On days like these.

With the sun shining and a barely noticeable breeze in the air it was decided that breakfast and a lazy cruise around Wellington was on the cards.

Food was duly served at a great little café on the Terrace, where we munched on their Hunters Breakfast while discussing the quintet of window cleaners, working and squeegy-ing their way down the glasswork of the office building opposite.

Plates cleared and coffee finished we headed off towards Oriental Bay to the east of the centre.

This was reversing the first route and views of Wellington I saw when Marc picked me up from the airport. Back just over a month ago, on that wet and windy afternoon.

Today, Oriental Bay, and the city itself were bathed in sunlight. The promenade dotted with runners, walkers and people sat in street side cafes enjoying the blue green hue of the bay, and it’s fountain.

With old Stones albums on the stereo and all the windows down we continued along the coastal road, through Evans and Scorching Bay.

Past the artists and small film studios and secluded rocky coves, too small to be named, out to Breaker and Tarakena Bays. Stopping frequently to walk on the foreshore, and marvel at the rugged beauty that was only minutes, yet a world away from the city centre.

This was a side of Wellington I had not seen, and a side I have fallen for. Everything you could want or need, twenty minutes or so away from tranquil meditative beauty.

After having spent a while clambering over the spit of land, and sitting on the rocks in the serenity of Moa Point we moved on.

Passing under the end of the airport runway, we emerged into the bustle of Lyall Bay. On one side the runway, and the planes carrying their travellers. On the other the sea, rolling into the Bay carrying the surfers on its crests in towards the wide dark sand beach. Watched over by a cluster of homes, businesses and restaurants hugging the beach road.

And out to Houghton Bay, stopping at the Headland Reserve to watch the tide push waves onto the spit of land from both west and east, and through the now familiar to me Island Bay until reaching the Bach Café.

That’s Bach, pronounced ‘Batch’; a Bach over here is a holiday/summer/retreat home, not a composer. Although looking at some of the Bach’s (Batches?), I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t live in them year round.

The café sat over the road from the sea, and we took our seats outside, cold ciders in hand, and settled back to absorb what was laid out in front of us. There was only the slightest of breezes, and it was the surge of the tides that pushed the swells into the shore, breaking the waves onto the rocks. The clearest of skies above us, and across the blue waters, the most wonderful view I have seen of the South Island as yet, and it’s snow-capped peaks rising above the horizon.

The South Island, how I long to get over there, and seeing the mountains across the strait, it seemed it was calling to me, teasing me. It will happen soon, but as I’m aware, plans can change with little if any notice, and the South Island adventure may have to be put back by a couple of weeks.

Until it does happen, at least I know a good spot to sit with a drink and watch the south from, and on days like these, that’s all I need.