We checked into the most luxurious and pristine youth hostel I've ever seen and ruminated on our plans for the coming weeks. We decided to leave Auckland and its million inhabitants behind, and head to the comparative calm of the South Island. The next morning we caught the Overlander for Wellington.

This train wends its way down the backbone of the North Island to the capital that sits at its southern tip. The only snag is that, scenic as it may be, it takes 12 hours to travel the 650 km (less of a Shinkansen more of a Shinkan'tsen). As we chugged our way southwards, the landscape changed from low undulating grassland with huge herds of chomping cattle to richly forested hills. Hills, I should point out, that were cut by deep chalk-walled ravines plunging giddyingly below us as we crawled across flimsy looking viaducts.

By the time we pulled into Wellington night had fallen - it had been a long day confined to a single seat and cabin fever was setting in. It was drizzling as we stepped off the train in what must be one of the smallest capital city stations in the world. Luckily there was a backpacker's hostel directly opposite us and, with some juggling, they managed to find us some space in the sprawling mass of rooms. In former days this had clearly been a large and quite grand hotel; the kitchen is huge and even has a walk-in fridge. Now the whole operation has been completely backpackered - bright paints and leaflets adorn the walls, a bar and email access grace the first floor and every room is crammed with bunkbeds. It was dry, but we were glad to leave its frenzy early next morning for the ferry.

It takes three hours to cross Cook Strait between New Zealand's North and South Island. We spent it in the onboard cinema, on the basis that there was time for scenery later. As we emerged into the sunlight, we had crossed the open sea and were gliding down the tranquil waters of Queen Charlotte Sound. Rows of green tree-clad hills and mountains slid past, underlined by the sharply reflective waters. We were heading for the small town of Picton, at the head of the fjord.

It was bright and sunny when we stepped ashore again - the rainy bustle of Auckland and Wellington seemed so far away. We retrieved our luggage and located the battered estate car outside the ferry terminal. It, or rather its driver, had come to pick us up and take us to that night's accommodation, "The Juggler's Rest", which has turned out to be the best backpacker's hostel to date.

Small, relaxed and informal, it is run by three professional jugglers. The living room has a large space where you can practice using the big box of juggling equipment there - free lessons are given - and the walls are adorned with photos and flyers from visiting performers from around the globe. They have a huge pile of juggling trick books and it is, in short, a juggler's paradise. In fact it's going to be hard to leave - anywhere else will be a step down. But leave we must, especially since this morning we decided to go ahead with our plan and hired a car - possibly the only way to see all we want to here. So, tomorrow we head south, into the cold and in search of glaciers.