Latest news with #MalChenu
The Advertiser
16-05-2025
- The Advertiser
The ultimate Indian Ocean island showdown: the Maldives v the Seychelles
By Mal Chenu It's not often reality says "Screw you, filters, retouching and HDR. We don't need you for our pics." Not just any old beaches some influencer blue-washes to turn heads (and a quid), the Seychelles and the Maldives are already picture-perfect Indian Ocean idylls with endless seascapes, occasional landscapes and coral reefs so clear and brightly coloured they make QLED TV technology look like early celluloid. But if you have to choose one, without the "benefit" of an influencer's profundity and online editing, the Maldives should be your first resort. The accommodation here is all about opulent hotels - think luxury, then think of a word that means more luxurious than luxury, then double it, and you're still not luxurious enough. Every hotel chain celebrated for seamless spoiling with a soupcon of sycophancy has staked a sunny, sandy, cerulean spot in the Maldives. Every company that sneers at five-star ratings as mere entry level is here - Ritz-Carlton, Como, St Regis, Six Senses, Four Seasons, Waldorf Astoria, One&Only and dozens more. There's even a Raffles, which offers a mesmerising and entirely appropriate coconut iteration of its famous Singapore Sling to accompany the impossibly gorgeous sunsets. And most of the Maldives' overwater bungalows and water's edge suites are just a seashell's skip away from an oversized bathtub with lagoon views, private pool, sumptuous day spa and fine-dining restaurants. The Maldives' average natural elevation is 1.5 metres above sea level, stretching up to a giddying natural high point of 2.4 metres. Mount Villingili looms above you at an altitude of 5.1 metres, and you can make the ascent in thongs and without oxygen, before posing for a triumphant photo at the summit. The Maldives may not offer drone's-eye-view panoramas, but it is the consummate romantic getaway, especially for acrophobic couples. It also tops the list of places to see while you still can. Much of the country is expected to sink beneath the waves within a century, so you'd better hurry if you want to beat the tide. It's ironic that a paradise endangered by global warming is all about chilling, but this is the Maldivian lure. Dewy-eyed couples can take a break between relaxing and unwinding for a massage, and then don their freshly pressed white linen outfits for dinner and an unfiltered Insta post about foie gras, Veuve Clicquot and languid lagoon life. Amy will try to tell you the Seychelles is the superior utopia, but just getting there involves making more connections than a job seeker on LinkedIn. She can sell Seychelles by the seashore as much as she likes, but this Mal is a Maldives man, and not just because I can scale a mountain before the ice in my cocktail melts. By Amy Cooper The problem with humans is that we can have too much of a good thing. Even when that good thing is a picture-perfect, sundrenched Indian Ocean island idyll. Just ask Tom Hanks and Wilson the volleyball, or the kids in Lord of the Flies. Or my friends, a couple who fell out so ferociously during their romantic Maldives sojourn they weaponised their swizzle sticks. Paradise with no escape route can only end one way: a descent into savagery. Which is why I hope Mal dives in the Maldives, because SCUBA may be all that stands between him and that scene from The Beach where a raving troppo Leo DiCaprio starts swallowing caterpillars. In the Maldives, you're shipped out to your isolated one-island-one-resort situation and there you remain, on a flat sandy circle devoid of topography, local community or businesses, entirely dependent upon your gilded bubble for sustenance that's served with a monopoly-enabled mark-up. Luxurious, sure, but a trap nonetheless. Like Alcatraz, except with floating breakfast trays. In the Seychelles, you're gloriously free to roam an entire country of 115 islands, through landscapes dramatic with curves and character: misty mountains rising from the jungle; secret coves; rainforests alive with exotic birds and rare orchids. People come just to gaze at the scattered, stacked and strangely sculptural giant granite boulders on the beaches of the inner Seychelles - the world's only granitic oceanic islands. Instead of wondering which of your fellow castaways will crack first, you'll be meeting Seychelles locals, immersing in their rich cultural blend of African, European and Asian as you hop between islands like Mahe, Praslin and La Digue, choosing from swanky resorts, family-run guesthouses, eco-lodges or self-catering set-ups. Even if you fly and flop, there's minimal risk of monotony. Mahe alone has 25-plus beaches, ranging from big Beau Vallon with its street food stalls, water sports and epic sunset viewing to surfy Anse Louis and restaurant-dotted Anse Royale. In Mahe's capital, Victoria, you can eat Creole curries in colonial mansions; inhale Indian, Chinese and African spice aromas amid the bustle of Sir Selwyn Clarke Market; and take a tot at Takamaka Rum Distillery, on an 18th-century estate with two resident giant Aldabra tortoises. I defy even a teen with a two-minute attention span to tire of the Seychelles. Sea kayaking on Cerf, biking through villages on La Digue or spotting wildlife wonders like rare brown boobies (stop giggling at the back Mal, or you'll be denied parole from the Maldives) in the pristine outer atolls - all these await. When you fly home, look out for the Maldives down below. You might spot someone spelling out the word "help", in expensive beer bottles on a small, flat, remote and exclusive beach. By Mal Chenu It's not often reality says "Screw you, filters, retouching and HDR. We don't need you for our pics." Not just any old beaches some influencer blue-washes to turn heads (and a quid), the Seychelles and the Maldives are already picture-perfect Indian Ocean idylls with endless seascapes, occasional landscapes and coral reefs so clear and brightly coloured they make QLED TV technology look like early celluloid. But if you have to choose one, without the "benefit" of an influencer's profundity and online editing, the Maldives should be your first resort. The accommodation here is all about opulent hotels - think luxury, then think of a word that means more luxurious than luxury, then double it, and you're still not luxurious enough. Every hotel chain celebrated for seamless spoiling with a soupcon of sycophancy has staked a sunny, sandy, cerulean spot in the Maldives. Every company that sneers at five-star ratings as mere entry level is here - Ritz-Carlton, Como, St Regis, Six Senses, Four Seasons, Waldorf Astoria, One&Only and dozens more. There's even a Raffles, which offers a mesmerising and entirely appropriate coconut iteration of its famous Singapore Sling to accompany the impossibly gorgeous sunsets. And most of the Maldives' overwater bungalows and water's edge suites are just a seashell's skip away from an oversized bathtub with lagoon views, private pool, sumptuous day spa and fine-dining restaurants. The Maldives' average natural elevation is 1.5 metres above sea level, stretching up to a giddying natural high point of 2.4 metres. Mount Villingili looms above you at an altitude of 5.1 metres, and you can make the ascent in thongs and without oxygen, before posing for a triumphant photo at the summit. The Maldives may not offer drone's-eye-view panoramas, but it is the consummate romantic getaway, especially for acrophobic couples. It also tops the list of places to see while you still can. Much of the country is expected to sink beneath the waves within a century, so you'd better hurry if you want to beat the tide. It's ironic that a paradise endangered by global warming is all about chilling, but this is the Maldivian lure. Dewy-eyed couples can take a break between relaxing and unwinding for a massage, and then don their freshly pressed white linen outfits for dinner and an unfiltered Insta post about foie gras, Veuve Clicquot and languid lagoon life. Amy will try to tell you the Seychelles is the superior utopia, but just getting there involves making more connections than a job seeker on LinkedIn. She can sell Seychelles by the seashore as much as she likes, but this Mal is a Maldives man, and not just because I can scale a mountain before the ice in my cocktail melts. By Amy Cooper The problem with humans is that we can have too much of a good thing. Even when that good thing is a picture-perfect, sundrenched Indian Ocean island idyll. Just ask Tom Hanks and Wilson the volleyball, or the kids in Lord of the Flies. Or my friends, a couple who fell out so ferociously during their romantic Maldives sojourn they weaponised their swizzle sticks. Paradise with no escape route can only end one way: a descent into savagery. Which is why I hope Mal dives in the Maldives, because SCUBA may be all that stands between him and that scene from The Beach where a raving troppo Leo DiCaprio starts swallowing caterpillars. In the Maldives, you're shipped out to your isolated one-island-one-resort situation and there you remain, on a flat sandy circle devoid of topography, local community or businesses, entirely dependent upon your gilded bubble for sustenance that's served with a monopoly-enabled mark-up. Luxurious, sure, but a trap nonetheless. Like Alcatraz, except with floating breakfast trays. In the Seychelles, you're gloriously free to roam an entire country of 115 islands, through landscapes dramatic with curves and character: misty mountains rising from the jungle; secret coves; rainforests alive with exotic birds and rare orchids. People come just to gaze at the scattered, stacked and strangely sculptural giant granite boulders on the beaches of the inner Seychelles - the world's only granitic oceanic islands. Instead of wondering which of your fellow castaways will crack first, you'll be meeting Seychelles locals, immersing in their rich cultural blend of African, European and Asian as you hop between islands like Mahe, Praslin and La Digue, choosing from swanky resorts, family-run guesthouses, eco-lodges or self-catering set-ups. Even if you fly and flop, there's minimal risk of monotony. Mahe alone has 25-plus beaches, ranging from big Beau Vallon with its street food stalls, water sports and epic sunset viewing to surfy Anse Louis and restaurant-dotted Anse Royale. In Mahe's capital, Victoria, you can eat Creole curries in colonial mansions; inhale Indian, Chinese and African spice aromas amid the bustle of Sir Selwyn Clarke Market; and take a tot at Takamaka Rum Distillery, on an 18th-century estate with two resident giant Aldabra tortoises. I defy even a teen with a two-minute attention span to tire of the Seychelles. Sea kayaking on Cerf, biking through villages on La Digue or spotting wildlife wonders like rare brown boobies (stop giggling at the back Mal, or you'll be denied parole from the Maldives) in the pristine outer atolls - all these await. When you fly home, look out for the Maldives down below. You might spot someone spelling out the word "help", in expensive beer bottles on a small, flat, remote and exclusive beach. By Mal Chenu It's not often reality says "Screw you, filters, retouching and HDR. We don't need you for our pics." Not just any old beaches some influencer blue-washes to turn heads (and a quid), the Seychelles and the Maldives are already picture-perfect Indian Ocean idylls with endless seascapes, occasional landscapes and coral reefs so clear and brightly coloured they make QLED TV technology look like early celluloid. But if you have to choose one, without the "benefit" of an influencer's profundity and online editing, the Maldives should be your first resort. The accommodation here is all about opulent hotels - think luxury, then think of a word that means more luxurious than luxury, then double it, and you're still not luxurious enough. Every hotel chain celebrated for seamless spoiling with a soupcon of sycophancy has staked a sunny, sandy, cerulean spot in the Maldives. Every company that sneers at five-star ratings as mere entry level is here - Ritz-Carlton, Como, St Regis, Six Senses, Four Seasons, Waldorf Astoria, One&Only and dozens more. There's even a Raffles, which offers a mesmerising and entirely appropriate coconut iteration of its famous Singapore Sling to accompany the impossibly gorgeous sunsets. And most of the Maldives' overwater bungalows and water's edge suites are just a seashell's skip away from an oversized bathtub with lagoon views, private pool, sumptuous day spa and fine-dining restaurants. The Maldives' average natural elevation is 1.5 metres above sea level, stretching up to a giddying natural high point of 2.4 metres. Mount Villingili looms above you at an altitude of 5.1 metres, and you can make the ascent in thongs and without oxygen, before posing for a triumphant photo at the summit. The Maldives may not offer drone's-eye-view panoramas, but it is the consummate romantic getaway, especially for acrophobic couples. It also tops the list of places to see while you still can. Much of the country is expected to sink beneath the waves within a century, so you'd better hurry if you want to beat the tide. It's ironic that a paradise endangered by global warming is all about chilling, but this is the Maldivian lure. Dewy-eyed couples can take a break between relaxing and unwinding for a massage, and then don their freshly pressed white linen outfits for dinner and an unfiltered Insta post about foie gras, Veuve Clicquot and languid lagoon life. Amy will try to tell you the Seychelles is the superior utopia, but just getting there involves making more connections than a job seeker on LinkedIn. She can sell Seychelles by the seashore as much as she likes, but this Mal is a Maldives man, and not just because I can scale a mountain before the ice in my cocktail melts. By Amy Cooper The problem with humans is that we can have too much of a good thing. Even when that good thing is a picture-perfect, sundrenched Indian Ocean island idyll. Just ask Tom Hanks and Wilson the volleyball, or the kids in Lord of the Flies. Or my friends, a couple who fell out so ferociously during their romantic Maldives sojourn they weaponised their swizzle sticks. Paradise with no escape route can only end one way: a descent into savagery. Which is why I hope Mal dives in the Maldives, because SCUBA may be all that stands between him and that scene from The Beach where a raving troppo Leo DiCaprio starts swallowing caterpillars. In the Maldives, you're shipped out to your isolated one-island-one-resort situation and there you remain, on a flat sandy circle devoid of topography, local community or businesses, entirely dependent upon your gilded bubble for sustenance that's served with a monopoly-enabled mark-up. Luxurious, sure, but a trap nonetheless. Like Alcatraz, except with floating breakfast trays. In the Seychelles, you're gloriously free to roam an entire country of 115 islands, through landscapes dramatic with curves and character: misty mountains rising from the jungle; secret coves; rainforests alive with exotic birds and rare orchids. People come just to gaze at the scattered, stacked and strangely sculptural giant granite boulders on the beaches of the inner Seychelles - the world's only granitic oceanic islands. Instead of wondering which of your fellow castaways will crack first, you'll be meeting Seychelles locals, immersing in their rich cultural blend of African, European and Asian as you hop between islands like Mahe, Praslin and La Digue, choosing from swanky resorts, family-run guesthouses, eco-lodges or self-catering set-ups. Even if you fly and flop, there's minimal risk of monotony. Mahe alone has 25-plus beaches, ranging from big Beau Vallon with its street food stalls, water sports and epic sunset viewing to surfy Anse Louis and restaurant-dotted Anse Royale. In Mahe's capital, Victoria, you can eat Creole curries in colonial mansions; inhale Indian, Chinese and African spice aromas amid the bustle of Sir Selwyn Clarke Market; and take a tot at Takamaka Rum Distillery, on an 18th-century estate with two resident giant Aldabra tortoises. I defy even a teen with a two-minute attention span to tire of the Seychelles. Sea kayaking on Cerf, biking through villages on La Digue or spotting wildlife wonders like rare brown boobies (stop giggling at the back Mal, or you'll be denied parole from the Maldives) in the pristine outer atolls - all these await. When you fly home, look out for the Maldives down below. You might spot someone spelling out the word "help", in expensive beer bottles on a small, flat, remote and exclusive beach. By Mal Chenu It's not often reality says "Screw you, filters, retouching and HDR. We don't need you for our pics." Not just any old beaches some influencer blue-washes to turn heads (and a quid), the Seychelles and the Maldives are already picture-perfect Indian Ocean idylls with endless seascapes, occasional landscapes and coral reefs so clear and brightly coloured they make QLED TV technology look like early celluloid. But if you have to choose one, without the "benefit" of an influencer's profundity and online editing, the Maldives should be your first resort. The accommodation here is all about opulent hotels - think luxury, then think of a word that means more luxurious than luxury, then double it, and you're still not luxurious enough. Every hotel chain celebrated for seamless spoiling with a soupcon of sycophancy has staked a sunny, sandy, cerulean spot in the Maldives. Every company that sneers at five-star ratings as mere entry level is here - Ritz-Carlton, Como, St Regis, Six Senses, Four Seasons, Waldorf Astoria, One&Only and dozens more. There's even a Raffles, which offers a mesmerising and entirely appropriate coconut iteration of its famous Singapore Sling to accompany the impossibly gorgeous sunsets. And most of the Maldives' overwater bungalows and water's edge suites are just a seashell's skip away from an oversized bathtub with lagoon views, private pool, sumptuous day spa and fine-dining restaurants. The Maldives' average natural elevation is 1.5 metres above sea level, stretching up to a giddying natural high point of 2.4 metres. Mount Villingili looms above you at an altitude of 5.1 metres, and you can make the ascent in thongs and without oxygen, before posing for a triumphant photo at the summit. The Maldives may not offer drone's-eye-view panoramas, but it is the consummate romantic getaway, especially for acrophobic couples. It also tops the list of places to see while you still can. Much of the country is expected to sink beneath the waves within a century, so you'd better hurry if you want to beat the tide. It's ironic that a paradise endangered by global warming is all about chilling, but this is the Maldivian lure. Dewy-eyed couples can take a break between relaxing and unwinding for a massage, and then don their freshly pressed white linen outfits for dinner and an unfiltered Insta post about foie gras, Veuve Clicquot and languid lagoon life. Amy will try to tell you the Seychelles is the superior utopia, but just getting there involves making more connections than a job seeker on LinkedIn. She can sell Seychelles by the seashore as much as she likes, but this Mal is a Maldives man, and not just because I can scale a mountain before the ice in my cocktail melts. By Amy Cooper The problem with humans is that we can have too much of a good thing. Even when that good thing is a picture-perfect, sundrenched Indian Ocean island idyll. Just ask Tom Hanks and Wilson the volleyball, or the kids in Lord of the Flies. Or my friends, a couple who fell out so ferociously during their romantic Maldives sojourn they weaponised their swizzle sticks. Paradise with no escape route can only end one way: a descent into savagery. Which is why I hope Mal dives in the Maldives, because SCUBA may be all that stands between him and that scene from The Beach where a raving troppo Leo DiCaprio starts swallowing caterpillars. In the Maldives, you're shipped out to your isolated one-island-one-resort situation and there you remain, on a flat sandy circle devoid of topography, local community or businesses, entirely dependent upon your gilded bubble for sustenance that's served with a monopoly-enabled mark-up. Luxurious, sure, but a trap nonetheless. Like Alcatraz, except with floating breakfast trays. In the Seychelles, you're gloriously free to roam an entire country of 115 islands, through landscapes dramatic with curves and character: misty mountains rising from the jungle; secret coves; rainforests alive with exotic birds and rare orchids. People come just to gaze at the scattered, stacked and strangely sculptural giant granite boulders on the beaches of the inner Seychelles - the world's only granitic oceanic islands. Instead of wondering which of your fellow castaways will crack first, you'll be meeting Seychelles locals, immersing in their rich cultural blend of African, European and Asian as you hop between islands like Mahe, Praslin and La Digue, choosing from swanky resorts, family-run guesthouses, eco-lodges or self-catering set-ups. Even if you fly and flop, there's minimal risk of monotony. Mahe alone has 25-plus beaches, ranging from big Beau Vallon with its street food stalls, water sports and epic sunset viewing to surfy Anse Louis and restaurant-dotted Anse Royale. In Mahe's capital, Victoria, you can eat Creole curries in colonial mansions; inhale Indian, Chinese and African spice aromas amid the bustle of Sir Selwyn Clarke Market; and take a tot at Takamaka Rum Distillery, on an 18th-century estate with two resident giant Aldabra tortoises. I defy even a teen with a two-minute attention span to tire of the Seychelles. Sea kayaking on Cerf, biking through villages on La Digue or spotting wildlife wonders like rare brown boobies (stop giggling at the back Mal, or you'll be denied parole from the Maldives) in the pristine outer atolls - all these await. When you fly home, look out for the Maldives down below. You might spot someone spelling out the word "help", in expensive beer bottles on a small, flat, remote and exclusive beach.
The Advertiser
09-05-2025
- The Advertiser
Snow action vs classy city. Which New Zealand tourist hub is for you?
One's a flat-out party town, the other an English-style slice of gentility. So which of these New Zealand hubs is for you? By Mal Chenu This battle of the South Island cities boils down to class versus crass. I asked my mate Dean, who was born in Christchurch, to compare the pair. "What's the best thing about Christchurch?" I asked. "No bloody Queenstowners!" he replied, before launching into a rant about expensive coffee, fat golfers, backpackers and ski bums. While Christchurch is not bereft of Dean's targets, New Zealand's second biggest city is more like a little slice of genteel England, even to the point where you can punt on the Avon. This is not gambling on whether the cosmetics salesladies are making a comeback but rather a tranquil excursion on an old-time river punt, pole steered by a classically attired punter in a jacket, tie, suspenders and straw boater. And if you don't like a punt, you can take a guided tour in a hand-crafted Maori waka, or row, row, row your own boat, kayak or stand-up paddle board. Christchurch is known as the Garden City and is on the bouquet list of petal-heads the world over. The Avon punts wind their way through Christchurch Botanic Gardens (New Zealand's finest), and in spring the city's famous cherry blossoms burst forth at Hagley Park and Kurashiki Garden. Restored and rebuilt after the devastating 2011 earthquake, Christchurch now rocks metaphorically. The city's flat, grid structure makes getting around easier than beating the Wallabies in a Bledisloe Cup match. While they haven't played a Bledisloe match here since the 'quake, Australia hasn't beaten the All Blacks in Christchurch here since 1913, as Dean is fond of reminding me. The Canterbury region pulsates for their almost unbeatable Crusaders, too. If you're a rugger bugger who likes your footy one-sided with a healthy dose of sleet (and who doesn't?) the current temporary stadium is the place for you. Christchurch is a university town of refined taste and high culture, of street murals and public spaces, of craft breweries and food trails, of endless gardens and rolling countryside. Of music recitals and memorable scones. A typical day might include an artisanal cheese tasting, catching a heritage tram to a gallery opening, designer shopping at Ballantynes in Cashel Street, a stroll along the photogenic New Regent Street pedestrian mall, and a fine dining experience around the Chef's Table at Inati restaurant, where you can pair your duck trumpets and tamarillo jam with a Bell Hill pinot noir. Meanwhile, your day in Queenstown, which exudes an intermingled redolence of midlife crisis, bravado, legal waivers and Red Bull, involves queuing with sweaty mamils for a $15 coffee, sitting in traffic, listening to people scream as they bungy jump, jet boat and paraglide, and queuing again for a Fergburger which, Dean grudgingly admits, is worth the wait. By Amy Cooper Confession: I've had a few winter trips to Queenstown, but I've never hit the ski slopes there. This is snow joke - although I know it's hard to believe when Coronet Peak's exhilarating roller coaster terrain awaits just 20 minutes up the road, and seven thrilling parks at The Remarkables (the clue's in the name) beckon from just a little farther. These spectacular alpine playgrounds, along with Cardrona's 40 kilometres of slopes and the hair-raising 700-metre vertical at Treble Cone, the southern hemisphere's largest ski field, make Queenstown the south island's cream of the drop. I always go with every intention of getting on the piste. But there are just too many other kinds of fun to be had in New Zealand's adrenaline capital. Queenstown is teeny - more than 10 times smaller than Christchurch. But the little alpine town's gargantuan appetite for good times dwarfs even the towering alps surrounding its stunning perch on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. Activities span the entire spectrum of stimulation, from bungy plunging 43 metres above the Kawarau River to hurtling in a jetboat through vast canyons along the churning Shotover River to white water rafting, luge riding, mountain biking and a million other things that make you scream, whoop, weep and giggle. The action's unleashed the moment you disembark at Queenstown airport, discover you're in a place where Uber is for sissies and transfer into town on a KJet jetboat, spinning 360s up Lake Wakatipu like a crazy toy right to your hotel jetty. Having overdosed on endorphins before you've even unpacked, you'll find you're within walking distance of at least 100 bars. Queenstown, with the country's highest density of watering holes, has one for every 75 people. These establishments tend to start the evening as deceptively hygge nooks with hearths and congenial chat, then morph into all-out banging nightclub vortexes that spin you round and fling you out to munch a legendary Fergburger before pulling you back into a party that's raged unabated since the 1860s gold rush. At some point you'll emerge, only to remember you're within 20 minutes of 75 wineries, and that Central Otago makes some of the world's finest pinot noir - and off you go again. Maybe, after sipping sublime drops at cellar doors like Amisfield and Chard Farm, you might squeeze in a blissful dip in onsen baths with panoramic views. Or ride in the Skyline Gondola up to Bob's Peak after dark to gaze in wonder at the galaxy and toast the stars with mulled wine. And then you'll find, like me, that you're out of time again. Next visit, you swear, you'll ski. But really you know that Queenstown's relentless revelry will divert you for decades or more until finally you slow down, or your knees fail. And then you'll be ready for Christchurch. One's a flat-out party town, the other an English-style slice of gentility. So which of these New Zealand hubs is for you? By Mal Chenu This battle of the South Island cities boils down to class versus crass. I asked my mate Dean, who was born in Christchurch, to compare the pair. "What's the best thing about Christchurch?" I asked. "No bloody Queenstowners!" he replied, before launching into a rant about expensive coffee, fat golfers, backpackers and ski bums. While Christchurch is not bereft of Dean's targets, New Zealand's second biggest city is more like a little slice of genteel England, even to the point where you can punt on the Avon. This is not gambling on whether the cosmetics salesladies are making a comeback but rather a tranquil excursion on an old-time river punt, pole steered by a classically attired punter in a jacket, tie, suspenders and straw boater. And if you don't like a punt, you can take a guided tour in a hand-crafted Maori waka, or row, row, row your own boat, kayak or stand-up paddle board. Christchurch is known as the Garden City and is on the bouquet list of petal-heads the world over. The Avon punts wind their way through Christchurch Botanic Gardens (New Zealand's finest), and in spring the city's famous cherry blossoms burst forth at Hagley Park and Kurashiki Garden. Restored and rebuilt after the devastating 2011 earthquake, Christchurch now rocks metaphorically. The city's flat, grid structure makes getting around easier than beating the Wallabies in a Bledisloe Cup match. While they haven't played a Bledisloe match here since the 'quake, Australia hasn't beaten the All Blacks in Christchurch here since 1913, as Dean is fond of reminding me. The Canterbury region pulsates for their almost unbeatable Crusaders, too. If you're a rugger bugger who likes your footy one-sided with a healthy dose of sleet (and who doesn't?) the current temporary stadium is the place for you. Christchurch is a university town of refined taste and high culture, of street murals and public spaces, of craft breweries and food trails, of endless gardens and rolling countryside. Of music recitals and memorable scones. A typical day might include an artisanal cheese tasting, catching a heritage tram to a gallery opening, designer shopping at Ballantynes in Cashel Street, a stroll along the photogenic New Regent Street pedestrian mall, and a fine dining experience around the Chef's Table at Inati restaurant, where you can pair your duck trumpets and tamarillo jam with a Bell Hill pinot noir. Meanwhile, your day in Queenstown, which exudes an intermingled redolence of midlife crisis, bravado, legal waivers and Red Bull, involves queuing with sweaty mamils for a $15 coffee, sitting in traffic, listening to people scream as they bungy jump, jet boat and paraglide, and queuing again for a Fergburger which, Dean grudgingly admits, is worth the wait. By Amy Cooper Confession: I've had a few winter trips to Queenstown, but I've never hit the ski slopes there. This is snow joke - although I know it's hard to believe when Coronet Peak's exhilarating roller coaster terrain awaits just 20 minutes up the road, and seven thrilling parks at The Remarkables (the clue's in the name) beckon from just a little farther. These spectacular alpine playgrounds, along with Cardrona's 40 kilometres of slopes and the hair-raising 700-metre vertical at Treble Cone, the southern hemisphere's largest ski field, make Queenstown the south island's cream of the drop. I always go with every intention of getting on the piste. But there are just too many other kinds of fun to be had in New Zealand's adrenaline capital. Queenstown is teeny - more than 10 times smaller than Christchurch. But the little alpine town's gargantuan appetite for good times dwarfs even the towering alps surrounding its stunning perch on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. Activities span the entire spectrum of stimulation, from bungy plunging 43 metres above the Kawarau River to hurtling in a jetboat through vast canyons along the churning Shotover River to white water rafting, luge riding, mountain biking and a million other things that make you scream, whoop, weep and giggle. The action's unleashed the moment you disembark at Queenstown airport, discover you're in a place where Uber is for sissies and transfer into town on a KJet jetboat, spinning 360s up Lake Wakatipu like a crazy toy right to your hotel jetty. Having overdosed on endorphins before you've even unpacked, you'll find you're within walking distance of at least 100 bars. Queenstown, with the country's highest density of watering holes, has one for every 75 people. These establishments tend to start the evening as deceptively hygge nooks with hearths and congenial chat, then morph into all-out banging nightclub vortexes that spin you round and fling you out to munch a legendary Fergburger before pulling you back into a party that's raged unabated since the 1860s gold rush. At some point you'll emerge, only to remember you're within 20 minutes of 75 wineries, and that Central Otago makes some of the world's finest pinot noir - and off you go again. Maybe, after sipping sublime drops at cellar doors like Amisfield and Chard Farm, you might squeeze in a blissful dip in onsen baths with panoramic views. Or ride in the Skyline Gondola up to Bob's Peak after dark to gaze in wonder at the galaxy and toast the stars with mulled wine. And then you'll find, like me, that you're out of time again. Next visit, you swear, you'll ski. But really you know that Queenstown's relentless revelry will divert you for decades or more until finally you slow down, or your knees fail. And then you'll be ready for Christchurch. One's a flat-out party town, the other an English-style slice of gentility. So which of these New Zealand hubs is for you? By Mal Chenu This battle of the South Island cities boils down to class versus crass. I asked my mate Dean, who was born in Christchurch, to compare the pair. "What's the best thing about Christchurch?" I asked. "No bloody Queenstowners!" he replied, before launching into a rant about expensive coffee, fat golfers, backpackers and ski bums. While Christchurch is not bereft of Dean's targets, New Zealand's second biggest city is more like a little slice of genteel England, even to the point where you can punt on the Avon. This is not gambling on whether the cosmetics salesladies are making a comeback but rather a tranquil excursion on an old-time river punt, pole steered by a classically attired punter in a jacket, tie, suspenders and straw boater. And if you don't like a punt, you can take a guided tour in a hand-crafted Maori waka, or row, row, row your own boat, kayak or stand-up paddle board. Christchurch is known as the Garden City and is on the bouquet list of petal-heads the world over. The Avon punts wind their way through Christchurch Botanic Gardens (New Zealand's finest), and in spring the city's famous cherry blossoms burst forth at Hagley Park and Kurashiki Garden. Restored and rebuilt after the devastating 2011 earthquake, Christchurch now rocks metaphorically. The city's flat, grid structure makes getting around easier than beating the Wallabies in a Bledisloe Cup match. While they haven't played a Bledisloe match here since the 'quake, Australia hasn't beaten the All Blacks in Christchurch here since 1913, as Dean is fond of reminding me. The Canterbury region pulsates for their almost unbeatable Crusaders, too. If you're a rugger bugger who likes your footy one-sided with a healthy dose of sleet (and who doesn't?) the current temporary stadium is the place for you. Christchurch is a university town of refined taste and high culture, of street murals and public spaces, of craft breweries and food trails, of endless gardens and rolling countryside. Of music recitals and memorable scones. A typical day might include an artisanal cheese tasting, catching a heritage tram to a gallery opening, designer shopping at Ballantynes in Cashel Street, a stroll along the photogenic New Regent Street pedestrian mall, and a fine dining experience around the Chef's Table at Inati restaurant, where you can pair your duck trumpets and tamarillo jam with a Bell Hill pinot noir. Meanwhile, your day in Queenstown, which exudes an intermingled redolence of midlife crisis, bravado, legal waivers and Red Bull, involves queuing with sweaty mamils for a $15 coffee, sitting in traffic, listening to people scream as they bungy jump, jet boat and paraglide, and queuing again for a Fergburger which, Dean grudgingly admits, is worth the wait. By Amy Cooper Confession: I've had a few winter trips to Queenstown, but I've never hit the ski slopes there. This is snow joke - although I know it's hard to believe when Coronet Peak's exhilarating roller coaster terrain awaits just 20 minutes up the road, and seven thrilling parks at The Remarkables (the clue's in the name) beckon from just a little farther. These spectacular alpine playgrounds, along with Cardrona's 40 kilometres of slopes and the hair-raising 700-metre vertical at Treble Cone, the southern hemisphere's largest ski field, make Queenstown the south island's cream of the drop. I always go with every intention of getting on the piste. But there are just too many other kinds of fun to be had in New Zealand's adrenaline capital. Queenstown is teeny - more than 10 times smaller than Christchurch. But the little alpine town's gargantuan appetite for good times dwarfs even the towering alps surrounding its stunning perch on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. Activities span the entire spectrum of stimulation, from bungy plunging 43 metres above the Kawarau River to hurtling in a jetboat through vast canyons along the churning Shotover River to white water rafting, luge riding, mountain biking and a million other things that make you scream, whoop, weep and giggle. The action's unleashed the moment you disembark at Queenstown airport, discover you're in a place where Uber is for sissies and transfer into town on a KJet jetboat, spinning 360s up Lake Wakatipu like a crazy toy right to your hotel jetty. Having overdosed on endorphins before you've even unpacked, you'll find you're within walking distance of at least 100 bars. Queenstown, with the country's highest density of watering holes, has one for every 75 people. These establishments tend to start the evening as deceptively hygge nooks with hearths and congenial chat, then morph into all-out banging nightclub vortexes that spin you round and fling you out to munch a legendary Fergburger before pulling you back into a party that's raged unabated since the 1860s gold rush. At some point you'll emerge, only to remember you're within 20 minutes of 75 wineries, and that Central Otago makes some of the world's finest pinot noir - and off you go again. Maybe, after sipping sublime drops at cellar doors like Amisfield and Chard Farm, you might squeeze in a blissful dip in onsen baths with panoramic views. Or ride in the Skyline Gondola up to Bob's Peak after dark to gaze in wonder at the galaxy and toast the stars with mulled wine. And then you'll find, like me, that you're out of time again. Next visit, you swear, you'll ski. But really you know that Queenstown's relentless revelry will divert you for decades or more until finally you slow down, or your knees fail. And then you'll be ready for Christchurch. One's a flat-out party town, the other an English-style slice of gentility. So which of these New Zealand hubs is for you? By Mal Chenu This battle of the South Island cities boils down to class versus crass. I asked my mate Dean, who was born in Christchurch, to compare the pair. "What's the best thing about Christchurch?" I asked. "No bloody Queenstowners!" he replied, before launching into a rant about expensive coffee, fat golfers, backpackers and ski bums. While Christchurch is not bereft of Dean's targets, New Zealand's second biggest city is more like a little slice of genteel England, even to the point where you can punt on the Avon. This is not gambling on whether the cosmetics salesladies are making a comeback but rather a tranquil excursion on an old-time river punt, pole steered by a classically attired punter in a jacket, tie, suspenders and straw boater. And if you don't like a punt, you can take a guided tour in a hand-crafted Maori waka, or row, row, row your own boat, kayak or stand-up paddle board. Christchurch is known as the Garden City and is on the bouquet list of petal-heads the world over. The Avon punts wind their way through Christchurch Botanic Gardens (New Zealand's finest), and in spring the city's famous cherry blossoms burst forth at Hagley Park and Kurashiki Garden. Restored and rebuilt after the devastating 2011 earthquake, Christchurch now rocks metaphorically. The city's flat, grid structure makes getting around easier than beating the Wallabies in a Bledisloe Cup match. While they haven't played a Bledisloe match here since the 'quake, Australia hasn't beaten the All Blacks in Christchurch here since 1913, as Dean is fond of reminding me. The Canterbury region pulsates for their almost unbeatable Crusaders, too. If you're a rugger bugger who likes your footy one-sided with a healthy dose of sleet (and who doesn't?) the current temporary stadium is the place for you. Christchurch is a university town of refined taste and high culture, of street murals and public spaces, of craft breweries and food trails, of endless gardens and rolling countryside. Of music recitals and memorable scones. A typical day might include an artisanal cheese tasting, catching a heritage tram to a gallery opening, designer shopping at Ballantynes in Cashel Street, a stroll along the photogenic New Regent Street pedestrian mall, and a fine dining experience around the Chef's Table at Inati restaurant, where you can pair your duck trumpets and tamarillo jam with a Bell Hill pinot noir. Meanwhile, your day in Queenstown, which exudes an intermingled redolence of midlife crisis, bravado, legal waivers and Red Bull, involves queuing with sweaty mamils for a $15 coffee, sitting in traffic, listening to people scream as they bungy jump, jet boat and paraglide, and queuing again for a Fergburger which, Dean grudgingly admits, is worth the wait. By Amy Cooper Confession: I've had a few winter trips to Queenstown, but I've never hit the ski slopes there. This is snow joke - although I know it's hard to believe when Coronet Peak's exhilarating roller coaster terrain awaits just 20 minutes up the road, and seven thrilling parks at The Remarkables (the clue's in the name) beckon from just a little farther. These spectacular alpine playgrounds, along with Cardrona's 40 kilometres of slopes and the hair-raising 700-metre vertical at Treble Cone, the southern hemisphere's largest ski field, make Queenstown the south island's cream of the drop. I always go with every intention of getting on the piste. But there are just too many other kinds of fun to be had in New Zealand's adrenaline capital. Queenstown is teeny - more than 10 times smaller than Christchurch. But the little alpine town's gargantuan appetite for good times dwarfs even the towering alps surrounding its stunning perch on the shores of Lake Wakatipu. Activities span the entire spectrum of stimulation, from bungy plunging 43 metres above the Kawarau River to hurtling in a jetboat through vast canyons along the churning Shotover River to white water rafting, luge riding, mountain biking and a million other things that make you scream, whoop, weep and giggle. The action's unleashed the moment you disembark at Queenstown airport, discover you're in a place where Uber is for sissies and transfer into town on a KJet jetboat, spinning 360s up Lake Wakatipu like a crazy toy right to your hotel jetty. Having overdosed on endorphins before you've even unpacked, you'll find you're within walking distance of at least 100 bars. Queenstown, with the country's highest density of watering holes, has one for every 75 people. These establishments tend to start the evening as deceptively hygge nooks with hearths and congenial chat, then morph into all-out banging nightclub vortexes that spin you round and fling you out to munch a legendary Fergburger before pulling you back into a party that's raged unabated since the 1860s gold rush. At some point you'll emerge, only to remember you're within 20 minutes of 75 wineries, and that Central Otago makes some of the world's finest pinot noir - and off you go again. Maybe, after sipping sublime drops at cellar doors like Amisfield and Chard Farm, you might squeeze in a blissful dip in onsen baths with panoramic views. Or ride in the Skyline Gondola up to Bob's Peak after dark to gaze in wonder at the galaxy and toast the stars with mulled wine. And then you'll find, like me, that you're out of time again. Next visit, you swear, you'll ski. But really you know that Queenstown's relentless revelry will divert you for decades or more until finally you slow down, or your knees fail. And then you'll be ready for Christchurch.
