXCUSE ME and pushed past, listening to her and her partner, and the man they'd stopped to chat to, guffawing in laughter. Sorry cyclists, but behaviour like that does nothing to endear you to the rest of us.

So, while I'm on a rant, let me just point out two other niggles. One is that there are no toilets, either at the ends or in the middle. Secondly, not a single rubbish bin in sight. 

On my stroll today - a normal Wednesday late morning - the vast majority of those using the

Searching for a toilet?

 Path of the Ancients were, well, ancient. It was definitely Te Ara Senior, and although I'm sure not every one was incontinent or suffering prostate issues, if one were to be, shall we say, "caught short" in transit, then to nip behind a coastal rock would be to take your life in your hands, among other things.

Oh wait, a third niggle. To prevent us from straying from the path onto the railway line and causing inconvenient bus replacements for the next day or so, there is a chain-link fence along the entirety. From a health and safety point of view, that's good, until the next 1855 earthquake causes a large tsunami. In which case we'd have a hard job 'getting to higher ground' - as we are advised to do by the emergency management services. See, I warned you: literally no escape.

Oh, and I just remembered a fourth niggle, but let's just call it an 'observation': There are three 'AED' cabinets (AED = automated external defibrillator), one at each end and one in the middle, so plan your heart attack carefully, or be prepared to run approximately two kilometres to the nearest paddles. Clear? Clear!

Drainspotters have it easy...

On the plus side, Te Ara Tupua is flat along its length apart from the overbridge at Ngauganga, but even that's a gentle gradient. There are many attractive Māori motifs built in to stonework, and on pou (poles) at various places, as well as Māori-influenced patterning on pathway signage. Even the manhole covers have Māori 'location finder' paintwork across the entire path so that they're easy to spot (for those who like manhole covers, i.e. Drainspotters).

Information boards telling of local wildlife or history are plentiful, and there are multiple rest areas - or ūranga - along the way, with seating, so that you can watch the whales and dolphins frolicking in the harbour. Or, as an ancient, check your heart rate or work out how long it's been since you last had a wee.

Trees, grasses and other plants have been planted, particularly at the laybys, so if you want to know which varieties grow well in a harsh coastal environment, bring a notebook. It'll be nice to have some fully grown trees eventually, you know - to nip behind in the event you need to.

I noticed there's lighting as well, which suggests evening or night-time strolls are doable. Personally, and this really is just me, I would love to ride my motorbike along Te Ara Tupua around three o'clock in the morning; there's nothing stopping a motorcycle accessing the path either end. (But shhh, don't tell anyone).

Just before I reached the overbridge at Ngauranga I was treated to a brief but obvious whiff of eau de sewage, which was a shame. And no, despite the lack of conveniences, it wasn't me.

But let's not end on that. During my stroll I admired the harbour a lot, looking in the hope of seeing the aforementioned whales or dolphins, but sadly I saw only a few shags, who seemed to appreciate the 'islands' that have been created specifically for them just off-shore. I did see one of the interisland ferries coming in, and saw at least four fisher-folk who had obviously taken advantage of the path giving them access to previously unreachable fishing spots. 

All-in-all, the distance from Pito-One to Ngauranga is just under five kilometres, but you could walk another five and you'd find yourself in Wellington city. I didn't, and chose to catch the bus at the Ngauranga flyover instead. I mean, I didn't want to end up a zombie.

(Author rating of Te Ara Tupua: 7 out of 10)

Let's Twist Again...

 Mike Bodnar chooses a lesser-travelled road for a solo ride on his Royal Enfield motorcycle...

A 'buttock-clencher' approaches...

There might have been a slight frost overnight, but now, where the sun has touched it, much of the narrow winding road is dry. Except for some of the dark corners, overgrown on both sides with pines, tree ferns, or other natives, where sunbeams have yet to penetrate. Here the surface is damp, and I throttle down, changing from third gear to second, with an ever-so-slight touch on the rear brake pedal. There are some corners I take a little too fast - buttock-clenchers I call them. This is not a road for cavalier riding, so I slow down even more. There's no rush.

I'm on the Akatarawa Road in the lower North Island of New Zealand. My bike is a 2019 Royal Enfield Classic 500cc, the lineage of which can be traced back to 1901, in Redditch, England, but whose modern pedigree is based in India. It's a story as long and twisty as the road I'm on, but if we take a shortcut we can just say that after Royal Enfield Motorcycles ceased operations in England in 1970, production continued in Madras (now Chennai), India, as India had been assembling Royal Enfield motorcycles there since 1962.

It's a great success story, and today Indian-made Royal Enfields are exported around the globe, and have gathered an almost-cult status due to many of the models looking pretty much as they did in the 1960s. It's often confusing for onlookers who see the bikes outside cafés or in car parks; one of the most common questions is, 'How long did it take to restore?', or comments such as, 'Beautiful bike, looks almost like new.'

The bike: 2019 with a 1960s look - always draws attention

So here I am, worming my way along the Akatarawa Road, on my Classic 500cc single-thumper, which at first glance does indeed look like it's 60 years old. But apart from me there's nobody to look at it, as on this sunny Tuesday morning I have the road pretty much to myself. At the western end of the road, where I joined it, there's a cautionary sign advising that the route is unsuitable for long vehicles, to turn around now, and if you are continuing, not to trust GPS instructions. Consequently I see only three vehicles in the whole 25 kilometres (15.5 miles), but of course you never know what's round the next buttock-clencher, so I'm riding carefully. In my favour, the road is sealed and in overall good condition.

The road borders the Akatarawa Forest, and is lined for much of the route with lush vegetation, which, in places, overhangs the road. Appropriately, Akatarawa means 'trailing vines.' The proximity to the forest is no accident, as the road itself originally provided access for logging. In early days there were bush mills, and even a few industrial tramways to service them, though there's little or no evidence of these now.

An Akatarawa tramway in 1903

In the 1870s the route was briefly considered for a railway line, which would have linked the Hutt Valley in the east with the coastal settlements to the west, however a different route was settled on and nothing ever came of the rail venture. There is, however, as I ride through the twists and turns, a chugging noise - the sound my single-cylinder bike makes as I occasionally accelerate on those bits of road where I can see a reasonable distance ahead. The thump of a big single is one of the aspects of these bikes that endear them to their riders. It's a sound that provides more smiles per gallon.

I glance frequently at my speedo, though not to check my speed; I have another reason for taking note of my progress, and we'll come to that a little further into the ride. But speaking of numbers, the Akatarawa district itself is sparsely populated - there are only 2.1 people per square kilometre, so my chances of finding someone on the road round a corner are slim. I do wonder what 0.1 of a person might look like though.

The roadside bush hides farms and dwellings very effectively. There's the occasional giveaway fence, or a driveway tucked away in the trees, but you could be forgiven thinking that nobody lives here. And yet they must, because, well, the road: there has to be a reason for the road. I ponder what it must be like to live out here in the middle of nowhere, getting home from your fortnightly trip to the supermarket only to realise that you forgot to buy milk. I suspect those who do live here 'in the sticks' are resilient, and somewhat self-contained. Unfairly, the duelling banjos theme to Deliverance enters my head as I turn yet another leafy corner.

Not a place to forget the milk

Slowly the road begins to become a bit wider, the curves less tight, and I'm able to use third
and fourth gear more; the Akatarawa River becomes visible to my right, and I know I'm coming to the end of the valley road. Suddenly I'm in a suburb called Brown Owl, and it's time to join State Highway 2. I turn left, glance again at my speedo, do a quick mental calculation, and realise that I have to abandon my plan to head over the Remutaka Hill to Wairarapa. Instead, with a rumble in my tummy to rival the thumping from the bike, I'm reminded it's time for lunch.

I don't particularly like riding on state highways. My Enfield's top speed is not much more than 120kph (about 75 mph), and while that's not bad, it's not really what the Classic 500 is built for. However, most of New Zealand's open road speed limit is 100kph (62mph), and I don't have any trouble maintaining that - it's just that it's nowhere near as pleasurable as burbling and weaving along country roads at a more sedate pace. But I know of a place for lunch just up ahead, so that's where I'm headed.

Aston-Norwood formal gardens, my lunchtime view

Aston-Norwood is mainly a function and wedding venue, but with a pleasant café, and I find a seat in the sun overlooking the well-tended garden. Here I do some more calculations, check Google Maps, and decide on my next destination, which, of necessity, cannot be more than 15 kilometres away. Not because I'm running out of fuel, or time - I am on a mission. Which is, to be riding in an area where it's easy and convenient for me to pull over when my odometer ticks over to read 123456. Yes, a once-in-a-lifetime event is about to happen, and I want to take a photo to document the occasion. Which is why I've abandoned my planned journey over the Remutaka Hill - it would be too dangerous - if not impossible - to pull over on the side of that hilly, twisty road to take a picture.

A simple thing, but nice

So after a filling lunch of loaded fries and a drink, I find myself retracing my journey by nine kilometres, turning left at Te Marua, and heading out through a rural area called Maymorn. 

Here the roads are flat, largely straight, and clear - perfect for what I want to do. My head nods up and down as I ride, which is me frequently checking my odometer reading, and looking ahead to gauge where the Big Event will happen. Silly, I know, but sometimes it's the simplest things in life that give the most pleasure. And then I have no more than two-tenths of a kilometre to go and I'm approaching a corner with no idea what's round it, so I decide to turn around and slowly go back so that I'll be on a straight stretch for the final click-over. And then it happens, conveniently at a quiet driveway to a rural building complex. I whip out my phone, select the camera app, and shoot at least six pictures of my lovely odometer, smiling the whole time.

As I'm in the rural area north of Upper Hutt I choose to take a country detour to get back to State Highway 2, and prolong my merging with the busy road. Instead I ride mainly flat and clear rural roads, through Whiteman's Valley, and along the more twisty Blue Mountains road, which eventually winds its way smoothly down, twisting and turning, to join the main highway.

And so I head home, the late afternoon sun on my right, the harbour of Whanganui-a-Tara to my left, its blue waters barely ruffling in the light breeze. I'm finally riding top-gear territory, and feel it's almost the equivalent of giving a horse free rein after having it compete in a tight and demanding gymkhana. 

We are  very lucky in Aotearoa/New Zealand that motorcycling can be a year-round activity, unlike, say, the UK where many (most?) motorbikes get tucked up by their owners from November through to April while winter does its worst, and the road crews spread salt and grit on the icy roads. The temperature for today's ride has been about 14 degrees Celsius, with ups and downs to that on the Akatarawa Road. Some dark corners the temperature would suddenly drop, reminding me that it's technically still winter, and yet on the sunny bits the warmth was palatable. Spring is coming.

It must be over 25 years since I last rode the Akatarawa Road, and I certainly won't leave it that long again (I mean, I am 71, so if I did I'd have to still be riding at 96!). If you'd like to do the trip yourself, here's a Google Earth 3D map (above), along with one (right) showing my full journey on the day.

Those who know the region will see that I've done my best to avoid State Highway 1 and Transmission Gully. Coffee was in the sun at Pauatahanui.

Maybe I'll do the Akatarawa trip again when my speedo's about to read 234567.

There And Back Again - A Visit to Hobbiton

Like Tolkien's diminutive hero Bilbo Baggins, Mike Bodnar goes on an adventure - to Middle Earth...

Hobbiton, Middle Earth, New Zealand

It's a well-known fact that New Zealand provided the backdrops for Peter Jackson's epic Tolkien movie trilogy The Lord of the Rings, and later The Hobbit. Aotearoa take a bow.

Nothing is more testament to this starring role than the influx of tourists New Zealand experienced once the first films were released; people from all over our own earth were desperate to see Middle Earth for themselves. Wikipedia notes in reference to the LOTR movies: The annual tourist influx to New Zealand grew 40%, from 1.7 million in 2000 to 2.4 million in 2006, which some have attributed to be to a large degree due [sic] to The Lord of the Rings phenomenon.

This tree above Bag End is completely fake

It's also a fact, however, that most film sets are ephemeral, and usually built of materials such as polystyrene, timber, fibreglass, plaster, and so on, so it should come as no surprise to tourists that even if they do make the pilgrimage to Aotearoa in search of Middle Earth, they are going to be out of luck if they want to actually see Rivendell, Minas Tirith or Helm's Deep. The sets were torn down after filming, often because they were on public land, and their destruction and disposal was part of the filming arrangements.

Rivendell is a good example. The verdant location for the Elven dwelling was in Kaitoke Regional Park, north of the capital, Wellington. The park is operated by Greater Wellington Regional Council, and although Jackson and his crew had access to the area for many months, and erected various walls, 'stone' steps, plazas, rooms, even a fake bubbling stream, there is now nothing to see of any of it. (That said, it's such a pretty part of Wellington it deserves a visit in its own right, and local LOTR tours will show you exactly where certain scenes were shot).

The site for Hobbiton, overlooking the water

But there is one location that does exist, and it's perhaps the most relevant and Mecca-like of all: Bilbo and Frodo's home settlement of Hobbiton, in The Shire.

Jackson chose the North Island location for its relative ease of access, its similarity in part to
English countryside, and the fact that it had a hill overlooking a body of water, as described by Tolkien in his books. It was - and is - on a working farm, so as with all the other sets, Hobbiton's Hobbit homes, gardens, bridges, even the Green Dragon pub, were all temporary structures.

The farm is owned by the Alexander family, and to their credit - and no doubt financial benefit - they reached a partnership agreement with Jackson's lot to recreate Hobbiton and to rebuild it in accordance with modern construction codes, so that visitors could enjoy it today. The result is something to strike joy into the heart of the coldest Orc in the land.

Where it all starts: the Shire's Rest Cafe

Needless to say it is hugely popular. On a recent trip to New Zealand we had booked a month or so in advance, critical in summer when most people visit, though it is open all year round except Christmas Day.

Two things impress: one is the attention to detail throughout Hobbiton, and the other is how well-run the operation is. Let's start and dispense with the operational stuff.

Of necessity, and because Hobbiton is on a working farm (a couple of hours' drive south of Auckland for reference), you can't just turn up and wander round unaccompanied. The attraction is extremely popular, so tours assemble and depart from The Shire's Rest Café, which is beside the road that passes the Alexander's farm. There's a Gondor-sized car park and a check-in reception. Plenty of seating indoors and outdoors, and the food and drink options are commendable. And loads of toilets!

The tour begins...

The tours are staggered so that you're not tripping over each other, but you can check the
details (and make bookings) on the Hobbiton Movie Set tours site. I encourage you to do so; but I'd rather use this blog to reminisce about the experience. In a word: wizard!

Each tour group of approximately 30 people is taken by bus through the farm to where the Hobbiton set is. A video along the way means that both Sir Peter and Mr Alexander welcome you to the experience, which is all very jolly, but of course you spend your time looking out of the bus windows in the hope of a glimpse of Middle Earth (which you do get).

Me with Peter Jackson on the set of Rivendell,
circa 2000. Polystyrene, timber, fake stone,
even fake lichen!

There are rules, as the guide explains. No wandering off, stick to the paths, keep together, and that's about it. Our guide, a Welsh lass called Louise, was very good at explaining some of the cinematic techniques used during filming, highlighting details of the set, testing our LOTR knowledge, and she always seemed ready to answer questions or discuss things. I bored her with my story of how I chatted with Peter Jackson at Rivendell when he was shooting scenes there. She was very polite.

But oh my, what a lovely place. Hobbiton has been perfectly recreated, with all the essence of the settlement captured in perfect and extreme detail. You walk along winding paths through gorgeous scenery, past numerous 'Hobbit holes', their front doors all painted a different colour, their front gardens personalised with flowers, stalls of honey or cheese, even Hobbit-sized waistcoats and breeches hanging on washing lines.

There are over 40 Hobbit holes

If, like me, you've been a fan of both The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings stories for years, then you'll be transported back to the books. There's no sign of Hobbits of course (although smoke curls teasingly from at least one chimney) but I have to say I actually felt somewhat emotional, almost overwhelmed by what I was seeing.

As an 11-year-old, immersed in the Lord of the Rings books for the first time, I yearned to live in Middle Earth. My real earth wasn't all that good - I'd just started senior school and hated it. I escaped into the Rings books as often as possible and went journeying with Frodo and Sam; they took me away from the harsh realities of daily school life. Give me a Nazgûl over our demonic headmaster any day.

So for me, visiting this Kiwi Hobbiton was like arriving at a place I'd known about for decades, a place with which I was totally familiar, and yet one which by definition of its being fictional, didn't exist. And yet here it was. And it was perfect. Almost as though Hobbiton had really existed, and Tolkien had been there and written about it. Written about this place. I felt he would have been proud, had he been able to join our tour.

Nearly all the Hobbit homes are facades built into the hillsides, so most of the doors don't open and you can't duck in for a cup of tea, a puff of rough shag, or a pint of Rosie's cider, but that doesn't matter. I could empathise, because when we lived in New Zealand we built our own Hobbit hole façade, our own Bag End in fact, on a hillside at the back of our house. Unfortunately we sold the property before the

Our own 'Bag End' which became
a condition of purchase

grass could properly establish over it (see pic), but on the other hand the new owners - the husband worked for Weta Workshop and was involved in the special effects for Jackson's films - made it a condition of purchase that we left our Bag End in situ. We were happy to oblige (but I plan to make another one one day!).

The 'real' Bag End

Some in our tour group (myself included) wanted photographs of course, and here's the challenge: getting a shot of a Hobbit dwelling (and Bilbo's home 'Bag End' in particular) without other tour members in shot. The trick, I discovered, is to be the last in the group, so that everyone has moved on just far enough that you're left with a people-free photo opportunity. The downside of this is that you're likely to

miss out on what your guide at the front is saying, or that she'll turn the Eye of Sauron on you and burn you to ashes for dawdling. That's a risk I was willing to take. I'm still here.

As you can see from some of the images included here, my tactic worked, even to the point of getting Bag End without one of those large pesky men-folk in shot.

A detail that particularly impressed me about this reconstructed movie set was that in any gateway, or fence, or door or signpost, I did not see a single Philips screw or alloy nut and bolt. No stainless steel fittings, no MDF board. Everything was as it would have been in Middle Earth, and rightly so. Nothing looked new either; there was a quaint rustic charm and patina to everything, an appropriate lived-in look.

The bridge past the Mill leading to The Green Dragon

The tours, although well controlled, are not rushed. It takes about an hour to amble through the leafy byways, and to gaze in wonder at the to-scale Hobbit homes and gardens, and there's a bonus, my precious: the tour concludes at the quaint thatched Green Dragon pub with a free pint of cider, beer or soft drink. The Green Dragon, you'll be pleased to know, is human-sized, so there's no ducking down to get in or banging your head on the beamed ceilings.

The Green Dragon, complete with Hobbit

And because it was a nice day for our tour, most people took their drinks outside, which enabled me to get a shot of the interior without any people in it. Except for one child sitting at a table, and charmingly he actually was Hobbit-sized so fits into the scene perfectly.

A visit to Hobbiton is (obviously) something I'd recommend. Of course it helps if you've read the books or seen the films, but the place is so pretty, so perfect anyway, that even if you don't know a Hobbit from an Orc or a warg from a cave troll, you'd almost certainly still enjoy it.

If you do go, and your tour guide sears you to ashes for loitering to take photos at the back of the group, you can blame me. But remember to tell them that you're there because I recommended it. As I said earlier, it's wizard.

The Good, the Bad and the Boring – Part Four

Victor Borge. Image: Reiner Hersch

The Great Dane sat across from me at the lunch table. It was the mid-1980s, and Victor Borge and I were to do an interview at the hotel in Wellington where he was staying during a tour of New Zealand.

The waiter appeared beside us to take our orders, and Victor indicated that I should order first. 'I'll have the Beef Wellington please,' I said, knowing that this was the posh Parkroyal and that the meal should be excellent. The waiter turned with a raised eyebrow to Denmark's greatest export after Carlsberg. 'I'll have a club sandwich.'

If I could have shrunk myself to disappear into my seat I would have done. Or, in hindsight, maybe I should have just changed my order there and then, say, to a dry cracker. Unfortunately I didn't.

So here he was, the world-famous pianist-comedian who for years had had audiences in stitches by combining musical excellence with comedy genius, playing with – and destroying – the English language while also doing the same with some of the world's greatest piano pieces. Mozart, I suspect, would have loved the humour of it.

The Clown Prince of Denmark.
Image: Jesper Jurcenoks

We chatted about Borge's musical background, and yes indeed he was, like Mozart, a prodigy. He had started learning the piano not long after he'd learned to walk, thanks to having parents who were also accomplished musicians.

Our meals arrived – Victor having had to wait for his humble sandwich while the chef prepared my Beef Wellington – and we tucked in. Rather like Hercule Poirot, Victor Borge personified the word 'dapper'; he was neat, trimmed, precise, tidy, with a twinkle in his eyes, and he was the perfect gentleman. Despite my asking him all the same questions that he'd been asked a million times by interviewers the world over, he answered them with good humour.

I asked him, 'What is the secret to your comedy?' He smiled at me and said, conspiratorially, 'If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret!' and smiled.

As I've mentioned in the previous articles on famous people I've interviewed, not all of them wanted to talk, or even be there, but I'm happy to say that the Clown Prince of Denmark was totally professional and fully engaged in our conversation. The following day I received a message from his son (with whom he was travelling) saying how much his father had enjoyed meeting me and doing the interview. I'd never had such a compliment from a celebrity before and never received one again. I suspect it said more about him then me, but hey, what a gent.

Another gentleman it was a pleasure to meet was astronomer, science broadcaster and

Carl Sagan. Image: Michaerl Okoniewski

author Carl Sagan. By the time he visited New Zealand in the 1980s he was already well known for his astronomy programmes on TV and was, arguably, the most famous name in science communication at the time.

In the UK, astronomer Patrick Moore was, as host of the BBC's long-running Sky At Night programme, also famous, and I interviewed him around the same time. While Patrick was dishevelled and lovely (and signed some books for me), he was a complete contrast to Carl Sagan. Patrick Moore fitted the stereotypical 'boffin' description, with his wildly effusive method of speaking and machine gun-delivery. I don't think anyone could fit so many words into an interview as Moore did.

Sagan on the other hand was more calm and measured, but also more outspoken. This worked for him as a science communicator because not only was he capable of simplifying difficult concepts for a lay audience, he wasn't afraid to address some of the big questions, such as the role of God in the universe. Patrick Moore stuck more to astronomy as a discipline, but they both shared success as communicators and as enthusiasts.

Sir Patrick Moore.
Image: South Downs Planetarium

The main difference was that Carl Sagan achieved global popularity (ref. his acclaimed series and book Cosmos) and some notoriety, to the point that Harvard refused to accept him either on their staff or as a serious astronomer. They disliked the way he popularised astronomy, but I thought he was the bees' knees.

As with Victor Borge, Sagan graciously put up with my questions, which I’m sure he'd answered a billion times before, and – being an experienced broadcaster – he was a dream to interview, knowing just how long to make his answers, just when to stop, or when to elaborate as required.

As I think I've mentioned, most of the famous people I interviewed have since died (not necessarily as a result of meeting me, yet who knows?), but Carl Sagan passed away at the obscenely young age of just 62. Patrick Moore and Victor Borge are also no longer with us, and nor is Marcel Marceau...

French mime artist Marceau, with his top hat, striped top and clown face (the trademarks of his character 'Bip') was world famous when I met him for an interview in the studio on our regional TV programme Today Tonight. My French wasn't even at intermediate stage at the time, but luckily his English was perfect, although I guess we could have done the whole interview in mime. I'm just not sure how I would have asked him how he got started in the 'art

of silence.'

Marcel Marceau as Bip.
 Image: Wikipedia

I'm not sure even if I asked him that out loud, otherwise I'm sure I would have remembered him telling me how he first used mime to entertain rescued Jewish children during the Second World War while he was secretly working for the French Jewish resistance.

What a fascinating man. And yet, the thing I remember most about him was his awful, awful wig. I'd met him before the programme in make-up, and could see then just how dreadful his rug was. It was curly, streaked with grey, but also filthy, matted even. I could hardly take my eyes off it, and yet here I was talking with a man who had been made a Grand Officier de la Légion d'Honneur in his native France and who had risked his life in the French resistance.

Needless to say, I never received any awards for my interviewing.

As an example of how naïve some of my interviewing was in the early days (early- to mid-1980s) go and read about my meeting with SpikeMilligan, a highlight of my broadcasting career but which disappoints me still as one of my biggest missed opportunities ever.

Mark Knopfler.
Image: Klaus Hiltscher, Wikipedia

There are quite a few other famous names that have been on the soft and squidgy end of my interviewing skills, such as Dire Straits' Mark Knopfler, Allan Clarke of the Hollies, and either Rupert Murdoch or Robert Maxwell (unbelievably I can't remember which!).

I've had a drink with the famous British character actor Derek Guyler, shared a flaccid and fleeting handshake with Kenny Everett, and I've had lunch with Clive Anderson. I've chatted (briefly) with Stephen Fry and had a more extended conversation on the set of Rivendell with Sir Peter Jackson. But now I'm just name-dropping, and there's not much to tell about any of those encounters.

Let me finish though by saying that, while many (if not most) of my televised interviews were bog-standard, unexciting and definitely not shock-horror-revealing, the best one I ever did, even though it was at the Avalon Television Studios, was without cameras and with no audience.

There’d been an industrial argument going on for weeks in New Zealand between the Employers' Federation and a national union, but negotiations had reached stalemate.

I was to interview two of the kingpins – Pat Kelly of (I think) the Cleaners' and Caretakers' Union and John Robertson of the Employers' Federation – live on camera. Again we were restricted to no more than about five minutes' duration, so it was unlikely I was going to be doing a ground-breaking interview.

Avalon TV Studios, New Zealand
Image: TVNZ

And so it proved; they both behaved extremely well, politely answered my questions, but hardly set the audience on fire with their blazing disagreements or opinions. They didn't shout or come to blows and I didn't have to referee. It was polite, sanitised, and – let's face it – probably boring. Until we retired to the TV One Club after the show for a drink.

Continuing to chat over a pint I asked Pat Kelly how the disagreement had started and what his concerns were. He told me and I turned to the Federation's John Robertson and said, “That sounds like a genuine grievance to me…” to which he replied, ‘Yes it is, but…” and proceeded to put his side of the argument. “That makes sense to me,” I said to Pat, who agreed it did, except…

And so it went on like a tennis match until in the end they were metaphorically shaking hands over the net and in accord with each other so much that I said it seemed there was enough common ground to progress out of the stalemate. Result!

From that day on I began to properly interview people by listening to them, but I never again had such a golden opportunity to solve a union dispute. And, I don't think I interviewed anyone famous again either.

If only I could go back in time, I would do it all differently. But that's hindsight for you.

If you've enjoyed this, please check out my previous articles on famous people I've interviewed here:

Part One – Rowan Atkinson, Arthur Lowe

Part Two – Dave Allen, Barry Humphries, Jeffrey Archer

Part Three – Dr. David Bellamy, Douglas Adams, Mel Smith & Griff Rhys-Jones

Previously: Spike Milligan

How I almost went to the moon with Spike Milligan

The problem with meeting one of your heroes is that they might just turn out not to be the idol you’d expected. Or that they are but you’re hopelessly ill-prepared for the encounter. In my case – in meeting and interviewing the great Spike Milligan – it was a bit of both.

Flashback to the mid-1980s when I was working as a regional TV newsreader in Wellington, New Zealand. I presented the news on Today Tonight every weekday evening following the national news, but also got to go out and about with film crews doing short features and, if not in the studio, interviewing visiting noters ‘in the field’ as the jargon has it. It was a great job.

Spike Milligan. I copied this image from the Internet
years ago but have no permission to use it.
If you own the rights please let me know

So one day we had the opportunity to interview the great Goon himself, Spike Milligan, who was in town for – as far as I can recall – no particular reason. His great ex-army pal Harry Edgington did, however, live just up the road and it was well known that whenever Spike was in New Zealand he would go and visit Harry, presumably to talk over old times, or listen to jazz records. Maybe he was just there for a catch-up.

Anyway, once we knew we could interview Spike we discussed in the newsroom how we should do it. Obviously we knew Milligan had a reputation for being a comic genius, but he was also known for suffering mood swings; anecdotally we’d heard he hated air conditioning and that it could affect his moods. So we decided to do a field interview, outdoors and well away from any aircon.

His agent and partner Sheilagh had told us Spike would be based at a house in Hobson Street, Thorndon and that we would be slotted into the interview schedule. We arrived in the crew van and ahead of us were Radio NZ and the local newspaper the Evening Post, but we were quite prepared to wait.

Sheilagh came out and asked what we’d like to do and I explained we’d prefer to take Spike just a hundred metres up or so the road and interview him in a leafy park area. She said she’d tell him and departed.

Spike on another park bench, without me.
(Spike Milligan memorial bench, garden of Stephen's House, Finchley
(Image: Wikimedia Commons)

We were feeling quite pleased with ourselves: an interview with the great Spike Milligan, in a park on a nice day where air conditioning wouldn’t be a problem. Perfect.

Suddenly here was the man himself, leaping energetically into our van through the open sliding door. ‘Hello folks!’ he said in his endearing Goonish manner. I introduced myself and the crew and then Spike, still in Goon mode, said, ‘So, what’s happening?’

I told him we’d like to nip up the road and interview him in Katherine Mansfield Park. His face clouded, the Goon disappeared, and he said, ‘Why does every fucker want to interview me in a park?’ So much for air conditioning being a problem.

My heart sank. I could hardly say, ‘Well, Spike it’s so we don’t set off a mood swing’, so I mumbled something about it being a nice day and if we were outside we wouldn’t have to use lighting so it would be quicker. He calmed down after that, and within minutes he and I were seated on a park bench while the cameraman and sound op set up.

I had with me a list of questions, but before the camera even rolled it was Milligan who was interviewing me. He wanted to know what I thought about the Elgin Marbles and whether they should be repatriated to Greece, and what my opinion was of sending men to the moon and “wasting all that money”.

From the cover of 'Monty: His Part in My Victory'
which Spike signed for me

To my shame I had at that time no idea what the Elgin Marbles were. I had a definite opinion about lunar exploration though, which we discussed for a short while. And then the camera and sound were ready and we roll-recorded, at which point I referred to my scripted questions and interviewed Spike Milligan.

To this day I can’t remember what my questions were. I recall Milligan responded well enough, but in hindsight I should have picked up on the nuances and followed the leads he’d given me while the crew was setting up. I should have thrown my script away and said, “Spike, as we were setting up you were asking whether the Elgin Marbles should be returned to Greece. Why? Is that something you’re passionate about?” and we could have had a meaningful discussion about one of the great comic’s many causes, something incisive, in-depth, interesting.

But I didn’t. I was a slave to my script and was guilty of the ultimate sin for an interviewer: not listening to your interviewee. Not long after that I realised that you don’t need a list of questions for an interview, you need only one – the first one – and providing you listen to the answer you can build on it from there.

One of my most treasured possessions

That’s not to say research isn’t important; it is, and it pays to know as much about your interviewee (we called them ‘talent” in those days!) as you can, but really an interview is nothing more than a conversation conducted on behalf of the viewer at home.

And so I did my duty as the programme host and Spike did his duty as the visiting talent. I think we parted friends (he willingly signed one of his Military Memoir books for me), but it could have been so much more interesting had I just been a bit more experienced. I feel I let him down, and I certainly let myself (and the viewers) down, and Spike himself didn’t get the chance to talk about what he was really interested in.

Spike, wherever you are now: yes I do think the Elgin Marbles should be returned, but no I disagree that space exploration is a waste of money. But, too late to discuss that now. Curses, foiled again.