28 November 2016 - Ruatiti Domain, Ruapehu District

Our brief stay on the Seabird Coast was as enjoyable as ever. In fact I slept better than I had for a week. The following morning the Coromandel coast line remained obscured by haze across the stretch of water, although when we left, the tide was well out and the oyster catchers and other shore birds were quite distant as they picked their way through the shell fish left by the receding sea. 

And speaking of receding, it had occurred to us as we sat over our dinner the night before that we were very vulnerable there at sea level, particularly with the earthquake activity going on all around us, albeit further down the country. We spoke of the route we would take should tsunami sirens rouse us from our sleep, but realised that we would probably not make high ground in time to avoid being swept away in the rogue waves. But this was all supposition, scaremongering, and the next earthquakes of any consequence were to occur after we had moved on the next morning; one of 7.4 magnitude off the east coast of Japan’s Honshu far to the north and several more at 4.5 magnitude near the first of a week ago just out of Culverdon.

By now we had learned that my uncle had indeed died, a blessing for him but great sadness for his immediate family and my mother, his beloved little sister. Our hovering about the region was to pay off; we would be able to attend his funeral with no inconvenience to our travel plans. We liaised with our daughter in Waihi Beach to arrange a mutually suitable visit and headed generally in that direction, on down toward Ngatea, still following the Seabird Coast, on past the hot springs at Miranda which we briefly considered calling into. In fact for a minute or few, we were quite excited at the prospect of wallowing in the warm waters without the weekend crowds, but when we checked out the entry price, we decided $28 was a bit steep for an hour long swim.

We joined the Thames road at Waitakaruru, then immediately turned south on one of the many dead straight roads that intersect the drained dairy farms of the Hauraki Plains, following  the line of the equally straight drains, tidal canals only navigable very near the Firth. At Ngatea, we pulled into the council offices, behind which are dump and water facilities, toilets and numerous parking spots today filled with whizz-bang camper vans. This has become far more popular for the budget tourists in the last year, probably since the councils have started enforcing their freedom camping bylaws. Hats off to the Hauraki Council for providing these locations for campers, where they can be regulated and the waste and chaos that has been exercised in the past by these freewheeling “campers”, confined. I put “campers” in inverted commas because so many are simply travellers sleeping rough in cars, hardly “self-contained”.

Paeroa scenes

We arrived in Paeroa early enough to secure a power point in one of the Hauraki Council’s camping spots. Nowadays one pays the required $5 to the Caltex Service Station across the road, an incredibly reasonable rate for the facility. Here there is a dump, water and a big toilet block, beside which there is now a large recycling rubbish bin. Of course Paeroa has become a destination for cyclists who want to ride the rail trail, the further extent of which we saw under development earlier in the day, up past Waitakaruru. It is also a popular overnight spot for those same sort of travellers we saw at Ngatea. We were able to have printing done at the library, and whilst there, picked up five more books to add to our now own bulging in-house library, discards at $1 each, which will serve well as swaps as we travel further afield, after we have read them ourselves.

Chris had his hair cut, we picked up fresh provisions and after lunch went for a long walk along the rail trail, then up Primrose Hill from where there are lovely views over the township, then back to the other end of town.

The next morning, with batteries now topped up with mains power, we headed through the beautiful Karangahape and Waikino Gorges to Waihi, and on down to the coast to where Larissa and her family live. We stayed at the Waihi Beach RSA Club, our now regular stopover place, and that night patronised the restaurant in style, with our entire Waihi Beach family joining us for dinner. How delightful it was to have such grown up grandchildren join us and to participate in the table conversation.

Together with our older grandchildren

The following morning we headed on down to Tauranga, passing through Katikati where we dealt with a few administration matters. Clouds lay along the top of the Kaimai Range, some looking like a draped shawl and some looking more like a great expanse of snow laden ski fields. This road is familiar to us, having travelled it over the years, and yet we were still surprised by the development that had taken place through this horticultural landscape since last passing through.

We found a spot down on the seashore, close to the city at Memorial Park, and from there walked up into the city to attend a movie, “The Founder”, that about the genesis of the McDonalds chain of fast food restaurants. While this production does not warrant an Academy Nomination, it was most interesting to learn the commercial history of this great giant of American commerce.

That night we parked up at the NZMCA Park at Tauriko, a few kilometres up the road toward Hamilton; this too a familiar secure spot and sat the folloing morning out, reading and readying ourselves for my uncle’s celebration of life.

Funerals are always sad; sad for the widow, for the children, the siblings and grandchildren, the closest friends, probably in that order, but after that, mainly because they are simply funerals. I have attended funerals of industry colleagues, relations of clients, friends and family of friends, and every time I am overcome with grief during the service, often having had little to do with these people on a personal level. It is simply hysterical emotion, no less real to the sufferer, the woman wiping her tears away, but confusing from an analytical way. My very tall Uncle Ron had not featured hugely in my life; a visitor to my childhood home when my sisters and I used to pull his skinny toes sticking out beyond the bedclothes at the end of our single bed, a kindly uncle who brought us all back stuffed koala bears from his first trip to Australia in abut 1961, a fellow traveller with his lovely wife on a family canoe trip down in the Wanganui River in about 2001 and later part of the family group who shared our honeymoon in 2003. But the older generation have their time to share in these adventures with the younger generation, and a time to leave life to us all and those generations that are lining up behind us. It was kinder that he went earlier with his stroke than suffer a prolonged painful cancer.

Worst and saddest of all was the fact that in such a wonderful gathering of family, cousins met only on such occasions, my hearing did not allow quality sharing of life’s experiences. Perhaps it is not only I who should be lining up for a hearing aid, as my husband is currently doing.

We left Tauranga the day after this unplanned family gathering, staying another night at the Tauriko Park, and headed to Hamilton, catching up with my cousin, Pam, with whom I have more recently reconnected with. This is a shameful fact; that I should have kept my distance for so many decades during her life’s trials; rehabilitation, grief and loneliness. It is only since I have been back from Australia and the two of us, only nine days apart and both over sixty, that I have made any effort to do so. And given that it is I who has the mobility and resources, I admit all fault. After such a grovelling confession, I can report that we spent a very pleasant two hours in her company before heading south again.

We had been amazed to find ourselves bypassing Cambridge on the new expressway, and the next day after we left our hosts’ little lifestyle block park over property near Mystery Creek,  similarly amazed by the massive housing developments on the south edge of Te Awamutu. Otorohanga was buzzing, even on a Sunday; stalls lined the pavements outside shops which would otherwise not be open, and the crowds of punters were busy spending their spare cash. We turned off Highway 4 at the south end of Te Kuiti’s Rora Street, and took the direct southerly route which would otherwise take you across the volcanic plateau through Mangakino to Taupo or Rotorua.

Lunch spot in the Mangaokewa Reserve

The Mangaokewa Reserve accessed beneath the rail viaduct just a couple of kilometres south of Te Kuiti is a lovely picnicking spot, and even in the heavy rain, a good spot to pull into for lunch. We have stayed here a couple of times, a fact I have referred to before, as I have also suggested that I would not wish to do so late in the week or over the weekend when the nasty natives come out to play. But this day, even with the rain obviously set in for the duration, there were several hikers setting off over the swing bridge to head some way up the Te Araroa track.

After lunch we continued on through beautiful green farmland, passing the large block that my father had managed at Puketutu nearly fifty years ago, on to Kopaki where we farmed for some years, although the little school, all that is left of the “township”, was only mine for a little over a term. The post office and the railway houses that were once camp to the Fijian Indians my father had to scrub-cut are all long gone, and now high pines block any extended view of our old house high on the hill which once overlooked the valley. The farm looks much better these days than it did in our years of occupation, but then those were the days of breaking in the land and my parents sold the farm in the early seventies.

We carried on, returning to the main southern highway, Highway 3, north of Mapiu and drove up and down through the steep land that surrounds the Ongarue River, finally arriving in Taumaranui, Alighting from the camper, I recalled it had also  been a Sunday last time we had called, and the intervening years had made little difference. Then there had not been the rain to deter the losers to sit and slouch about the street, or their accompanying dogs to threaten us as we made our way about. But even so, neither of us could bear to settle in Taumaranui, even on a quiet wet day. Having said that, we were greeted warmly in the Information Centre and offered advice we sought, and later when we drifted into the 4 Square, the Indian proprietor aided by her toddler son, could not have been more pleasant as we purchased our bottle of Shiraz, a small celebration to mark the real beginning of our southern trip, because from here on in, we had no set route or schedule planned. 

We spent the night at the NZMCA Park at Piriaka, about ten kilometres to the south, again tried and true, and like all such park-over spots, secure. But still the rain did not stop.

This morning we left before 8 am, having been woken by keen working bee folk, scraping the weeds from the concrete, with square mouthed shovels. The day was an improvement on yesterday, so we were keen to make the most of it. We continued on south, passing National Park Village, from where there should have been views of Mt Ruapehu, but today all three of the mountains were all heavily shrouded in rain cloud. 

On through Horopito we went, where the wrecker’s yard recently featured in “Hunt for the Wilderpeople” and before that in various New Zealand productions,  is to be found. The good folk who collect and dispense the junk piled within the fenced yard, were also those who rescued us many years ago when the suspension collapsed in our caravan and the wheel came up through the floor. Now that was an adventure and whenever we pass Horopito we reminisce. 

We pulled into the layby to check out the memorial to the Last Spike, where the north and southbound railway construction workers joined their rail sections on 6 November 1908 and where the prime minister of the day Sir Joseph Ward struck the last spike to mark the occasion. This day I took a photo but somehow it has mysteriously disappeared from my camera. However it was not the monument itself that appealed but the acres of flowering bright yellow broom.

Further south, we noted the fine rich soils all ready to receive the next crop of carrots and the cluster of buildings surrounded by vegetable crates; most of our carrots come from this region around Ohakune. Soon after we turned eastward, onto the road that takes one through to Waiouru to join Highway 1, but instead we pulled into Ohakune and walked about, between showers, and shopped for a few fresh provisions, dumped and sought further advice from the friendly folk there.

The Manganui-o-te-ao River

Then on across to Raetahi where we attempted a rain free wander up and down the very wide main street, that sporting innumerable empty street-fronted buildings and not having improved one bit since our last visit. This once had been a thriving country town, and The Place to shop when my grandparents raised their family in the area. Even the recent construction of the nearby cycleway has done nothing to improve its fortunes.

With little to hold us here, we turned a little north again, then west onto the Ruatiti – Mangapurua Road, a narrow sealed rod that takes one through to the track through to Mangapurua, that planned for the morrow, weather permitting. The road is winding and a maintenance nightmare, but very picturesque, particularly as it follows along the papa cliff banks of the Manganui o te ao River. Seventeen kilometres in on this road, having now come onto gravel, we arrived at the entrance to the Ruatiti Domain, a spot we have stayed before, but then during the busy summer holidays. Today it would seem there will only be two parties staying overnight.

Once this river provided a navigable route through to the Whanganui River, into which it flows, however these days one would be hard pressed to canoe through the rocks and rapids. 

Our camp at the Ruatiti Domain

The Domain was set aside in 1952 as a local purpose reserve and has been used for everything from grazing to a gravel quarry, however in 1990 it was re-gazetted as a recreational reserve and has such has become a popular summer camping and holiday spot. There are toilets, although pretty primitive, and one should be advised to bring one’s own paper for that particular purpose. There is a pack in-pack out policy, which means no waste facilities are provided, but the natural features are spectacular. The reserve is like a peninsula surrounded by the river, high papa cliffs on the outer banks of the river, and the inner camp side banks, clean rounded stones. Kanuka, black beech, manuka and mingi-mingi surround the mown grassed camping areas, and are filled with tomtits, tui, bellbirds, North Island Robins and wood pigeons if the interpretative panels are to be believed. This river is also home to one of the country’s best populations of Whio or Blue Ducks. We did not see any as we wandered along the river banks on our arrival; they are apparently very shy birds. 

21 November 2016 - Rae’s Rest, Seabird Coast, Thames Estuary

Four day’s on and we have progressed south, further than I might have expected when I last added to this blog. 

My father duly arrived back at the Whangarei hospital, and my mother, sister and I traipsed up to check he was in one piece. He looked as good as new, or at least as good as a man of eighty seven can, having had a hard working life. We returned to our respective homes satisfied life could return to normal, so long as he did heed the warning that he was no longer fifty, or forty, and did slow down a little. 

Chris and I called in at their apartment the following day after he was discharged and settled, not staying too long, but long enough to satisfy ourselves we were no longer needed. Alas the news was still not great; my mother’s brother had suffered a stroke and was closer to the end than his existing terminal cancer had suggested. Such news is never cheering no matter what spin is put upon it. 

The third placed Gold Bears: Our grandson far left

Despite all this, we headed off south and spent a good part of the next day at a sports ground in West Auckland, watching our middle grandson play softball, frequently distracted by chatter with our son, his partner and our youngest grandson who had to spend his seventh birthday attending his older brother’s sports tournament. By way of dispensation, his father had taken him out for a couple of hours chasing Pokemon critters, as you do. (I still have no understanding of all that, and should have consulted the birthday boy to find out; instead I spent my time more involved in adult talk).

Toward the Coromandels from Rae's Rest

We left late afternoon and headed to the NZMCA Park at Ardmore, a spot we have frequently made use of. There we swapped a few books; hard copies are so much more user friendly than e-books, don’t you think? Then this morning we shopped at the excellent Pak’s Save supermarket in Takanini and had the chinese man at Manaroa do our laundry. He remembered us from past visits, a fact that delighted us; he is such a gem even if his English requires patient attention.

After lunch we decided to come further south, via the east coast road, round through the charming rural village of Clevedon, on down around the hilly winding roads to Kawakawa Bay, the Hauraki Gulf sparking in the bright sunshine, up and over the slip scarred road immediately to the south, following the Orere Stream toward the sea, past the lovely ARC park of Tapapakanga, and over more hills past the scene of our Isuzu accident of many years ago. (Then we had taken part in a 4WD course, up into farmland on the side of the Hunuas, and on our descent encountered slippery clay tracks, and slipped right over the edge and slid to the bottom, fortunately caught up in a fence. Rescue had been by winches and we, with the rest of the party, had been detoured through a neighbouring far on a safer route. Amazingly the damage was superficial, apart from one wheel being rather munted and requiring replacement. Olly and I had been shaken while my dear husband had remained staunch. But that must have been more than fifteen years ago and I digress).

View north toward Kaiaua

This afternoon we came on down to the western shore of the Firth of Thames, the mussel beds bobbing about in the white horses. The shoreline was bright and white in contrast to the blue-green of the sea, the flame trees already out while the pohutukawas still struggling to bloom this far south. The road hugs the shoreline all the way to Miranda, this area known as the Seabird Coast. North of Whakatiwai, the slips were more recent and council machinery and staff were busy clearing the way through. This route from Clevedon to Kaiaua must indeed be a nightmare for the Keepers of the Roads.

We paused at Kaiaua and used the public conveniences, briefly considering we stay the night by the boat ramp, all within walking distance of the Fish’n Chip shop, rubbish facilities and toilets, but instead elected to continue further on to this familiar camp site, available only to fully self-contained campers, with absolutely no facilities, but isolation and peace, apart from the other motorhomes seeking the same, the whistling wind and a small group of students who were frolicking on the beach when we arrived. The latter have now gone and we are left only with the wind and an obscured view of the Coromandels across the Firth, but I would have it no other way.  

17 November 2016 - Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

On Wednesday morning we readied ourselves for our departure. All loose chattels secure, buttons pushed and pegs on blinds (to limit the rattling while en route), I telephoned my friend who had again offered to accommodate our Isuzu; no answer. We decided to drive on up to their property, tuck the vehicle away in its corner and drop the key and a note somewhere safe. Moments before take-off, my phone rang; that would be Liz getting back to me. But no, it was my mother ringing from the doctor’s surgery car park in distress. My father had had a heart attack and was being taken by ambulance to the hospital. We dropped everything and hurried to her.

The day turned life upside down, although not in an entirely negative way; the worst could have occurred. We gathered in the A&E department at the hospital, to learn that my father was to be airlifted by helicopter to Auckland Hospital, my sister accompanying him, while my mother travelled south with Chris and I chauffeuring her in her car, a smarter and more comfortable vehicle than our twenty year old Isuzu. 

We found my father and sister in the labyrinths of the city’s hospital, already attended by a nephew who works in the city and had been able to hurry to his grandfather’s side. My other sister from Rotorua and her youngest daughter were on their way north, so finally we all assembled in the (fortunately) large sterile room, while my father held court from his bed, tubes and wires dangling, monitors and graphs all proving there was much life in the patriarch yet.

As the afternoon wore on, we were to learn that it wasn’t this, or that, or the other, but possibly something else that sounded rather odd, however all would be correctly revealed the next morning when the consultant and her entourage did their rounds.

And so we all retired to our various accommodation, my sisters, niece and mother all having secured beds in the Domain Lodge which caters firstly for out-of-Auckland patients undergoing treatment for cancer and then tops up with all-comers such as our crew. But alas there was no more room at the inn for gypsies; we were referred to a B&B hotel in nearby Parnell which proved to be an absolute gem. From there we were able to walk up into Parnell, buy a bottle of red at the local store from the Indian proprietors then dine in a recently opened Indian restaurant a little way down the hill. The next morning we learned that the Lodged family had ordered in pizzas and spent a wonderful evening catching up. 

Back up in the ward, we found my father much perkier, as well rested as one can be, woken every hour or so for signs of life. We spent over an hour enjoying each other’s company, with our laughter and chatter surely disturbing the folk down the corridor. This was a rare opportunity for my parents to have their three daughters under the one ceiling, a first since early 2008; there was the silver lining to this drama after all.

The consultant, exuding confidence and professional competence, finally arrived with her own support group, and viewed the six extras with surprised acceptance; we were after all, from the north and the central thermal area, homes to Nga Pui and Te Arawa, people who arrive by bus and camp on the floor of the hospital room of their sick members. We had the decency to sit on the two chairs and window sill out of the way.

After fifty questions and gentle probing and poking, she announced that my father had not suffered a heart attack after all, but was suffering a condition called pericarditis, inflammation of the two thin layers of sac-like tissue that surround the heart. While painful, it rarely causes death. This was all good news. The patient could be transferred back to his local hospital and return home once the pain issues were dealt with. Rather than the exciting helicopter ride, he would be transported north by ambulance later in the day, when a back load (human rather than freight) could be arranged.

We all set off, Cindy and her daughter back to Rotorua, and we four Northlanders on the road to Whangarei. Half way back we received a call from the hospital to advise that there was no bed available in Whangarei, so Dad would have to stay another night in Auckland. It was unfortunate that we had proceeded so far; Mum was adamant we continue on.

And so as I write this, my father lies in a hospital bed hitched up to medical machinery over two hundred kilometres away, but safely away from the claws of death, my mother wanders about her apartment eating an abbreviated dinner as women do when they are left alone and we are back in our motorhome out at Parua Bay, wondering what the days ahead will hold. We may delay our departure until early next week by which time my father should have stabilised and my mother free of anxiety. 

But then we have no deadlines, and now, as the daily reports flow in from the disaster areas in the South Island, and even from the capital city at the base of the North Island, the details of our three month trip away from Whangarei remain in limbo.

15 November 2016 Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

We have been back in the area for a few days now, although will be heading off tomorrow, once again on the road. The intervening days have seen us ticking off a long list of tasks to be completed but more memorably, living through days that will most likely embed themselves in our memory. 

Yesterday we rose to news of another major earthquake in the South Island, our oldest grandson’s fourteenth birthday and news that our youngest granddaughter had broken her leg in a trampolining accident.

Later we called into the bank and learned from another harbourside dweller that the tsunami siren had sounded at 1am and most had rolled over and gone back to sleep. I was a little more aware; I woke to the sound of a dog barking in the distance, got up to relieve myself and heard some idiot’s burglar alarm going off. It went on and on and I cursed it as I drifted back into sleep. It is just as well our possie here on Jumbo is well elevated from any real threat of seismic deluge.

The magnitude 7.5 earthquake, 15 kilometres northeast of Culverden in the South Island, struck at a depth of fifteen kilometres. Since then it has been variously described as the third worst earthquake in New Zealand during the last century, as well as being the worst. I guess it depends which seismologist is being interviewed, however all of that is academic to those in Kaikoura who are currently cut off from the world with the coastal road north and south of them, the only access in and out. Likewise those living in Blenheim and Wellington to name the more major settlements north of the earthquake centre are despaired at the mess of broken glass all about them; their windows, jars of preserves, mirrors, ornaments, just chaos. And all the while the aftershocks continue. Apparently the first biggy was felt from Invercargill in the south to Whangarei in the north; perhaps it was that and not the barking dog that woke me the night before last?

On a purely selfish level, we do wonder at the logistics of our planned trip to Christchurch and beyond when State Highway One is currently closed between Seddon and Waipara. Today we learned the Lewis Pass had reopened however the ferries are still in limbo since their loading structures were damaged in the quake. Obviously we will have to take one day at a time and deal with our visiting in the North Island first and review our plans as we travel further south.

In the meantime, we have had the belt on the Isuzu repaired again; the vehicle is no longer an embarrassment to drive, and the water pump in the camper has been replaced and seems to be functioning as it should.