Or rather, I didn't, but the first words directed at us as we took a walk on the beach after arriving at Raglan late afternoon were "Out to see the moonrise eh?", shortly followed by a woman on a horse who told us that we were at the perfect place to see the moonrise, then on arrival back at the hostel "Did you see the moon then?" We hadn't, despite having a good look for it. Maybe we'd missed it as we darted along the piece of footpath that crossed the runway at the local airport, listening out for the roar of an engine. What was it about this place? What had we stumbled across? As it turned out, we'd arrived at a fabulous little town that has remained refreshingly uncommercialised with a great beach town feel, despite having what is believed to be the best surfing beach in New Zealand. They come here from all over the world to ride what is rumoured to be the longest and most consistent left-hand break on the planet. If I'm honest, I've still no real idea of the significance of a left hand break or a barrel but they seemed mighty proud of theirs at Raglan.
The hostel was wonderful. The french-doors in our room opened out onto a circular courtyard filled with trees and flowers. Hammocks hung between the trees against which dozens of surfboards and canoes were propped up and wetsuits draped over the branches. The kitchen had a big box of baking ingredients from which guests were welcome to bake old favourites from home or something new from the recipe books on the shelf. There was only one rule - anything made with stuff from the box had to be left of the kitchen table and shared with the other guests. Marc thought he'd died and gone to heaven. While out on a bike ride one afternoon we called into a little shed on the quay and bought some Catch of the Day - some lovely gurnard that we baked in foil parcels with vegetables and herbs from the garden. It smelt wonderful as it was cooking and there were a dozen pairs of eyes on the steaming parcels as they were opened up but only two very satisfied souls half an hour later.
Raglan was the venue for our third foray in a kayak. With the assurance from the hostel owner that it was practically impossible to capsize these ocean-going kayaks (why did he have to say "practically"), off we went from the wharf heading across the estuary, under the main bridge into town and upstream as far as we liked. The water was nice and calm and with me up front and Marc at the back, the kayak seemed to go where it was steered - what a novelty! All was well but there was still some degree of trepidation up front, when suddenly things perked up no end when I realised that I could see the bottom. Hey - this was fun ... On we went up the river which after a while seemed to split in two and we went left. Soon we realised that we'd paddled into a giant bay with a small island in the middle so we decided that we'd go around the island then head for home. Still comforted by the sight of the riverbed through the clear water we rounded the island which was carpeted in seabirds, then the bottom seemed to get closer and closer until we were paddling in about four inches of water about 200 metres from the shore of the island. On we went until there was a scraping sound and we howled with laughter. Here was I, afraid of drowning, when in reality we could have probably walked all the way. The knight at the back of the boat got out and without getting his ankles wet pushed us back into navigable waters and by the time we got back to the wharf we had built up such a turn of speed that had we not shot up the gravel landing spot onto the beach and had hit the wall instead, Marc would have been catapulted out of the back, straight into the hostel garden at the top of the hill.
We had arrived at Raglan on 'Boxing Day'. Traditionally the hostel holds a Mid-Summer Christmas Day and the place was trimmed with tinsel and a Christmas tree complete with twinkling lights. After enjoying a turkey dinner in fancy dress, all the guests had got a gift from Secret Santa (all were alcoholic) then half of them had gone surfing and the other had fallen asleep in front of the telly. I wonder which Bond movie was showing ...
p.s. Raglan will always be etched in my memory as the place where I had the first twinges and stiffness in my back. I apologise for all the mutterings and whingeing about the clapped-out bed at the hostel when it was in fact a clapped-out backbone that was falling apart.
Saturday, 31 January 2009
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
KING COUNTRY - Otorohanga and Waitomo
And so we arrived in King Country where a very cheery fellow called Bill was awaiting the arrival of our coach at Otorohanga to drive us the few miles to Waitomo in his shuttle bus. Otorohanga is the Official "Kiwiana" Town of New Zealand and here they celebrate the icons, heroes and events that are uniquely Kiwi. The main street is dedicated to huge murals and displays of the silver fern, kiwi, gumboots, pavlova, kiwi boot polish, buzzy-bees, jandals, sheep, the paua shell, butterflies and many others and last but definitely not least, hokey pokey ice-cream - a fabulous combination of vanilla ice-cream and chunks of Crunchie - a national institution. Everyone here seemed to be of a sunny disposition and the town had a big carnival feel about it. Bill was very enthusiastic about everything in general and stopped at a kiwi fruit plantation on the way to Waitomo to take us for a combined walk and horticulture lecture under a huge pergola structure that was just dripping with huge clusters of fruit.
Back in his minibus, he gave us a potted history of the region. King Country is named after the Maori King Movement which developed here in the 1850's. Legend has it that after King Tawhiao and his people were forced to move south after being defeated by British troops during the Waikato Land Wars, he placed his hat on a large map of New Zealand and declared that all land covered by it would be under his authority. He meant business as it was only at the end of the 19th century that white persons were permitted into the district and it still retains a powerful Maori influence under Tuheitia - the present Maori King. He is the seventh in the line of succession and is descended from the first settlers that arrived on the Tainui ancestral canoe many centuries ago. Bill made sure that we were paying attention as he would slip in the occasional question and we sat nervously at the back of the minibus wondering if we were nearly there yet. It turns out that he was a retired teacher.
It is not advisable to go wandering about aimlessly off the beaten track around Waitomo as you are likely to fall into one of numerous shafts dotted across the countryside and land in one of at least three hundred caves or an underground stream that have shaped the landscape. The more adventurous can hire a big tyre tube and a hard hat and cling on whilst being swept through underground cave systems and plummeting over waterfalls, sometimes in pitch darkness on a black water rafting trip. For those who prefer less adrenaline-pumped adventures there is the more tranquil Glow Worm cave trip on a little boat. The Glow Worms got my immediate and unwavering vote and Marc conceded gracefully and came with me without much protest. After leaving the warmth of the day at the mouth of the cave we walked downwards to the top level and the chamber known as the Catacombs, home to stunning limestone stalactites and stalagmites. Long, narrow passageways carved out by water led us down to the next level known as the Banquet Chamber and the amazing sight at the foot of the Pipe Organ - huge gleaming pillar formations hundreds of thousands of years old. Down we went again on very green and slippery steps to the third and final level and the magnificent Cathedral Cave. At twenty metres high this cavern has excellent acoustics and has hosted many concerts (and a verse of Bread of Heaven). The three levels are linked by a vertical limestone shaft called The Tomo which marks the course of an ancient waterfall. At the bottom of The Tomo was the Waitomo River where our little boat was moored on a quay, waiting to take us to see the little critters.
The glow worm is the glamorous name for the larvae of the less attractive-sounding fungus gnat. They emit a soft blue-green light to attract unsuspecting insects towards the sticky threads they have dangling from their rear-ends, which they simply reel in when they've trapped lunch. The hungrier the gnat, the brighter the light. We made up a dozen as we climbed into the boat, then our guide, standing on the bow, silently pulled us away and around the corner into the shadows using a network of fixed ropes running down the middle of the cave. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, tiny dots of light started to appear on the ceiling and within no-time a milky way glowed overhead and I could just picture our twelve craned necks and wide-open mouths as the boat slid through the darkness without a sound. The best bit was saved until last as the cave roof dipped low and it looked just as if the night sky had fallen down to within touching distance. It was magical.
Our second cave experience was very different. Ruakuri Cave reopened only a few years ago after the old steep and slippery entrance had claimed one too many casualties, having had a new entrance and a complete makeover in the meantime. Part of a small tour group, we were driven out to the cave and entered via a sliding steel door in the rock face. We were instructed to walk forwards through the darkness, until we reached the end of a semi-circular handrail. We did as we were told and suddenly a circle of lights appeared below us, then another and another below that, and that, until a spiral staircase twisting down the sides of a huge drum-like shaft was fully lit. Round and round and down we walked until we reached another sliding door leading into a link corridor which closed behind us before the door at the far end had opened - ooh! But open it did into a glittering cavern. The shapes here were different from the first cave - there were threadlike 'straw' stalactites hanging from the ceiling and for me, the most dramatic of all - the 'sheet' stalactites which hung down like massive folding curtains. The pathways here were also different - it often narrowed quite a bit and sometimes involved crouching to get through. I've never considered myself to be a claustrophobic but decided that this was exactly the kind of place that would push me out of the closet. We peered down from a high platform into a black chasm at the bottom of which a river sweeps along 'black water rafters' on tyre-tubes. I shuddered at the thought.
As only small guided groups are permitted into the cave, as part of the 'refurbishment' which included new boardwalks and viewing decks, a new lighting system was installed. The whole place is now beautifully and dramatically lit by a system which works on a series of timers operated by the group leader along the way. All very nice but no one considered that the leader may be called back to help push a lady in a wheelchair whose friend had grown too weary to carry on. I was at the front of the group and went on with another three as far as the next control panel with instructions to press the next light button while he went back to push. Meanwhile, about a hundred metres further back down the tunnel in another 'light-zone', someone who will remain nameless but said after coming home that it was worth it, was still snapping away trying to get the perfect shot when the lights went out. He made his way back to the middle group by a combination of feeling the walls and taking the occasional flash photo to show the way. By the time the leading pack had reached the control panel, the wheelchair party had also been plunged into darkness and there were no labels on any of the identical six buttons. We umm'd and ahh'd and decided to leave well alone as we could just as easily have turned off the last remaining light as turn on the next. We had the bright idea that two would make a run for the steel door and try some buttons there while the other two would wait by the panel and just press everything if it went completely dark. I've never been so glad to see daylight. Where's a glow worm when you need one ...
Back in his minibus, he gave us a potted history of the region. King Country is named after the Maori King Movement which developed here in the 1850's. Legend has it that after King Tawhiao and his people were forced to move south after being defeated by British troops during the Waikato Land Wars, he placed his hat on a large map of New Zealand and declared that all land covered by it would be under his authority. He meant business as it was only at the end of the 19th century that white persons were permitted into the district and it still retains a powerful Maori influence under Tuheitia - the present Maori King. He is the seventh in the line of succession and is descended from the first settlers that arrived on the Tainui ancestral canoe many centuries ago. Bill made sure that we were paying attention as he would slip in the occasional question and we sat nervously at the back of the minibus wondering if we were nearly there yet. It turns out that he was a retired teacher.
It is not advisable to go wandering about aimlessly off the beaten track around Waitomo as you are likely to fall into one of numerous shafts dotted across the countryside and land in one of at least three hundred caves or an underground stream that have shaped the landscape. The more adventurous can hire a big tyre tube and a hard hat and cling on whilst being swept through underground cave systems and plummeting over waterfalls, sometimes in pitch darkness on a black water rafting trip. For those who prefer less adrenaline-pumped adventures there is the more tranquil Glow Worm cave trip on a little boat. The Glow Worms got my immediate and unwavering vote and Marc conceded gracefully and came with me without much protest. After leaving the warmth of the day at the mouth of the cave we walked downwards to the top level and the chamber known as the Catacombs, home to stunning limestone stalactites and stalagmites. Long, narrow passageways carved out by water led us down to the next level known as the Banquet Chamber and the amazing sight at the foot of the Pipe Organ - huge gleaming pillar formations hundreds of thousands of years old. Down we went again on very green and slippery steps to the third and final level and the magnificent Cathedral Cave. At twenty metres high this cavern has excellent acoustics and has hosted many concerts (and a verse of Bread of Heaven). The three levels are linked by a vertical limestone shaft called The Tomo which marks the course of an ancient waterfall. At the bottom of The Tomo was the Waitomo River where our little boat was moored on a quay, waiting to take us to see the little critters.
The glow worm is the glamorous name for the larvae of the less attractive-sounding fungus gnat. They emit a soft blue-green light to attract unsuspecting insects towards the sticky threads they have dangling from their rear-ends, which they simply reel in when they've trapped lunch. The hungrier the gnat, the brighter the light. We made up a dozen as we climbed into the boat, then our guide, standing on the bow, silently pulled us away and around the corner into the shadows using a network of fixed ropes running down the middle of the cave. As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, tiny dots of light started to appear on the ceiling and within no-time a milky way glowed overhead and I could just picture our twelve craned necks and wide-open mouths as the boat slid through the darkness without a sound. The best bit was saved until last as the cave roof dipped low and it looked just as if the night sky had fallen down to within touching distance. It was magical.
Our second cave experience was very different. Ruakuri Cave reopened only a few years ago after the old steep and slippery entrance had claimed one too many casualties, having had a new entrance and a complete makeover in the meantime. Part of a small tour group, we were driven out to the cave and entered via a sliding steel door in the rock face. We were instructed to walk forwards through the darkness, until we reached the end of a semi-circular handrail. We did as we were told and suddenly a circle of lights appeared below us, then another and another below that, and that, until a spiral staircase twisting down the sides of a huge drum-like shaft was fully lit. Round and round and down we walked until we reached another sliding door leading into a link corridor which closed behind us before the door at the far end had opened - ooh! But open it did into a glittering cavern. The shapes here were different from the first cave - there were threadlike 'straw' stalactites hanging from the ceiling and for me, the most dramatic of all - the 'sheet' stalactites which hung down like massive folding curtains. The pathways here were also different - it often narrowed quite a bit and sometimes involved crouching to get through. I've never considered myself to be a claustrophobic but decided that this was exactly the kind of place that would push me out of the closet. We peered down from a high platform into a black chasm at the bottom of which a river sweeps along 'black water rafters' on tyre-tubes. I shuddered at the thought.
As only small guided groups are permitted into the cave, as part of the 'refurbishment' which included new boardwalks and viewing decks, a new lighting system was installed. The whole place is now beautifully and dramatically lit by a system which works on a series of timers operated by the group leader along the way. All very nice but no one considered that the leader may be called back to help push a lady in a wheelchair whose friend had grown too weary to carry on. I was at the front of the group and went on with another three as far as the next control panel with instructions to press the next light button while he went back to push. Meanwhile, about a hundred metres further back down the tunnel in another 'light-zone', someone who will remain nameless but said after coming home that it was worth it, was still snapping away trying to get the perfect shot when the lights went out. He made his way back to the middle group by a combination of feeling the walls and taking the occasional flash photo to show the way. By the time the leading pack had reached the control panel, the wheelchair party had also been plunged into darkness and there were no labels on any of the identical six buttons. We umm'd and ahh'd and decided to leave well alone as we could just as easily have turned off the last remaining light as turn on the next. We had the bright idea that two would make a run for the steel door and try some buttons there while the other two would wait by the panel and just press everything if it went completely dark. I've never been so glad to see daylight. Where's a glow worm when you need one ...
Thursday, 4 December 2008
TARANAKI -The Perfect Volcano
If you were to draw a volcano, chances are that it would look just like Taranaki as this mountain is one of the most symmetrical volcanic cones in the world. We had arrived at New Plymouth on a grey and windy afternoon which meant no view of the mountain despite having our noses pressed to the window of the bus, but the forecast for the following day was for cold but dry weather, so we booked a couple of places on a shuttle bus which would take us to the Visitor Centre - base camp for all walks up the mountain. As predicted, it was a cold and sunny morning, and with a rucksack of sarnies and chocolate, and me snug in my zebra thermal wear, we were picked up early by Tom along with one other passenger called Patrick who was completing the High Altitude Circular track around the mountain in four days, camping along the way. Tom was explaining the logistics of the trip as we drove out of town (he would drop us off, go surfing for the day and pick us up from the same spot late afternoon) so none of us were prepared for the first sighting of Taranaki. Rising from lush and flat dairy pastures, it looked like a perfect backdrop from a movie - the perfect volcano with snow on top. We fell silent after the initial gasp and Tom's face was plastered with a big proud grin. He explained that Taranaki is a sacred place to the Maoris, a place where the bones of their chiefs are buried and a place that would once have been used as an escape from the terrorism of other tribes. They see Taranaki as a grandfather figure, looking over them all as they go about their lives , treating each other with respect. Maori people that walk on the hill go no higher than the snowline as they consider walking to the summit akin to stamping on Taranaki's head.
We reported in at the Visitor Centre and took advice from the staff on the best options for walking tracks for the weather conditions of the day. It turned out that we were talking to a guy that had worked at the Outward Bound Centre near Dolgellau for six years and hadn't long been back in New Zealand! Our route would be the Holly Track initially, turning off onto the Veronica Track which would break out above the tree line and meet the High Altitude Track. We would follow this track as far as the Ranghuni Hut, then start our descent down a 4wd track, turning onto the Ngataro Bush Loop to complete the hike. We noted our route in the book and signed out. Almost immediately we were lost in an amazing world of gnarled trees, mosses and ferns which seemed to hang from every branch - the camera went into overdrive. We gained altitude quickly and I was starting to regret wearing my long thermals but by the time we walked out above the trees I'd changed my mind as the wind was bitter. We climbed upwards along a shingle ridge and eventually turned around to the most spectacular view . The roof of the Visitor Centre was a tiny dot in the trees miles down below and we could see lots of villages dotted over the green plains. On the horizon, the trio of Ruapehu, Ngharahoe and Tongariro peeked out over the clouds. We joined the circular track and were glad of a fairly flat and undulating path after a couple of hours climbing. The snowline was getting nearer by now and the puddles on the track were frozen and we had to cross a couple of slips where the track had just fallen away down the side of the mountain. The last climb was over a tussocky landscape with hebes and flax and at last we reached the snowline which we followed for a couple of miles to the hut. The Ranghuni Hut is a privately owned cabin which can be used by members of the public in an emergency situation. I presume that you just phone the Visitor Centre who will tell you that the spare key is under the mat. It was locked when we got there but through the window we could see a dozen comfortable looking bunks and a big wood-burning stove. But there was no time to hang around - we had an estimated return time, after which the dogs would be sent out on our route and we didn't want to be late.
Going down was far more strenuous than going up - parts of the path were very steep and required little steps to prevent toppling over. I found the Franz Shuffle, a sideways technique of steep descent that we'd learnt while glacier-hiking quite effective and managed to stay on my feet - which is more than can be said for the other member of the party. The Ngataro Bush Loop was a lovely end to the walk - it zigzagged over a mountain stream through ferns and lush vegetation and we were followed by robins and fantails feeding on the insects disturbed by our footsteps. We arrived back at the Visitor Centre before our deadline but five minutes after the cafe had closed so there was no cup of hot chocolate that we'd promised ourselves all afternoon.
There wasn't much energy left over by the time we got back to the hostel so we watched a movie over supper and went to bed early. As I closed the curtains in our room, I couldn't help but wonder about Patrick, alone in his little tent on the mountainside and Tom's words that Taranaki had last erupted in 1755 and was due to go again at any time ...
We reported in at the Visitor Centre and took advice from the staff on the best options for walking tracks for the weather conditions of the day. It turned out that we were talking to a guy that had worked at the Outward Bound Centre near Dolgellau for six years and hadn't long been back in New Zealand! Our route would be the Holly Track initially, turning off onto the Veronica Track which would break out above the tree line and meet the High Altitude Track. We would follow this track as far as the Ranghuni Hut, then start our descent down a 4wd track, turning onto the Ngataro Bush Loop to complete the hike. We noted our route in the book and signed out. Almost immediately we were lost in an amazing world of gnarled trees, mosses and ferns which seemed to hang from every branch - the camera went into overdrive. We gained altitude quickly and I was starting to regret wearing my long thermals but by the time we walked out above the trees I'd changed my mind as the wind was bitter. We climbed upwards along a shingle ridge and eventually turned around to the most spectacular view . The roof of the Visitor Centre was a tiny dot in the trees miles down below and we could see lots of villages dotted over the green plains. On the horizon, the trio of Ruapehu, Ngharahoe and Tongariro peeked out over the clouds. We joined the circular track and were glad of a fairly flat and undulating path after a couple of hours climbing. The snowline was getting nearer by now and the puddles on the track were frozen and we had to cross a couple of slips where the track had just fallen away down the side of the mountain. The last climb was over a tussocky landscape with hebes and flax and at last we reached the snowline which we followed for a couple of miles to the hut. The Ranghuni Hut is a privately owned cabin which can be used by members of the public in an emergency situation. I presume that you just phone the Visitor Centre who will tell you that the spare key is under the mat. It was locked when we got there but through the window we could see a dozen comfortable looking bunks and a big wood-burning stove. But there was no time to hang around - we had an estimated return time, after which the dogs would be sent out on our route and we didn't want to be late.
Going down was far more strenuous than going up - parts of the path were very steep and required little steps to prevent toppling over. I found the Franz Shuffle, a sideways technique of steep descent that we'd learnt while glacier-hiking quite effective and managed to stay on my feet - which is more than can be said for the other member of the party. The Ngataro Bush Loop was a lovely end to the walk - it zigzagged over a mountain stream through ferns and lush vegetation and we were followed by robins and fantails feeding on the insects disturbed by our footsteps. We arrived back at the Visitor Centre before our deadline but five minutes after the cafe had closed so there was no cup of hot chocolate that we'd promised ourselves all afternoon.
There wasn't much energy left over by the time we got back to the hostel so we watched a movie over supper and went to bed early. As I closed the curtains in our room, I couldn't help but wonder about Patrick, alone in his little tent on the mountainside and Tom's words that Taranaki had last erupted in 1755 and was due to go again at any time ...
Tuesday, 11 November 2008
Wanganui - A Peasouper on the Road to Damascus
Wanganui or Whanganui – that is the question. Once upon a time, the town, the river, the region and the national park all shared the same name and all was well in the world. Then some bright spark had the idea of inserting an ‘h’ into Wanganui to indicate that the ‘Wan’ should be ‘breathy and aspirated’. Unfortunately only the traditionally Maori populated areas adopted the new spelling so the name of the river and national park became Whanganui while the settler dominated town and regional name remained ‘h’less which caused much confusion so moves are afoot to insert the missing ‘h’s to clear up the matter once and for all. Unfortunately ‘Wh’ is pronounced as an ‘F’ everywhere in New Zealand apart from here so Whanganui will probably be widely pronounced as Whanganui by those who know no different, so it's just made a pigs ear out of a silk purse. Whanderful.
It was a fine afternoon when we arrived at err... Wanganui, so we booked a trip up the err… Whanganui River Road the next day. This was no ordinary journey – we were joining Noel the postman on his daily round up the river as far as Pipiriki. The road follows the river for 130km there and back, but by the time Noel has driven up sidetracks to isolated settlements, he will have clocked up over 200km in a day. The road opened in 1934 – until then it had been river traffic only with paddle steamers which accommodated up to 400 well-heeled passengers in sumptuous quarters taking three days to reach luxury hotels upstream. The most famous of these was the Waimarie which was shipped in a box from the UK in 1900 and reassembled in the town. She paddled up and down until 1952 when she sunk but was raised and restored over seven years and relaunched on 1st January 2000, now taking day trippers in flip-flops during the warmer months. Jet boats, canoes and kayaks are also aplenty in summer – paddling the Whanganui, a 5 day trip, is classed as one of NZ’s Great Walks, despite the fact that there’s far more sitting down than walking involved. A large part of Noel’s summer revenue involves transporting canoes and passengers up and down the river road.
Noel picked us up at 7.30am and already on the minibus was Neil from Germany, the only other passenger that day. It was a grey and chilly morning and as we left town and headed off onto the river road, we were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog. Europeans first put down roots in the area in the 1830’s and missionaries sailed up the river, establishing settlements along the way such as Damascus, Corinth, Athens and Jerusalem, all of which seemed very bleak that morning. On we went through the gloom, looking down for a glimpse of the river and allegedly breathtaking scenery through the murk but there was nothing.
Outside city centres, New Zealand letters are always left in boxes at the gate and on rural rounds these must be accessible by leaning out of the window of the post van. Many of the post-boxes along the route raised a smile. There were a few old microwave ovens perched on top of posts, a pedal bin, a bread bin, a wood burning stove, lots of old barrels on their sides, canoes and even an old fridge. The house numbering system on the route was also a revelation. I’d been wondering why they were numbered in the thousands when there were only a few dozen along the road. It turns out that the number on a rural house is its distance in metres from the beginning of the road which makes it unique and easy to identify in emergencies for example. How sensible.
Mid morning and we reached the village of Jerusalem or Hiruharama in Maori. Hiruharama was once the largest kainga (village) on the Whanganui River in the middle of a populous district and was known as a meeting place for korero (discussion). in 1892, a Frenchwoman called Suzanne Aubert founded the world famous Roman Catholic Order of the Sisters of Compassion here and she devoted her life to helping the homeless, poor and sick. Fluent in Maori, she worked as a teacher and a nurse, produced herbal medicines and established homes for children and old people throughout the country. She died aged 91 in 1926, the legacy of her life's work having influenced the development of social welfare, education, and health in New Zealand. It is hoped that the church will eventually recognise Mother Aubert as New Zealand's first saint.
The mist still hanging, on we went to Pipiriki, formerly a glamorous resort full of international tourists having arrived on the paddle steamers but today, a nearly deserted little settlement which mostly serves as the landing and launching point for canoes and jet boats. The latest attempt to rebuild the burnt-down Pipiriki Hotel stalled due to funding 'issues' (it all disappeared somewhere) and vandals have stripped everything of value leaving a very sad looking concrete skeleton by the side of the river.
We had one delivery left and took a very rough track across fields where wild peacocks strutted and wild boars snuffled around. We were warmly greeted by Victoria, an elderly Maori woman who had lived on this smallholding all her life. She has spent decades here alone after the loss her parents and all her siblings. Surrounded by squealing piglets she asked Noel what news there was down in the town and remarked that her electricity bill was due any day now. Like many who live along the river, she rarely ventures far from her home - Noel brings her groceries and also pays her bills, being entrusted with her bank card and PIN number. Noel also provides a taxi service, taking villagers down to the town to see the doctor for example, where they may also do a bit of shopping, then stay in town overnight and return with Noel on his round next day. Marc and I were delighted to hear his stories of this aspect of his job. We are both children of postmen, Marc's father having driven the Royal Mail Post bus on his rural rounds for years and years ago my brother and I would go with our dad in his van during school summer holidays up the valleys of the Rivers Ceulan and Leri, delivering newspapers, prescriptions and the odd bottle of something stronger to the farms along the way with the post. Just like Noel, they were a major part of life for many. As we said goodbye to Victoria she predicted that the sun would soon be out and it would be a lovely day.
We left Pipiriki and headed back towards town and within a couple of miles, sure enough, the mist began to lift and we could see steep wooded slopes plummeting down to the lazy brown river. We were due to stop at Jerusalem for our picnic lunch and by the time we reached the village, the skies were clear. Noel took us down a track to the riverside and one of the most striking views imaginable. Standing tall on a spur above a deep river bend, the picture-perfect white church of St Joseph was set beautifully against the blue sky. Even though it is the most photographed church in the country, no camera will ever capture the feeling of being somewhere quite so special. Lunch was taken in the garden of Mother Aubert's Convent, alongside the church. These days, just three nuns remain here, Sister Anna Marie, Sister Alisi and Sister Sue who run the convent as a hostel, offering a cosy bed and the use of all the facilities for £6 per night. We had a look around and it looked very homely, with pots of home-made jam in the kitchen and colourful knitted bedspreads in the dorms. Noel took us into the church, the inside of which was decorated with woven Maori panels and art alongside the more traditional ornaments. Outside we met Peter, an elderly man who leaned over his stick as he asked us in a soft voice where we were from. He liked to come and chat with Noel's passengers every day.
On the way back to town, we stopped at the Kawana Flour Mill at Matahiwi, which was restored as a major project a few years ago. As well as rebuilding the mill and re-positioning the original millstones which were a personal gift to the Maoris from Governor Grey, all the belts and pulleys, chutes and machinery, they have also refurbished the tiny millers cottage in the style of the late 1800's when the mill was in full production. It was a fascinating place.
Our last call was to the Koriniti Marae with its traditional collection of colourful buildings with intricate carvings. There is a pre-school nursery here where children from settlements along the river come to play and where parents and extended families can also stay and socialise. Travellers' accommodation is also available here and whether pre-booked or just turning up on a canoe from the river, it is polite to make yourself known at the gate of the marae and wait to be invited onto the sacred land. Our last glimpse of the Whanganui was from high as our eyes followed its glistening waters down in the valley below, meandering towards and over the horizon.
Back in the early 1900's, the residents who lived on Durie Hill in Wanganui were fed up of the challenging, near vertical walk home and they decided to do something about it. After much deliberating and measuring, a horizontal tunnel was bored 200 metres into the rock at the base of the hill. This met up with a vertical shaft 66 metres high, which hosted an elevator, big enough to transport pedestrians, bicycles and prams up and down the hill. We decided that $1 was a very reasonable fare and entered the semi-circular tunnel with shiny white walls , which at first seemed to get longer with every step but eventually the dot at the far end became a doorway and as instructed, we tugged the bell-pull which gave a lovely old-fashioned ring and within a minute the doors opened and we were greeted by a lady lift-attendant who didn't even want to consider how many times she's been up and down over the last twenty years. I took a seat for the ride and admired the old wooden panelling and the board which held regular commuters' tickets, clipped on each journey. On the top of Durie Hill, a war memorial constructed of local shell rock looks out over the town. We climbed up its 176 dizzying steps to the observation gallery at the top and were amazed a t the view of the sunset towards the sea, snow-capped Mt Ruapehu , the silhouette of the northern tip of South Island and the mighty Whanganui cutting her way through the middle of the city. We splashed out another dollar each for the ride down.
We had a couple of hours to spare before the bus left the next day and visited the museum to view an extraordinary photographic exhibition. Te Pihi Mata - The Sacred Eye by William Partington, the son of an early settler, features life and scenery along and up to the farthest reaches of the Whanganui River at the turn of the last century. The collection of hundreds of glass plates and previously unseen vintage prints of families and more formal portraits of Maori in traditional dress, was discovered in a suitcase in a garage back in 2001 and put up for auction. The Whanganui Maori protested as they regard photographs as embodiments of the deceased and saw this as the sale of their forefathers and the auction was abandoned after the group bid just $200 in an attempt to reclaim a piece of their heritage. Eventually the local community and iwi (tribal) groups banded together to buy the collection for over $150,000 and it is now beautifully staged at the Regional Museum. The entrance to the collection passes through the gates of a marae to the chant of a Maori Welcome and the photographs are displayed in small nooks and around corners to soft background music and voices. It felt just as if I was wandering through a village.
It was a fine afternoon when we arrived at err... Wanganui, so we booked a trip up the err… Whanganui River Road the next day. This was no ordinary journey – we were joining Noel the postman on his daily round up the river as far as Pipiriki. The road follows the river for 130km there and back, but by the time Noel has driven up sidetracks to isolated settlements, he will have clocked up over 200km in a day. The road opened in 1934 – until then it had been river traffic only with paddle steamers which accommodated up to 400 well-heeled passengers in sumptuous quarters taking three days to reach luxury hotels upstream. The most famous of these was the Waimarie which was shipped in a box from the UK in 1900 and reassembled in the town. She paddled up and down until 1952 when she sunk but was raised and restored over seven years and relaunched on 1st January 2000, now taking day trippers in flip-flops during the warmer months. Jet boats, canoes and kayaks are also aplenty in summer – paddling the Whanganui, a 5 day trip, is classed as one of NZ’s Great Walks, despite the fact that there’s far more sitting down than walking involved. A large part of Noel’s summer revenue involves transporting canoes and passengers up and down the river road.
Noel picked us up at 7.30am and already on the minibus was Neil from Germany, the only other passenger that day. It was a grey and chilly morning and as we left town and headed off onto the river road, we were enveloped in a thick blanket of fog. Europeans first put down roots in the area in the 1830’s and missionaries sailed up the river, establishing settlements along the way such as Damascus, Corinth, Athens and Jerusalem, all of which seemed very bleak that morning. On we went through the gloom, looking down for a glimpse of the river and allegedly breathtaking scenery through the murk but there was nothing.
Outside city centres, New Zealand letters are always left in boxes at the gate and on rural rounds these must be accessible by leaning out of the window of the post van. Many of the post-boxes along the route raised a smile. There were a few old microwave ovens perched on top of posts, a pedal bin, a bread bin, a wood burning stove, lots of old barrels on their sides, canoes and even an old fridge. The house numbering system on the route was also a revelation. I’d been wondering why they were numbered in the thousands when there were only a few dozen along the road. It turns out that the number on a rural house is its distance in metres from the beginning of the road which makes it unique and easy to identify in emergencies for example. How sensible.
Mid morning and we reached the village of Jerusalem or Hiruharama in Maori. Hiruharama was once the largest kainga (village) on the Whanganui River in the middle of a populous district and was known as a meeting place for korero (discussion). in 1892, a Frenchwoman called Suzanne Aubert founded the world famous Roman Catholic Order of the Sisters of Compassion here and she devoted her life to helping the homeless, poor and sick. Fluent in Maori, she worked as a teacher and a nurse, produced herbal medicines and established homes for children and old people throughout the country. She died aged 91 in 1926, the legacy of her life's work having influenced the development of social welfare, education, and health in New Zealand. It is hoped that the church will eventually recognise Mother Aubert as New Zealand's first saint.
The mist still hanging, on we went to Pipiriki, formerly a glamorous resort full of international tourists having arrived on the paddle steamers but today, a nearly deserted little settlement which mostly serves as the landing and launching point for canoes and jet boats. The latest attempt to rebuild the burnt-down Pipiriki Hotel stalled due to funding 'issues' (it all disappeared somewhere) and vandals have stripped everything of value leaving a very sad looking concrete skeleton by the side of the river.
We had one delivery left and took a very rough track across fields where wild peacocks strutted and wild boars snuffled around. We were warmly greeted by Victoria, an elderly Maori woman who had lived on this smallholding all her life. She has spent decades here alone after the loss her parents and all her siblings. Surrounded by squealing piglets she asked Noel what news there was down in the town and remarked that her electricity bill was due any day now. Like many who live along the river, she rarely ventures far from her home - Noel brings her groceries and also pays her bills, being entrusted with her bank card and PIN number. Noel also provides a taxi service, taking villagers down to the town to see the doctor for example, where they may also do a bit of shopping, then stay in town overnight and return with Noel on his round next day. Marc and I were delighted to hear his stories of this aspect of his job. We are both children of postmen, Marc's father having driven the Royal Mail Post bus on his rural rounds for years and years ago my brother and I would go with our dad in his van during school summer holidays up the valleys of the Rivers Ceulan and Leri, delivering newspapers, prescriptions and the odd bottle of something stronger to the farms along the way with the post. Just like Noel, they were a major part of life for many. As we said goodbye to Victoria she predicted that the sun would soon be out and it would be a lovely day.
We left Pipiriki and headed back towards town and within a couple of miles, sure enough, the mist began to lift and we could see steep wooded slopes plummeting down to the lazy brown river. We were due to stop at Jerusalem for our picnic lunch and by the time we reached the village, the skies were clear. Noel took us down a track to the riverside and one of the most striking views imaginable. Standing tall on a spur above a deep river bend, the picture-perfect white church of St Joseph was set beautifully against the blue sky. Even though it is the most photographed church in the country, no camera will ever capture the feeling of being somewhere quite so special. Lunch was taken in the garden of Mother Aubert's Convent, alongside the church. These days, just three nuns remain here, Sister Anna Marie, Sister Alisi and Sister Sue who run the convent as a hostel, offering a cosy bed and the use of all the facilities for £6 per night. We had a look around and it looked very homely, with pots of home-made jam in the kitchen and colourful knitted bedspreads in the dorms. Noel took us into the church, the inside of which was decorated with woven Maori panels and art alongside the more traditional ornaments. Outside we met Peter, an elderly man who leaned over his stick as he asked us in a soft voice where we were from. He liked to come and chat with Noel's passengers every day.
On the way back to town, we stopped at the Kawana Flour Mill at Matahiwi, which was restored as a major project a few years ago. As well as rebuilding the mill and re-positioning the original millstones which were a personal gift to the Maoris from Governor Grey, all the belts and pulleys, chutes and machinery, they have also refurbished the tiny millers cottage in the style of the late 1800's when the mill was in full production. It was a fascinating place.
Our last call was to the Koriniti Marae with its traditional collection of colourful buildings with intricate carvings. There is a pre-school nursery here where children from settlements along the river come to play and where parents and extended families can also stay and socialise. Travellers' accommodation is also available here and whether pre-booked or just turning up on a canoe from the river, it is polite to make yourself known at the gate of the marae and wait to be invited onto the sacred land. Our last glimpse of the Whanganui was from high as our eyes followed its glistening waters down in the valley below, meandering towards and over the horizon.
Back in the early 1900's, the residents who lived on Durie Hill in Wanganui were fed up of the challenging, near vertical walk home and they decided to do something about it. After much deliberating and measuring, a horizontal tunnel was bored 200 metres into the rock at the base of the hill. This met up with a vertical shaft 66 metres high, which hosted an elevator, big enough to transport pedestrians, bicycles and prams up and down the hill. We decided that $1 was a very reasonable fare and entered the semi-circular tunnel with shiny white walls , which at first seemed to get longer with every step but eventually the dot at the far end became a doorway and as instructed, we tugged the bell-pull which gave a lovely old-fashioned ring and within a minute the doors opened and we were greeted by a lady lift-attendant who didn't even want to consider how many times she's been up and down over the last twenty years. I took a seat for the ride and admired the old wooden panelling and the board which held regular commuters' tickets, clipped on each journey. On the top of Durie Hill, a war memorial constructed of local shell rock looks out over the town. We climbed up its 176 dizzying steps to the observation gallery at the top and were amazed a t the view of the sunset towards the sea, snow-capped Mt Ruapehu , the silhouette of the northern tip of South Island and the mighty Whanganui cutting her way through the middle of the city. We splashed out another dollar each for the ride down.
We had a couple of hours to spare before the bus left the next day and visited the museum to view an extraordinary photographic exhibition. Te Pihi Mata - The Sacred Eye by William Partington, the son of an early settler, features life and scenery along and up to the farthest reaches of the Whanganui River at the turn of the last century. The collection of hundreds of glass plates and previously unseen vintage prints of families and more formal portraits of Maori in traditional dress, was discovered in a suitcase in a garage back in 2001 and put up for auction. The Whanganui Maori protested as they regard photographs as embodiments of the deceased and saw this as the sale of their forefathers and the auction was abandoned after the group bid just $200 in an attempt to reclaim a piece of their heritage. Eventually the local community and iwi (tribal) groups banded together to buy the collection for over $150,000 and it is now beautifully staged at the Regional Museum. The entrance to the collection passes through the gates of a marae to the chant of a Maori Welcome and the photographs are displayed in small nooks and around corners to soft background music and voices. It felt just as if I was wandering through a village.
Thursday, 16 October 2008
WELLINGTON – It's a Breese
Kay Creswell has lived on the Kapiti coast for so long that she needs no official telephone call in the morning to know that the boat to Kapiti will not sail that day. One glance at the sea conditions and she was tapping on our bedroom door at 7.00am to tell us to have a lie-in as our second attempt at visiting the island would also be a failure. Word had made it up the beach that the island ranger had crossed to the mainland early that morning to collect provisions, and from the warmth and comfort of the house we watched his boat battling its way back to the island in high winds, being tossed about by huge waves. Rather him than me I thought as I tucked into my perfectly poached eggs. Later that morning, we wrapped up and took Millie, their great little dog, for a long blustery walk on the beach until we reached a wide estuary and could go no further. Along the way we spoke with many people also walking dogs who just stopped to chat – either they were very friendly or curious about the strangers on their shore. Probably both.
Kay and Hallam are a supposedly retired couple, who never seem to have enough hours in the day. Stalwarts of the sailing club, Kay gleefully told us the tale of when they hosted a visit of past and present Commodores (Captains) from other sailing clubs when Hallam was Commodore of Kapiti just a couple of years ago. Kay, no doubt as elegant and enchanting as ever, was circulating with a tray of fancies when she approached a gentleman who asked her what she did within the club. With a twinkle in her eye, Kay leaned towards him and whispered that she was sleeping with the Commodore. Her subtle wit obviously lost on him, his eyebrows shot upwards, he dropped his scone back on the tray, turned on his heel with a snort and avoided further encounters with her for the rest of the afternoon.
We had a great day out with Kay at the Lindale Food & Craft Centre where we sampled lots of mead, liqueurs and honey, preserves, olives and cheese, the cherry on top being a fabulous lemon meringue ice-cream. Marc couldn’t decide on a flavour and asked, tongue-in-cheek, for a sample of around four and much to his delight, the nice lady said yes. We didn’t make it to the wood carving shed or the art studio …
A month after leaving, we arrived back full circle at Wellington with the assurance that our room had not been re-let in the interim. The door to the Breese family home was open which meant that there was someone at home and we were thrilled to bits to find Uncle Alun sat on the window seat with a big smile. He had not arrived alone and soon back from a shopping trip were Rhiannon, Jamie and little Ioan who had flown across ‘The Ditch’ from Melbourne to stay with Uncle Alun at Christchurch and they had all travelled up by train to Wellington for a week. Then Jo, Ed, Gwilym and Geraint arrived home and house was soon full of the racket and chaos you’d expect from roasting half a pig on the bbq and drinking a lot of wine.
Accommodating ten people in the house had meant some creative sleeping arrangements with just one relegated to the sofa and Uncle Alun bunking in with Geraint. All was well until Alun woke Geraint one night, urging him to get up as his mum had knocked on the door several times telling him it was time to get up for school. It was not until Geraint had hauled himself out of bed, into the shower and his school uniform that it was it discovered that the time was 3.00am and Alun had dreamt it all. Less cheese before bedtime I think Uncle Alun.
Ed managed to get his hands on a heap of tickets for the All Blacks test against the Irish. We would be split into two groups, Rhiannon, Jamie, Geraint, Alun and me on one side of the stadium and Marc, Ed and Gwilym on the other. It was a fine and dry night when we got to the pub just opposite ‘The Cake Tin’, but as an experienced spectator, Ed had stopped in the supermarket on the way to buy two rolls of bin liners incase of rain. Just as we left the pub the heavens opened and my group was soaked by the time we got to our seats, our trousers clinging to our legs before we got a chance to don our bin bags. Apparently, Ed had guided the other group to the stadium via a covered car park and they were bone dry. Unfazed, we took our seats in the downpour and got out our big Welsh Dragon flag which flapped damply around Uncle Alun’s head for eighty minutes as he sat between Rhiannon and me. We did get on the telly though! It got colder and windier as the game went on and we wrung out our dripping gloves every five minutes and couldn’t feel our fingers as could none of the players in the dug-out who apparently were praying that there wouldn’t be any substitutions as they didn’t want to go on! The post match interview with Brian O’Driscoll was abandoned as his teeth were chattering so much they couldn’t understand what he was saying. The plummet in the temperature and atrocious conditions made it to the front pages next day. It had been our intention to meet up with the dry group at the Welsh Dragon bar in town after the game, but our immediate priority now was to get home, showered and into dry clothes, Rhiannon and I particularly concerned about Uncle Alun but we needn’t have worried. We arrived at the Dragon an hour later to find the dry group well into celebrations and looking forward to coverage of more games that night on the tv. Most of us took a taxi home in the early hours, but guess who stayed out with Marc, partying until 4.00am …
The Melbourne Breeses flew home as did Uncle Alun a few days later, with a promise that he’d come and stay with us next year. Jo left for a week working in Fiji and I was given authority to give the boys (all 6 foot something of them) jobs and instructions as I saw fit. In charge of supper for the first evening, I thought I’d wow them with my ‘sticky chicken’ and make a dessert from a recipe book in the kitchen. All was going well until Gwilym wandered in as I was preparing feijoas for a fruit crumble. He glanced over my shoulder and casually observed “Ooh, feijoa crumble – mum’s speciality”! Thanks Gwilym, no pressure there then … The end of the week arrived with no disasters apart from a minor burn sustained whilst bbq’ing a leg of wild goat rubbed with Moroccan spices and losing the dog for a morning (she was by the front door, greeting the return of the search party). The boys had been model individuals (that was $10 each, remember) and Jo arrived home bearing beautiful gifts. She gave me a gorgeous red Fijian sulu (sarong) painted with exotic flowers and body lotion that smelt good enough to eat. Marc had a grey and black ‘man-sulu’ and Ed gave him instructions on how to wear it so as not look like a girl.
We had been given a mission to accomplish whilst at Wellington. We had the possible married name and address of a childhood friend of Marc’s grandmother who had emigrated to New Zealand from Tregaron as a young woman and with whom Mamgu had exchanged cards and letters for many years until they eventually lost touch. A quick search of the telephone book revealed that Mary Cook lived about five minutes from the Breeses and they would have passed the house countless times as they took the boys to rugby training over the years. Marc telephoned to introduce himself and we were invited down for tea which was served in china painted with images of Aberystwyth that Mary had been given as a wedding gift many years ago. She had arrived in New Zealand in 1949 but it was not her intention to stay for ever. The plan had been to travel to the furthest place possible then to make her way home experiencing different countries and cultures on the way, but she had not counted on falling in love and marrying Jacobus who had emigrated from Belgium. Widowed many years ago, we had tracked her down just in time as she had sold up at Wellington and was due to move to Australia to live with her son and his family in just a few weeks. Mary just never got around to getting NZ citizenship during the 59 years she spent here but now needed to in order to get the same entitlements in her new life in Australia. She was presented with her citizenship in the City Hall and singled out during the ceremony for much ado and congratulation so she thought she’d best not admit that she’d only got it because she was leaving! Mary is a joyful lady, as bright as a button and we spent hours with her, poring over old photos and exchanging tales. We have promised to look her up next time we’re in Brisbane!
We paid a visit to the city Art Gallery. Viewing the first exhibition involved lying down in the dark on one of dozens of mattresses under a row of huge fish-eye screens on the ceiling, watching underwater footage of bits of machinery and other objects rushing past to a watery soundtrack. The images of flooding and immersion were symbolic of cultural and traditional loss - the submerged Waikato village of Horahora in local context and global warming in the bigger picture. It was also a chance to lounge about for ten minutes. We were greeted at the entrance of the second exhibition hall by a ten foot inflatable rabbit and sauntered past items that made me wonder if they were in the exhibition or not, like the crisp packet on the floor and the fire extinguisher in the corner, not sure whether I should be ignoring or pondering them - which would make me look less of an idiot. I tried to understand why an axe stuck to the wall with big strips of sticking plaster was called Oranges and Lemons and thought that the blank white wall at the far end was just that until I saw a small card at the corner which read “White Map Pin, acrylic and stainless steel”. It took me about two minutes to find the pesky little thing. I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon and would recommend it to anyone, but take a tip – enter the first exhibition hall on all-fours and go for a mattress near the wall. That way, you lessen your chance of having an up-close and personal experience with a stranger.
I loved Sunday morning visits to the fruit and veggie market in Wellington. Down on the waterfront, it was like walking through a rainbow with produce in shapes and skins the like of which I’d never seen before. A sign for fresh fish pointed down towards the end of the quay where we joined a queue buying from a boat decked with coloured bunting. Looking down into the boat, the deck was jammed with rows of boxes from which one man took the orders whilst two others worked non-stop on the filleting table. A woman called down for the tail of the large fish she was buying to be removed as well as the head. Asked good humouredly by one of the fishermen if this was a canny move to pay less for the fish, she replied no – it was the only way it would fit in her pan!
During our last few days at Wellington, we went walking along the beach and cliffs at Seatoun – one of Jo’s favourite rambles, we dined at Simply Paris and drove around the city’s pretty bays and headlands – the snowy Southern Alps of South Island just visible on the horizon. It was a wrench to leave Wellington and the family for the last time – it had been our haven for two months and wherever we’d been, we’d always looked forward to coming home.
Kay and Hallam are a supposedly retired couple, who never seem to have enough hours in the day. Stalwarts of the sailing club, Kay gleefully told us the tale of when they hosted a visit of past and present Commodores (Captains) from other sailing clubs when Hallam was Commodore of Kapiti just a couple of years ago. Kay, no doubt as elegant and enchanting as ever, was circulating with a tray of fancies when she approached a gentleman who asked her what she did within the club. With a twinkle in her eye, Kay leaned towards him and whispered that she was sleeping with the Commodore. Her subtle wit obviously lost on him, his eyebrows shot upwards, he dropped his scone back on the tray, turned on his heel with a snort and avoided further encounters with her for the rest of the afternoon.
We had a great day out with Kay at the Lindale Food & Craft Centre where we sampled lots of mead, liqueurs and honey, preserves, olives and cheese, the cherry on top being a fabulous lemon meringue ice-cream. Marc couldn’t decide on a flavour and asked, tongue-in-cheek, for a sample of around four and much to his delight, the nice lady said yes. We didn’t make it to the wood carving shed or the art studio …
A month after leaving, we arrived back full circle at Wellington with the assurance that our room had not been re-let in the interim. The door to the Breese family home was open which meant that there was someone at home and we were thrilled to bits to find Uncle Alun sat on the window seat with a big smile. He had not arrived alone and soon back from a shopping trip were Rhiannon, Jamie and little Ioan who had flown across ‘The Ditch’ from Melbourne to stay with Uncle Alun at Christchurch and they had all travelled up by train to Wellington for a week. Then Jo, Ed, Gwilym and Geraint arrived home and house was soon full of the racket and chaos you’d expect from roasting half a pig on the bbq and drinking a lot of wine.
Accommodating ten people in the house had meant some creative sleeping arrangements with just one relegated to the sofa and Uncle Alun bunking in with Geraint. All was well until Alun woke Geraint one night, urging him to get up as his mum had knocked on the door several times telling him it was time to get up for school. It was not until Geraint had hauled himself out of bed, into the shower and his school uniform that it was it discovered that the time was 3.00am and Alun had dreamt it all. Less cheese before bedtime I think Uncle Alun.
Ed managed to get his hands on a heap of tickets for the All Blacks test against the Irish. We would be split into two groups, Rhiannon, Jamie, Geraint, Alun and me on one side of the stadium and Marc, Ed and Gwilym on the other. It was a fine and dry night when we got to the pub just opposite ‘The Cake Tin’, but as an experienced spectator, Ed had stopped in the supermarket on the way to buy two rolls of bin liners incase of rain. Just as we left the pub the heavens opened and my group was soaked by the time we got to our seats, our trousers clinging to our legs before we got a chance to don our bin bags. Apparently, Ed had guided the other group to the stadium via a covered car park and they were bone dry. Unfazed, we took our seats in the downpour and got out our big Welsh Dragon flag which flapped damply around Uncle Alun’s head for eighty minutes as he sat between Rhiannon and me. We did get on the telly though! It got colder and windier as the game went on and we wrung out our dripping gloves every five minutes and couldn’t feel our fingers as could none of the players in the dug-out who apparently were praying that there wouldn’t be any substitutions as they didn’t want to go on! The post match interview with Brian O’Driscoll was abandoned as his teeth were chattering so much they couldn’t understand what he was saying. The plummet in the temperature and atrocious conditions made it to the front pages next day. It had been our intention to meet up with the dry group at the Welsh Dragon bar in town after the game, but our immediate priority now was to get home, showered and into dry clothes, Rhiannon and I particularly concerned about Uncle Alun but we needn’t have worried. We arrived at the Dragon an hour later to find the dry group well into celebrations and looking forward to coverage of more games that night on the tv. Most of us took a taxi home in the early hours, but guess who stayed out with Marc, partying until 4.00am …
The Melbourne Breeses flew home as did Uncle Alun a few days later, with a promise that he’d come and stay with us next year. Jo left for a week working in Fiji and I was given authority to give the boys (all 6 foot something of them) jobs and instructions as I saw fit. In charge of supper for the first evening, I thought I’d wow them with my ‘sticky chicken’ and make a dessert from a recipe book in the kitchen. All was going well until Gwilym wandered in as I was preparing feijoas for a fruit crumble. He glanced over my shoulder and casually observed “Ooh, feijoa crumble – mum’s speciality”! Thanks Gwilym, no pressure there then … The end of the week arrived with no disasters apart from a minor burn sustained whilst bbq’ing a leg of wild goat rubbed with Moroccan spices and losing the dog for a morning (she was by the front door, greeting the return of the search party). The boys had been model individuals (that was $10 each, remember) and Jo arrived home bearing beautiful gifts. She gave me a gorgeous red Fijian sulu (sarong) painted with exotic flowers and body lotion that smelt good enough to eat. Marc had a grey and black ‘man-sulu’ and Ed gave him instructions on how to wear it so as not look like a girl.
We had been given a mission to accomplish whilst at Wellington. We had the possible married name and address of a childhood friend of Marc’s grandmother who had emigrated to New Zealand from Tregaron as a young woman and with whom Mamgu had exchanged cards and letters for many years until they eventually lost touch. A quick search of the telephone book revealed that Mary Cook lived about five minutes from the Breeses and they would have passed the house countless times as they took the boys to rugby training over the years. Marc telephoned to introduce himself and we were invited down for tea which was served in china painted with images of Aberystwyth that Mary had been given as a wedding gift many years ago. She had arrived in New Zealand in 1949 but it was not her intention to stay for ever. The plan had been to travel to the furthest place possible then to make her way home experiencing different countries and cultures on the way, but she had not counted on falling in love and marrying Jacobus who had emigrated from Belgium. Widowed many years ago, we had tracked her down just in time as she had sold up at Wellington and was due to move to Australia to live with her son and his family in just a few weeks. Mary just never got around to getting NZ citizenship during the 59 years she spent here but now needed to in order to get the same entitlements in her new life in Australia. She was presented with her citizenship in the City Hall and singled out during the ceremony for much ado and congratulation so she thought she’d best not admit that she’d only got it because she was leaving! Mary is a joyful lady, as bright as a button and we spent hours with her, poring over old photos and exchanging tales. We have promised to look her up next time we’re in Brisbane!
We paid a visit to the city Art Gallery. Viewing the first exhibition involved lying down in the dark on one of dozens of mattresses under a row of huge fish-eye screens on the ceiling, watching underwater footage of bits of machinery and other objects rushing past to a watery soundtrack. The images of flooding and immersion were symbolic of cultural and traditional loss - the submerged Waikato village of Horahora in local context and global warming in the bigger picture. It was also a chance to lounge about for ten minutes. We were greeted at the entrance of the second exhibition hall by a ten foot inflatable rabbit and sauntered past items that made me wonder if they were in the exhibition or not, like the crisp packet on the floor and the fire extinguisher in the corner, not sure whether I should be ignoring or pondering them - which would make me look less of an idiot. I tried to understand why an axe stuck to the wall with big strips of sticking plaster was called Oranges and Lemons and thought that the blank white wall at the far end was just that until I saw a small card at the corner which read “White Map Pin, acrylic and stainless steel”. It took me about two minutes to find the pesky little thing. I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon and would recommend it to anyone, but take a tip – enter the first exhibition hall on all-fours and go for a mattress near the wall. That way, you lessen your chance of having an up-close and personal experience with a stranger.
I loved Sunday morning visits to the fruit and veggie market in Wellington. Down on the waterfront, it was like walking through a rainbow with produce in shapes and skins the like of which I’d never seen before. A sign for fresh fish pointed down towards the end of the quay where we joined a queue buying from a boat decked with coloured bunting. Looking down into the boat, the deck was jammed with rows of boxes from which one man took the orders whilst two others worked non-stop on the filleting table. A woman called down for the tail of the large fish she was buying to be removed as well as the head. Asked good humouredly by one of the fishermen if this was a canny move to pay less for the fish, she replied no – it was the only way it would fit in her pan!
During our last few days at Wellington, we went walking along the beach and cliffs at Seatoun – one of Jo’s favourite rambles, we dined at Simply Paris and drove around the city’s pretty bays and headlands – the snowy Southern Alps of South Island just visible on the horizon. It was a wrench to leave Wellington and the family for the last time – it had been our haven for two months and wherever we’d been, we’d always looked forward to coming home.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Good News & Even Better News
The good news is that the neurosurgeon was so pleased with my progress that there is to be no surgery. The even better news is that there is to be no hoovering for a year either - wahey! I just have to exercise care and common sense for the next twelve months both and work and at home, but he was happy for me to return to work as originally planned at the start of November and to get out and start walking and swimming again which is great news as I'm going stir crazy doing nothing.
Well if we'd stuck to our original plans, we'd be starting to think about coming home about now. We were due to fly from Buenos Aires next Thursday but as it happened we didn't get close enough to even sniff a steak or turn a tango. Apparently my mum has been robbed of the opportunity of blowing up dozens of balloons and dusting off the old jubilee buntings. Next time eh mam ...
Well if we'd stuck to our original plans, we'd be starting to think about coming home about now. We were due to fly from Buenos Aires next Thursday but as it happened we didn't get close enough to even sniff a steak or turn a tango. Apparently my mum has been robbed of the opportunity of blowing up dozens of balloons and dusting off the old jubilee buntings. Next time eh mam ...
Wednesday, 1 October 2008
TAUPO
Taupo sits on the edge of a lake of the same name, which in turn fills a huge crater blasted into the ground by the eruption of a volcano many centuries ago that makes Krakatoa look like a damp squib. It prides itself as being the trout fishing capital of the world and every competition weekend the population is multiplied almost as many times as the size of the ones that got away. Gaze across the lake at sunset for a picture of the pink snowy heights of Mount Ruapehu on the horizon.
We had been invited to stay in the holiday bach of Ian and Margaret, turning our nose up at the option of the Huka Lodge that charges $3750 per night for cottage accommodation. Margaret is a sister to Duncan from Napier, who is a University friend of Edryd, who is Marc’s first cousin, once removed they always hasten to add. They were waiting for the bus and drove us back to their bach then left for home, leaving us to it. The house was so comfortable and cosy that we spent a lot of our time over the next few days just relaxing and reading after poking around antique shops and walking along the lakeside.
We did venture a little further, firstly hopping on the Taupo Hot Bus to the Craters of the Moon. Created by changes in underground water levels and shifting pressure with the building of a geo-thermal power station, Craters of the Moon is a vast steaming landscape of dried-out scrub scattered with craters and boiling lakes of mud and water. When we visited five years ago, closed shoes were the only permitted footwear in the park and notices warned visitors to stay on the paths. Since then, someone must have melted their flipflops by wandering off the straight and narrow as visitors are now requested to stay on a new boardwalk. We spent a couple of hours ignoring the notices and peering down into the hissing and simmering depths, watching birds flying in and out of their roosting places in cosy nooks on the side of the craters.
The next stop on the Hot Bus was the Huka Falls. The Waikato River is wide and slow flowing until it reaches the Huka Falls where it thunders into a narrow chasm, shoots out of the other side and drops ten spectacular metres into a churning pool. It has to be seen and heard to be believed. The Huka Jetboats will take you for a soaking at the foot of the turquoise falls but we opted for a nice dry walk through the bush upstream and gave some visitors that hailed from Auckland some tourist information and advice about things to do in the area!
We bought thermal long johns and tops in the sales at Taupo ready for the chilly nights on the Inca Trail. Marc had a nice black set and I ended up with green, black and white stripey ones as the only other ones left were too short in the leg and my stride length would have been somewhat restricted. They were too much of a bargain to leave behind (I wonder why) but I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to venture out of our tent in the Peruvian night in my zebra suit.
Just before we left Taupo, we booked another permit to visit Kapiti Island Nature Reserve, hoping for better weather this time and that the boat would not be cancelled again. We were staying for a couple of nights with Kay and Hallam at Paraparaumu – just across the water from Kapiti. Kay is a sister to Dave from Tarawera who is another university friend of Edryd. The bus journey from Taupo to ‘Paraparam’ was beautiful. We travelled along the lakeside for many miles, then took the Desert Road into the Tongariro National Park and stopped for a Kodak moment to capture the snowy trio of Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu. We stepped off the bus and it was like a different world – it was absolutely freezing and I took my photos peeking out from behind the bus, sheltered from the icy blast.
Hallam picked us up from the bus station and explained that he and Kay were going out that evening but that we were to make ourselves at home and they’d see us later. No sooner had we stepped into the house than we were clutching the largest glasses of wine we’d ever seen and toasting ourselves in front of a roaring fire. Our supper was cooking in the oven and later on, we may like a soak in the hot-tub on the deck, overlooking the beach. Is there no end to the generosity and kindness of people here towards strangers with the weakest of connections that just descend on them from nowhere?
We had been invited to stay in the holiday bach of Ian and Margaret, turning our nose up at the option of the Huka Lodge that charges $3750 per night for cottage accommodation. Margaret is a sister to Duncan from Napier, who is a University friend of Edryd, who is Marc’s first cousin, once removed they always hasten to add. They were waiting for the bus and drove us back to their bach then left for home, leaving us to it. The house was so comfortable and cosy that we spent a lot of our time over the next few days just relaxing and reading after poking around antique shops and walking along the lakeside.
We did venture a little further, firstly hopping on the Taupo Hot Bus to the Craters of the Moon. Created by changes in underground water levels and shifting pressure with the building of a geo-thermal power station, Craters of the Moon is a vast steaming landscape of dried-out scrub scattered with craters and boiling lakes of mud and water. When we visited five years ago, closed shoes were the only permitted footwear in the park and notices warned visitors to stay on the paths. Since then, someone must have melted their flipflops by wandering off the straight and narrow as visitors are now requested to stay on a new boardwalk. We spent a couple of hours ignoring the notices and peering down into the hissing and simmering depths, watching birds flying in and out of their roosting places in cosy nooks on the side of the craters.
The next stop on the Hot Bus was the Huka Falls. The Waikato River is wide and slow flowing until it reaches the Huka Falls where it thunders into a narrow chasm, shoots out of the other side and drops ten spectacular metres into a churning pool. It has to be seen and heard to be believed. The Huka Jetboats will take you for a soaking at the foot of the turquoise falls but we opted for a nice dry walk through the bush upstream and gave some visitors that hailed from Auckland some tourist information and advice about things to do in the area!
We bought thermal long johns and tops in the sales at Taupo ready for the chilly nights on the Inca Trail. Marc had a nice black set and I ended up with green, black and white stripey ones as the only other ones left were too short in the leg and my stride length would have been somewhat restricted. They were too much of a bargain to leave behind (I wonder why) but I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to venture out of our tent in the Peruvian night in my zebra suit.
Just before we left Taupo, we booked another permit to visit Kapiti Island Nature Reserve, hoping for better weather this time and that the boat would not be cancelled again. We were staying for a couple of nights with Kay and Hallam at Paraparaumu – just across the water from Kapiti. Kay is a sister to Dave from Tarawera who is another university friend of Edryd. The bus journey from Taupo to ‘Paraparam’ was beautiful. We travelled along the lakeside for many miles, then took the Desert Road into the Tongariro National Park and stopped for a Kodak moment to capture the snowy trio of Tongariro, Ngauruhoe and Ruapehu. We stepped off the bus and it was like a different world – it was absolutely freezing and I took my photos peeking out from behind the bus, sheltered from the icy blast.
Hallam picked us up from the bus station and explained that he and Kay were going out that evening but that we were to make ourselves at home and they’d see us later. No sooner had we stepped into the house than we were clutching the largest glasses of wine we’d ever seen and toasting ourselves in front of a roaring fire. Our supper was cooking in the oven and later on, we may like a soak in the hot-tub on the deck, overlooking the beach. Is there no end to the generosity and kindness of people here towards strangers with the weakest of connections that just descend on them from nowhere?
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