11 November 2019 Onerahi, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

It’s not long since my  last posting but our stationery lives suggest that any escape by way of touring should be celebrated, or at least reported here on this blog, if only to remind myself that the gypsy call still stirs within my veins.

Labour Weekend is a major point on the New Zealand calendars, mostly forgotten for its genesis, but more for the fact it offers the first holiday for workers since Queen’s Birthday back in early June. Traditionally it heralds the change of one’s wardrobe, from winter to summer, although most of us fashionistas these days have wardrobes to meet the in-between seasons as well. It is often the first time one will don one’s bathing suits and venture into the cold briny or bare one’s legs to public view without the armour of pantyhose.

Elsewhere about the western world,  Labour Day is more commonly celebrated on 1 May, originally chosen to be International Workers’ Day to commemorate the 1886 Haymarket affair in Chicago. In the 19^th century the workers were sick of being exploited,  often been made to work up to fifteen hours a day, and rose up against this and demanded paid leave, proper wages and breaks.  Eventually after a rather volatile general strike in Chicago, a rather sensible request of eight hours for work, eight hours for recreation and eight hours for rest was granted. 

But here in New Zealand,  this precocious little country, which has often been at the forefront of political change (e.g. granting universal suffrage), we celebrate Labour Day in October. The eight hour working day was granted here in the newly founded Wellington colony way back in 1840, primarily because of a carpenter Samuel Parnell’s refusal to work more than eight hours a day. Initially the event was celebrated on 28 October 1890, the 50^th anniversary of the eight hour day, and in 1899 legislated to be a public holiday from the next year on.  We are a progressive lot here in New Zealand.

But as I have already alluded to, it is these days more an excuse to enjoy the warmer weather.

For us it offered an opportunity to catch up with our son who works in the corporate Auckland world at a spot mutually convenient, because realistically road travel at Labour Weekend is a trial one should avoid at all costs. Accidents abound, but more importantly holdups for hours on the north and south motorways out of Auckland would cause one to move to the South Island. 

So on Olly’s suggestion we agreed to meet up at Leigh, tucked just inside Cape Rodney at the northern extreme of the Hauraki Gulf. The Central Leigh is a collection of cabins, motels and motorhome sites sitting high above the cliffs, adjacent to the little cluster of shops and eateries that make up the village, and proved to be an ideal spot for us to spend a couple of nights catching up with our youngest, his partner, and her mother and step-father.

The other two parties had to brave the north bound traffic out of Auckland; we were glad the southbound early on the Friday was not much worse than any other normal weekday. After leaving the main highway at Warkworth, turning eastward for Leigh, we paused at the famous Morris & James Pottery on the edge of Matakana. 

The small Matakana River runs through this charming little town, and back in the 1850s when the white settlers arrived, they felled kauri and other timber around the hills, some making its way down river and some into the shipbuilding yard that was established early on. By the 1860s there was a small brick works established on the site where Morris & James stands now, using the clay that lay at their feet.

The founder of the current pottery,  Anthony Morris,  and his wife, Sue James, bought the property at Tongue Farm Road in the later 1970s and began to turn out their wares.  The business remained in the same ownership until 2008, when it was offered for sale to staff. Pottery from this workshop can be found in craft shops all around the country, the large planter pots available in upmarket garden shops, and the more decorative pieces in shops selling high end arts and crafts.

Every Labour Weekend, the works has a four day sale, drawing crowds from Auckland and further afield. We had been to at least one of these decades ago, and were now keen to secure a couple of pieces for our renovated home, so decided it would be wise to call on the Friday rather than during the family frenzied weekend.

We could have come away with dozens of pieces, arty wall panels, massive pots to stand in the hall, platters to fill the shelves, but instead left with three pottery abstract sails for the stairway wall, and a brightly coloured cockerel to grace the kitchen. “Quick! Let’s go”, I said to Chris, “before we see anything else we feel we have to buy”. 

 As we drove back to Matakana on the Saturday morning, a distance of about thirteen kilometres from Leigh, back through the charming seaside settlement of Whangateau, we saw the lines of traffic making their way down Tongue Farm Road, and were glad we had called the day before.

Friday evening we all bought fish’n chips from the well-patronised takeaway just up the road. Both “mothers” provided salads and we crammed into our motorhome, by far and away the largest of our diverse mobile accommodation and bonded over several bottles of wine.

Leigh with a population of less than 500, is primarily a fishing village around the small but excellent little port, where my parents often found shelter from storms when they were making their way up the coast in their yacht. Although it is still the headquarters for the well-known company, Leigh Fisheries, who have over fifty independent boats fishing for them on a permanent basis, and can be found unloading catches from fourteen different ports about the North Island, it is these days better known for its proximity to the Goat Island Marine Reserve, or more accurately, the Cape Rodney – Okakari Point Marine Reserve. This is a five and a half square kilometre protected area just three kilometres north-east of Leigh, and established in 1975, was the first such marine reserve in New Zealand.

Apparently this giant natural aquarium now hosts over 200,000 visitors per year, which does not surprise me, given the number of cars squeezed into the ridiculously small car parking area. But I am jumping ahead of myself.

Saturday morning dawned as beautiful as our arrival day had been, hundreds of tuis singing their hearts out in the pohutakawas and flax, both yet to flower. The previous afternoon after we arrived, Chris and I had walked down to the port and around the little harbour; the tide was half out and so we had been able to easily access the track that continues on for some way toward the Cape. We had been delighted with the tuis then, as with all the other small native birds darting about the gullies that rose up from the harbour. Truly it is a delightful spot.

After some discussion, we all agreed that we would head off independently for the day, perhaps meeting up along the way, perhaps not, but all congregating back at camp for a shared dinner. So we all made our way firstly back to Matakana, as packed out as Morris & James promised to be, despite the fact it was not yet 10 am. We had to park at a considerable distance and walk back into the village. Saturday mornings are generally busy in Matakana, again with folk coming up from Auckland, and Labour Weekend was cause for it to be even busier. 

Back in 2002 the Didsburys, a local couple, purchased the old Matakana timber yard, and with the support and encouragement of local horticulturists, had an architect create the village complex that is today the venue for the weekly Matakana Village Farmers’ Market.

The Matakana area is home to a diverse collection of growers, but it is not only they who sell their wares in this vibrant market; there are crafts folk, and providers of ethnic food, entertainment, and a wonderful ambiance of busy camaraderie. There are few bargains to be found because it does cater for the more wealthy folk to be found close to Auckland, of which we are definitely not. However we still found it as delightful as every other time we have called in. There we ran into Olly and Jamie, who were on the lookout for a particular foodie experience, and Paul and Terena who had their arms full of organic vegetable plants ready for their garden.

After sitting by the river for a while, listening to the guitarist and watching others also enjoying the sunshine,  checking out the massive eels thrashing around in the river waiting for offerings from the open mouthed children, we set off on our own re-exploration of the area, firstly heading out to Omaha. 

Omaha is a seaside settlement on a long tongue of land offering four kilometres of white sand and surf. The folk who live, or more likely come out to stay at weekends,  or turn up once a year, are not your average Joe-Blows. Their numbers include our ex-Prime minister, John Key, and famous fashion designer, Trelise Cooper. Access to the beach for the plebs, people like us, is limited to where the surf club is, and a couple of other spots with limited parking. Certainly the houses that have been built more latterly are quite stunning, but this is not a place that does much for us. Despite the beautifully designed houses that shout out “Money!”  I find it without character. I prefer the little settlement of Port Wells, on the road back to Matakana, although that too has grown since we were last there, and also has quite a few new palatial residences.

We called in to the Matakana Country Park, a privately owned 50 acre estate that offers miniature train rides, horse rides for children who are happy to be led about, a couple of restaurants, a craft shop and a wonderful art gallery. It was this latter we had called to see, remembering an earlier visit. Unfortunately the art gallery is in a smaller premises nowadays, and the previous gallery, a barnlike shed with mezzanine galleries, has been turned into an eatery. Still, we did enjoy looking at the art in the gallery, and saw many fabulous paintings we would dearly have loved to buy had we been in the league of the Omaha dwellers.

We were the first of our trio back at camp, and I left Chris with the weekend newspaper while I went for a walk along the top of the cliffs toward Matheson Bay. It’s a charming walk, up and down out of small inlets and gullies, but the day was still hot, so I returned along the more direct and easier route of the streets, from where I had wonderful views of Great Barrier Island.

Our shared dinner was again a great success, this time dining al fresco on our collection of outdoor furniture. It is quite wonderful what wealth of resources a mixed group of people can assemble at such times. However the cool of the evening drove us back into our camper for dessert and coffee.

The next morning Olly and Jamie breakfasted with us and we had an opportunity to spend time with just them, which was a rare treat. Then with 10 am fast approaching, we all broke camp and headed off on our own ways, us toward Goat Island and the others intending to call at the School Gala just up the road in Leigh.

As I mentioned earlier, parking at the Goat Island Reserve is tight, and even more so when you are manoeuvring a motorhome the size of ours. We took the last large parking space and just hoped that we would not be blocked in my desperate parkers.

Again it was barely 10 am, but the whole place was packed out, with divers, kayakers and folk such as ourselves who hoped to see the fish from the rocky shelves. In the past we have been amazed at the hundreds of Blue Maomao, Red Moki, Snapper and Paketi, certainly seen when snorkelling, from the glass bottom boat or just from the rocks. Alas this day we spied only two snapper; large but solitary, most disappointing.

And so we left the frenzy of people, and headed north again, now on the windy narrow gravel hill road across to Pakiri Beach; this a road labelled as being not-suitable-for-caravans. We once pulled a caravan over it and were fortunate to encounter no opposing traffic; these days I suspect it would be a miracle to do the same, and backing up could be problematic.

We detoured off the road to the beach, backed up to the fence and watched the bird life and far off surf from the comfort of the camper while enjoying our cups of coffee.  We called here once before, and then did bother to cross the dunes to the sea. We returned to learn a fellow camper, German folk who had arrived in the country just one day before, had had their camper broken into and the wallets and passports stolen by mongrel locals. Thus my memories of Pakiri Beach are not very positive.

From here it was a simple matter of following the road, now sealed and appropriately wide to accommodate normal traffic, back across to Wellsford. There we parked up at Centennial Park to lunch, before heading further north, then turning at Brynderwyn on to the Kauri Coast Highway. We continued on through Maungatoroto where we found the excellent ice-cream shop of yesteryear no longer operating, turned at Paparoa south to Pahi, where, at the end of the peninsula,  grows  one of the largest Moreton Bay Fig trees in the world, this one with a girth of over 14 metres.  But I have written of this before, and then the camp store was probably open for ice-creams, this day it was not.

Back on the Kauri Coast Highway we continued to Matakohe, not pausing to visit their amazing kauri museum, but turning south down yet another finger into the Kaipara Harbour, this to Tinopai. Our decision to travel  here was based on the fact that the Community Campground is offering NZMCA members the off-season Camp Saver discount, and so for $20 we backed up to the seawall, plugged into power and were in our own paradise, far superior to anything those Omaha dwellers enjoy (unless they were seeking big waves or mana). Once set up, we headed off on foot along the pathway above the mangroves toward the “GAS” sign, soon to find that this, the only general store and fuel station within cooee, was also closed. The Calorie Watching gods were conspiring against us!

We followed the road on to the end, arriving at both the old and new wharves. The tide was out and the local Maori people had arrived in their carloads, disgorging large families and keen shellfish gatherers. We watched for a while, attempted social contact met in part with disdain. These folk seemed mostly competent Te Reo speakers, and their wee ones were responding, or not as the case might be, to the language of their forefathers. We were white folk with little or no will to murmur Maori greetings, so I guess we got we asked for.

Back on the road to camp however, we fell into step with an elderly couple and their son, who were heading to the hall, adjacent to the camp, for a community meeting. The one gentleman, a retired architect from Auckland who had been partly instrumental in designing the replacement wharf, was full of information and left no silence between his verbal offerings.

Tinopai is a very peaceful spot and even more perfect for shellfish gatherers, which we are not, only because shellfish gives my husband gout, and there is little joy in feasting on such wealth alone. But we would be happy to come here again, but will be mindful that we bring our own ice-creams.

 The next morning, we headed back out to the highway, and back to Brynderwyn, joining the Labour Weekend traffic, crossing the range north to Waipu, where we settled into the Caledonian Park, plugged into power yet again, this time for a lesser fee.  I was keen to revisit the House of Memories, the Waipu Museum, that which celebrates the rather unique white settlors of the area.  

Most of the European locals can trace their heritage back to Norman McLeod and his brave band of followers.  The religious zealot McLeod gathered a flock of Scottish folk, many of whom had been cast off the harsh Scottish Highlands during the clearances, and in 1819 sailed from Ullapool for Nova Scotia to start a new life.  There they honed their skills as shipbuilders and farmers, and then driven by famine, came on to New Zealand in 1853 after a brief and disappointing stopover in Australia. They mainly settled in Waipu, although others went on to settle in Leigh, Kauri, Whangarei Heads and Okaihau up north.

We had visited the museum some time ago, and I was keen to call again, particularly so after travelling through Scotland last year and learning of the clearances and understanding how that impacted on some of my own ancestors. The museum was re-curated in 2008 so for us it was an entirely different experience to our earlier one. 

On leaving the museum, we did secure a couple of large ice-creams, which turned out to be quite disappointing; perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here after all? We walked out to one of the new subdivisions and agreed that Waipu has certainly moved ahead in the last few years, is a desirable spot to live and has not suffered at all from the bypass.

The next morning we came on home, firstly calling into the Vehicle Testing station to secure our new COF. Alas there was a problem with a steering part, which we have subsequently had repaired. Fortunately Mercedes came to the party again, and we were little out of pocket, although you would wonder how a vehicle with only 30,000 kilometres on the clock, ours since new, could develop the problems we have had. Perhaps Mercedes are no better than any other make after all?

20 October 2019 - Onerahi, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

Before I started this I checked to see when I had last posted on this blog, and was surprised to see it was way back in May when we were still out camped on Jumbo. Of course I should not have been so because our lives since then have revolved around restoring The Big House to our standard of liveable,  or re-let, because even now, all balls remain in the air; such is our life.

Our tenant moved out, the process stretching out longer than her intention, namely because she was intent on leaving it as clean as possible, and this she did to her credit. The agent came to do the inspection and we waved her away, still basking in the understanding we had had an exemplary tenant for the past eight years. Even in the first days after we parked our motorhome back up beside the house, our only gripe was the about the missing garage door openers, which were subsequently replaced, the cost being deducted from the tenant’s bond. But that was only the start of it all.

We knew the carpets were worn in places, but had no idea as to the extent. Together with the threadbare state and stains that would not come out, the carpet was in desperate need of replacement. We pulled it all up and continued out work on bare floors for the ensuing months. The front door lock functioned only intermittently and so what with that and the lack of garage door openers, entry to the house became somewhat problematic. Window catches were either missing or unusable, light bulbs were missing, the multi-bulb light fittings reduced to one probably in an attempt to save power. 

Lounge floors sagged and were found to have rotted out from water damage. The cupboards in the garage were waterlogged from on-going water ingress. Catches and hinges on the kitchen cabinetry had worn out and not been attended to, rendering the doors unable to close. The big trees in the back yard were in serious promise of falling and the garden shed had undergone damage from adventurous children clambering on the roof to climb those dodgy trees. Shower mixers were difficult to use, and so the list went on… and on, and on.  We were up for serious repairs!

And so we worked away for four months, and have continued on but at a more reduced state, my poor able husband having worn himself out. My own contributions have been more as dogsbody and errand “boy”, although I was quite handy when it came to taking the carpet up and loading and unloading the many trips to the tip as we disposed of old cabinetry and the like.

At the end of September we decided that after all our effort; we absolutely could not face re-letting the house, notified the agency of our decision and have since been shopping for new furniture, another costly and confusing exercise.

Thus is my excuse for not having posted and for having little to contribute in the way of travel reports. However we have taken a few days out here and there, albeit so very minimally, giving the motorhome a bit of a run to remind it that it is not just a residence for hard workers but mobile accommodation for the travel minded.

One sunny day, and there have been few of them, we headed out to Marsden Point on the southern point of the Whangarei Harbour.  This is where New Zealand’s only oil refinery is situated and it is this refinery that put Whangarei on the map.  Certainly the city, declared as such in 1964, had been Northland’s service centre since the latter part of the 19^th century, but when I moved here in 1983, it was still a quiet backwater with about 40,000 inhabitants.

Construction of the refinery began in 1962 and it became operational two years later. Nine years later, the government helped fund a $160 million expansion. Then in 1981, during Prime Minister Muldoon’s Think Big years and the subsequent spinoff, there was further expansion which included a 170 kilometre pipeline to Wiri in South Auckland.  The project was plagued with strikes, and then in 1985, the refinery shut down for five months for maintenance of the old refinery. A year later everything was ready to go again after a total cost of $1.84 billion. Many of the people I first met and mixed with, including my brother-in-law, were involved in that shutdown, so the refinery’s existence was certainly upper most in my mind. I remember my young son being taken out onto the job one day with his uncle; those were the days when health and safety regulations were more relaxed.

Later, much more recently, the adjacent establishment of Northland Port, mainly focused on timber exporting, was developed, and that and the side industries were very much part of our clientele when I was still working.

So this is a very significant part of our regional raison-d’etre, and so it is worthy of checking out from time to time. Alas the little parking spot at the end of the road, where self-contained motorhomes are most welcome to stay overnight, is not level. I guess that if you were intent on staying, you would use every levelling block in your store and possibly reach an acceptable horizontal, unless you are as we are, paranoid about upsetting the workings of the gas fridge. 

However for us we reached an acceptable spot for a morning tea spot, to consume the amazingly tasty and generous pastries we had purchased at a ridiculously expensive price at the big Highway One crossroads, more specifically the Italian Bakery.  This excellent bakery, (excellent if you have an Auckland price mentality) sells its wares that are baked back down the road at Kaiwaka. Apparently in the latter months of my father’s life, he and his son-in-law, used to pull in there for decadent pies, refusing to acknowledge that such mega-calories are inappropriate for morning snacks. I guess that for my father in the latter weeks of his semi-mobile life, this was irrelevant; not so for my brother-in-law who spends his life fighting his genetic makeup.

At the end of the road, we thus dined decadently with our cups of instant coffee, then walked out toward the jetties that serve the ships refilling their fuel tanks. The wild flowers along the way were absolutely delightful, particularly the fragrant freesias which I picked and subsequent forgot, leaving in the camper sink. 

This part of the harbour is now subject to a rahui established last year to protect all shellfish species, although fishing and surfcasting sit outside this cultural tapu. It also discourages vehicles from being driven on the beach in the area as it impacts on the rejuvenation of the shellfish and destroys habitat. (A rahui, a Maori concept is a form of tapu restricting access to, or use of, an area or restrict by the kaitiakitanga of the area.) This is a most effective conservational measure without passing police-able laws.

As for us who were not interested in gathering shellfish, running our toy-dog through the habitat of shorebirds, or any other such destructive behaviour, the restriction had no impact. As we walked westward along the edge of the Whangarei Harbour, we were more taken with the mass of gulls who were gathering in an area inside the security fenced refinery area.  I have never seen such an intense gathering apart from perhaps the gannet colony at Muriwai.

From here on looms directly across the harbour to Reotahi, where an old friend of mine lives and still to this day, I believe, commutes across the harbour in his small fishing boat to salvage logs inadvertently lost over the side of ships as they are loaded for export to far off lands. And above Reotahi, stands the impressive craggy heights of Mount Aubrey, as imposing although not as high as Mount Manaia and Bream Head a little further east.

From here we travelled up the harbour a little to Marsden Cove Marina, an on-going work in progress by Hopper Development since a date they don’t advertise on their website because the massive delays are no doubt nothing to celebrate. Despite the delay in the extensive locked canal system and the residential development, there is a world class 23 berth Marina capable of accommodating vessels up to thirty five metres in length,  80 tonnes and multihulls up to a 12 metres beam, complete with customers’ services, fuel dock, retail facilities (most importantly the café) and a public boat ramp. It is worth checking out on a short detour from the main road north, as is the Refinery Information Centre if you are not familiar with the workings of such operations.

At the Marina, we set off for a walk along the footpath above the marina berth, a pastime my husband absolutely loves, given that he would probably be happier on a boat than in a motorhome with his marine-averse wife, but the wind was unpleasant and we soon returned to our refuge.

And so ended our days outing to the other side of the harbour.

More exciting was our short trip sown to the annual Hamilton Motorhome Show at Mystery Creek. Neither of us had ever attended any event at Mystery Creek, and so the attraction was double edged. The most well-known event here is the annual Agricultural Fielddays for which it was originally established. The 114 hectares property was setup to cater for industry leading events, namely agriculture, but more recently the annual motorhome show.

The Field Days event was set up in 1968, and the first event held at the Te Rapa Racecourse in Hamilton. The site was purchased in 1970 and has become a nationwide recognised even ever since, although I have to say that when I was living the wild days of my first-independence in Hamilton in the early 1970s, I was not aware of its existence, despite having come from a farming background; obviously more important things on my mind.

This year was our first, and we were astounded at the turnout, not only of the visitors, both daily and multi-day, but more those who chose to stay at the venue, for the modest fee of $5 for the entire show. Obviously our show entry was on top of that.

My husband loves such shows, and I do too, for the first day. He can spend day after day after day, combing through every exhibit and then all over again; me not so much. However our main objective was to check out electric bikes and gather all the information any would be buyers should have before making such a massive investment, because they are seriously expensive.

The first day we encountered an excellent salesman, who had us trial out a series of e-bikes, an exercise more important than any of you can imagine, given my terror of riding a bike. I did fall off at one point but was otherwise captivated. Apart from that I was simply (or not-so-simply) bamboozled by all the information and conflicting advice we were given. I was very glad we came away with the purchase of e-bikes still a futuristic thought bubble.

However we did come away with an appointment to call on motorhome battery and solar power experts at  Silverdale. So we did call upon them on our way north, coming away with much needed new and upgraded batteries. Leaving their workshop after bleeding our bank account, we came north via the Wenderholme Regional Park and lunched in one of our favourite en route spots. It’s a lovely spot to stay and play, and equally just to pop into for a break from the road and refuel the body, before heading north on the road back to Whangarei.

7 May 2019 - Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

Another month has slipped by, closer to our reoccupation to our house. We have made some moves toward that end, most in our heads and some exploring options for replacement of furniture and appliances that may have either died or deteriorated during eight years in storage; television and lounge suite to name just two. Our tenant, when approached discreetly, has suggested that she is still hoping to move into the property to the north of the city belonging to the landlady who phoned us weeks ago for a verbal reference, but it all seems rather nefarious. We may have to put pressure on her, insisting we are moving in the day after her lease falls due; an action that would seem rather harsh given that appropriate rental housing is apparently scarce, especially for larger families.

Autumn has certainly descended upon us, causing us to become less active in the outdoors, although we did spend a few days doing serious work about our section. We moved a massive pile of dry vegetation from one corner of the section to the middle of the mowed expanse, then several days later, when the winds were light and rain was forecasted for later in the day, we set fire to the pile and stood around like pyromaniacs, in awe of the force of fire and glad the fire restrictions were lifted. Amazingly the conflagration died down within an hour of lighting and we spent the rest of the day watching over the smouldering heap, ready to rush for buckets of water if required. 

We marked out the boundary with warratah standards and lengths of rope, with a view to god-knows-what. We had called into a show home out at One Tree Point and spoken to a builder’s representative consulted a couple of years ago. He said he was travelling out to the north side of the harbour late in the week and would call on us to see if the plan we were interested in would work for the section. He never did turn up, but then he probably understands that we are still sitting on the fence as regards plans for the section. We oscillate between selling when we move into our house, and building our dream home, even after eleven years of tenure.

For a few days we toyed with the idea of flying to Queensland and sorting Chris’s driver’s licence out; it has since expired. We toy with the idea of buying a camper van there and storing it for short trips, but like so much of our life for now, these are all only thought bubbles. We abandoned the plan when we considered our tenant might suddenly advise us she and her family were moving out within days, understanding that we want to be on hand  when that occurs. But maybe these are all just excuses, just like my abhorrence for the cold water when I consider the kayak sitting on our rejuvenated trailer, waiting for an outing.

Little outings included a night into Whangarei, setting up camp adjacent to the Fish Hook Bridge, aka (and more correctly) “Te Matau a Pohe" . We moved into town for the night to rendez-vous with our youngest son who came all the way from west Auckland to have dinner with us. For reasons that need not be recorded here, he came alone, so we decided this more modest party would be well served by our favourite budget restaurant, Café Divine. There we ordered the banquet for three and feasted appropriately, then after returning to our motorhome by the bridge and after-dinner hot drinks, Olly set off for home more than two hours away and we settled down amongst the itinerants and budget travellers who frequent this spot.

We made the most of our fabulous posse there in the small city of Whangarei, and walked upriver to my mother’s apartment in the Town Basin and separately checked out the prices of Kia vehicles here in New Zealand. Given we had been so very satisfied with our Sorrento in the UK, our preference is turned toward buying a similar vehicle here in New Zealand when we fork out for a more prestigious replacement for our utilitarian Toyota Wish. 

Another day of idle otherness took us out to Pataua South, a delightful spot on the southern side of the Pataua estuary. Years ago Chris and I kayaked up to the upper reaches of the mangrove populated estuary, and years before that I used to come quite often with my previous husband and sons when they were little, gathering pipis, with which we used to make the most delicious pipi and parsley soup; alas my newer and better husband is not at all enamoured with the idea of such a delicacy. Life is full of compromises.

Instead we walked across the foot bridge to Pataua North pausing to chat with the fishermen casting their rods into the fast moving tide, walked up around the new subdivisions on that northern shore, watched the surfers seeking their chances on the ocean beach, then returned to the estuary and walked about the edge of this, discovering that groynes exist here in New Zealand as they do on the British shores.

But our big-plans-but-doing-nothing (or very little) haven’t precluded us from another small trip away within the confines of our North Island shores. We had a firm committed  goal, to attend our oldest granddaughter’s 18^th birthday party, so set off a few days before the weekend for Waihi Beach, travelling through Auckland and on down the Firth of Thames  coast road, that travelled in February, the repairs not much further on than then. We overnighted at Kaiaua itself rather than the free seashore camp six kilometres or so further south, Rae’s Rest. 

The Kaiaua Boat Ramp Reserve is an approved camping site for travellers, albeit with a time limit. Here there are public toilets and better still, walking access to the pub and fish’n chip restaurant -takeaway, and it was this latter we patronised that evening; an absolutely delicious feast of battered hoki and chips accompanied by a homemade salad and a bottle of red, consumed in our own space. We were backed up to the launching channel, which on high tide would be busy and beautiful; on low tide which we struck it was muddy and deserted.  It’s a popular spot for travellers and in the morning, we counted thirty rigs including a few whizz-bang vans sporting poached self-contained stickers.

From here we detoured to Thames, to seek a refund on the Garmin navigational device we had purchased at Noel Lemmings in Whangarei. We had phoned their head office and been told that any refund of the product, advising that we had discarded the packaging and useless paper “instructions’ would be at the mercy of the store manager. The device was not faulty, simply so limited and lacking in all the wonderful facets of the Tomtoms we had used in Britain, Australia and New Zealand, and we were hugely disappointed. To the credit of the assistance manager in the Thames store who was willing to offer us a credit, the return was not successful because we had registered the item online as the instructions said we immediately should, thus voiding the possibility of any warranty a second sale would require. So the extra mileage around the coastline of the Firth was wasted; we drove back to Paeroa and on through to Waihi and Waihi Beach, setting ourselves up at a park over property near the village, hitched up to power.

Alas, when we tried to turn on the fridge, one of the first tasks one does on arrival at one’s overnight camp, it would not turn on. While all other electrical appliances functioned perfectly, we absolutely could not trigger the fridge, on gas or 12V or mains electricity. We called our son-in-law at work who came by between jobs and confirmed electricity was getting through to the fridge. He called back to their house and lugged in an old fridge stored in the garage for our use; their own fridge and freezer space in full use with party food. 

Apart from the fridge debacle, our weekend in Waihi Beach assisting in the setting up for the rather drawn out birthday party, went very well. We joined extended family and family friends for an afternoon tea that was more about cheap champagne than tea, and then stayed on to join the supervisory crew for the teenage party held downstairs. My husband and I retired soon after 10 pm while the rest of the chaperones stayed on into the small hours of Sunday morning. Needless to say the chaperones and party-ragers all looked rather the worse for wear on the Sunday. 

We arranged with our camp hosts to stay a further two days and set off for Tauranga on the Monday morning, too early to avoid the hideous city commuter traffic, firstly calling at Harvey Norman to buy ourselves yet another navigational device, a Tomtom this time, one that has turned out to be quite a different animal to its predecessors, then across to Mount Maunganui to RV Mega in the hope they might have a remedy for our fridge problem.

Contrary to the sweet girl at the end of the phone on Friday who had said we were just to arrive and someone would be happy to help, the service crew were flat-out but did venture out to look at our fridge. After spending time listening to our woes, and dismantling the exterior cover to the fridge, they pushed the on switch inside and guess what! It turned on!

So we drove north again to Waihi Beach, now with the fridge on, feeling quite ridiculous. We retrieved the food from the fridge at Larissa’s, or at least all that which had not been donated over the course of the weekend.

However we were soon cheered up when we joined our daughter’s in-law’s extended family at the RSA restaurant for dinner to celebrate her mother-in-law’s 85^th birthday. We had a lovely meal and enjoyed the company, as we always do when we catch up with them at family events.

The next morning, we packed up, ready at last to head off for a road trip, but … were unable to turn the fridge off. So back we went to Mount Maunganui to see the good men at RV Mega. This one poked and prodded and said he would book us in for a diagnostic session on the 6 May, a week hence. This would mean the van should be left with them for at least a couple of days and we would have to either stay in a motel or with friends; none of this excited us much. He suggested too that we could carry on with our holiday in the meantime and either keep the fridge on all the time (an option we do not like) or turn it off at the 12V switch which would disable all of the three-way options of operation. And so we chose this latter, heading off, hoping for the best and understanding that our holiday might have to be aborted at any point along the way.

The point of this road trip was to resume that which we had aborted back in February when my mother was in hospital, this entailing us to return to Gisborne on the inland route we had come up on in haste. So we travelled eastward along the Bay of Plenty, through Te Puke, Whakatane and Ohope.

I had promised friends of my mothers who live just beyond Ohope that we would call when we came through again, but by now Chris had a cold and was spluttering away like a sick old man; not particularly attractive behaviour for a guest. We pressed on toward Opotiki and stayed at the Island View Holiday Park, one of the many camping grounds around New Zealand that have signed up as part of the off-peak heavily discounted tariff offerings to NZMCA members. At $20 for the two of us on power, this is very good value, and with our fridge woes and a need to stay warm at this time of the year, we were keen to take advantage of this.

The camp is right on the shore, with an expanse of lawn for recreation, plenty of room for caravans and motorhomes to plant themselves in front of the cabin arrangements. These latter are perfect accommodation for the current guests, dozens of ni-Vanuatu brought into the country to pick kiwifruit. These poor folk looked miserable as they hugged their rather inadequate clothing to their chests in these fresh temperatures, a far cry from the climate enjoyed way up in the tropics. The U-shaped accommodation around the communal eating and lounge seems to be custom made for Melanesian, or in fact any island living folk, who live in such communal arrangements. 

The following morning we headed off, on through Opotiki, then on through the Waioeka Gorge and up over the Raukumara Ranges, the summit in the rain clouds somewhere near 800 metres high. The weather deteriorated and as we came down into Poverty Bay, the perfectly formed rainbows did little to alleviate our disappointment at the blustery rain squalls that blew in from the sea.

While we did not actually travel into Gisborne, we did refuel at the truck stop near the airport and check out the new NZMCA Park at Awapuni. Duly impressed we parked up on the shore within view of this camp spot earmarked for the future, and lunched looking out to sea, watching the five or six coastal freighters come and go in the misty squalls, and the intermittent sunlight fall upon the white cliffs of Young Nick’s Head. 

We then set off south on State Highway 2, that which we had in fact been following ever since we left Waihi, the alternate route to Wellington which follows the east coast in the main. We were surprised to see the swollen creeks and so many paddocks lying wet like the water-meadows of England. But when we reached our next camp for the night, all was soon explained. 

Our host at the Wairoa Riverside Motor Camp, another of the Camp Saver members, was quick to tell of us about the three weeks of rain, and the water bomb that had hit the town earlier that day. He told us that he was ready to shut up shop and walk away, sick of the flooding difficulties to accommodate guests. We had struck him on a bad day, because I am sure that in a stretch of better weather, he would be a charming most welcoming chap. However despite his misery, he found us a spot that was relatively dry or at least one where the wheels of our motorhome did not sink into a flooded mire. The grass was like a raft of reeds across a swamp and walking across to the amenities was a unique experience.

The camp here beside the river is quite charming and well situated for the shops and clubs. The facilities are immaculate and decorated in a quaint, almost kitsch, style; just enough to delight.  Today the wide expanse of the Wairoa River was brown and unattractive beyond the autumnal tones of the park like trees of the camping ground. 

The following morning after tracking the telephone numbers for the sister of my first husband, who lives with her husband in Wairoa and whom I had promised to call on when I did eventually come by, I did make contact. Chris was still coughing and spluttering from the virus he had picked up sometime over the past week, and I was feeling as if I was coming down with the same. So for more reasons than one, I was somewhat relieved when I learned that Val’s busy morning schedule and her husband’s health needs did not really suit a rather last minute visit. But I, who don’t do telephone conversations  very well,  did have a lengthy chat with my ex-sister-in-law who sounded no older than when we last saw each other about thirty five years ago. I regretted that I had left my contact so late and vowed to myself to make a better effort when we next came this way. However it may have been a blessing in disguise for her and her husband to avoid catching our more northern viruses; exposing oneself to these bugs after a certain age is playing with fire.

So we headed south again, following State Highway 2, here a route that is frequented more often than not by logging trucks, motorists avoiding the trip south if at all possible. To be fair, the road was better than I remembered, but it is a twisty and turning road, winding its way up steep hills and steeply down the other side, over and over again.

About halfway along the route, we wound our way down into a deep ravine, cut out by the Mokaka River and from the bridge across the river we paused to look up at the viaduct which I have photographed each time we have come this way, and which remains as impressive  today as it was when I first saw it. This 276 metre long viaduct, opened in 1937 and recognised as part of New Zealand’s engineering heritage, has a deck ninety five metres above the river. The plaque to commemorate this feat states that this is the highest rail viaduct in Australasia which I did question, especially since the Makatote viaduct just south of National Park was still fresh in my mind, having recently written Jenny Patrick’s book based on its construction.

When this Main Trunk Line viaduct was opened in 1908, it was in fact the tallest in New Zealand, but has since slipped to the third tallest. This one is 262 metres long and is 79 metres high.

We pulled into the layby in the Tangoio Falls Scenic Reserve not far before the road arrives down on the shores of Hawkes Bay. Here we made coffee then wandered across the swing bridge to check out the walks on offer. If Chris had been feeling better, we probably would have donned our solid walking boots and headed up the creek to see the falls, even though everything looked rather boggy, but then it is all very well to say as much when we chose not to.

The walks from here vary from 40 minutes return to one and a half hours through to the White Pine Bush car park back up the road, and pass through native and pine forests including seventy year old redwoods.

Instead we were soon driving southward along the Bay with Napier’s highland suburbs within sight, the flat marshy bird sanctuary and the airport on reclaimed land on our right. It is this great expanse of flat land that was pushed up in the 1931 earthquake and over the years the bank protecting it all from the Pacific Ocean which rolls in, has been added to, an on-going work in progress even as we continued on our way.

 Here too Chris was keen to check out the new NZMCA Park, this one halfway between Napier and Clive, and when discovered adjacent to a delightful golf course, thought to be the most attractive of all we have encountered. But for us, we will return in the summer when being plugged into main electricity is not an issue. Instead we made our way through to Havelock North where we would later find our camping spot.

But firstly we decided we would head up Te Mata Peak for lunch. I have been up here several times during my life, at least once of those with Chris, and then to the very top. These days there is a prohibition for vehicles over a certain length to take on the last kilometre or so of the winding access road. We parked part way up, lunched with beautiful views up to the peak and west down to the Tukituki River and the manicured vineyard blocks and the like far below.

 

The very popular Te Mata Park, gifted by the Chambers family in 1927 to the community, boasts over thirty kilometres of tracks set in ninety nine hectares. It’s located on the edge of dramatic uplifted limestone hill country cut through by the Tukituki River. The Te Mata Peak rises to 399 metres at its summit, offering 360 degree panoramic views and a leap off point for daredevils in varying modes of sail and wing. The sedimentary rocks making up the “hog’s back” ridge of erosion-resistant limestone scarps, spurs and valleys, have been tilted and bowed upward by the immense geological forces of the Pacific and Australian tectonic plates.

Looking west from a small hillock immediately above our lunch spot, the expanse of the Hawkes Bay villages and towns, including Hastings, Havelock North, Napier and Taradale lay beneath us, and beyond the ranges , the snow clad mountains of the central volcanic plateau also visible.

After descending the Park road, we found ourselves still too early to arrive at our camp for the night, so called into the Arataki Honey Centre, just up the road from our planned destination.  Arriving here I realised that Arataki Honey had been part of my life for as long as I had been old enough to consume this nectar of the bee-gods. Arataki’s clover honey has sat on our kitchen shelf and made its way to our breakfast table for decades. The Centre is a retail outlet targeting the tourist trade, but also offers a wealth of information regarding the company, bees and their habits, honey and its production. There is a tasting table where one can sample honey gathered from varied environments although I really do wonder how the hive collectors and honey producers can really be sure that their bees have confined their pollen gathering to any one particular plant.

And just like the honey centre near Warkworth, there is a window onto the world of the working bees, something that is truly fascinating especially the first time one sees such a display.

The company, which announces online that it is the number one beekeeping business in the Southern Hemisphere with 20,000 hives across New Zealand, was established in 1944, which explains why it had always been part of my life.

At 3 pm we pulled into our camp for the next few days, a wide area housing a dozen campers and caravans and with room to host members of the NZMCA who prefer to stay in these sort of places rather than the Club sites. Unfortunately our hosts are winding down this service, the property about to change hands, but they were willing to accommodate us in the meantime. We hitched up to power and enjoyed the benefits of electric heating. And happily our fridge continued to function, albeit not being able to be turned on and off in the normal manner.

The next day we drove back into Napier, shopped and dumped, then parked up along Marine Parade and set off on foot about he city. What a lovely shopping precinct there is in Napier, and of course it is all accommodated in the wonderful art deco architecturally designed buildings that rose like a phoenix after that terrible earthquake in 1931.

We visited the museum MTG Hawkes Bay and enjoyed it very much. Our main target was to explore the exhibition about the earthquake. Twenty years ago there had been an earthquake museum down in Marine Parade, a rather ramshackle affair packed full of memorabilia, or at least that is how I remember it. That has long gone and now one is left with this more modern pruned down exhibition here at the MTG. It is very good, but I could not help thinking of the Canal Museum in Gloucester; how it was revamped between our visits three years apart, how such a wealth of information, detail, stories, all seemed to have been liquidated by modern curatorship. I suspect this approach is driven by the fact that the modern visitor has a shorter attention span and the old fashioned clutter of history simply switches them off. 

The museum has other interesting exhibitions; “The Architectural Legacy of J A Louis Hay”, tucked away behind the “Tenei Tonu Exhibition”, this latter which would be particularly interesting to foreign visitors, another of silver heirlooms which generally caused my eye to glaze over, and “Project Banada” about the Kiribati islanders who were moved from their ancestral home to Fiji in 1945 to enable the strip mining of phosphate for New Zealand and Australian consumption. 

We had made our way through most of the exhibitions when I was drawn outside by the sound of pipes; Scottish pipe bands pull hard at my own ancestral roots. One thousand students from the Napier Girls High School, the “kura on the hill” were gathering in the Veronica Sunbay at the Sound Shell and Colonnade. Like rats following the piper, we followed the parade and soon learned that it was all about celebrating  135 years of the school’s existence. Many of the pupils were dressed in uniforms representing the school’s evolution. We sat in the rose arbour with a group of women more senior than us, old girls of the school who joined the students in singing the school song with great gusto, something that astounded me; I do know that we had a school song at the High School I attended, a song we sang every morning at assembly before lessons began, but I have absolutely no idea what it was. We listened to other songs, speeches and watched the formally clad girls do a haka, a rather incongruous exhibition, however in keeping with this terribly politically correct world we live in. It was all quite entertaining and quite unexpected.

By the time they filed off in a very orderly fashion, it was time for us to wind up our day. We walked a few more streets exploring the architecture then walked back along the sea frontage, along paths and past sculptural works, all part of the wonderful development that is truly a credit to the city citizens.

Returning to our camp, we caught up with our hosts and asked if we could stay another day, consent easily given and more interestingly, we learned that the property had once been home to an economic strawberry growing business before climate and other  adverse events pushed the business toward bankruptcy.  Fast thinking innovation gave rise to a small mushroom growing enterprise and with resulting success; the property came better known for its funghi production. Although the big old sheds now lie vacant, the business did continue and is apparently thriving in another reincarnation beyond the line of gums that delineate the smaller area about to be handed over for residential redevelopment.

So our second full day in Hawkes bay began with exploration of the retail area of Hastings, not as upmarket and full of character as Napier, but still a thriving city, with remnants of renovated or rebuilt buildings rising from the ruins of the earthquake. The Napier earthquake did not only affect Napier, but the whole of the Hawkes Bay, and Hastings was just as affected. The Art Deco buildings that survived or were subsequently built, have not been maintained or treasured to the same extent of those in Napier, but Hastings is still worth a look, even if only to visit the clothing boutiques and we wooed by the sales racks as I was. 

From here we drove across to Clive, on the river of the same name, and parked up in the Evers-Swindell Reserve (named for the Olympic awarded rowing twins) and after browsing the Saturday Herald, set off on foot along one of the many many cycling paths that crisscross the more populated parts of Hawkes Bay. We crossed the Clive River and set off along the path toward the Pakowhai Regional Park, along the western shore of the Clive estuary then up the southern bank of the Ngaruroro River. We encountered signs that warned us to stay on the paths given that duck shooters were out in force for the season. We did hear some ducks that would have done better to stay silent, and watched hawks swoop about the flood plain of the river. We encountered quite a few cyclists, and fewer walkers, but limited our walking to just less than two hours, perhaps covering the modest distance of seven kilometres. We are in poor physical condition; I could use the excuse of colds we are nursing but would be more honest to say we have been slothful for too long and should do something about it.

The road that took us back to camp, and those all about, pass through pear and fig orchards, apple orchards where often there are piles of surplus fruit lying unpicked on the ground. Sweet corn crops in this area have been harvested, although further north up the coast they stood dry and golden awaiting their fate. And all about are the autumnal shades of exotic trees which never cease to entrance this daughter of the dense dark green New Zealand evergreen forests.

We came away from the Hawkes Bay the following day, heading toward Taupo up and over the steep and broken land that lies between the coast and the centre of the country; it is some years since we took this route ; this is yet another of the many roads that cut through the wild hinterland of this country where one wonders at the skill and bravery of those first road surveyors, although one should never dismiss the fact that most of these roads followed old foot paths of the earlier inhabitants, or at least in part. 

Arriving on the shores of Lake Taupo, we lunched on the lake shore at Five Mile Bay Recreation reserve; a DOC camp, although for us it has only ever been a spot to pull into for lunch or a cuppa. Today we were amazed at the number of motorhomes parked up obviously intent on overnighting. From here one has a distant view of the mountains of the central plateau and the expansive lake surface. 

We drove into Taupo and decided that early May was a decidedly nicer time to visit this otherwise incredibly busy resort town. We dumped then did a pile of laundry, before heading a little north to our next camp, this at the National Equestrian Centre just above the Waikato River and the Aratiatia rapids.

The next morning we woke to 7 degree temperatures and fog that obscured all the buildings that make up the Centre. We left in time to observe the release of the Aratiatia dam, the first timed for 10 am. This occurs three times a day, or at least at this time of the year, the gates open for around fifteen minutes.

The Aratiatia Power Station was the first hydro-electric power station on the Waikato River, opened in 1964. With so many hydro dams along the river between Taupo and Hamilton, it is easy to forget the geology of the terrain, now mostly hidden under lakes formed in the construction of the dams since that date. But standing on the road bridge adjacent to the Aratiatia dam, the course of the original river below is narrow and rugged, and it is when that fifteen minutes of water is allowed to follow its natural course that one is reminded of the true force of nature.

We walked to a view point someway below the dam, but high enough to be well out of harm’s way, and watched as the great rock pools filled and overflowed, bursting down the narrow channels, once more the rapids which surely must rival the Huka Falls further upstream.

I had contacted my sister who lives a little out of Rotorua, hoping to catch up with her, either at her home or at a mutually convenient rendez-vous spot, but unfortunately she was unwell so we continued on through to the city of Rotorua. It was about midday when we arrived; we made our way to the lakeshore and dined while observing the thousands of birds that call the lake home;  scaup and the New Zealand dabchick the most interesting although more common duck and geese species, the inevitable seagulls and cormorants also enjoy this inland watery refuge. Here from the boat launching spot at the end of Hatupatu Drive behind the Government Gardens, there are lovely views back to the city and at this time of the year, with the trees  dressed in their autumnal cloaks, quite stunning.

We called into the shopping mall in the city and contributed to the city’s coffers; groceries and clothes extracted from the shops shelves. 

Then we headed north again up over the Mamaku Ranges toward Hamilton, turning off at Cambridge and making our way through the life style holdings to our park over property at Tamahere. Here we stayed at a charming little spot we have patronised before, guarded by the ugliest friendly little dogs you can imagine, set amongst beautiful golden trees amid piles of discarded leaves. 

The next morning we set off yet again, this time for Hamilton to call briefly on my cousin, Pam. While a mere five days older than I, she is not as able as I, hampered by past injury and all the handicaps that can follow that. It is such encounters that remind one how fortunate I am; “there but for the grace of god, go I”.

Our last stretch was on through almost to Whangarei, just short of three hundred kilometres. We stopped at Mercer, where the Waikato River turns west toward the sea, we lunched and refuelled with diesel at a ridiculous price. We had deliberately chosen to refuel here, south of the Auckland region, to avoid the extra 10 cents a litre that the good folk of Auckland have to pay over and above everyone else in this country, to cover the enormous on-going cost of roads in their region. Alas it seems that Mercer has been scooped into the same equation, to capture all those who try to avoid that surcharge, although I do accept that we might have to eat our words when we receive our fuel account with the club discounts showing. 

Our last night was spent overnighting at the Waipu Caledonian Park, where the famous Waipu Games are held every New Year’s Day. The association supplements its income by allowing NZMCA members to camp within the grounds paying the very fair $15 on electricity, a tariff that matches many of the park over properties we had stayed at over the previous week or so. The Park backs on to the main street of this pleasant little village, and is within easy walking distance to the excellent museum which I was keen to revisit. However now we were close to home and various matters had become more pressing, if only for their physical proximity, the museum and the other charming features of Waipu would have to wait. 

And so we are now home again, or at least back at our interim “home” until we move back into our house. I suspect my next post will be made sometime after that return, when we have had time to lift our heads and head away for respite from the renovation work that must surely arise.