In which winter arrives, Roger writes a poem and Dora doesn't get muddy

Dear fans,

Roger is out in the cold and drizzle with his running group (with head torches) and I am pleased to be on the sofa under a Pure New Zealand Wool blanket, which recently had to be purchased from the op shop, because winter has arrived. Properly this time: Roger wrote it on the calendar. 

Skyline bike ride. Spot Richard.

In contrast to the frozen-in-summer-and-frozen-in-time delights of Napier, this weekend contained the more usual ingredients: a trip to Pak n Save, a visit to the recycling centre and two football matches. Roger also went on a mountain bike ride with his new friend Richard. I also bought three pictures from the recycling/tip shop Second Treasures. Along with two new canvas photos we can now transform the spare room into a hotel-level guest room. 

Grittier times

My football match was over in the Wairarapa, an hour and a half's drive over the Rimutakas, which was spent chatting pleasantly to a French team mate (in English, although she's been warned when I'm not driving I might try French). The team had a beautiful turf pitch and a vocal crowd in the stands. It was a closely fought, physical match that ended 1-1, with the second half in the pouring rain. I did miss the mud element a bit. Less gritty.

Roger wrote a brilliant (I'm allowed to say so) match report for his game (it was his turn), in the style of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. You can read it at the end of the blog.

In other sports news, the Xterra West Wind trail run video is ready for viewing. In fact, if you are social media savvy, like my parents, you may have already found it!

Now that the days are short and the Southerlies increasing, we are spending significant amounts of time planning for Springtime adventures. I'm off to Malaysia to meet up with Becky in October and Roger to the UK, and then at the end of October/early November our friend Simon is visiting. At last, we will head to the South Island on a mystery route governed by the weather. Luckily we are developing a comprehensive Google Spreadsheet of all possibilities, which will be useful for other visitors.

But first, our VIP winter visitors, Mum and Dad! Perhaps they will do a guest blog post?

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Roger's football write up: to be read in the style of ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’

It is an ancient footballer, 
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy spiked grey hair and glittering eye, 
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

Basque does some great Sangria
And I really want a drink;
I don’t want to hear your old mans’ tales, 
If that is what you think."

He holds him with his aggressive gaze,
He cannot choose but hear,
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The downbeat footballer. 

"The pitch was wet, the game was set,
Some people got there late,
Down the Valley, on Pitch 2,
Phoenix were to meet their fate.

The game kicked off and things looked good
Despite some occasional slips,
Dave punched a ball out from a corner
Whilst Adam licked his lips.

A three week drought was ended then, 
As some passing broke us through,
The goalie went right, Adam shot left,
His goal-streak began anew.

One-nil up at half time and
The enemy seemed dead,
Tim’s sister swooned at our use of width,
And Ganes even tried to head.

But then, they grabbed a goal, O Christ!
This half looked like a slog,
The blinding sun made passing fun,
Particularly in a bog.

A glimpse of hope, as their defence broke,
Patrick hit the back of the net,
We were back in the lead and just had to pray,
Their long balls would fail to beget.

But lo! A Phoenix throwing found their dwarf,
Who was marking him? Who knew!
He skinned two, then three, and shot with glee,
To even up: 2-2!

Throwings, throwings, everywhere (particularly down the left hand side), 
But still our attack faltered,
Decs ended up in centre back,
Our strategy thus altered.

With minutes to go, we won a corner,
Only for it be called goal kick!
After 90 minutes of unpunished late tackles,
We concluded the ref must be thick.

They long-balled again, but this time there was
Confusion across our back line,
A man was found, he thumped a round,
They led, with little time.

Phoenix had come back from the ashes
Of the first half, and we were beat,
Even a Vinnie Jones-style tackle from Patrick,
Failed to rouse the Elite.

But who to blame? Ross missed a sitter,
The fault is his methinks,
But then my memory of the whole match is clouded,
By Greg’s night of leaving drinks."

The Footballer, whose hair is spiked, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone: and now the Basque patron
Turned towards the exit door. 

He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn: 
A sadder, wiser, hungover man, 
He rose the morrow morn.