17 January 2019 - Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

The good weather has continued for some time and we have made the most of it. On New Year’s Day, rising as normal, not having bothered to see the old year out, we headed back into Whangarei, parking at the edge of the A H Reed Park and walked up to the Whangarei  Falls, the most attractive approach to this city-famous tourist attraction. A walk along the Hatea River, much of it through lovely native bush is far more aesthetically pleasing than a drive up through Tikipunga. We were pleased to find that many tourists had already been alerted to this and were sharing the route with us. Parking up at the top of the Falls is asking for trouble; many of the locals have light fingers.

The A H Reed Memorial Park is a remnant of an original kauri forest and here one can walk across a canopy walkway, across a deep gully populated by massive totaras and more modest kauri trees. Kiekie climb up toward the tree tops and nikau palms crowd the sides of the creek. 

The 2.1 kilometre path up to the falls is the same that takes walkers and cyclists all the way from the Onerahi Foreshore, into the city along the wider part of the Hatea River, that part which could be mistaken for an estuary, then up through Mair Park and on up to the falls. Development of this has taken all the years I have lived in Whangarei, since 1983, but has been worth the wait.

The 26.3 metre Falls themselves have been a tourist destination for far longer than that, and are worth checking out, even in periods of lower flow like the day we called, and even better in the middle of heavy rainfall. I remember just a few years ago being quite frightened by the surge of water over the top of the falls, access to the base denied by the flow. Alas in the last week, two people have lost their lives here; these are best to be viewed than played in.

The entrance to the A H Reed Memorial Park has been smartened up since we were last there, and a large sign tells the visitor all about A H Reed, who was English born, but grew up in New Zealand gaining fame as a publisher, author, entrepreneur and philanthropist. I remember many of our school texts on geography and Maori culture (such as we were offered in those days) was published by this scion. However nowhere does it actually suggest what link Whangarei specifically had to Alfred Reed, except for the fact that the Whangarei County Council voted unanimously to name the park after him in 1957, just a few years before I was to become acquainted with his school texts.

We lingered a week or so here at Parua Bay while we worked our way through the bureaucracy of having power connected, most of it mumbo jumbo because the hard work was completed by my husband who dug the trench which the electrician in turn laid the cables. Fortunately Chris was on hand to assist the tradesman when he arrived; this very able man was short of his original leg albeit quite agile with his prosthetic.

We hung about even longer and spent our idle days putting together a kitset garden shed, eventually erected snugly into the bush, after several interesting discussions regarding the interpretation of the instructions, complicated by the fact the pictorial instructions differed from the words in the text.

Finally we came away from Whangarei, the water tanks full, the waste tanks empty and the diesel tank bursting with gold, or at least that is the impression one gets these days with the inflated cost of this black gold. We called into my mother’s for morning tea, making sure she understood we were only were away for a couple of days, then headed south joining the queues of holidaymakers heading back toward Auckland. Fortunately our itinerary took us inland less than ten kilometres south of the city and we continued on in that general direction through Mangapai and followed the old rail line as much as the road allows, through Mareretu, emerging on to Highway 12 at Paparoa, pulling into a little park by the old historic landing, from where we checked out this little rural settlement at the end of an inlet of the Kaipara Harbour.

The inland road is certainly not a fast route, but travels through wonderful rural landscapes; we particularly enjoyed the agapathus growing along the roadside near residences (the next “noxious weed” to fall foul of the Council, l  am sure) and the many hawks rising from their road kill feasts of possum, pukeko and rabbit as we drove past. Swallows darted across our path and everything was well in the world, or at least in our little part of it.

The Kaipara Harbour warrants many days exploration, parts of which we have delved in the past, but more latterly considering a history information cruise to hear the full story, albeit one man’s view. Such cruises do exist; my parents took one a few years back and waxed lyrical on its merit for weeks thereafter.

The first European settlers arrived in Paparoa in 1862 and were welcomed by the Maori who had called the area home for the previous few hundred years. But the specifics of the Maori settlement in the immediate environs is a confusing one; up on the hill above Paparoa are the archeologically excavated remains of a Pa site, long abandoned and not part of written or oral history, either Pakeha or Maori. And this far down the track, it is highly unlikely that anyone will ever be able to slot the village’s past into local history. Such is the problem of pre-European history when nothing was recorded in writing.

The Landing here at Paparoa is an important part of the area’s colonial history; when logging began in 1886, it was here that kauri logs were stored ready for rafting to sawmills. The tidal stream was the arterial arm for shipping in provisions the nine kilometres from Pahi (that settlement with the massive fig tree that has featured somewhere back in this blog) and where the steamers unloaded chattels and supplies of local storekeepers.

We wandered up through the village, a surprising collection of shops and services clustered in the hollow. The old National Bank squeezed into a triangular intersection appears to be now a private residence, another nearby residence of dubious quality is surrounded by a fabulously colourful garden and on Saturdays a small but vibrant farmers’ market covers the little green opposite the shops. Here one can spent absurd amounts on homemade tarts, coffee, plants, vegetables, et cetera. Even by midday the prices did not seem to have been reduced; perhaps the vendors prefer to take the unsold items home for personal use rather than diminish their own mana by discounting prices for quick sale.

After enjoying the peace and shade of our little picnic spot, we headed on, now traveling westward on Highway 12, across to Ruawai at the mouth of the Wairoa River, then nor’north west toward Dargaville. We pulled on to the side of the road near Tokatoka, where that strange shaped peak rises above the otherwise flat Wairoa kumara growing river flats, noting not for the first time, the amazing cloud formations. It was exactly here some years ago, when we still had our Winnebago motorhome, that we had stopped to marvel at the “silver fern” in the sky. (I will duplicate the photo here because it really was quite amazing.)

Poor old Dargaville doesn’t seem to improve much, although I suspect those who live here would dispute this criticism. But we were impressed by the new NZMCA motorhome park-over-property at the confluence of the Kaihu and Wairoa Rivers. The area is expansive, flat and so very handy to the centre of the town, which if you were of a mind to dine out, offers a few ethnic restaurants and a Club establishment right on the river’s edge. In normal Clarke style and in the interests of avoiding paid employment, we self-catered.

The following day we left the site promptly, the sun shining and the day promising more of the absolutely gorgeous weather we had been recently enjoying, and headed northwards for thirty or so kilometres, before turning into the Kaiiwi Lakes and more specifically the Taharoa Domain, the reserve covering an area of 538 hectares. The lakes are reputedly New Zealand’s largest dune lakes, and are an absolute Mecca for sun and water aficionados from Whangarei to Auckland and plenty of places between. The camp was bursting at the seams, and at $25 a head for the privilege of cold water and no electricity, better enjoyed in the off season.

Although it is now that Lake Taharoa is such an attractive swimming proposition, even for those like us who are lucky if we average one swim a year.

This particular lake has a maximum depth of thirty seven metres, but a wide edge of shallow water lying over the pure white sand, allowing the water temperature at this time of the year to be quite delightful. Or at least it would have been if there had not been the cooling breeze to offer relief to those sitting out of the water perving at the assortment of bodies making their way in for a swim. I make this statement as someone who does exactly that; marvels at the size, shape and immodesty of would-be swimmers in the summertime. It is at such times I could almost sympathise with the Moslems and their burka mentality.

We arrived at the Domain before 10 am, in time to see the changing of the guard, or one week’s campers leaving for the onslaught of the next. The day area has been massively increased since we were last there, and while we were able to drive around until we found a suitably flat area, we were soon hedged in by the rows and rows of cars that had brought the day trippers. We lazed about most of the day, venturing into the water with our wobbly white skin clad in our rarely used togs in the early afternoon, but were otherwise just happy to enjoy the wide open sky, the clean blue lake waters and the regenerating forest. 

Fifteen years ago, or maybe less, we came with our camper trailer, or maybe it was with the caravan, when we still had our youngest at home, and camped here below the towering pine trees. Later the trees were all milled, including those on the hills above the camp and for years, the Domain was an eyesore albeit still about these lovely lakes. Now the scrub and young native trees have some hold and if you had never been here in those pine-tree years, you would never guess at the wildly different scene. 

On our way out a little before 4 pm, we encountered a young chap broken down on the side of the road. With no cellphone coverage here we thought we’d better offer our assistance. Given that we had no socket set to offer, all we could do was alert the garage out at Kaihu Valley and ask them to send assistance. This we did endeavour, however the young Indian woman at the counter busy selling ice-creams explained that there were no mechanics working on a Sunday, but she would ring through to Dargaville. We only hope she was able to raise some sort of help, or a spanner set toting traveller also stopped and offered better practical help than we were able to.

Back in Dargaville, we returned to last night’s camp site although exact position was taken; such is the disadvantage of a motorhome versus a caravan. And then the next morning, we left beneath scattered showers and headed back to Whangarei, a mere forty five kilometres to the west on a less interesting road than that which we had travelled two days before. However we did remark that the Northland countryside is quite lovely and all the better for having been absent for a while. When one is living in an area, just getting on with the business of living and working, one rarely appreciates the beauty beneath one’s feet.

This afternoon the sun has finally emerged from behind the clouds and the solar panels are drinking in the free energy, thus I can compose and post without the guilt of bleeding the batteries. Hopefully next week we will be connected to the national grid.

This morning the wind was quite fierce and to my delight as I was down the hill plucking young bracken fern for the rubbish heap, a wood pigeon cavorted in the updrafts above me. It would seem that this one was not taught by his mother that wood pigeons do not “cavort” or “have fun” in the wind. Flying is meant only from getting from A to B, not for the delighting of humans.