Day 46, in which we finally meet the sandfly, with bloody consequences

After a spot of breakfast at the unbeatable Vudu in Queenstown, we climbed back into our car and drove along the winding road through the mountains down on to the West Coast, a narrow strip of land around 30km wide and hundreds long, sandwiched between the Tasman Sea and the Southern Alps. The drive that far was much of a muchness. We've spent so much time trekking through the Alps and driving through the Alps and drinking superb bottles of Carrick Sauvignon Blanc in the Alps that seeing yet more of it – however dramatic the mountains and gorges we passed – aroused little more than a stifled yawn.

We've heard superb things about the West Coast, however, and it kicked off in fine style with large clusters of very mangled trees which were so buffeted by the wind they appeared – even in fine weather – to be freeze-framed at the height of a gale. The vegetation is now much more tropical, like a series of house plants which have broken free and gone feral, including giant ferns, alien flowers, twisted tendrils and impossibly tall palm trees.

After a while we came across the coast proper and started to explore a very beautiful sand dune national park, but within minutes of entering we were already under the attack of the sandfly. Our legs were engulfed in a cloud of tiny black specks which left Paul's ankles dripping blood and mine marked with numerous huge red bumps. We had heard tale of the sandfly's powers, but having not met any in over a week we'd clearly forgotten to take the issue seriously. We now won't venture outside the house before first soaking in DEET.

The road meandered inland for a while, cut through a tunnel of tall and dense rainforest, then led us back out onto the coast at Bruce Bay. Storms regularly lash against this beach, spitting out truck-loads of flotsam and jetsam, and passers-by have started using this driftwood – along with rocks, pebbles and other found objects – to build a series of simple structures. Taken together, this collaborative amateur art installation stretches the full length of the beach and makes for an unexpected and surprisingly attractive addition to the coastline, if at times a little too reminiscent of The Blair Witch Project.

We entered rainforest again and pretty much stayed inland until Fox Glacier, a tiny little town with a tiny population and a gigantic mountain glacier. We checked into the Fox Glacier Holiday Park then took dinner at the Café Névé on the main street, where our enjoyment of the splendid food was marred only by seeing the chef – as we entered – standing round the back alternately sucking on a cigarette and coughing up her lungs.

We have a splendid little cabin at the Holiday Park, complete with fridge, microwave, ensuite bathroom and portable television (with access to two channels), which possibly makes this the best equipped place we've stayed in New Zealand so far. The cabin looks out over a horse's field, and the only downside of our accommodation is that our sleep was disturbed that night when we both had graphic dreams following my prediction, just before going to sleep, that Stewart The Horse would put his head through the window during the night and lick my arm.