The only way to travel the length of the Taieri Gorge is by train.

Well, I suppose one could hike, but that would take far longer than an afternoon. The most perfect places almost never have a road to them, but sometimes, they have rails. The boys were fairly giddy at the prospect of a trip in a restored antique train into the highlands of the Otago interior. It was all they could do to keep Daddy’s birthday surprise a secret.

The train rocked gently, reminding me of how much I love trains and making me, more than ever, long to take the Orient Express. I knit on Tony’s new hat, in charcoal Alpaca, to match the jacket he procured in Akaroa, and listened to the rhythm of the rails as Hannah picked away at her mandolin.

“This train is bound for Glory, this train….

This train is bound for Glory, this train….

This train is bound for Glory, none gonna ride but the righteous and the holy,

This train is bound for Glory, this train…”

The floor of the gorge dropped away beneath us as we climbed. Cows lifted their faces, maws full of cud, to watch us go by. The boys held their breath until their eyes crossed and they started to turn blue through the long, dark tunnels through the rock. We have a long standing game of breath holding in tunnels. It ensures me at least a minute of quiet from time to time. Larch trees huddled together in silent convention, bows laden with tiny cones. Poplar trees lined the bank of the river, far below, lemon yellow in their fall dresses, next to the perennial green of the pines.

The boys were like hobos on a hopped train, leaning off the back and crowing to the mountaintops, sloping the length of the interior of the cars, scoping out the other passengers, the dining car, and finally settling around the old man in the middle car who was the font of all railway wisdom. Someone wangled a promise to ride in the engine out of one of the engineers and there was wild excitement about that prospect as we walked across a high bridge, deep in the mountains and the two younger guys and the birthday boy climbed up into the heart of the beast. No one wondered who was responsible for the three, long, loud whistle blasts that echoed off of the cliff faces and over the hilltops.

Hannah continued to sing, oblivious to her brothers’ antics, as ever…

“I don’t want to leave this train…

The world awaits with all it’s pains…

Got me thinkin’ of the times we were runnin’ down the line…

I’ll have sweet dreams forever, on a train in the sky…”

I knit around the cable row and returned to the rhythmic: purl 2, knit 2, purl 2, knit 6. The clack of the rails beat the cadence for my needles.

The whole way back we giggled as we ate our snacks and knit on our various projects.

It’s highly amusing to watch other parents who (for some unknown reason, perhaps they didn’t read the parenting manual) thought it would be a good idea to buy a three year old a wooden train whistle at the mid-point of the trip. Having lived through similar foibles in the past decade, when the desire to make a kid happy over rides good sense, we felt justified in our (quiet) heckling. It was suggested that perhaps One-Note-Suzy might enjoy a the downhill ride in the baggage car. It occurred to us that it would be Karmic justice if Ezra should accompany her. In spite of her parent’s continual “hushing,” she added great delight to the journey.

The train was late, and so was dinner: tacos and a yellow cake iced with enthusiasm (if not attention to detail) by Ezra. The children sang to their Papa and we’ve all crawled into bed. He’s now slogging through the three hundred photos he took this afternoon, which means it might be a while before I can post this…