Across the bay is the small settlement of Russell - a quiet wooden white-washed village that was once the site of one of New Zealand's largest and most bustlesome cities. Full of sealers and sailors, convicts and whalers, it was razed to the ground in the 1845 Maori war and, by the time the current incarnation rose from the ashes, the urban primacy had begun its march southwards.

The next morning the mist was slowly evaporating under the relentless midwinter sun as we assembled at the wharf for a nice relaxing boat trip around the bay. Part of this excursion was a traditional Wero - a Maori challenge/welcome - to determine whether visitors' intentions are friendly or otherwise. For this, someone from our group had to act as nominal Chief of our "tribe". My attempt to look inconspicuous failed when the smiling tour guide pulled me from the crowd. "Just stand here, don't laugh and keep still". I grinned, nervously, as someone said "Here he comes".

From the end of the wharf a shaven-headed man wearing only a flax skirt was charging towards us wielding a large sharpened wooden club. He stopped only a few feet away still twirling the exceedingly solid-looking weapon inches from my nose so that I could feel the draught. I was heeding the "keeping still" advice very closely. All the time the man leered with bulging eyes while sticking out his tongue - which sounds rather comical, except when the leerer possesses a heavy, sharp looking piece of wood that, continual demonstration implies, he knows how to use.

After staring transfixed for a while I noticed the small bunch of leaves he had dropped. Here was the crux, pick it up and we come in peace, ignore it or, worse still, step on it, and he would, reluctantly I'm sure, be honour bound to move from demonstration to Effective Action. Feeling that this would possibly put a damper on the morning's tour I decided to pick up. Signing acceptance of this action he then led us all aboard the boat. Once on board he became the most amicable and least threatening member of the crew, regaling us tales with tales of the islands' history with characteristic dry Kiwi humour. I spent a large portion of the trip chatting to a woman from Taiwan and beginning to realise exactly how much Mandarin I have forgotten over the past two years.

Moving northwards to Kerikeri that afternoon I moved from Mandarin dialects to mandarin orchards - they crowd along the roadside for this is fruit picking country. The hostel here is full of beached backpackers, low on financial lubricant and waiting around for seasonal picking work. I Scrabbled the night away with an ex-sociologist from Leicester; needless to say she beat me solidly bringing my current holiday Scrabble score to Me:0 Others:4.

I spent the next day wandering around the northern part of the town. The oldest European building in New Zealand is here, built in the 1820s as part of one of the first Missionary settlements. By contrast, across the way lies Rewa's Village, a 1969 reconstruction of a Maori settlement that existed on this site in the 1820s. In situ, outdoors, it is a great deal more interesting and convincing that any of the well-preserved exhibits in the national museum. I spent a large proportion of my time there chatting to the 70 year-old volunteer manning the till which, after he brandished a copy of New Internationalist, became a heated discussion about the forces of globalization. "If I'd have been ten years younger I'd have been up there in Seattle" he said, and I fully believed him.

After a day lazing around I finally managed to get it together to organise some WWOOFing. Confused? Read on!