There’s something magical about touring New Zealand as a rugby player. It’s like making a pilgrimage to the sport’s spiritual home, where every patch of grass has probably felt the studs of an All Black legend. In the summer of ’99, Southampton University RFC embarked on just such an odyssey, carrying our English hopes (and livers) to the land of the long white cloud.
Our journey began in Dunedin, that southern stronghold of rugby culture. The famous Carisbrook Stadium – the “House of Pain” – loomed before us like a cathedral of the sport. We were there to face Otago U21s, and while the scoreline didn’t go our way, the real story began afterward at the Furry Goblet. It was here that we lost our first man to the legendary Kiwi hospitality. Our prop (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) found himself whisked away by a kindly cleaner after falling asleep in the club. The next morning’s tale of waking up to children bouncing on his bed asking “Who are you? you’re not our dad!” and his quick-thinking response of “I’m your Uncle Mike” has become tour legend.
The team wound our way northward through the South Island. Christchurch offered a brief respite before we caught the ferry at Picton, watching the stunning Marlborough Sounds slip by as we crossed the Cook Strait to Wellington.
Rotorua brought us the high point of our rugby campaign with our sole victory, but it was the cultural experiences that truly made this stop special. We were privileged to be guests at a traditional Maori hangi, immersing ourselves in the rich heritage of New Zealand’s indigenous culture. The naturally heated thermal pools provided welcome relief for our battle-worn bodies, the mineral-rich waters working magic on tired muscles.
After the match, we experienced the legendary Kiwi hospitality firsthand when my cousins Amanda and Paul Redley, transplants from the UK, welcomed our entire rabble into their home. There’s something beautifully surreal about thirty muddy rugby players crammed into a house on the other side of the world, devouring massive pots of chili and rice, followed by industrial quantities of ice cream. It was like finding a slice of home 12,000 miles from where we started.
The adrenaline pursuits in Rotorua kept us busy between matches – hurling ourselves down concrete tracks on street luge, spinning ourselves silly in giant hamster balls called Zorbs, and scaring ourselves witless on a massive free-fall bungee swing. The whole time, we were one man down – our missing teammate having been delayed by the charms of a local lady in Dunedin, finally rejoining us with a sheepish grin and several unexplained hickeys.
The adventure continued at Lake Taupo, where we braved the Huka Falls in rafts and raced jet boats through impossibly narrow gorges. Some brave souls (after several confidence-building beverages) even took the plunge with a bungee jump into the crystal-clear river below.
Our final match against Waikato University in Hamilton might have been another loss on paper, but by then, the scorelines had become secondary to the experience. We wrapped up our tour in Auckland, scaling the Sky Tower for one last look across this magnificent country and raising a final toast at Viaduct Quay.
They say that what happens on tour stays on tour, but some stories are too good not to share. Our prop’s “Uncle Mike” saga and our teammate’s romantic detour have become part of Southampton RFC folklore, retold at every reunion with increasing embellishment. But beyond the rugby and the revelry, it was the warmth of the Kiwi people and the raw beauty of their country that left an indelible mark on all of us.
Looking back now, that summer of ’99 feels like a dream – a perfect blend of rugby, adventure, and the kind of mishaps that only seem to happen when you’re young and fearless in a foreign land. To my fellow tourists who shared those unforgettable weeks: here’s to you, to New Zealand, and to “Uncle Mike” – whoever he may really be.
Deano's World 