Rowers on the Waikato river © Andrew Miller

It's amazing what a difference 500 miles makes. For the first time on this tour I've been able to ditch the thermals and don the short sleeves, as we bid farewell to the icy environs of Dunedin, and prepare to bask in the relative heat and humidity of Hamilton. To get from the southern end of the South Island to the northern end of the North takes two hop-like plane rides - a quick bounce on the tarmac at Wellington and then back up into the embrace of the long white cloud itself.

Presumably life will get livelier once the cricket gets underway, but for the time being Hamilton remains as determinedly downbeat as its southerly cousin. I find first impressions are generally fairly accurate, so when it transpired that the airport is a taxi-free zone, the nature of New Zealand's seventh-largest city became that tiny bit clearer. It took half-an-hour of loitering and three phone calls before anyone turned up to take us to town. Fortunately nobody has yet been in a hurry on this trip.

It's a peculiar world, particularly for the print journalist fraternity, whose copy sits and gathers dust for a full 36 hours before seeing the light of day, which lends a certain futility to the traditional pre-match rituals. A similar lag is experienced in the other direction. Faraway tales of derring-do, be it Manchester United's tracking of Arsenal in the Premier League or Prince Harry's Afghan escapades, seep into the country under cover of darkness, to be commented upon or ignored as you please, but never shoved down your throat as they are in the feeding frenzy of Britain's media-driven society.

The denizens of Hamilton are happily unencumbered by such a thirst for information. They have more visceral pleasures to keep them happy, such as the great Waitako river, New Zealand's longest, which carves the city in half in the most elegant manner possible. A deep tree-lined gorge separates east from west, which reverberates all day long to the hum of crickets as you walk along the footpaths beneath the city's two main bridges. It's the sort of natural attraction that encourages passers-by say hello to you as you cross - and not many cities can boast that kind of karmic influence.

Aside from the packs of ducks rioting over bread rolls, there's only one disturbance to the peace at river level, and even that's a very mild one - the regular swell of rowing boats surging past, pursued by their dinghys and loudhailers. Presumably this happens all year round, but right now, the sound of swishing blades is very much in vogue. There is a contest taking place down on the nearby Lake Karapiro that has captured the public imagination (such as it is), and tomorrow's culmination might even overshadow the cricket.

The event is Rob Waddell versus Mahe Drysdale in the battle of the Olympic Single Sculls. Both men are Kiwis, both men are hot favourites for medals at Beijing this year, but only one man can represent his country at the big event. In a best-of-three shoot-out, Drysdale took the first race only for Waddell to claw his way back by half a length. The final reckoning was meant to take place this morning, but choppy waters caused a postponement. Instead it will take place at dawn tomorrow, in front of a teeming throng of early birds. If Hamilton's grass banks are emptier than anticipated come the start of the Test, then rest assured, it's not entirely apathy-generated.