Things have been so quiet here recently as I've been working on the simultaneous release of an upgraded product and a completely new one. But this annoyed me too much.

Auckland-based MP Dail Jones said it "defied belief" that the marchers had been given permission to walk across the bridge and massively disrupt traffic.

"The traffic system in Auckland is already chaotic and it is hard to understand why the rights of this particular group of stirrers should be given precedence over commuters going about their lawful business," he said.

The MP might not realise that protesting is also lawful business and that's what democracy's all about. Of course New Zealand First members thing they have a monopoly on "stirring": the electorate is supposed to shut up and vote.

Thomas, with whom I no longer work on account of him quitting his job, reminds me that a year ago on Saturday I promised but failed to send him a videotape. He does this using the subtle technique of posting private conversations on the web.

Funny lines:

• you can't just make up your own emoticons you know
• you and mark have a void thing going on
• yes.. totally abyssed.

Yesterday morning, I was standing with my boots in the water by the Diamond Harbour wharf. I followed the trail uphill through scrub, across rolling farmland and tussocky slopes until there was no more climbing to do. Cloud was hanging over the hills and somewhere around the 600m mark, I entered it.

Mount Herbert is the hightest point on Banks Peninsula at 920m. From its summit, a 360° panorama takes in the entire peninsula, looking right over the top of the Port Hills to the Canterbury Plains and Southern Alps beyond.

And here's what I could see yesterday as I stood, slightly knackered, on top of this little mountain: diddly-squat.

I made an interesting discovery: there were cows at the top. Summit cows. I wonder how long they took.

Over recent years coastal property has increased in value rapidly - "skyrocketed" is the word on people's tongues. Sure, we can't all own a bach by the sea, but once upon a time we might have at least had a friend whose bach we could borrow from time to time. In future we might not even be able to stay in a camping ground. Why? Because they're disappearing. Owners are being offered sums of money they can't refuse. Apparently, eight camping grounds have closed recently on the Coromandel Peninsula. Our holiday lifestyles are going up in smoke. What are we going to do about it?

Don't rely on the Holiday Parks Association for any inspired answers. CEO Fergus Brown "encourage[s]campground operators to develop on sites away from the shore." Gee thanks Fergus.

I got a better idea: how about the government buys them? Why? Because decent camping grounds are a core part of the New Zealand lifestyle, and the only reason anybody with any sense lives here is the lifestyle. It sure ain't the money.

Last September an Englishman emailed me about his plans to walk the length of the country. He was asking about seasons, spring flowers, walking into the sun, and pollen. Really, they were not questions that should be relevant for a serious expedition like this. I responded with some route ideas and suggestions for contacts and books. Perhaps I could have emphasised the risks more forcefully. Now he's missing, and been missing for a month somewhere south of Wanaka. I don't know what to think.

To me, the number one rule of tramping is that you must rely on your own judgement. Conditions change continually, turning a safe mountain or river into a significant hazard or even sure death. Somebody asked me a while back about river level warning systems in national parks. I think ideas like this shift the responsibility for an individual's safety away from that individual. That's a dangerous shift as no one who is not right there on the riverbank or wherever can make the call. You must do it yourself, and if you don't have the experience, then you must go with a leader who does.

A few years ago I was camping near Mackenzie Hut on the Routeburn Track when a major storm picked up. A tree branch fell on a tent in the DOC camping area, killing a woman. At this camping area, the individual spaces were marked out under or near the trees. There was nowhere else allocated to camp (the Routeburn has a "no unauthorised camping within 500m of the track" policy). If those spaces had not been marked, would people have camped under trees in a storm? Maybe not. The point is that even if DOC or some other authority says "camp here," individuals must make their own judgement.

While I write stupid posts about breakfast, Riverbend is talking about the siege of Fallujeh. According to the Washington Post, women and children have been allowed out and medicines and food in. According to River, all the roads are closed. The people are burying their dead in the football field as they aren't allowed near the cemeteries.

Oh and the Beastie Boys have released a new album called To the Five Boroughs (i.e. New York) that critiques Bush and the state of the States. There are complaints on their message board about how this will limit the "timelessness" of the album, and also anti-Kerry rhetoric: "So, if Kerry somehow slimes his way into the Oval office and does away with W's cuts . . . how will I afford the overpriced tickets for a BB concert or be able to afford a $20-$30 t shirt?" Which just goes to show that you can't pick your fans, but at least you can hurl abuse at them from the stage.

I've been post-free for four days. Busy busy busy working on a site redesign. When it's done, then you can see. . . .

You know how people tend to judge their compatibility with others based on their peanut butter choice? You know: "You like crunchy; I like smooth: let's call the whole thing off!" Well, I want to share a little secret: I'm panarachibutyric. I like both, although not at the same time, of course. Finally, the truth is out.

Today I walked up the Bridle Path at sunset. It's a beautiful time of day, ideally suited to wandering on hills, as long as the tracks are smooth. As I walked up, the red clouds turned apricot, and the lights of the city began to twinkle.

From the Summit Road I watched Lyttelton Harbour, a core of dazzling illumination surrounded by the dak ocean on one side and the village streets picked out in sodium on the other. The sounds of the equipment on the wharf echoes up, muffled by distance. A dog bark, even a child shouting excitedly. I felt like I possessed the town, I could hear every sound made by everything I saw.

And in a way that's always true. But it's so much more true at night.

On the way down, I fancied the black silhouetted pines were really clusters of frogs' eggs attached to long bare stems of pond weed.

A cynic might say that releasing a special edition a year after releasing the original is a clever way to get fans to buy the same album twice. I don't care: Aimee's worth it anyway.

This release features a second CD of live, unreleased and B-side recordings to complement the included original.

There's also a video of "Pavlov's Bell" on the disc. This is a fascinating video, with all the action (including, as far as I can tell, the singing) performed backwards. The tape is then played backwards, so that the end result appears chronologically regular although a little, um, weird looking.

I guess for me the two most striking tracks are Aimee's cover of the Coldplay song, "The Scientist." This is simply a great song that could have been written for (or by) Aimee. The second is an alternative recording of "It's Not." Just Classic Mann. Urban desperation.

So I'm wandering across the Durham Street overbridge today on the hunt for some lunch, when I see a movement. A pigeon is sitting at my feet. It's a young bird, with yellow down still poking between the grey adult feathers. I'm struck by its handsomeness, the size of its chunky bill and feet.

It's odd that it's just sitting there, rather than keeping its distance as pigeons normally do. I bend down to pick it up. It flaps out of my grasp straight into a lane of oncoming traffic. Cars swerve, honk. It flaps onto the railing opposite. I figure I've done enough to imperil its existence so I go find some lunch.

Fifteen minutes later, as I return, it's still perched there, less than a metre from the rumbling traffic.