Next Stop, Antarctica by Clive Tully

"Blimey Sam, don't you think we should throttle back a bit?" The bright yellow sea kayak surges forward into the choppy waters of Paterson Inlet, the spray flying into my face as the prow slaps up and down through the waves. Sam, it would seem, has a pathological desire to capsize the two-man kayak with his over-enthusiastic paddling, while I can't help but think that a dunking in waters not that far removed from Antarctica might just prove a trifle uncomfortable.

But within minutes we've found something of a natural rhythm, our paddling co-ordinating sufficiently to make reasonably steady progress. Just along the beach, an elephant seal sprawls on the stones like a huge bloated sausage, peering over its shoulder at us with sad cow eyes.

Twenty miles off the southern tip of New Zealand's South Island is Stewart Island, or Rakiura - “land of the glowing skies” - a wild fusion of sand dunes, bush and mountains, with a tortuous 470 mile coastline of rocky promontories, bays and inlets. The weather is best described as “changeable”, with wind guaranteed to ruffle even the shortest grade one haircut. This, after all, is the Roaring Forties.

Getting to Stewart Island entails either a one hour journey by fast ferry, or a twenty minute flight from Invercargill in a light aircraft. The latter is most definitely the more exciting option. I'm flying in a Piper Cherokee 6, cruising at 1,500 feet above the sea. Below me, the wind has whipped the water into a series of white parallel lines as it roars in towards the mainland. My first view of Stewart Island is of the sea driving into impressively craggy rocks, vaporising into huge columns of spray shooting skywards. Then the vast sandy expanse of Mason's Bay opens out ahead.

"We're going to do a quick fly-by to check out the beach," announces the pilot. "We need to be sure it's OK to land on." We race just feet above the flat wet sand before he pulls on the controls and we climb steeply and bank seawards to come round for our landing. Down on the beach, staring at the massive rollers as they crash in, it’s easy to imagine I’m standing on the edge of the world.

Here to meet us is Evan Bloomfield of Kiwi Wilderness Walks. Kitted out in contrasting check shorts with striped long johns beneath, Evan exemplifies the Kiwis' complete impermeability to extreme weather conditions and dress sense. But he knows his stuff about the local flora and fauna, including handy tips on how to surprise your fellow trampers by tearing long spiny flax leaves into thin strips in situ on the plant, then tying them across the trail to help them enjoy their trip.

"Don't make any noise as you walk down the track," I'm told during preparations for an evening’s kiwi-spotting. So I creep up and down, anxiously peering into the undergrowth as the evening gloom gathers. But while 75% of New Zealand’s kiwi population allegedly lives on Stewart Island, sadly the evening proves to be entirely kiwi-free.

But my luck's in the following morning during the four-hour walk (sorry, tramp) from our overnight bunkhouse, Island Hill Homestead, through what at times is a strictly connoisseur level of mud to Freshwater Landing, where a speedboat would whisk me out to civilisation. I’d made no special effort to be quiet, but there, just yards off the track is this comical fluffy football with big feet and long beak. It seems almost oblivious to my clomping by, remaining in view for some time before scurrying back into the bush.

Island life tends to throw up its oddities, and you can spot a few in the back bar of the South Seas Hotel in Halfmoon Bay, Stewart Island’s only settlement. Here the men sport beards ranging from neatly trimmed to ZZ Top, while the juke box creaks under the weight of seventies rock classics.

Ejected from the bar late at night, I find myself gatecrashing a 21st birthday party. Following the sounds of distant revelling, I arrive at the local gun club, but not without first having battered my way in pitch darkness through a large hedge. A good 10 per cent of the island's 350-strong population appears to be here, some still dancing, others collapsed in various degrees of alcoholic stupor.

"It's great to have the opportunity to really get to know the locals," I volunteer to one.

"And get a free drink, too, eh?" he replies uncharitably.

"No, you've got it wrong. I want to find out what makes Stewart Islanders tick."

"And get a free drink, eh?"

Marginally discouraged, I wander outside to find people letting off industrial-sized Roman candles in their hands. "Better watch out over there," warns one. "We've set light to a gas canister. It may go off."

It doesn’t. But even without it, my conclusion’s the same. Stewart Island is an absolute blast...