On New Zealand's South Island, Farm Stays With Friendly Hosts Jogging down a rural stretch of road on the scantly populated and mountainous South Island of New Zealand last week, I noticed a herd of cattle staring at me. Never one to eschew an encounter with locals (or take a break from exercise), I went over to say hi. But they beat a somewhat graceless retreat. Though my suburban upbringing hardly made me a cattle behavior expert, I decided to try to reason with them. Guys, what's up? Nothing to be scared of. Come on back. To my surprise, they began edging back toward me, paused, and then approached again as I kept up the chatter. In a brief moment of panic, I stopped to consider whether I was in any danger of a Pamplona-style trampling. But in end, I got bored before they did, and jogged back to my bed and breakfast, the Makarora Homestead. Conclusion No. 1: When you chew grass for a living, even a chatty American counts as excitement. 2: When you have a limited budget on the South Island - which leaped to tourism prominence after serving as a giant set for the "Lord of the Rings" films - there's a lot to be said for leapfrogging the tourist bases and spending your time in the countryside between them. Not that you should skip all the big attractions. For 76 New Zealand dollars (about $62), I took a two-hour cruise into Milford Sound, a fjord with countless rainbow-producing waterfalls, playful dolphins swimming in the wake of your ship, and mountains that make everything else look minuscule. And then there was the dramatic TraNZalpine train ride across the Southern Alps for 89 dollars in the off-season. Just don't plan to stay over in the tourist bases of Queenstown, Wanaka or Te Anau. I learned that the hard way, when I pulled in to Te Anau, adjacent to the fjords of the island's southwestern corner, without a reservation on my first night of five on island. A night at a pleasant but soul-free motel edged toward 200 New Zealand dollars a night (about $167, significantly above my upper limit of $100 for a room). So I settled for a private room at the Te Anau Lakefront Backpackers hostel: 74 dollars for a cold cell with a saggy mattress, and the right to pay for Internet access in common spaces filled with the smells and sounds of 20-year-olds traveling the world. (Sample smell: pasta and tomato sauce cooking in the kitchen. Sample sound: a lanky Dutchman speaking with his dad on Skype.) There had to be a better way. And there was, though I found it somewhat by accident. After almost nodding off at the wheel of my rental Nissan Sunny (43 dollars a day), I turned in at the first blue lodging sign I spotted. Following the arrow, I ended up at what the sign said was the Castle Hill Lodge Bed & Breakfast. The proprietor, Sharon Ford, answered the door, and told me the nightly price for one person, including a full breakfast: 130 New Zealand dollars, which, at $108, was just over my maximum, but seemed worth it, given the risk of my dozing off at the wheel and endangering not just myself but the sheep that grazed along the road. Sharon and her husband, Mark, were police officers who moved from England to New Zealand about four years ago. Sharon now runs the B&B; Mark still works as a cop. It struck me that if I had decided to drive on, I might have met him anyway, under more gruesome circumstances. The house is on nine placid acres nestled in a valley just off the trout-rich Mataura River (a popular spot for fly fishermen, who frequent the B&B). Though Sharon and Mark are not farmers, they do keep farm animals as pets, including two pug-snouted reddish-gold kune kune pigs who were happy to be petted. There were also an odd couple of goats. Basil was a friendly but extremely ugly male, with disconcertingly bulging eyes. "Inbred to within an inch of his life," Sharon joked. Parsley, on the other hand, was utterly terrified of humans, and sprinted away in a panic if anyone approached. My third night was spent at the Makarora Homestead, which was disappointing (perhaps the reason I ended up talking to cows). Though it was family-owned, the rooms were in separate buildings, resulting in a general lack of sociability. It didn't help that a continental breakfast was sort of prepackaged - orange juice and milk in pitchers in the fridge, alongside muesli and bread and jam in little packets. This actually suited me just fine - combined with some crispy red apples I had bought for 2 dollars at one of the farm stands I found on my way to the Homestead, I was able to squeeze both dinner and breakfast out of the supply. The biggest problem was the paper-thin walls, which allowed me to hear much of what was going on the next room. And there was, er, a lot going on. The next night, however, made up for any deficiencies at Makarora. I had compiled a list of bed-and-breakfasts on either side of Greymouth, where I was due the next afternoon for the scenic TraNZalpine train. After a few pricy no-gos, I called Berwicks Hill Country Stay, whose online description said that the owners were sheep farmers and that the property has been in the family since 1907. Eileen Berwick answered, and with a distinctively motherly tone told me a single room for a night was 70 New Zealand dollars. I said yes immediately. Then she asked if I wanted her to prepare dinner, for an additional 40 dollars. I said no - 40 dollars buys a lot of venison pies - but when I hung up, I had a George Constanza moment. "Seinfeld" fans will recall the episode in which George's date asks him up for coffee at the end of the evening, and he turns her down - only to realize that coffee does not mean coffee, it means sex. To be clear, I wasn't after something untoward. But it hit me: dinner with a sheep-farming couple in rural New Zealand does not just mean dinner - it means an evening of conversation. I immediately called back and agreed. Arriving in the early evening, I drove up a hill to a simple house with a pickup truck and a view of the Tasman Sea, hidden, at that moment, by falling rain. Also staying at the house was an older British couple, regular visitors to New Zealand who had stayed with the Berwicks before. It was just like being at a dinner party, with virtually no sign that the hosts were being paid by the guests - except that no one tried to help Eileen clear the dishes. A drink in the living room was followed by vegetable soup and a lamb roast (from the family flock) served with a New Zealand merlot, and finally banana coconut pie paired with a New Zealand riesling. Roger, a retired mental health counselor who now cares for his sheep and Belted Galloway cattle (so called because of the striking white band around their midsection), did not disappoint in the conversation department. He told tales of the area and his family's journey there from England, interspersed with fits of disdain for Australians and those from the North Island. Eileen was quieter - though she more than made up for it thanks to the homemade marmalades and jams (lime, orange, raspberry, strawberry, blackberry) that she served as the next morning's breakfast, alongside bacon, eggs and tomatoes. I was eager to fit in an outdoor activity, and Roger suggested the two-hour Mahinapua Walkway, which led from the cleared farmland into replanted forest into a smaller area of protected native bush. The trail itself was broad and easy, running along the former steam-powered tram line that ferried lumber in and out of the forest. Occasional signs recounted the history of logging in the area. That would have been enough, but I also had a local companion, a gorgeous chocolate-coated pit bull mix named Brother Brown, who I met - along with his human family - at the beginning of the trail. He apparently preferred my brisk pace to the lollygagging, toddler-in-tow gang, and so we became trail buddies. His family finally caught up, just in time for me to head back to the car and then on to Greymouth to catch the train to Christchurch. Back in tourist mode, I chatted with a tour group of Australians, admired the fancy cameras of a group of Japanese travelers, and had a woman from Cape Town explain that in South African English my last name is a somewhat derogatory slang term for a Jewish woman. That night, in Christchurch, I ended up splitting a 68-dollar private hostel room with another young Dutchman. He was quite agreeable, did not blab with his parents over Skype, and even shared his spaghetti and tomato sauce with me. All pleasant enough, but I found my mind wandering back to sheep farmers and former cops and cute pigs in the middle of nowhere.