On the short journey from Cambridge Rd to near the university, there were three signs missing from key roads.
Muttering curses about country bumpkins and yokels, we used common sense and my usually bat-like direction ability to close in on her flat. Along the way, we passed some pretty grotty streetscapes filled with broken glass, rubbish and boxes filled with empty bottles.
Then the penny dropped. Students.
Of course, they are the likely culprits responsible (or irresponsible) for the missing roadsigns.
Sigh. The future leaders of this country ...
We eventually tracked down my girl's house by recognising her car parked down a driveway, which was fortunate because someone had stolen her flat's address numbers from the mailbox.
There were lots of laughs over lunch and then it was time to go home.
It was a stunning day and, despite my memories of Hamilton's three-day fogs, on a perfect blue-sky day it can be almost pretty.
But there are folks there who do have strange attitudes.
Take for example the city councillor who opposes fire bans because the backyard barbecue could be threatened by one.
I am astounded - well, maybe not really - that Hamilton is the only city that does not have a fire-ban bylaw.
Cr Andrew King reckons this outrageous encroachment upon personal cooking liberties means someone could report you if they smell smoke or odour from a barbecue, brazier or traditional cooking fire (which I presume means a large open flame in tinder dry grassy areas on a hot day).
So turning our backs on such Hamiltonian silliness, we headed back to the city where Pilot Bay residents hate the smell of barbecues being enjoyed by the hoi polloi. Near Karapiro, I noticed a plume of black smoke rising over a hill and detoured down a gravel road to find out what was going on. Aha, dead ahead was a large amount of flame and smoke in a hollow on some farmland. I later learned the blaze was started by a farmer who wanted to get rid of some rubbish.
Fortunately, or unfortunately for him, in that area they do have fire bans to prevent just such silliness going on.
Pulling up behind me was an off-duty fireman who called in the blaze to the local firehouse and then we watched as a couple of dopey straw-eaters tried unsuccessfully to put out the spreading grassfire with firstly their gumboots, handfuls of dirt and then a sack.
Despite all the excitement and photo opportunities, my lad was bored. He must have gone through his iPod's playlist at least once and was chomping at the bit to get home.
Only a major accident near McLaren Falls put paid to a quick journey home. Having overheard the accident reported via the firetruck that arrived on the farm, I knew there was the possibility of a delay but decided to head over the hill anyway.
As you all know it was a terrible crash in which at least one person was critically injured. Traffic was banked up for kilometres to the west and east and, in good journalistic traditions, I parked my car and trudged down to the scene to get some photos.
The people in the queue were well behaved and were patient about the delay, taking it in pretty good humour. I guess they knew something bad had happened and so were silently glad they had not been involved.
One driver earned the anger of a dreadlocked chap when he pulled over to the free side of the road and barrelled ahead passing people with way more manners than he had. Hopefully he got a flat tyre somewhere on his drive home.
It took me about 20 minutes to walk to the site where the rescue chopper was loading a badly injured person aboard and an ambulance was also busy. A silver Hilux was resting its crumpled front against a barrier and then I saw the small black Nissan Note. Its roof had been cut off to free its occupants and from its condition you just knew things were bad with those who had been inside.
Things like this shouldn't happen on beautiful autumn days but, unfortunately, fate doesn't care about the weather.
The trudge back to my car felt like climbing Everest and I wished I'd thought to hire a Sherpa before leaving my car.
By the time I reached it, my boy had already posted on Facebook a lengthy account of how bored you can be sitting in a traffic snarl-up for an hour-and-a-half while your dad goes to do newswork.
Hmmm, somehow I don't think he'll end up a journalist.
-richard@richardmoore.com
Richard Moore is an award-winning Western Bay journalist and photographer
