A Little New Zealand Holiday

During nearly a dozen years of London living my brother had married a Kiwi and started a family there. Late last year the whole troupe emigrated to New Zealand where my sister in law could be close to family, and us relatives in Australia need only leap the 'ditch' to visit.
A few weeks ago it was my turn.
 With just ten days up our sleeves we decided to explore just the North Island outside of our time staying with my brother who has settled on a few acres in the Tauranga area on the north coast. I have never been to New Zealand before but might well have been born one had it not been for a Sliding Doors' style decision by my grandparents five decades ago. My English parents had decided to emigrate as ten-pound poms but an argument ensued as to the destination. New Zealand or Australia?My grandmother won out and Australia it was.
I admit as our plane flew over turquoise water and emerald islands towards Auckland airport I did have a thought of "Damn it Nanna!" Luckily we soon flew over some trashy industrialised areas and I didn't make a parachute migration from the plane there and then.

North Island Interior View

It is a fact that everywhere you visit does not look as you imagined it, no matter how many people give a description or how many lonely Planet books or Google Images pages you scour.
Hilly was my initial thought of New Zealand. With all that seismic activity the whole place is one big green crumpled doona. I was fascinated with how little the place looks like Australia despite our relative nearness- sure there were places we visited that reminded me a bit of such and such a place in Australia but on the whole it was completely unique to my mind. I have heard comparisons to England as well but once again though certainly there were little nods to the UK landscape here and there, but on the whole, nothing like. The green of New Zealand is a different green- it is lurid and beautiful with a gold twang that makes it almost hurt the eyes- the grass of the UK I found was a deeper darker shade- also ridiculously verdant but of a hue that only copious rain and limited sunshine can give. Strange to go on about grass but if you are from a country that is largely khaki for much of the year- green grass everywhere is a pleasant oddity.
But back to our arrival- without reliving all of the saga and frustration let's say that instead of arriving in Auckland at 2pm and making our way in a dignified manner to my brother's, enjoying the scenery along the way, our arrival at 5pm had us driving our hire car through the rain and darkness directed by a GPS which was lacking some vital updates (the wrong way on a one-way major road is one example) to finally arrive just after 9:30pm, exhausted and road-weary to greet my sister in law the only person in the house still up.
 My first morning was not much more auspicious- I woke from the sofa bed to see the family cat outside with a live bird in it's mouth squawking it's unhappiness. In my nightie I leaped out the door giving chase, skidding in the wet clay soil and getting scratched by bushes. I stood there feet muddy, heart pounding and wet (it was still raining) and looked out to morning sun on the distant sea, struggling to gain some pleasure out of the pristine scenery when the damn cat was in the bushes somewhere close by munching on a bird.
Luckily everything was uphill from there on now. Nanna had finally had her laugh I think and I was back to being able to gush over this new country we were visiting.
Though the weather was a little unstable, my brother's family took us out to The Mount, at Tauranga; port of cruise ships and the odd seal as we found out. It's a little mini mountain on the end of a peninsular with thermal spring pools at it's base as well as a lovely walk around it's circumference. I am sure there is a Maori story to the place but I never found what it was. The scenery was stunning even when it began to rain and we all got soaked running back into town but we were soon all warm and cheered and enjoying a delicious lunch in one of the many cafes.
My family enjoyed a dip in the thermal pools before we left. I declined and volunteered as 'bag lady'.
What I thought would be some steaming rock-pools was in fact a public pool style affair with a circle of singing people at one end and all sorts of people steaming away in various temperature pools.
My husband assured me it was a pleasant experience except for your eyeballs broiling a little underwater.
A few days later my husband Fil and I and our two teens headed off by ourselves with a map on our laps, verbal directions in our head and our GPS switched firmly OFF.
The weather still cool and showering we headed south to lake Taupo ( Via Rotarua where we admired the plumes of steam everywhere but rushed to switch the car air-con off using outside air- sulphur is wicked!)  where we paused long enough to decide that while the place must be stunning on a nice day, the bitter wind off the lake was freezing and the snow-capped peaks on the far side were best admired from a heated car.

 Onwards again through thousands of acres of pine plantations and stunning ravines and spring wild-flowers we finally popped out in the Esk valley which was one of those milk and honey type of places- vineyards and orchards everywhere- food of every variety brimming over the valley floor.
Our destination was however the Art-Deco town of Napier on the south-west coast and as it was already after 2pm and we only had one night at this seaside town we could not pause in the lovely Esk valley.
Napier with it's promenade and art Deco pavilion and black-pebble beach is gorgeous. We stayed at the Masonic right opposite the sea. Our rooms, though almost a century old were well appointed with modern furnishing with a Art-Deco sympathy. Attached to the hotel was an Irish pub called the Rose where we enjoyed a dinner and local ales and wine.
After exploring the streets we learnt that the trying weather was about to abate for a few days and so we stayed on the next morning as long as we dared to enjoy the blue-skies before we began our next drive down to Wellington.
More farmland and forest and stunning scenery with snow-capped mountains and incredible beautiful valleys and we finally found ourselves on the east coast looking out over creamy pale blue water and winding our way down to Wellington.
Arriving around 5pm we only had time to check into our inner-city hotel and drop our bags before we set off to explore before it got dark and then find some dinner. Wellington has two main food areas in the city and the one we were staying close by to was Cuba Street. Along this straight stretch, part of it pedestrian only, is a range of food from every country and for every budget. We settled on a pizza place reputed to be excellent. We can now testify to that!
Staying in a self-contained flat and having yet to buy food turned out to be a bonus to getting teens up and moving of a morning. With wide blue skies outside I was literally jumping out my skin to explore this beautiful city.

Stunning view of Wellington from the Botanical gardens- take the cable car!
 

Fil had kindly made up a little schedule for things to see but I completely rail-roaded him when I got my first glimpse of the sea. Wellington harbour is fantastic- one of the nicest I've ever seen with it shoulders of mountains and clear blue water. It's hill-sides of pastel historic townhouses are delightful and the harbour front- done up over the years for people to enjoy rather than boats to dock in-  is fantastic. The city feels like it was made for the people of Wellington to enjoy, not so much the tourist which is such a nice change.

 We enjoyed our breakfast looking out on part of this lovely vista.
Next we took the city cable-car up to the botanical gardens- the views were excellent down to the city and harbour but the gardens themselves are well-worth a visit. We enjoyed walking down through them and out into the formal gardens at the bottom- everyone enjoying the sunshine and flowers everywhere. A few more walks around the city and Fil and I were thinking we would like to spend some time living in this walkable, stunning city. Sure we would be in the age minority - Wellington seems full of younger people -but it just has such a nice feel to it- I'm sure mid-winter this feeling may fade (!) but on a blue-sky warm day it is just magic!

We left Wellington a little sadly but the beauty of the east coast was a nice salve. We had a long drive that day of about 5 hours and we were more than glad to reach to reach our little cabin on the beach at Oakura, south of New Plymouth right on sunset.

 The beach cabin was small- my eldest son had to Vaseline his feel to fit into the bunk but the location was wonderful. I would have liked to stay here longer too- everyone we spoke to was friendly and seemed very, very happy. Our pub dinner was excellent too. I would highly recommend this pretty little township by the sea.

Beautiful Oakura Beach

Now, did I mention Mount Taranaki? OMG! There you are driving along relatively flat green farmland and maybe you notice a cloud that looks like a snow-capped mountain- only it IS a snow-capped mountain. Mount Tarantaki rises out of the land-scape like snow-cone dropped on the footpath. We couldn't stop looking at it- and what's more, we were told it's over-due to erupt. I kept thinking about everyone in the region and how much this slumbering monster preyed on their subconscious. As well it should! My sisiter in law back at Tauranga had told me that when a volcano erupted near Lake Taupo some years ago, they had ash everywhere and that was a few hours drive away. If you live near Mount Taranaki I would be worried about more than ash!

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On our return trip back to my brother's place we made a detour to the Whaitomo caves to see the glow-worms from a boat. I don't want to spoil it for anyone visiting but I have to say that looking in silent darkness at a galaxy of blue stars is one of my favourite experiences ever- a must-see!
Back to my brothers with more trips exploring their very pretty local area as well as enjoying time with him and his family. Seeing people move from a ground-floor town house with a little garden that refused to grow a vegetable, to a few acres of rolling green farmland with flowers and fruit and vege-gardens and a smattering of farm animals was just lovely. Like seeing people go wild after being espaliered.
 From their place we made one other sight-seeing trip by ourselves- to Hobbiton- location of Peter Jackson's films.

 

Me at home feeling tall for once

During our drive there, I was trying to squash down my high-expectations but in fact it was way better than I imagined- and I imagined a lot! Once again to avoid a spoiler let's just say we loved it, I was in raptures and I left very reluctantly, designing my own hobbit hole in my head. The cider at the Green Dragon with the pork pie softened slightly my pain at going. Don't miss it if you are on the North Island of NZ. $75 per adult seems a lot but it was a bargain in my opinion.

Soon it was time to leave, sad farewells and promises to return. In spite of our many hours of driving and exploring we only saw a fraction of the North Island and there's still the South to see.
Next time we visit my brothers place, the pig may have piglets, their Labrador puppies, more building work will have been done, gardens extended and our niece and nephew grown. Then there's all that exploring left to do...I am looking forward to it all already!

 

 

 

Nun's Pool Breakfast

The Nun’s Hole my uncle called it. Ahem!

 It wasn’t until I was older that I realised this name for a local swimming spot was a rude version of it’s proper name The Nun’s Pool. Local people used the name too, not just uncles from the north of England imbued with a tradie's humour. 

 

If you stroll in a relaxed manner across the grass of Shelly Beach park  and then wend your way north over the pitted sandstone (taking your time to peer into the rock pools) , you will come to a little rectangular sandy beach in a natural split between orange sandstone shelves.

In the 50’s the swimming spot was used by young nuns from the nearby Mercy Convent who dared to don a swimsuit, and thus the place got it's name.

 I wonder if it was a popular spot for the original Gweagal people. Cronulla in fact comes from the indigenous word Kurranulla meaning 'place of pink shells.'

 In any case the former convent which gave the beach it's modern name is now a retirement home for those same people. I imagine as they sip tea, looking out to sea, they must occasionally say to one another “Hey Sister Mary- Bernadette, do you remember the day you were bitten by a lobster?”

On this particular summer morning Fil and I have come down to this pocket-sized beach for breakfast and a swim.

 It’s just after 7am on a Saturday and though the esplanade is already heaving with frowning, healthy people intent on tuning their hearts, the Nun's Pool, hidden between the sandstone shelves, is serenely empty.

 It’s a glorious salty morning of silver ocean and lacy waves. The sun has not long been up and is playing peekaboo between clouds. Even so, the air is warm and the idea of a swim seems  a reasonable prospect.

I have often compared Fil to a Labrador in terms of fitness, friendliness and bottomless appetite and so it is no surprise he is first in the water (yes, I am more a terrier, barking at the waves).

 

 

While Fil floats in the water below like a basking sea-otter, I rove around the beach over the rock pools for a while, admiring views to the south of Shelly Beach and to the north of South Cronulla Beach (it may sound confusing but further north is a North Cronulla Beach:)

 

 

 On the sand, amongst the usual treasure of seashells is lots of of pumice stone (nub-lumps I call them). They are an anomaly here and I wonder which part of the planet they have come from, bobbing over the ocean, pushed by the wind like tiny untethered islands.  I am impressed by a nub-lump that Fil finds which is as big as my head. Later we research recent volcanic activity and discover a volcano has been erupting for months in Indonesia. “Halo! Apa kabar nub-lumps?”
I also read somewhere that after a volcanic eruption in Fiji some years back, pumice rafts some 30km long were travelling around the sea. My head-sized nub-lump no longer seems impressive.

 I take my knees for a dip in the clear water and stand there watching the salmon sunlight glint off the sea.  It’s so peaceful and lovely…

 I take ten slow deep breaths and decide I have laboured enough to deserve breakfast. We place our towels on dry sand and haul out or booty of fresh coffee and a couple of pastries from our local baker. I ask which variety is mine and Fil looks hurt since he thought he would have some of both.
 Ahh, Labradors…

Munching on a half a danish, I admire the shells around my towel. In Kurnell where I grew up, there are lots of seashells ,but at Cronulla, with it’s pounding surf, most of the beaches are veritable shell-deserts until you move further south along the peninsula toward the mouth of the Port Hacking river.

 

Though I grew up in Kurnell, I was in fact born just around the corner (well to my mothers relief I was born at the hospital, but my parents lived just up the road from here) so I have been visiting this spot on and off for four decades now. The land behind the beach has changed immensely in that time; buildings growing taller and taller, but the beach remains the same and yet is somehow always fresh and new, no two days the same.

 

 

One thing that is particular to this area, surrounded as it is by sandstone and small surf, is the presence of sand-blasted glass on the beach. I have collected it many times and it’s something I never feel bad about taking a little, even though it seems a part of the beach as much as the shells.

 The glass I notice is diminished in quantity theses days. I can’t help mixed feelings about this. Of course it means there is less pollution which is wonderful and how I should want it, but it means there are less pieces to appreciate.

Can you appreciate broken glass? Of course you can. None of that sharp, nasty stuff; the sea has sorted that out, rolling it around in the waves like a boiled lolly in the mouth, until its smooth and frosted.

In my later teens when I had seen too many Indiana Jones movies, I did a week’s work experience in archaeology. A certain Museum in Sydney did a good job of deflating my interest in whip-cracking adventure science by making me sort bottle shards from early Sydney (the fifth day I sorted their latest archaeological dig/boozy camping photos).

I hated that week at the time, but an interesting consequence was that I could no longer help, upon finding beach glass, trying to identify a lip, base or body of a bottle. There are pieces that are decades old- milk bottles and soda bottles from when both these items were delivered and the bottles reused. Wine and beer bottle pieces from a thousand celebrations and commiserations.

The colours- browns and greens and whites and rarer blues (pale blue is my favourite!) are like jewels - some are common and some unusual and I fully admit to excitement on finding unusual colours or even patterned glass or decorated porcelain.

The shells are the real stars though, tinkling as the waves wash in and out. And the colourful rainbow of sandstone...
And you can't forget the myriad of rock-pools with their micro-worlds of sea anemones and shells and squirty old cunjevoi, and the rock crabs skittering around the crevices, blowing bubbles at you as you peer in at them.

Most of all, I just love that this quiet spot still exists among the bustling suburbs for those that rise early enough to find it, like some mystical little sanity isle.

Standing in the clear cool water facing east at dawn with nothing but the wide Pacific before you and the murmur of civilisation behind you... now that is a wonderful way to start your day.

 

 

 

Walking Vs Pounding

Do you walk? Right, best to go read another article then because frankly you probably know more than me on the subject, and I don’t need that sort of pressure peering over my shoulder. For the rest of us i.e.myself and the dog watching me type, it’s time to discuss Walking versus Pounding. What is ‘walking’? Walking is an upwardly mobile activity, done at a relaxed enough pace that you can notice the nearly expired rego on your vehicle and sigh, the kind of speed you can see the rain sweeping toward you and fumble to get your brolli up, but also the right speed to notice pleasant naturey things. If you are panting after 10 paces and not 400kg, slow it down. It should feel natural, organic, unshaven. It is not to be confused with ‘the dawdle’, which should only be used for markets (included the synthetic variety), thrift shops and Ikea. This pace was surely not natural to MPP (my primitive peoples) as it invariable screws up my back. Use dawdling infrequently and with due care. So, walking is a speed at which you can take in the fresh air and birdsong and easily pause to fill a dog-poop bag without yanking the head off the dog. It is useful for noting the seasons and relaxing and of course a bit of exercise although this is never to be used as first priority. Dear me. Pounding? Pounding is putting your feet down at such a pace as to feel like you are planning to 'cover some miles today Legolas'. It is not ‘running to catch the train’ speed. Nor is it power-walking. Sigh. Who invented that coronary assault? Never ever call power-walking walking for a start. A friend once asked me if I wanted to go for a ‘walk’ one morning. Sure, says I. Well she shot off like a rocket I’d just lit- I had to jog to catch up. Of course I felt compelled to match pace. Alas, I had trimmed the topiary less than three days before and I could feel the sort of friction only an elephant’s arse and a tree-trunk can produce, beginning. Then there was the ‘trying to chat’, when every millipound of oxygen really needed using to keeping me from passing out.The speed at which we went caused my eyes to water so I couldn’t appreciate any nature that blurred by, and if it was called exercise it can only mean in the military sense where I needed to try and stay alive with just the clothes on my back. By walks end I almost had herniated dyspepsia. I do not know what that is, but the words feel right to describe my pain. So power-walking. Only for sports people and others who enjoy hurting. Pounding on the other hand is great. It can be done in happy times (tra la la) or angry times (bloody phone technician cancelled again, bloody...) and it feels good anyway. You are not walking too fast to enjoy the scents in the air (blossom, wood smoke, blood and bone) but the thighs get a right jiggling and the dog must trot. I find this the best pace for ideas to pop into my head. And, I must say, the pounding of your feet on the ground feels like an accomplishment. Even if the rest of your day is boring waffley crap (you work for a big company), you know you already ‘achieved something’ at the beginning of the day. Ha! They can’t take that off you Francine! Having said that, you can pound or walk in the evening too and it is most pleasant to do so. Dog poo is a little harder to skirt and car headlights make you want to bolt back to your bunny hole, but overall, it’s the other best bit of the day to do your stuff. And, if you do back to back evening and morning, you’ll think you’re pretty bloody amazing which is probably more than the boss or the kids are going to tell you. Win-win all round young Skywalker.

City and Chinese Gardens Photo Playdate.

Recently I got to throw down my paintbrush, wipe the Dulux off my arms and enjoy a well-earned city adventure with my lovely sister-in-law. We had promised many months ago that we would grab our cameras and head off somewhere yonder for a creative playdate. Of course we didn't intend so many months to pass but happily we did finally wangle it.
We chugged it into the city and enjoyed a delish brunch at a cafe with chairs lined up down a quaint alleyway. Even the old painted walls were inviting a photo; thus armed in the belly and the creative mind, we began the stop-start wander of the photo-buff.
As we discussed, this works well in pairs, but not solo with non-photographing family or friends. Otherwise this is professionally termed-"giving people the shits". Together it's fab because you are in simpatico company.
So, we wandered from Town Hall (St James and Town Hall beg a photo) down to Darling Harbour (great pier and water/boat pics to be found) and onto the gorgeous Chinese Gardens where you will be totally spoilt for choice and can take a lovely shot blindfolded ( though this method is a hazard on the rocky climbing pathways).
As an added bonus to the gorgeous plants and wildlife (turtles, water dragons, koi), people can hire traditional chinese Emperor/Empress garb for only $10. What we orginally thought were wedding parties, were just regular folks taking vanity shots among the waterfall and pagoda's. Fun!
Our last leg was back through part of China Town (great shops for pics) and back up to Town Hall for much needed victuals at a bookstore cafe. Sigh. What a lovely way to spend a great day. Then finally gathering your photo bounty at home and having a second load of fun playing round with your gleaned treasures. Brilliant.

Sydney Walk and Rail Adventure

I don't get many chances to play tourist in my own city, nor days adventuring with my family, so I combined the two and we all caught the train into town on the weekend.
The best way to get teens out of bed, is to promise a hearty breakfast at the destination. Hence, less than an hour later we were having a delicious hot breakfast at Bona Fides on Druitt street, Town Hall. It is a lovely medium sized cafe with most tables outdoors and set down a little alley way. A history of this little lane is written on the ground.
I'm no food critic but breakfast was very tasty and the organic coffee delish. Such good moods were induced by full bellies that I was able to quickly drag the family into three bookstores before the protests began (Abbeys, Galaxy and Kinokuniya). Working in a book store does not seem to cure you of wanting to go into others!
I was rather shocked to find my husband who has worked in the city all his life had never been on the monorail, so we did the full loop. I didn't realise one of my boys spent the whole ride contemplating how well the monorail was attached to it's track! We alighted at Darling Harbour and after a quick look around to see what was on, we headed towards The Rocks. There were so many beautiful little terraces we passed and some large fine old houses that I'm afraid I don't know the history of. Theres a big horrible development whose name I won't mention, taking up that part of the waterfront. I'm afraid the peace and relative quiet of so many little old houses will soon be gone.
Despite the fact that my husband seemed to know the area well by all the old pubs visited in years gone by, he had no trouble leading us round the streets and up steps till I called for a detour to Observatory Hill.
What a view! It must look spectacular on any day, looking as it does past Walsh bay and onto the Harbour and bridge but we were extra lucky with clear blue skies and sunshine- I could have taken a picture with a brick and it would have come out well. I have never been to the observatory itself- another adventure mentally booked for the future.
With a promise of ice cream at The Quay, we set off again through my favourite part of The Rocks. Sandstone is everywhere and you can't help imagining the convicts breaking their backs cutting it a few hundred years ago. Amazing!
The markets were on as usual but I was out-numbered by males 3 to 1 and didn't stand a chance of browsing. Plus, there was that ice cream I'd promised, luring them on!
We cut through to the Quay via the Nurses Walk, I think it's called- tiny old buildings, walkways and worn steps. In one spot they have left the foundations of a home (perhaps it is two) so you can see the size of the places they lived in. It has a funny atmosphere to it though it is only small and out in the open.
After the quiet back way, it is a shock to walk out onto the crowded Quay.It is the Festival of Sydney at the moment and school holidays, so the waterfront is bustling with people and buskers.
With all the ferries,water taxi's and jet-boats bobbing enticingly on the water, my younger son wanted to catch a boat somewhere. I couldn't blame him, the harbour looked beautiful and it would be nice to get away from the crowds, but it will have to wait another day.
I am not an ice cream fan, so it has to be good stuff to entice me, which is why I will happily eat the amazing stuff at Gelatissimo- and no I am not being paid to say this! I had two scoops in a cone- panetone and coconut- mm mm.
Lastly we walked around to the Opera House, because you just have to, and the boys sat on the fountain and played with the water jets. You are never too old to do this, especially if you get to chuck water at your sibling.
With a promise of a fish and chip lunch back on home turf (this carrot thing really works), we all headed back to collapse gratefully on the train, having had a thoroughly lovely adventure in the city.

La Perouse Peruse

I set off yesterday to view 'Sculptures By the Sea' between Tamarama and Bondi in Sydney's east. Unwittingly, I chose the day that Prince Frederick and Princess Mary also decided to take a squiz. I joked I had to search so far west for parking, I may have reached the eastern suburbs of Perth. In the end I gave up and decided upon Adventure Plan B- La Perouse.
I hadn't visited this area in years. Sure it had it's tourist attractions in the nearby sewerage treatment plant and Long Bay Gaol (I can make these jokes- I grew up in Kurnell.),but somehow almost twenty years have passed since I had been there.
La Perouse was named after a French navigator called Jean-François de Galaup, comte de Lapérouse (!)and is at the northern headland of Botany Bay. On the southern side, at Silver Beach in Kurnell, La Parouse was the thing you preferred to look over the water at, rather than the airport, the shipping docks or the huge oil tankers in the bay. As a kid, you visited La Perouse to watch the reptile show (done by the same family since the 1920's)or to watch the boomerang demonstration and then beg your dad to buy you one, which never flew again except away from you.
The place actually has a really fascinating history with a great museum. Bare Island (which I thought was filled with bears as a kid) is a small island with an old military fortification on it, attached to the headland by a wooden bridge. The waters around the area are thick with scuba divers. Apparently the area is considered one of the best off-the-shore dive sites in Australia. You learn something new every day.
I had a really lovely visit. There are several sweet little beaches nearby and also good food (in my non-gourmet opinion)and coffee. Next time I would try book a tour of Bare Island and make a day of it. Perhaps give a nod to La Perouse himself and take a little picnic of french wine, crusty bread and some suitably stinky cheese.

Bonnie Vale

There's a place not too far from where I live that I fall in love with each time I visit. In my mind it qualifies as an island because it is a group of little seaside communities overlooking various beaches, sandbars and creeks.
Houses are everything from tiny old fisherman/holiday shacks right up to million dollar(+) mansions.
The 'island' has a perpetual holiday feel to it and in acknowledgement of this the place is peppered with B & B's and a lovely camp ground. Shops are small and quaint with handpainted signs and home-style food.
A ferry arrives on the hour dropping off locals and tourists alike, the latter like me, peering wistfully into the real-estate window. Good or bad, it is the 'island' like isolation which keeps many people from staying longer than an idyllic weekend. The one road out is long and can be treacherous, the activities for young people limited beyond the great outdoors. Highschool is a ferry and bus-ride away.
Still, I could live here very happily in a few years when my children have left home. There are lots of creative people living here, drawn to the beautiful and peaceful setting. It has a strong community feel.
I could definitely live a life by the sea, looking over the water to the 'mainland' and be blissfully glad to have escaped the bustle and highrise of suburbia.
This special island can be accessed by visiting by car or ferry, the villages of Bundeena, Bonnie Vale and Maianbar.