Behind the Lions: To fly or to drive? That was the question. When in New Zealand, the option to drive where possible is always preferable. As the sun shone brilliantly over Auckland on Tuesday, the opportunity to avoid yet another airport check-in, airport food, aircraft and baggage collection, by driving to New Plymouth seemed gilt-edged.

The estimated journey time was four to six hours, depending on who you spoke to. Some of the Sunday boys were going for that option but in the debate that ensued among some of us with more pressing, daily journalistic requirements, it was felt the return journey on the Thursday would run the risk of missing the "scheduled" Lions press conference at 1pm.

One emphasises "scheduled" for surprisingly, given the meticulous time-keeping at the World Cup when every English press conference began exactly on time and on schedule, the Lions' media briefings are changed on a daily basis.

Another running sore has been the badly managed Lawrence Dallaglio affair, which simply invited some journalists to either doorstep his hospital bed or continually ring and text him.

The "editing" of ghosted player columns hasn't gone down well either, prompting the New Zealand Herald to add sardonically at the end of their reprinted Jonny Wilkinson column from the London Times "this article has been vetted by the Lions' media department".

One such vetting saw a player's reference to going out for a drink on his first night here changed to "going out for a stroll".

True to type, some of us went out for a stroll in the immigrant, multicultural coastal hideaway of New Plymouth on the Tasman Sea where, of course, Irish bars rivalled McDonalds. One of them was owned by a bona fide Mayoman, Michael Maloney, who had ended up owning and running the Bull and Bush after emigrating here via London and New York - "It's a long story."

By Thursday, like virtually every daily media schedule, that 1pm press conference had been cancelled.

Murphy's Law, of course, decreed the plane back on Thursday morning was also cancelled, owing to fog in Auckland airport, and a fleet of cars was hurriedly hired. We were driving back anyway.

With Budget all out of cars, and Avis down to their last few, the thought occurred that the airlines and car companies were in cahoots, and the local constabulary were in on it as well. In the first 20 miles there were two police cars nailing speedsters on the New Plymouth-to-Auckland route.

Once you've seen one sun-speckled valley lined with pine trees you've seen them all? Hardly. Imagine Glen of the Downs and extend it to about 50 or 60 kilometres.

For the first hour and a half it was breathtaking. Passing through one town, there was a garage-cum-café simply called Gas and Gobble. Only in New Zealand.

We passed through another town, which was happily labelled The Sheep-Shearing Capital of the World, with a statue of a man shearing a sheep. Only in New Zealand.

The rest of the journey was nodding-off, motorway material.

Like bandits on the run, we returned to Auckland airport to trade in our Nissan Maxima for our "other" car, a Holden Commodore, with ne'er a hint of fog on a sun-kissed day. Those on later flights, including the Lions, were safely ensconced in their Auckland hotels.

That night we even met two Lions players who had better remain nameless, as they were out for a stroll.

Five of us were out for a stroll too: Michael Corcoran from RTÉ Radio, Dave Kelly from the Irish Independent, "snappers" David Davies (Wales's "Wavy Davey") and Shaun Botterill (aka "Bots") from England, and myself.

We happened to stop about 10 yards from the doorstep of a bar to hear Corky recount a story of meeting John Mitchell at a bar in this neck of the harbour. It may have saved our lives. A car came speeding off the main road and circled around us as a police car led the chase.

The police car veered right, directly toward us, before turning sharply to crash into the getaway vehicle about 10 yards in front of us, heavily denting its front.

We had stood rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief. That saved us, and Corky's story. The stolen car escaped, bending a bin and two steel bollards, turned left back on to the main road before turning 360 degrees in front of a road block, eventually crashing to a halt in the front of the Hotel Copthorne.

The driver (14 years old, it turned out) was pinned to the ground. The passenger was engulfed by policemen and was protesting "I did nothing, I wasn't driving" as a cameraman jumped out of one of the police cars and filmed him being led away.

There were seven police cars ("our" one had to be towed away), a fire brigade and a helicopter overhead. It was like a scene from a reality police programme. In fact, it was a scene from a reality police programme. Coming soon.

Miraculously, no one was hurt. Most of all, none of us five. It was good to be alive, we agreed, jibbering on about it for an hour or two. We will never congregate together again and not think about Thursday night.

Walking had proved more dangerous to our health than flying or driving. But we needed a stroll or two after that.