Leg 3: Australia - Fiji - New Zealand (in a camper van)

HER STORY

After almost four months of globe-trekking a deux, hallmarked by bizarre revelations about the other, bickering bouts a go-go and exposure to never-before-encountered levels of intimacy, you'd think we 'd know each other pretty well by now, right?

Well, if you really want to road-test a relationship, put a couple in a two-berth camper van, fill the tank and send them off for an eight-day drive around the south island of New Zealand. Better still, put him in the driver's seat and give her the map.

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Our 2,000km Kiwi road trip took us from Christchurch to Dunedin, across to Milford Sound, over to Queenstown and then back to Christchurch via the Franz Josef glacier.

It taught me three things: New Zealand is perhaps the most beautiful country I have ever seen; driving a huge 2.5L turbo diesel van is easier than you'd think; and men are definitely from Mars.

Having spent 192 hours straight within the confines of our 6.85m x 2m motor home, I can now report the following.:

* The Beard (yes, the facial hair is back) can read maps. I can also read maps, although he begs to differ.

* The Beard avoids stopping to ask for directions, even when it's obvious there's something wrong with the map. I, by contrast, am happy to wind down the window of a still-moving van, attract the attention of a passer-by, obtain the necessary information and impart it to driver with little fuss. Something about this irks driver. I point out that in order to get from A to B, it is necessary that E - as in Ego - should be by-passed at all times. This makes driver put the foot on the accelerator just enough to rattle this self-confessed bad passenger, particularly on some of the curvier bends. Before the first 50km were clocked, I had been rechristened: the Nag-ivator.

Luckily, the quality of scenery we encountered when crossing New Zealand by road was just about stunning enough to shut us both up, making it one of the most enriching experiences of the whole trip so far.

The town of Christchurch, where we initially spent a week in the company of my parents, who were holidaying there, appears at first glance to be almost spookily civic. Strangers play silent games of giant chess with one another in Cathedral Square for a hushed audience of locals and tourists.

Young, handsome men wearing straw hats and suspenders, boating pole in hand, stand aloft little wooden tourist punts on the river Avon. Pop into the city cathedral, and it just happens to be rehearsal time for its young male voice choir, brushing up on their Bach.

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