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The Whalers' Cottage, Christchurch (2026)

13/04/2026

This morning, I noticed a pair of gumboots sitting quietly at the entrance of the bank; their owner already inside, attending to more “serious” matters.
It’s something I’ve come to recognise as uniquely Kiwi. Whether it’s a bank, a café, or even a fast-food restaurant, people simply leave their muddy boots at the door without a second thought.
Coming from a more urban background, I used to find it slightly amusing; the idea that one could walk into a bank in socks! But over time, I’ve come to appreciate the quiet practicality of it all.
It speaks of a life closely connected to the land, where a bit of mud is just part of the day, and of a shared understanding that clean floors are everyone’s responsibility.

It reflects something deeper about the rhythm of life here. Many people move between the land and the town in the course of a day. Mud on the boots is simply part of that story. Leaving them at the door is not just practical; it’s almost a gentle acknowledgment of where you’ve come from.

No signs, no instructions; just a simple, unspoken agreement.

And perhaps, in its own humble way, it says something about trust too… after all, the boots are always still there when you come back out.

12/04/2026

Seal it wish a kiss

10/04/2026

Living here in the quiet countryside of New Zealand, far from the pulse and urgency of city life, I am sometimes asked; usually with polite curiosity, sometimes with genuine surprise; why I have chosen what they call a “hermit’s life.”
I always smile.
Because I understand the question. I once lived in that world; the early mornings of Singapore, the crowded trains, the constant motion, the quiet pressure to keep moving, achieving, becoming.
Back then, I thought that was simply life.
But time has a way of softening what once felt necessary.
Now, life has changed its rhythm.
The urgency has faded.
The noise has thinned.
And what remains is something far quieter… and, in its own way, far fuller.
There is a stillness here that does not ask anything of me.
No performance. No hurry. No need to explain.
Only the passing of light through the day.
Only the wind across open land.
Only the simple truth of being present in what is.
Today I came across this line:
世捨て人のように生きたい — “I want to live like a hermit.”
It lingered in me longer than expected.
Not as a rejection of the world — but as a return to it, in its most honest form.
Perhaps this is what growing older gently reveals:
that life does not need to be loud to be meaningful,
and that what is truly important often speaks the softest.
So when I am asked now, I no longer feel the need to explain.
Some things are not meant to be defended.
Only lived.

My daily haiku:
Quiet country road;
the past walks beside me now,
but speaks less each day.

08/04/2026

Quite often when I show our fig tree to visitors, the same curious question comes up; “What does the fig flower look like?”
It’s a lovely question, and the answer always brings a bit of quiet wonder. The flower of a fig is actually hidden from view, tucked away inside the fruit itself. You never see it in the usual sense; no petals opening to the sun, no obvious bloom to admire.
In fact, the name of the fig in both Chinese and Japanese tells this story beautifully. In Japanese, it is called ichijiku (イチジク), often written with the kanji 無花果; which translates quite literally to “fruit without a flower.” Such a poetic and fitting name for something so quietly mysterious.
Here in New Zealand, fig season begins in late summer, though some early varieties are ready a little sooner. The main harvest arrives as autumn gently settles in. There’s something satisfying about knowing when to pick them — a gentle squeeze reveals their readiness, soft and yielding, while their skin deepens in colour. Unripe figs, on the other hand, remain firm and patient, waiting for their time.
Each season, this humble tree reminds me that not everything beautiful needs to be seen to be appreciated. Sometimes, the most remarkable things are hidden just beneath the surface.

05/04/2026

This morning, the world arrived in a veil of fog, soft and unhurried, as if time itself had slowed to a whisper. Out in the yard, Farmer Andy moved quietly among his flock, separating the teaser rams (Mark with red dye) from the ewes with a calm, practiced ease.

He paused for a moment to explain, and I listened; not just to his words, but to the deeper rhythm behind them. These teaser rams, though unable to sire lambs, still carry the full presence of what they are. Through something called the “ram effect,” their nearness alone awakens the ewes, gently drawing them into readiness for the season ahead. It is used as a tool to get as many ewes as possible ovulating at the same time before the fertile rams are introduced.

There was something quietly profound in that.

Standing there in the mist, I was reminded that not all influence comes from action. Sometimes, it is simply presence; steady, unseen, and patient that stirs life forward.

Living here in New Zealand, I have come to appreciate these small, unspoken lessons from the land. After a lifetime of movement, of busy places and urgent days, there is a gentleness here that teaches me to slow down, to observe, and to simply be.

And perhaps that is enough.

Like this foggy morning, life does not always need to be clear to be meaningful. Sometimes, it is in the quiet, in-between moments that we find our deepest understanding.

02/04/2026

On this nippy autumn morning, I stepped outside and was greeted by a quiet, almost magical moment; the rising sun stretching gently over the eastern horizon, while the pale moon lingered softly in the sky, as if reluctant to take its leave.

There was something deeply comforting in witnessing both at once; the promise of a new day unfolding in warm golden hues, and the calm farewell of the night drifting away in silence. For a brief moment, it felt like time itself had paused, allowing me to stand between yesterday and today, between memory and possibility.

In the cool, crisp air, I found myself lingering a little longer than usual, taking it all in; the stillness, the light, the gentle transition. It is in these simple, fleeting moments that I am reminded how quietly beautiful life can be, if only we pause to notice.

31/03/2026

Have a closer look at the photos I took this morning. At first glance, they might appear to be the distant silhouette of a mountain range against the soft light of dawn; but in truth, they are something far more ordinary, and perhaps just as beautiful.

They are the rooftops across the street, in a quiet northern suburb of Christchurch, gently outlined by the early morning sky. The light played its usual tricks, softening edges and blending shapes, turning the familiar into something almost poetic. For a fleeting moment, the everyday scene outside my window transformed into a landscape that felt vast and faraway.
It reminded me how easily our eyes; and perhaps our minds; can wander, finding grandeur in the simplest of places. Even here, among neat rows of suburban homes, there are moments when the world pauses and offers us a different perspective.

This morning, it wasn’t the mountains calling; it was the rooftops, quietly echoing their presence in the gentle light of a new day.

30/03/2026

Last Saturday, we gathered at home for a farewell dinner for Rongjie, before he returns to Singapore after completing his studies.

It turned into one of those simple, heartfelt Kiwi “bring a plate” evenings; friends arriving with dishes in hand and drinks to share, each contribution quietly adding to the warmth of the night. There’s something I’ve come to appreciate deeply about this tradition: no fuss, no formality, just a shared understanding that everyone brings a little, and together it becomes more than enough.

The table filled quickly, an easy mix of flavours and stories, and before long the room settled into that familiar hum of laughter and conversation. These are the moments that don’t announce themselves as special, yet somehow stay with you; the passing of plates, the clinking of glasses, the gentle rhythm of people at ease with one another.
As the evening unfolded, I found myself reflecting on journeys; how Rongjie came here as a student, and now leaves with memories woven from friendships, shared meals, and quiet moments like this. Farewells always carry a touch of sadness, but they are softened by gatherings such as these, where connection is felt in the simplest ways.
By the end of the night, the table told its own story; half-empty dishes, lingering flavours, and the comfortable fullness that comes not just from food, but from being together.
Safe travels, Rongjie. May the road ahead be kind, and may you carry a little of this warmth with you.

29/03/2026

When the sea meets the sky...

28/03/2026

It’s the world’s most beautiful “neighbourless” nation, where the sheep outnumber the people and the scenery outshines the movies.

26/03/2026

Strong, gusty winds have been howling since last night, keeping me awake in that restless way that only a proper storm can manage. By this morning, they had brought down a tree onto the power lines, and now the power is out. I am sitting here without electricity, waiting; hopefully not past noon; for things to be restored, so I can finally put the kettle on for a long overdue cup of tea.
It is one of those moments that reminds you how quietly dependent we are on the ordinary, invisible threads of modern life. A downed line, a fallen branch, and suddenly the morning unfolds at a different pace altogether.
This is not just a local inconvenience, of course. According to the news over the radio yesterday. a subtropical storm has swept across much of the country, bringing large downpours and strong winds, with states of emergency declared for the Far North District and Whangārei District.
Out here on Banks Peninsula, the wind has its own particular voice; channelled through the hills, pressing against the windows and today it has been speaking loudly. I hope everyone around the country who is in the path of this storm is staying safe and dry. As for me, I shall wait for the power to come back, and dream of that cup of tea.

24/03/2026

Today I took a couple of photos of my living room and found myself reflecting on the concept of kanso (簡素); the Japanese principle that finds beauty in simplicity by removing the unnecessary. There's something deeply appealing about this idea, especially in a world that constantly pushes us to accumulate more, do more, be more.
I've been thinking about what "unnecessary" means in my own life. It's not just about physical clutter, though that's certainly part of it. It's the mental noise, the obligations I've taken on out of habit rather than intention, the digital distractions that fragment my attention throughout the day.
What would my life look like if I approached it through the lens of kanso?
Perhaps it means keeping only the relationships that truly nourish me. Maybe it's about saying no more often - not out of selfishness, but out of respect for what genuinely matters. It could be as simple as a morning routine stripped down to its essentials: quiet, coffee, thought.
I notice that when I remove the unnecessary, what remains becomes more vivid. A single flower in a simple vase. A conversation with undivided attention. A room with space to breathe.
The challenge isn't just in the removing - it's in resisting the urge to fill the space again. There's discomfort in emptiness until we learn to see it as possibility rather than absence.
Today, I want to practice kanso. To notice what I can subtract rather than what I should add. To find the beauty that emerges when I simply let things be.

The Whalers' Cottage

13/04/2026

12/04/2026

10/04/2026

08/04/2026

05/04/2026

02/04/2026

31/03/2026

30/03/2026

29/03/2026

28/03/2026

26/03/2026

24/03/2026

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