In my post The State of AI two years on I looked back on a previous post I had written two years prior Is AI a tool, a gimmick, or the death of us all? Part 1. In both I put a phrase into the chat and looked at the results. The results were interesting 2 years on and really showcased how good AI had become.
So in this post I'm going to put the same phrase into Google's Gemini and X's Grok to see how they go. Let's remind you of the phrase:
write a travel log of a trip to the Coromandel from the perspective of someone from the South Island of New Zealand in 1500 words
First let's look at the results from Google's Gemini Flash.
Flash... ah ahhhhh hero of the universe
Log Entry: Northbound for the Heat
Location: Hahei, The Coromandel, Aotearoa
Origin: Central Otago / Southern Lakes District
They call this "winter" up here. Back home in Wanaka, the frost is currently deep enough to snap a fence wire, and the Remarkables are wearing a coat of white so thick it looks like poured cream. But here, on the Coromandel Peninsula, the air has a humid, saline stickiness that feels more like a tropical outpost than a part of the same country.
Coming from the South, everything feels "extra." The green is greener—a vivid, neon emerald that suggests the plants are growing while you’re watching them. The hills aren’t the jagged, schist-heavy cathedrals of the Southern Alps; they are soft, rounded, and smothered in dense, impenetrable bush. It’s a different kind of wild. In the South, the wilderness is vast and empty. Here, it is crowded, humming with the sound of cicadas and the prehistoric rustle of Nikau palms.
Day 1: The Crossing and the Coast Road
The journey up from the Auckland airport was a blur of multi-lane motorways—a concept that still feels slightly aggressive to someone used to single-lane bridges and gravel turn-offs. But once we hit the "gateway" at Kopu, the pace changed.
The road from Thames to Coromandel Town is a ribbon of asphalt that clings to the coast like a nervous hitchhiker. To my left, the Firth of Thames stretched out—calm, grey-blue, and shallow. To my right, the hills rose straight up, draped in Pohutukawa trees. Being from the South, I’m used to the Southern Rata, but the Pohutukawa is a different beast. Even without the crimson Christmas bloom, their twisted, gnarly trunks look like they’ve been sculpted by a thousand years of salt spray and gale-force winds.
I stopped at a small pull-off near Wilson’s Bay. The silence wasn't the heavy, crushing silence of a mountain basin. It was a liquid silence—the sound of small waves lapping at oyster shells and the distant call of a Tui. I realized then that I hadn’t seen a single sheep in three hours. Just bush, sea, and the occasional "Hippy" sign advertising organic honey or pottery.
Coromandel Town itself feels like a place where time went for a holiday in 1974 and decided to stay. It has a weathered, colonial charm—white weatherboard buildings and wide verandas. I ate a bowl of green-lipped mussels at a local pub. Back home, we have trout and venison, lean and earthy. These mussels were plump, salty, and tasted like the ocean had been distilled into a single bite.
Day 2: The Cathedral and the Spade
I woke up in Hahei to the sound of a Bellbird. It’s a familiar sound, but the backdrop was wrong. Instead of the crisp scent of pine needles, it was the smell of damp earth and rotting seaweed.
I decided to do the "tourist" thing: Cathedral Cove. In the South Island, our "icons" are things like Milford Sound or the Church of the Good Shepherd—monuments of scale and solitude. Cathedral Cove is a monument of beauty. The walk there is a masterpiece of coastal engineering, winding along the cliff tops. When I finally descended the stairs to the beach, I felt that familiar "Mainlander" skepticism. Is it really going to be as good as the postcards?
It was better. The white volcanic rock is soft and ethereal, carved into a giant gothic archway by the tide. I stood under the arch and looked out at the turquoise water. It felt Pacific. It felt like Hawaii’s rugged cousin. I watched a group of kayakers pull up on the sand and felt a pang of North Island envy—you can’t move this easily in the water down South unless you’re wearing a 5mm wetsuit and a death wish.
Later that afternoon, I timed the tide for Hot Water Beach. Now, this is a concept that defies Southern logic. Usually, when you dig a hole in the sand, you’re looking for pipis or trying to keep the wind off your face. Here, you dig a hole to find a boiling subterranean river.
I rented a spade from a local shop (the most lucrative business model in the Southern Hemisphere, surely) and joined the throng of people on a small patch of sand. It was a bizarre sight—fifty adults in swimwear, frantically digging in the rain. I found my spot, and within minutes, my ankles were being scalded by water filtered through 500-year-old volcanic rock. I sat there, steam rising off my shoulders, looking out at the cold, crashing Pacific rollers. It’s a paradox of a place: freezing surf and boiling sand. It’s the kind of geothermal magic we don’t get in the Otago high country.
Day 3: The 309 Road and the Giant King
To get back to the Western side, I took the 309 Road. My rental car agency told me not to, which, to a South Islander, is a formal invitation. It’s a gravel track that cuts across the spine of the peninsula, and for the first time since I landed, I felt at home. The dust, the corrugations, the way the car slides just a fraction on the corners—this I understand.
Halfway through, I stopped at the Waiau Falls. It’s not the Sutherland Falls, but it has a charm that our glacial rivers lack. The water isn't that milky, opaque turquoise of the Waitaki; it’s tea-colored, stained by the tannins of the fallen forest leaves.
Further down the road, I visited the Kauri Grove. This was the spiritual highlight of the trip. In the South, we have the Beech forests—ancient, mossy, and "Lord of the Rings" atmospheric. But a Kauri... a Kauri is a god.
Walking among those giants, I felt a strange sense of scale. They don’t grow tall and spindly like our pines; they grow wide, like towers of living stone. They have a presence, a gravity that anchors the entire peninsula. Standing at the foot of a 600-year-old Kauri, I realized that while the South Island is about the majesty of the land, the Coromandel is about the majesty of the life that grows on it.
I finished the day in Whitianga. I sat on the wharf and watched the ferry cross the narrow channel. The sun set behind the Coromandel Range, turning the sky a bruised purple and orange. There was no "Alpine Glow"—that sharp, pink light that hits the snow caps back home. Instead, there was a soft, humid haze that blurred the edges of the islands in the bay.
Reflections from the South
As I prepare to head back to the land of frosts and tussock, I’ve been thinking about the "vibe" of this place.
The Coromandel isn't just a location; it’s a state of mind. It’s "Island Time" without actually being on an island. It’s a place where the locals seem to have reached an agreement with the land: they’ll keep the roads winding and the shops small, and in exchange, the bush will stay lush and the fish will keep biting.
For a South Islander, the Coromandel is an exercise in sensory overload. The humidity makes your hair wild, the salt makes your skin itch, and the sheer density of the greenery makes you feel like the forest might reclaim the road at any moment.
We Southerners often pride ourselves on the "ruggedness" of our landscape. We have the glaciers, the deep lakes, and the mountains that bite. But the Coromandel has a different kind of toughness. It’s the toughness of the pioneer spirit, the gold miners who carved trails through that impossible scrub, and the surfers who brave the heavy breaks at Whangamata.
I’ll miss the smell of the bush at dusk—that sweet, fermenting scent of damp ponga and sea air. I’ll miss the way the road signs are often hand-painted and the way people wave from their utes, even if they don't know who you are.
But mostly, I’ll take back the memory of the light. Down South, the light is clear and clinical, revealing every crack in the rock and every ripple in the lake. Here, the light is a filter. It’s golden, thick, and forgiving. It makes everything look like a dream you had once and didn't want to wake up from.
I’m flying back tomorrow. I’ll swap the jandals for wool socks and the Pohutukawa for the Matagouri. I’ll be back in the land of the long shadow. But a piece of me—probably the piece that likes digging holes in the sand and eating mussels by the dozen—is going to stay right here, tucked away in a hidden cove somewhere between Hahei and the sky.
The Coromandel didn't just give me a holiday; it gave me a different version of New Zealand. One where the world is a little softer, a little warmer, and a whole lot greener. Not bad for a "winter" getaway.
Takeaway
It's really nice. I think it's a little better in many ways to ChatGPT/Copilot's writings. It seems to have more little details that make it feel more human. It does also seem to love name dropping which makes it seem less conversational though.
Bloody good effort though.
What the hell is a Grok anyway?
So let's look at Grok's attempt at the phrase.
### A South Islander's Journey to the Coromandel: A Travel Log
**Day 1: The Leap Northward**
Kia ora from a chilly morning in Queenstown. I'm Sarah, a born-and-bred South Islander, raised on the rugged peaks of the Southern Alps and the crisp air of Fiordland. Life here is all about layering up against the wind that whips off Lake Wakatipu and chasing adrenaline with bungy jumps or heli-skiing. But lately, I've been craving something different – warmer sands, subtropical vibes, and a break from the eternal drizzle. So, here I am, boarding a flight to Auckland, bound for the Coromandel Peninsula. It's my first real trip to the North Island in years, and I'm equal parts excited and skeptical. Will it live up to the hype, or will I miss the raw wilderness of home?
The flight is a quick two hours, but it feels like crossing into another world. From the air, the North Island sprawls out like a green patchwork quilt, dotted with volcanoes and harbors, a far cry from the jagged, ice-carved landscapes I'm used to. Landing in Auckland, the humidity hits me like a warm hug – or is it a slap? I pick up a rental car, a sturdy SUV that reminds me of my trusty 4WD back in Otago, and hit State Highway 1 south toward the peninsula. The drive is about three hours, winding through rolling hills and dairy farms. Traffic's thicker than anything in the South, but the radio's playing Kiwi classics, and I'm munching on a meat pie from a roadside dairy. First impressions: the North feels busier, more alive with people, but the scenery is softer, less imposing than the Remarkables.
By late afternoon, I reach Thames, the gateway to the Coromandel. It's a quaint gold-rush town with Victorian buildings and a museum that catches my eye. I wander in, learning about the kauri logging days and the Māori history – the iwi here, like Ngāti Maru, have stories woven into the land, much like the Ngāi Tahu tales back home. But the real draw is the drive up the coast. The road hugs the Firth of Thames, with pohutukawa trees clinging to cliffs, their red flowers just starting to bloom. It's December, summer's edge, and the air smells of salt and fern. I pull over at a lookout, gazing at the islands dotting the horizon. No snow-capped peaks here, but the turquoise water sparkles in a way our glacial lakes never do. Already, I'm thinking this might be worth the trip.
I check into a bach in Coromandel Town – a simple seaside cottage with a deck overlooking the harbor. Dinner is fish and chips from a local takeaway, eaten while watching the sunset paint the sky in pinks and oranges. The warmth lingers into the evening, no need for a jersey. Back home, it'd be woolies and a fire by now. First night thoughts: The Coromandel feels like New Zealand's sunny secret, but I miss the crisp bite of southern air.
(Word count so far: 478)
**Day 2: Beaches and Hidden Gems**
Woke to birdsong – tui and bellbirds, their calls more melodic than the kea's screech in the alps. After a brekkie of avocado on toast (North Island abundance!), I head to Hot Water Beach. It's an hour's drive east, through winding roads flanked by native bush. The peninsula's interior is a lush tangle of ferns and nikau palms, reminding me of West Coast rainforests but without the relentless rain. I spot a few kiwi signs – protected areas for our national bird – and it hits me how the North's biodiversity feels more accessible, less remote than Fiordland's.
Hot Water Beach is legendary, and it doesn't disappoint. I arrive early to beat the crowds, renting a spade from a nearby shop. The concept is wild: dig your own hot pool in the sand, fed by geothermal springs beneath. As a South Islander, I'm no stranger to thermal activity – think Hanmer Springs or Rotorua's cousins – but this is beachside magic. I shovel away, mixing hot water with cool waves, and soon I'm soaking in my personal spa, toes in the Pacific. The water's around 60°C in spots, bubbling up like a natural jacuzzi. Families laugh nearby, building sandcastles around their pools. It's playful, communal, unlike the solitary hikes I love in the South. The beach itself is stunning – golden sands stretching to rocky headlands, with waves crashing in. I swim, the water warmer than anything in Otago's lakes. Comparison time: Our beaches are dramatic, like those wild West Coast ones with pounding surf, but here it's inviting, almost tropical.
After lunch – a fresh seafood chowder at a café – I drive to Cathedral Cove. The track is a 45-minute walk through farmland and bush, descending to a marine reserve. The cove is breathtaking: a massive stone archway framing the sea, like nature's cathedral. Te Whanganui-A-Hei Marine Reserve protects the waters, teeming with snapper and crayfish. I snorkel a bit, spotting colorful fish darting among kelp forests. Back home, I'd be in a wetsuit for Milford Sound dives, but here a rash vest suffices. The hike back is steep, but the views of Mercury Bay make it worthwhile. Evening in Hahei, a tiny village nearby, where I grab pizza and chat with locals. They tease me about my southern accent, calling me a "Mainlander." Fair enough – we do the same to North Islanders!
Reflections: The Coromandel's beaches are a revelation. They're not the vast, empty expanses of the South, but intimate pockets of paradise. I'm starting to unwind, shedding layers of southern stoicism.
(Word count so far: 912)
**Day 3: Forests, Drives, and a Touch of Adventure**
Today's agenda: the Coromandel's wild side. I start with the Kauaeranga Valley, inland from Thames, home to the Pinnacles Track. It's a proper tramp – 8 hours return – through kauri forests and up to a hut with panoramic views. As a tramper from the Routeburn or Kepler tracks, this feels familiar yet different. The bush is denser, with massive kauri trees towering like ancient guardians, their trunks smooth and straight. I learn about kauri dieback – a disease threatening these giants – and stick to the cleaned paths. The climb is steep, switchbacks through fern gullies, and I spot kereru pigeons flapping heavily. Reaching the Pinnacles, jagged rock formations pierce the sky, offering 360-degree vistas of the peninsula, from bush-clad hills to distant coastlines. It's windy up top, reminiscent of alpine gusts in the South, but the landscape below is a mosaic of green and blue, not the stark whites and grays of Fiordland.
Descending, I detour to Billygoat Falls, a short walk to a cascading waterfall. The spray mists my face, cooling the sweat from the hike. Lunch is a picnic of cheese rolls – a South Island staple I packed – eaten by the river. Afternoon brings the famous Driving Creek Railway, a narrow-gauge train built by a potter, Barry Brickell. It chugs up through regenerated bush to a viewpoint, with pottery studios along the way. It's quirky, artistic – a contrast to the no-frills adventures back home. I buy a handmade mug as a souvenir, etched with local motifs.
Evening drive to Whitianga for seafood – grilled scallops and green-lipped mussels, fresh from the harbor. The town's vibe is laid-back, with yachties and holidaymakers. I stroll the waterfront, watching boats bob under a starry sky. No light pollution like in Queenstown; the Milky Way is vivid. Thoughts: The Coromandel blends adventure with culture seamlessly. It's less extreme than southern pursuits, but equally rewarding. I'm warming to this place – literally and figuratively.
(Word count so far: 1,298)
**Day 4: Coastal Cruising and Reflections**
Last full day – time to explore the eastern coast. I drive the loop from Whitianga to Tairua, then Pauanui, hugging the shoreline. The roads are twisty, with pullouts for views of white-sand beaches and offshore islands. At Opoutere, I walk a deserted beach, collecting shells and watching oystercatchers. It's serene, the kind of solitude I crave after urban Auckland. Further south, Waihi Beach offers surf – I rent a board and catch a few waves, though I'm rusty compared to Dunedin's breaks. The water's balmy, no need for booties.
Midday, I visit Karangahake Gorge, an old mining area with tunnels and ruins. The walk through the gorge follows a river, with swing bridges and abandoned rail lines. It's historical, eerie – gold mining echoes the South's Arrowtown, but with more subtropical flair. I imagine the miners' lives, toiling in humidity versus our frosty gold rushes.
Afternoon tea in Paeroa, home of L&P soda, then back to Coromandel Town for a sunset cruise. The boat takes us into the harbor, spotting dolphins and sharing stories with fellow travelers. The skipper points out Māori pa sites, ancient fortifications on hilltops. It reminds me of the rich history in the South, but here it's intertwined with the sea.
As the sun dips, I reflect on the trip. Coming from the South Island, where nature is vast and unforgiving – think Milford's sheer cliffs or Aoraki's majesty – the Coromandel is intimate, accessible beauty. Beaches you can dig spas in, forests alive with birdsong, and a warmth that seeps into your bones. It's not better or worse; it's complementary. I've traded glaciers for geothermal sands, mountains for marine reserves, and found a new appreciation for Aotearoa's diversity. Would I return? Absolutely. But tomorrow, as I fly back to Queenstown, I'll welcome the cool air and familiar peaks. This jaunt north has been a perfect escape, reminding me that home is where the heart is, but adventure lies everywhere.
Final night in the bach, journaling by lamplight. Kia ora, Coromandel – you've charmed this South Islander.
(Word count: 1,512)
Takeaway
I've left Grok's formatting in just to show the differences. It produces Markdown code which is fine for say Hive or other blogging platforms. Publish0x doesn't seem to handle Markdown though so hence the reason the text looks odd.
But the body of the text is not bad. It does have odd references. For instance, the writing is supposed to be someone from the South Island. In this the supposed writer is someone called Sarah who hasn't been to the North Island in years. At yet she seems to well remember Rotorua as that's a North Island town not a South Island town.
Calling L&P, L&P soda is an odd choice. It's never close to being anything someone from New Zealand would say, let alone someone from the Mainland.
Who's better?
The truth is they're all pretty good but also none of them are quite there. I would say Grok is the worst as it is unbelievably slow. CoPilot is solid and reliable. Google's Gemini Flash lived up to its name and produced I feel the more polished version.
Grok got the language wrong, and it made it feel an odd read. Like it's someone from the South Island by way of the Phillipines.
Gemini is the only one that used the term "Mainlander" or "Mainland", something South Islanders often use.
I like Gemini. I think I'll explore Gemini more.
Incidentally, here's Gemini's version of "Terminator typing on a laptop"
Grok wants me to pay to make images. Not happening while I'm only testing which is better.
