Life through a pinhole

So awhile ago, my brother and his girlfriend came back from overseas. Well, they bought me a present - all the way from Shetland, Scotland. A pinhole camera! I had heard of them, but never really thought about actually using one, and it's a truly amazing concept - it takes photography way back to the basics. It's all about light.
A pinhole camera is a simple camera without a lens and with a single small aperture — effectively a light-proof box with a small hole on one side. Light from a scene passes through this single point and projects an inverted image on the opposite side of the box.
How thoughtful is my brother?!

So, naturally, I've been researching pinhole photography - in an effort to do a good job first time round and not waste film - and I've come across some amazing images! They've all got this slightly spooky, yet romantic, feel to them, making them somehow otherworldly. I can't wait to start making some of my own this summer, so watch this space!
(Click on photos for sources)

I am a New Zealander

New Zealand is a strange and wonderful place, where there is technically no such thing as a New Zealander.
My Dad always says to me, “Do you realize that New Zealand is the only country in the world where we can’t call ourselves New Zealanders?”
When we fill out forms, we have to tick the box that says “New Zealand European/Pakeha”.
Firstly, I have never been to Europe, and nor has my family. My ancestors were born in Scotland and England, and only ever went to Europe to fight in the wars.
Secondly, “Pakeha” is a Maori word, which means “white ghost”, a name given to our ancestors when they arrived on the shores of New Zealand in ships flying white sails 200 years ago. Some say it means, “white pig”, or at least that’s what the Maori kids at school used to tell us.
Of all things, the Rugby World Cup has bought this anomaly to the forefront of my mind once again, which is entirely appropriate, given that the eyes of the world are on our tiny country at the moment, with 20 countries competing for the Webb Ellis Cup.
On my dad’s side of the family, I am a third-generation “New Zealander” and on my mum’s side, I am fourth generation.
On Sunday, my dad, sister and I donned blue and white face paint and headed to the stadium to support Scotland, the country of our ancestors.
There is nothing wrong with being proud of your heritage and supporting other teams for a bit of fun, but where do we draw the line at being defined by our heritage?
I love the sound of the bagpipes, and jumping around yelling at Scotland to “run the damn ball!” and cheering when they score, but when I stood up and sang Flower of Scotland (the national anthem), the hairs on the back of my neck stayed flat and my heart beat was normal.
Yet when I stood up with my sister in my living room on September 9 when the All Blacks kicked off the RWC with a match against Tonga, put hand on heart, and sang God Defend New Zealand, tears of pride came to our eyes.
When the All Blacks performed the Haka, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
Every Anzac Day, when I attend the dawn service in Wellington, I think of the New Zealanders who fought and died for our freedom regardless of the colour of their skin nearly 100 years ago.
How many generations of people born and raised in New Zealand will it take to shake off the words “Pakeha” and “European” and when will we get to tick the box that says “New Zealander”?

Dreaming of solitude

You know when life just gets so damn busy that all you want to do is jump in the car, drive to a cottage in the middle of nowhere and stay there for a few days to simply sit in the sun on the porch with a glass of wine and a good book? This is exactly what I need right now... life is just too much. So even though I have no chance of leaving anytime soon, I went Google-dreaming anyway.

First I found some beautiful cottages nearby, like a 1924 fully restored cottage, Shearers Cottage, which borders an olive grove and is furnished in a french style, and Cobwebs Cottage by the sea at Riversdale Beach, with views of the ocean. But they weren't quite far enough away...

So I went further south to a beautiful sunny place called Nelson, and found Thackwood Cottage, which overlooks farmland to the warm blue waters of Tasman Bay, Nelson towards the Abel Tasman National Park.

But, as New Zealand is such a tiny country, it is hard to find a place way out in the middle of nowhere with no TV, no wireless internet, and especially no Sky TV. I just want a place with hot water and an oven. I don't even need lights - candlelight will be magical. But these days, people tend to have withdrawals without their precious 21st-century technology and forget the fact that there is so much more to life, like walking through national parks listening to the birds, playing card games by the fire, reading a good book by candlelight, sleeping under the stars, and swimming in the sea.

Inspired by last night's dinner of mince stew, mashed potatoes, "neeps" (turnips) and Haggis, cooked for us by my brother's Scottish partner to welcome us to their new home, I looked even further afield to - yep, you guessed it, the rocky moors and isolated isles of Scotland.

And there, searching for the most secluded cottages possible, I found Shepherds Cottage on the Isle of Skye and Braigh-na-Leitre in Dingwall, Ross-shire.

All I want to do is read my books in peace, far, far away from everything and everyone.