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 19th 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 50th 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”.
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.
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?
