"Would you like to go to your hotel and get checked in before I take you to the property?" he asked.
"No," Jake said. "Let's go see it right now. There will be time for checking in later."
"Right," Williams said smartly. "Off we go then."
It was raining in Christchurch, a cold, drenching winter rain that could soak someone to the bone if they stood out in it for more than a minute. Williams apologized for the weather — as if he'd accidentally conjured it up himself.
"Not your fault," Jake told him. "I'm the one who came here in the winter."
"It is quite nice here in the summer months, however," Williams assured him. "It rarely gets above thirty degrees here even in the middle of January. In fact, it tends to stay around twenty-three to twenty-five."
"That's good to know," Jake said, although he had already known this from his own research (and had converted the average temperatures to Fahrenheit, a system he actually understood).
They climbed into Williams' Toyota 4Runner — Jill cramming herself into the cramped back seat — and hit the road, heading for the small port town of Lyttelton, which was just south of Christchurch, separated from it by a small range of mountains called the Port Hills. It was in the southern slopes of these hills that Williams had found twenty acres of undeveloped land for sale. It was land that the seller's family had held since New Zealand's colonization days.
They drove through the city of Christchurch and entered a roadway tunnel that was more than a mile long. Williams explained that the tunnel, which had been burrowed through the Port Hills, was the best way to get from Christchurch to Lyttelton, but that there were also two roads that led over the Port Hills as well, one of which formed the southern boundary of the property they were going to see."
"So this place is pretty isolated then," Jake asked as the tunnel's lights flashed by one by one.
"By American standards, it is very isolated, Mr. Kingsley," Williams told him.
When they emerged from the south end of the tunnel it was almost like they'd driven fifty or sixty years back in time. Lyttelton was a small town — its population somewhere around 2500 — and looked like a fishing village straight of early twentieth century New England. The buildings were old but mostly well cared for. The streets were clean, with little traffic. The rain and the mist only served to add character to Jake's first impression of the place.
"There's not much for amenities in Lyttelton," Williams told Jake. "There are no fast food places, only a few restaurants, no large grocery stores or drug stores or shopping malls, but, of course, if you want any of those things it's only a fifteen minute drive back to Christchurch."
"What about the harbor?" Jake asked. "Is it a major industrial port?"
"It is," Williams said. "It is the main harbor for this section of South Island and also the base for most of the commercial fishing fleet. Most of the people who live in Lyttelton are employed either by the port or the fishing industry. If you like fresh fish there is a wonderful fisherman's wharf down there where you can buy seafood right off the boats."
"I love fish," Jake said whimsically, taking it all in. "Matt would love this place."
"Hopefully he'll visit it someday," Jill said.
"Yeah, hopefully," Jake agreed.
It was another fifteen-minute drive to the property they had come to see. They left the township of Lyttelton behind and began to climb upward into the southern slopes of the Port Hills. The road was barely wide enough to qualify as two-lane and it was full of potholes and uneven pavement. They went through a wicked series of turns and switchbacks, none of which were protected by guardrails, and climbed to an elevation of around one thousand feet, or, as Williams put it, three hundred meters. They met no other traffic along the way.
"Most people use the tunnel," Williams explained when Jake mentioned this. "The only people who use the summit road are those who have some sort of business up in the hills. There are farms up here and cattle grazing ground and several regional parks. If you're going from Lyttelton to Christchurch, however, the tunnel gets you there in three minutes where this road takes almost thirty."
"I see," Jake said thoughtfully, looking nervously down at a three hundred foot drop just outside his window.
Presently, Williams arrived at the property. He left the main road and, after switching his 4Runner into four-wheel drive, took them about a hundred yards down a muddy track that led into a green forest of walnut trees. The road ended abruptly and he shut off the engine.
"This is as far as we can go on foot," he told them. "We're actually on the property now, but most of it is up above the trees. I have rain jackets and umbrellas if you want to go take a look, but I'm afraid your feet are going to get a bit muddy no matter what."
"I can live with the mud," Jake said, looking around in wonder at the sturdy walnut trees.
They got out and trudged uphill, their feet, as promised, squelching through thick mud. They finally emerged from the trees and came out onto a large clearing that was roughly six hundred feet by four hundred feet and nestled up against one of the upslopes of the hills. To the north, the hill rose up another five or six hundred feet. To the east, west, and south, however, there was nothing but spectacular view.
"Wow," Jake said in awe as he took it all in. He could see the entire town of Lyttelton and its harbor spread out before him like a map. He could see islands in the bay, fishing boats and a few ships heading out or in from the open ocean. It was like he was looking at a picture postcard, although the rain did somewhat dampen the view a bit.
"It would seem you like it?" Williams asked.
"I do," Jake said, taking his eyes from the view and looking at the clearing again. Right near the back would be the perfect place to put a house. "Tell me something though, why is your client letting this land go so cheaply? It would seem this is a premium location."
"It is," Williams agreed. "And he's not really letting it go cheaply by New Zealand standards. His asking price is the equivalent of two hundred thousand American dollars."
"That is cheap for a plot like this," Jake said. "Is there something wrong here? Something I'm not being told? Is it not zoned for a residential plot? Is it impossible to get water or electricity up here? There must be some catch."
"There is no catch, Mr. Kingsley," Williams said. "We do not have things like zoning laws here, especially not in places like this. A man is allowed to do whatever he wishes with his own land as long as he is not infringing upon the rights of others with it. My client is in need of money for reasons I need not go into and he has decided to sell off some of the land that has been in his family for generations. Two hundred thousand American dollars would be a small fortune for him. And as for basic services, there is copious groundwater here that could be tapped with a well. For sewage, you could put in a septic tank or maybe two. As for electricity, the power lines run alongside the summit road — perhaps you noticed them as we drove up?"
Jake had noticed them. "Why hasn't anyone else bought the land from him?" he asked. "I can't be the first one to realize how great of a plot this is."
"You're not," Williams said. "My client himself has pondered the idea of building here for years. The problem is, that nobody here has enough money to make anything of this plot. The purchase of the land is expensive by New Zealand standards and that is only the beginning. In order to build a house here, one would have to improve the entryway into an actual road, pay to have electricity run to the building site, pay to have the wells dug, and pay to have a septic system put in, all before construction on the foundation for the house could even begin. Nobody in this particular portion of New Zealand has that kind of money, Mr. Kingsley. But you do, do you not?"