The Welcome Mat

This heartland of tourist territory is a destination for those from points south to traipse northwards to stay with you because it's cheaper than a motel. Why else would you live in the Far North dahling? It's simply miles from civilisation.

First out is the dog who's panting like a pugilist after six rounds and then pees on the pohutukawa. You hope he'd cock his leg under the Phoenix palm and get stabbed in the bollocks with one of those thorny spikes. But, no, he's rarin' to go after being cooped up in the coupe and does a couple of circuits of the lawn before digging for non-existent bones.

They brought the bird as well. In a cage. Couldn't leave the twittering little plucker to its own devices in the big city and get the neighbour to feed and water it. It would get stressed. Right...

The others tumble out of the car and after some sweaty hugs and kisses there's nothing for it but to crack open a bottle of Marsden Estate pinot gris because they've heard it's sooo gooood. One of your bottles. It must be 11 o'clock somewhere in the world, ha ha ha.

The adults take the upstairs bedroom, the older teen the downstairs one while the younger and spottier teen with a long and errant fringe, white plugs in his ears and jeans that drop to just above his arsenal can have the window seat and out of the way. He's pouty because we don't, you know, actually live on the beach and why else would he come to where no-one lives? Right...

The catalyst to conviviality is the pinot as we relax on the deck chairs and they plan the holiday itinerary. No, no, they say, you must come with us! No, no, you say, I'm okay with not seeing the Stone Store for the fourteenth time this year. I'll help the little plucker with his stress levels as he sprays seed on the kitchen floor. Take the intrepid bone hunter with you! It's a Far North tradition.

So after lunch and one of your bottles of Fat Pig Giggly Piggly - off they trot to experience places others of adventurous nature have trod many moons ago, you tell them. You indicate various points. The first Christian service was held over that way. Tribal compounds dotted the hills the other way. There were pitched battles between natives and colonists up there. And the road I live on and the reserves were named after warriors who didn't take kindly to foreigners from other places, ha, ha, ha.

So for a few hours it's just me and the partially-feathered caged thing which pecks himself to nearly oven-ready. He's seriously boring. He occasionally stabs at seed, tweets a couple of times and that's it. The rest of the time he just stands on the perch, nods his head and shits.

On the other hand he's not nearly as big as a wood pigeon, as garrulous as a tui or as elusive as the little brown sparrows my father called Maori canaries. And this, of course, is why the cat finds him entertaining enough to proffer the welcoming paw and smile at him. You never know; she might relieve his tension levels by allowing him to stretch out by the front door permanently, on the mat that says welcome to the Far North.