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.