It had been my intention, well intended, to add to this
every few weeks or so, but life seems to have proved more difficult than
expected, only in so far as settling back to what many would call “normal”.
It is now more than four years since I retired, which in itself was
a major concession to my married life, although I did not regret in doing so.
And then life became so very busy simply dealing in the first instance with
planning our great OE and then the actual “doing”; a year or so’s under-taking
that consumed our entire lives for the following three years.
Settling into an equilibrium of retirement, sharing a small
few square metres with my beloved of now twenty years 24/7 has required
adjustment; far more than I had expected. Along with this has come the changed
physical environment; electricity rationing and changed telecommunications, all
of which have taken time to accept and adjust to.
Hopefully, for my own selfish purposes, I will have more
time and opportunity to write, a pastime I enjoy enormously, no matter the
merit in doing so.
We spent the first part of April residing in a “community
village”; a collection of ramshackle caravans and slightly better cabins
housing an amazing two hundred and twenty folk, many of whom would be out on the
street if it were not for such a place a this offering affordable lodging.
Throughout our travels in Australia, we encountered many
caravan parks which relied on the regular income from similar types, and most
were caravan parks past their use-by dates, now mainly home to permanents. But
this one has its very own personality and I will try to paint a word picture if
I can.
If one travels north on the southern motorway, soon after
passing the Papakura off-ramp, then crossing one of the many mangrove lined
causeways, you cannot fail to note the long wooden paled fence decorated with simplistic
camping icons; tepee tents and such like. It would not be unreasonable to guess
that there was a camping ground nearby to rest the weary wheels of your
travelling rig. And if you have an old Auckland map as I do, you will find the
appropriate symbol marked between the Great South Road and this inlet of the
Manukau Harbour. But key “camping ground” into your Tomtom, or Google the same,
and this will not be found.
There is a Top 10 in Manukau that charges $43.20 a night if
you qualify for a NZMCA discount and the wonderful Auckland Regional Park at
Ambury out past Mangere where your stay in the pukeko populated paddock is
limited and without power. There is a pub at Drury which welcomes overnighting campers
and another wonderfully clean camping ground down in Ramarama so I am told, but
for cost and proximity to our work, the Te Mahia Community Village ticked the
boxes when it comes to simply practical needs at a sensible price. We paid $130
a week to park our wheels and those of the Isuzu and trailer. For that we had
water and waste facilities alongside, showers and toilets not too far away
although few of the cubicle doors shut properly and there are holes in some of
the walls, regular rubbish removal, 24 hour security and very friendly
neighbours. Most were islanders, although there was a fair share of Maori and we
were not the only whities .Many looked like they had come here down on their
luck and never rustled up enough get-up-and-go to move on. Most live in rundown
caravans, the white paint worn and scuffed, the entry doors re-hinged with gate
or cupboard fasteners and hung badly, all are plumbed in to allow for
rudimentary washing facilities which probably accounts for the fact that the
bathroom facilities are never crowded despite the population.
The resident
children are happy souls, enjoying the company of their peers after school and on
the weekends, the mothers of young children gather outside their vans on the
pallet verandahs, smoking and exchanging as much as babies and busy toddlers
allow. The maintenance crew are surprisingly hardworking, well on in years, but
not afraid to wield an axe or spade; they planted our section of the park out
in yuccas in just a day and their application and energy was indeed something
to behold.
On arrival I had remarked to my older son that it felt as if
we had been teleported into a village in Tonga or the like; he suggested I
weave a “kete” to gather pipis in, but I was far too busy for that.
I filled my days walking to the local markets, cooking, catching
up with administration matters that had been long neglected and learning to use
my new computer.
If you do find this centre on Trade Me, as I did when I went
looking, then you will also find some very flattering photos, but I would
caution the faint hearted from staying. One day when I was busy with laundry, I
noticed a great tribe of smartly dressed people flooding the park; Seventh Day
Adventist missionaries always give themselves away. I thought I had avoided any
encounter however was mistaken. On returning to the motorhome I found a couple
of pleasant folk a little older than myself standing by the door. “Is this
yours?” they asked. They offered me a small invitation to a meeting in a more
salubrious part of town; I glanced at it then handed it back, thanking them but
telling them that I was an atheist. “Oh, no, you are not,” said the gentleman, to
whom I replied, “Oh, yes, I am!” and then steered the conversation away to
other matters.
They were particularly interested in why I was here and how
much it cost. “Was I not scared to be here?” asked the primly dressed woman. I
assured her that everyone was very friendly, and that I was not at all afraid
to be here. She obviously was and would not have come near the place had there
not been an army of Christian Soldiers “marching” about the park with her.
I went off for my regular morning shopping walk and returned
with my bags full about an hour later. As I neared the park, a white van passed
and a hand waved wildly from one of the rear windows; a salute from my SDA
admirer.
On the evening of Tuesday 15th April, we looked
forward to the seeing the Blood Moon. Soon after 6 pm, the moon appeared full
and clear in the sky to the east; delighted to have a front seat view (from our
dining table) we watched the visible area shrink with the Earth’s shade, and
then sadly with cloud cover. Instead we settled for the televised photos from
the US of this rare lunar eclipse.
Although the weather forecasters spelled doom and gloom, the
rain stayed away enough for Chris to complete his work in record time, although
this was partly due to the fact he has delayed the full exterior painting of
one house for a year. And so ended that episode of our stay in this curious
place, until our work demands suggest that we return.
It was soon after this interesting stint in South Auckland
that we made a quick trip to Wellington in pursuit of a boat, or more
particularly a trailer-sailer. When Chris moved to Whangarei way back in the
mid-1990s, he moved his beloved Hartley 18 to Waihi Beach so that his daughter
and her family could make good use of it, because it had spent the last few
years simply taking up space beside his house. So instead it came to live here
at the Beach and took up space on their lawn, slowly falling into disrepair in
the elements, and I do believe that it finally ended its days on a bonfire.
Chris had lamented his choices of gift, or loan, or whatever it had been, over
the intervening years and whenever the cries became too much, I would say, “Well
go and buy another one!” So since our return from Australia he had been
actively checking out TradeMe, touching base with various hopeful vendors and extending
his Watch List on the same website, as one does.
So it was in pursuit of one of these that we set off in the motorhome,
first calling into Taupo to look over a Farr 6000 which failed the test on
various counts, most of which passed over my head although even I could see
there was a fair bit of work required to bring it up to speed. We travelled on
down the eastern side of Lake Taupo, on through the Desert Road, arriving at
Marton in time for Happy Hour. There is a wonderful little NZMCA POP quite
close to the business centre, and today it was full of sociable types, all of
whom were full of the joys of life and most inviting, as we pulled in and found
a place to park in a far corner. We were delighted to meet up with a local who
harked from Gundagai, New South Wales, a delightful rural town we had passed
through during our travels in Australia.
We were away promptly the next morning and on through to
Whitby, just north of Porirua, to check out a Young. The vendor was keen to sell but we were not at all enamoured
by the state of the trailer, or at least towing such a large craft all the way
north to Whangarei. We took photos of the trailer and called at an outfit
specialising in marine trailers and they agreed that it was a pretty
micky-mouse setup. I have to say I was relieved that we were not going to be
travelling all the way back with a great big trailer-sailer under tow.
We stayed a couple of nights in the area, parked up down on
the Ngatitoa Domain Reserve, a lovely spot near the entrance to the Porirua
Harbour, a place we have stayed in the past and popular for those
self-contained travellers passing through the nation’s capital. Apart from
checking out trailer engineering matters and liaising with the disappointed
vendor, we popped south to the centre of Wellington to call at the City Gallery
Wellington where we viewed the work of Turner prize winning artist Simon
Starling, part of a joint project by the Institute of Modern Art, Brisbane, the
Monash University Museum of Art, Melbourne and the gallery here. Some years
back we had come by the City Gallery but found it exhibiting works by Japanese artist,
Yayoi Kusama who is obsessed with spots and circles, queues of people waiting to
pay the entry fee and nothing else. We expected more this time, but came away
disappointed having taken this particular art gallery off the “re-visit of
attractions” list.
Instead we called into the Portrait Gallery along the
waterfront and enjoyed the exhibition there, a collection of works entered for
a competition by very talented artists. We revisited the Art Gallery on the top
floor of Te Papa, most work remembered from earlier visits and appreciated as
much this time as the last.
After our short but interesting cultural visit to the
capital, we travelled north to Fielding, crossing back roads from Shannon,
dissecting highways and byways travelled long ago, and coming upon a piece of
history that caught our attention. The Opiki Toll Bridge sits astride across
the Manawatu River isolated in paddocks, now bypassed by modern roads and
bridges, but was once so much more.
Here was once the 5,900 hectare Makerua Swamp, centre of New
Zealand’s thriving flax industry between 1900 and 1921. More can be learned about this at Foxton’s Flax
Stripper Museum where one can take a tour as we did some years ago. But right
here at the river crossing, were three of about thirty local flax mills; the
Rangitane Mill, the River Mill and the Tane Mill.
Originally men and flax materials crossed the river using a
flying fox, a platform hauled across a wire rope; however increased production
from the three mills made a bridge crossing both necessary and viable. In 1916
a chap by the name of Joseph Dawson was commissioned to design and build a
suspension bridge, one of fifteen to be attributed to him over the years. The
bridge features early and elegant use of reinforced concrete in the 14.6 metre
high towers, the span between each tower 154.4 metres. It is quite a sight, particularly
out of context.
The bridge opened in January 1918 and was used by all three
mills and the local farmers. But then in 1916-17 disease struck the flax plants
and by 1921 the industry was at an end.
Local
farmer, Hugh Ackers purchased the bridge and it became a private toll bridge
from 1925 through to 1969 when the steel and timber deck structure was removed
and the present bridge opened.
This intrigued me because I could not imagine a roadway /
bridge becoming a toll bridge, when it had not been before. Yet strange to say,
just today I read in the newspaper that the idea of placing a toll on the
existing Auckland motorway to cover the burgeoning costs of road transport in
that city, has been put forward as one solution. Would that be any different?
At Fielding we spent the afternoon with friends, far too
long neglected and left promising to catch up again very soon, as you do, then travelled
the relatively short distance back to Marton where we passed another very
pleasant night at that excellent little POP.
The next day we travelled at leisure up to Taupo and spent
the afternoon and night at Taupo’s own NZMCA POP out by the airport, a fair
distance from the hustle and bustle of this lakeside town but a refuge from the
road. After breakfast the next day we hunted out the laundromat in town, familiar
from past visits and still just as convenient, then headed to Huka Falls with
the intention of getting some exercise. There we were a bit tinny getting a
park, given the busloads and carloads of tourists whom we joined on the bridge
over the Waikato River where it surges through a narrow gut of only about
fifteen metres wide and ten metres deep.
We
decided to do the Huka Falls to Aratiatia Rapids Walk, or at least part thereof;
we restricted ourselves to just one and a half hours down river then returned.
It is a lovely walk from where one can view the Huka Falls Jet as it speeds up toward
the Falls to thrill the tourists, the birdlife which seem unperturbed by all that
noise, the wonderful flora, and accompanyong funghi, the latter I felt obliged
to photograph.
We
travelled north west, pulling into Atiamuri and stayed down at the boat ramp, a
space only big enough for two campers if they park carefully, but just as before,
we were alone to enjoy the peace of the lake and the sunset over the lake and
forested hills. This was an excellent spot to set out from in the morning to
call on my sister, Cindy, at Ngakura, and to meet Ali, her little three year
old adoptee. We spent over two hours with them and the tribe of foster children
and WWOOFers, before resuming our trip north, and to subsequently find a more
suitable Farr 6000 for both our pockets and needs. “Goldie” was duly inspected,
purchased and towed to Whangarei where she now sits in a boat club yard waiting
for someone to sail her. That someone for now is busy with other tasks.
We have spent the intervening months up and down to
Whangarei and Waihi Beach where nothing continued to happen with our daughter’s
re-locatable investment house. Each time we passed through Auckland, we detoured
through the West and caught up with Olly and his lot, and we saw a lot of Kit’s
girls, his lovely wife and daughters when we are were in the north. When
weather allowed, we camped on the cleared edge of our steep bushy section
overlooking Parua Bay, and continue to bushwhack avian habitat which does
concern me because this was after all one of the selling points when we bought
all those years ago. The birds simply have to adjust their roosting habits to
allow us to see more of this spectacular coastline, and birds there are. Apart
from the delightful tuis and fantails, I have heard the cry of kakas far below
and seen them fly across the valley. Perhaps when the chainsaw is silent, they
will venture nearer to our sometimes camp.
We did get back to Auckland to carry out further work but
instead of returning to Te Mahia Community Village, spent parts of two weeks at
the NZMCA park over property at Ardmore, which worked well, even if there was
not the proximity to the shops I had enjoyed at our early accommodation. During
that time we were able to get up to West Auckland and spend some time with Olly
and his lot, as well as check out open homes, a past-time we always enjoy,
although it is not quite as much fun when you have two active grandsons on the
loose.
After one trip south to yet again be frustrated by the lack
of progress on Larissa’s house, we decided to head off further in the false
hope all would be ready when we returned. Destinations swirled about and then
Chris mentioned the Tawhiti Museum in South Taranaki which had long eluded us.
The museum is open on only selected days, and even less when the winter
arrives. Our own arrival had never coincided with an open day; this we hoped to
remedy. And so it was we headed south west from Hauraki.
From Paeroa we followed one of the Rail Trail lines south to
Te Aroha, a small rural township of just less than 4,000 inhabitants, many
times passed through but never given a good going over. The town sits at the
foot of the highest point of the Kaimai Range, Mount Te Aroha which reaches 952
metres A.S.L.
While the very early economy relied on mining, the remnants
of which lie below heavy undergrowth on the slopes of the mountain range, Te
Aroha has remained a popular tourist destination, being the location of the
only natural soda water geyser in the world, the Mokena Hou Geyser.
We found a spot blessed by the Council tucked off the street
behind the library and from there wandered about the streets, in and out of
charity shops, emerging with an old fashioned teapot for our daughter-in-law
and a knitting pattern to encourage future enterprise. We walked up into the Te
Aroha Domain, the oldest Edwardian domain in New Zealand and found the geyser playing
its last scheduled daily spouts. It seems that the “natural-ness” of the geyser
is managed by humans and has long been so. There are several spas where one can
pay an entry and be indulged as spa customers are, all something beyond my ken
and pocket and the stuff of the idle glamorous or people with too much money.
There is also a public pool where one can enjoy the thermal springs in open
aired concrete swimming pools, again for a fee, but far more modest. We peered
through the railings, greeted by the many smiling staff and saw that the
general population considered the season and day of the week not appropriate
for such activity.
The next day saw us travel further south in search of the
western entrance to the Kaimai Railway Tunnel. The 8.856 kilometre tunnel was
opened in 1978 by Prime Minister Rob Muldoon, and as such, looking back into
political history, must have been one of the Think Big projects. I do recall it
opening although I must have been living in Vanuatu then, although I have no
such excuse for not remembering the tunnel collapse eight years earlier when
four workman were killed during its construction.
We pulled into a layby where a couple of plaques commemorate
the events but the roadway up to the entrance deep in the bush was clearly out
of bounds to such as ourselves, so we drove on through to Matamata.
This was certainly not the first time we had come through
this delightful rural town of around 12,000 inhabitants, nor the first time we
had wandered about the streets soaking in the atmosphere. However I am sure
that the Information Centre was not as it is now; a giant Hobbit-like building
set beside a glade of charming English trees, particularly charming in their
autumnal cloaks.
Matamata has always been a prosperous part of the Waikato,
what with dairying and the horse stud industry, but since Peter Jackson used a
nearby farm as the location for the Hobbiton
set in The Lord of the Rings series,
and the subsequent and more recent filming of The Hobbit trilogy, tourists have flocked from all over the globe
and the folk of Matamata have made the best of it; how could they not!
We continued on, intending to camp at a spot by the Waikato
River that my parents have frequently used. It proved to be on the other side
of the river, not on the exact route I had planned so while we both agreed it
was a lovely spot and should be recorded for future use, crossed back to the
eastern bank and drove upriver until we arrived at the Little Waipa Reserve, a
picnic spot absolutely covered in golden leaves and so very enticing. While the
Waikato River Trail actually commences a little downstream, this spot offers
the best facilities to park and refresh. The following morning saw several
carloads of cyclists arrive and set off along the track along the river, or
rather, at this point, the upper reaches of Lake Karapiro. We had walked about
five kilometres the afternoon we arrived, as far as the Huihuitaha Wetlands,
the perfect environment for pukekos, crakes, bitterns, herons, all who thrive
in the flax, coprosma and carex, swamp maire, kahikatea and cabbage trees. A
500 metre boardwalk keeps the foul feet of humans from desecrating this wetland
environment and large storyboards sing the praises of how the construction of
the Arapuni Dam caused flooding of some of the flatland at the edge of Lake Karapiro,
hence providing this wetland.
After
a quiet night in this beautful spot, one that may not be so peaceful at the
height of summer, we continued south, upriver stopping at Arapuni.
The
construction of the Arapuni Hydro-Electric Station commenced long before Think Big was even thought of, back in
1924 and the first power was supplied in 1929. It is the oldest
operating power station along the Waikato River, it is also both the largest
single hydro-electric power station and the first government-built. The 152
metre swingbridge which is one of the reasons one really must stop by here, was
built in 1925 for the construction workers to reach the dam site over the deep
bush lined Arapuni Gorge.
We
walked out into the centre of the bridge to admire the station and the gorge
and the Waikato River far below, but more than that enjoyed a little side trip
to Jackson’s Landing on the upper shores of Lake Arapuni, from where we could
look across the lake to Bulmer’s Landing which looked equally as attractive. I
declared I wanted to return here once the weather became warmer, with our
kayak.
Returning to Arapuni, we then pressed on across the dam
itself. The dam is high and narrow and not very visible. In fact, access to any
points from where one might photograph the dam, are non-existent. It began to
drizzle; we headed west toward the Maungatautari Ecological Island.
This is a
Trust administered refuge for native birdlife, a 3400 hectare area with 47
kilometres of predator fence. We were unable to find easy level parking for the
camper, and the low cloud about the mountain suggested our money may not be
well spent today. No doubt the tuis and other fabulous birds protected here do
not mind the rain at all, but we do. Why not return on a better day and come
away with 100% positive memories?, we thought, and so we returned to the River
and continued south to Mangakino passing the Waipapa and Maraetai dams along
the winding
road. We passed through
beautiful hilly South Waikato farmland, and along the steep forested sides of
the mighty Waikato, again a way past before but in reverse, and as I have said
before, a way travelled in reverse is entirely a new journey.
Mangakino sits on the shores of Lake Maraetai, purpose built
for the construction of the nearby hydro dam back soon after the end of the
Second World War. Prior to then, most of the land all about was native bush and
pumice wasteland, unoccupied and unfarmed. In more recent decades pine forests
have been planted, harvested and planted again and much of the land to the west
has been cleared and farmed, right through to Bennydale and Kopaki, and I can
vouch that land here was indeed farmed in the seventies; I was there.
During the days of dam construction, Mangakino’s population
rose above 5,000, but in the early part of this century had dropped to a little
over 1,200, most of whom were paid out of our hard earned tax dollars. Of
course the town was only ever meant to be a temporary affair, but it is in our
nature to put down roots especially when alternatives are less attractive. It
remained the main service centre during the construction of the dams and
hydro-stations at Atiamuri and Ohakuri, so I guess the lines became blurred when
it came to the question “Should I stay or should I go?”.
Much more recently, after it became known that lakeside
sections and shacks could be bought for a song, urbanites have descended from
Auckland and Hamilton, a less financially painful exercise than buying a luxury
pad at Pauanui or the like, but the shops have changed little and we were not
drawn to hang about the commercial area after buying a loaf of bread.
We planted our wheels down on Matekuri Island connected to
the shoreline by a narrow causeway, and spent the night listening to the rain
and wondering whether we would find the track out in the morning. Again here on
the island and all along the shoreline were the carpets of golden leaves and we
became enchanted with Mangakino as one can be when one turns one’s eyes toward
the lake.
The next morning we headed west across the pumice plateau,
or at least that is how I remember it as a child. We passed large Landcorp
stations and the ancient forests about Mount Pureora, then descended to Bennydale;
I had expressed a wish for a little exploration here.
We found our way up past the High School where for some
months I came weekly, or perhaps fortnightly, for cooking classes during what
would now be considered a senior intermediate year. The school looked little
changed from 1966, nor the houses on the way up. In fact it was hard to imagine
that anyone could live in such rundown shacks, but apparently about 200 folk do,
or perhaps that is in the outlying rural area? I recalled the entrance to the
coal mine being up this way or rather the barricades over the flooded entrance.
Coal was discovered here in 1931 and in 1940
the government purchased the mine and built the township. (It probably hasn’t
had any maintenance since then!)The mine closed after a major fire in 1962; I
recall my father telling me that that the whole mine was flooded to put the
fire out. But I had been unaware that mining in a nearby seam had resumed in
1978 through to 1998, even if on a much smaller scale that the original operations.
A large sign stands beside a locked gate prohibiting entry, the sign still
fresh as if business is still carried on in some manner even today.
The nearby cycle trail, the Timber Trail, will
breathe some life into the community however few will bother pausing or
detouring here unless substantial upgrades and repairs are made. We were
pleased to get out of the place.
From here, one can travel further east through
Mangapehi and Kopaki, electing to turn north to Te Kuiti or continue on to
intersect Highway 4 north of Mapiu; instead we turned south toward Ongarue,
travelling through Waimiha, places familiar in name but not visited within
memory. The narrow road twists and turns through rugged country, all on sealed
road but requiring great attention none the less.
Along the way we passed up and over a saddle,
and past the memorial to those who lost their lives during the construction of
the tunnel. As I write this I am unsure of when that was because the original
Poro-o-tarao tunnel of 1,160 yards (or 1060.7 metres) completed in 1887 as part
of the final Main Trunk Line was bypassed by a second in 1980. I know I
travelled through this in the early 1970s and would have been unaware of the
many lining failures, and just as well! But I do not remember the stations at
Waimiha and Ongarue; perhaps I blinked? The first of these settlements does not
deserve a mention, and should in my opinion, be bulldozed to the ground, as
should Benneydale. And Ongarue? A has-been settlement with much history; some
of it belonging to my extended family. We were not inspired to even call in but
I can now say that I have been past.
A few kilometres on, we emerged onto Highway 4
and headed south to Taumaranui, following the Ongarue River, which is itself a
substantial body of water, particularly after all the rain we had had. At
Taumaranui, the Ongarue River meets the Wanganui River and together they wind
their way south to the sea.
It was a Sunday we arrived in this rural
centre, resident to about 4,500 people, once famous as a Rail Junction and for
that refrain “Taumaranui on the Main
Truck Line”. (Maybe you have to be a certain aged Kiwi for that to mean
anything.) Nothing much happens in town on Sunday apart from the odd pie cart
and the loitering locals and their savage pit bulls. The Information Centre has
a good relief model of the Raurimu Spiral, but for now it’s out of order, so
apart from a good selection of topographical maps and the smile of the lone
attendant, there is little reason to call here either.
Actually it was the
lunging canine and amused owner that put me off, but we had come to give
Taumaranui another looking over, so did try to find charm. We lunched down at
the river confluence, the park at Cherry Grove, which is well worth checking
out if you do want to stay a minute or two; just watch the overhead barrier at
the entrance. Chris was not amused by my incorrect advice that we could pass
safely underneath, however the damage was not obvious and we were able to edge
out in reverse and come in through a side gate.
We spent the night at the NZMCA POP ten
kilometres or so south of the town, at Piriaka beside the rail and below the
main road, alone apart from a small flock of sheep. The odd train and a vocal
tethered goat were the only disturbance.
The following morning we called into the local
hardware shop and were served unsuccessfully by the charming staff, then
replenished our provisions at the only supermarket, the New World. From here we
left the main highways and took the Forgotten World (Highway) through the
wilderness to Stratford. This too was a repeat journey but as wonderful as the
earlier adventures.
The 155 kilometres route follows ancient Maori
trade routes and pioneering farm tracks, through historic settlements, untamed
native bush and stunning natural scenery. The first section of the road follows
the Whanganui River along the side of papa or mudstone bluffs, rogue boulders
restrained by net wire barriers with the added advice that one should not
linger to enjoy the views. Despite such warnings there are comprehensive signs
all along the route explaining the geology and history of certain points, all
worth the repeat reading.
This time we did not detour into the Nukunuku
Museum, an untamed collection of memorabilia from the area and the river boats.
From memory it is old Jack who has all the time in the world to explain each
collected treasure, but if you do want to press on, better to give the museum a
miss.
There are spots that were the landings for the
riverboats once busy up and down the river, and spots where once stood
flourmills. There are summits upon saddles that are worth pausing at to take in
the views and the pitiful remnants of old settlements, sometimes a shack where people live out their sad lives here in
the wilderness. (I realise that comments such as these will earn me enemies,
but these are my thoughts and I am entitled to them.)
The one section of the route that is not
sealed is that through the Tangarakau Gorge, through magnificent Podocarp
forest and following the lovely Tangarakau River. It is a slow road, slowly
driven by the cautious driver and slowly appreciated by the sightseeing
passenger. It is here in this gorge that the road passes through the 180 metre
Moki Tunnel. This single lane road tunnel was built in 1936 and was apparently
known locally as the Hobbit’s Hole and is home to fossilised giant crabs. The
floor was lowered in 1989 to allow for triple-decked stock trucks to pass
through. Down in the gorge, amongst the tall dark trees, the tunnel seems far
more impressive than a Hobbit Hole, but would still fit with any of Peter
Jackson’s darker portrayal of Middle Earth.
A little to the south of the gorge is the
turnoff to the Dampier Falls, the North Island’s highest waterfall at 85
metres. The last time we came through we made the effort to drive through to
the parking area from where one walks, even though it was raining off and on as
it was this day. But today, we took the road to the east of the
Highway, six kilometres following the very narrow unsealed road along the Raekohua
Stream to the ghost town of Tangarakau.
In the early 1920s while the rail from
Taumaranui, or rather, Okahukura through to Stratford was being constructed, a
route that included several long tunnels and would take some years to complete,
this flat spot at the junction of the Tangarakau River and Raekohua Stream was
chosen to become a permanent base for the workman. Once cleared of heavy bush,
the town sprang up almost overnight. At the end of 1925 and the beginning of
the following year, there were shops, a drapery, hairdresser and tobacconist,
boot-shop, tearooms, confectioner and fruiterer, social rooms, post office and
savings bank, police station and a boarding house, electric lighting, houses
and single men’s huts, all catering for the 1,200 inhabitants. But then with
the railway completed in 1932 the township had fulfilled its function and began
to decline. It was hoped that coal mining in the area would have provided some
sustainability, but this closed just two years on.
We had our own little drama getting into the
site; we had been unhappy with the amount of bouncing about in our little
house-on-wheels for some time, and this day nearly bounced over the edge of the
bank into the stream. Had I been driving, we would have surely ended upturned
far below with little hope of being found for some days. Needless to say the
truck was handled with kid gloves from then on until we eventually had repairs
done.
Returning to the Forgotten World Highway, we
soon found ourselves high on the Tahora Saddle from where, on a good day, one
can see all the central North Island mountains, the railway tunnels and the
expanse of wilderness about. From here it is not far down to Whangamomona, a
fascinating place although not so much in the rain as it was this time and the
last. We stayed here back in early 2003 for our honeymoon, when we came on a
walking tour with about a dozen relatives. Then, Chris and I had had the
Honeymoon Suite, so named and unique because it was the one room in the hotel
that had a double bed and a handbasin, so we had fond and funny memories of
this very strange place.
Whangamomona was first settled in 1895 and
became a busy rural centre of 300 souls providing services for the hardy
farmers and their families, although you would have to wonder at those who came
to wrest a living from this steep and rugged land. The in 1924, the “great
flood” came through and ended any thought of expansion and ever since then, it
has been downhill. Today about thirty residents remain and in all fairness,
they do battle well for their place in the world and raison d’etre.
The village has a Historic Places Trust
precinct rating, which means that you cannot come in and buy any of these old
buildings cheap and do them up in glorious modern fashion, a situation with its
pluses and minuses. In 1989 Whangamomona declared itself a republic, complete
with its own presidential election. Republic Day is held every two years in
January and the republic’s population swells many times over. Passports to the
Republic Whangamomona are available at the very hospitable hotel along with all
refreshments. The year we stayed, a goat had been elected as President; I am
not sure what or who the current President of the Republic is.
Somewhere on the journey we learned that
during the British Lion’s Rugby tour in the last year or two, many tourists glanced
at their simple mud maps and erroneously decided that the quickest route across
the country to see one game after another must surely be that from Taumaranui
to Stratford. They must have been very frustrated to find themselves on such an
obscure route but hopefully they stopped by the Whangamomona Hotel to quench
their thirst and check their route.
Given the inclement weather, we decided to
press on rather than stay in the simple camping ground up behind the pub, and
so drove on up and over the Whangamomona and Pohokura Saddles, the first
through dense bush we had walked over a decade ago, and the second offering the
first views of cleared farmland and more rail tunnels. And then there is the
Strathmore Saddle and before you know it, the road is passing through the
beautiful dairy farmlands of the Taranaki with the snow-capped peak of Mt
Taranaki/Egmont within view.
Amazingly this highway is also part of the New
Zealand Cycle Trail; the whole trail being the 180 kilometres between
Taumaranui and New Plymouth. This, I find gobsmacking.
And so we were now within an hour’s drive or
so of our destination, the Tawhiti Museum, but days away from its one open day,
so we decided to explore the region once more.
The first night we camped in the Stratford
A&P Showgrounds and woke to an incredibly chilly morning but with stunning
views of the mountain. This was to be the first of many cold but clear glorious
late autumn days during which we drove around the mountain twice but on
separate roads and in different directions, explored the city of New Plymouth,
using the port as our base. Fortunately the port area welcomes self-contained
motorhomes during the colder months and for once our timing was spot-on.
In New Plymouth we spent time loitering in the
grounds of the Taranaki Cathedral Church of St Mary, apparently New Zealand’s
oldest stone church. Simply known as the Church of St Mary, it was opened on 29
September 1846 and re-consecrated with the grand “Cathedral” title almost one
hundred and sixty four years later. It would have been nice to have popped
inside to have a look at what, from the outside, seemed quite impressive, at
least from a New Zealand perspective, however there was a large group of elderly
parishioners attacking the garden and offering cups of tea to all those who
might require such refreshment and we had no desire to be captured by
evangelists. So instead we wandered about the well-established gardens looking
for Ambrose.
Years ago I had gone looking for great-great-grandfather
Colour Sergeant Ambrose Samuel Scammell in the public cemetery, dragging by
poor husband up and down dale, through and around old fallen tombstones to no
avail. Since then I had learned he had a special spot in this more salubrious
spot in the middle of the city, and more recently an unbroken concrete grave
covering with his name and date affixed. He was sent to quell the Maori
rebellion in 1861 and ended up dying of dysentery, leaving his wife and nine
little ones to the mercy of the times. Ann ended up remarrying and hopefully
being happy; old Ambrose lies below beautiful old English trees which would no
doubt remind him of home in Hertfordshire if he were able to check it out.
Still in New Plymouth we wandered through the
lovely Pukekura Gardens, along the wet bush paths and around the lakes all
surrounded in their autumn glory. There were few people about apart from those
patronising the café and we were left to marvel at this very central park. In
fact Taranaki has many lovely gardens and parks open to the public, and the one
which we really did want to spend time were the Pukeiti Gardens which are internationally
known for their rhododendrons. Alas, as on an earlier trip to the area, we were
not in season and decided to leave that for yet another time. We will certainly
come this way again!
But one park we did visit and stay over for a
night was the Rotokare Scenic Reserve, a predator fenced oasis just twelve
kilometres east of Eltham. We arrived on a Sunday afternoon and were warned to
park outside the reserve at the top of the hill given there was a function on;
the release of saddlebacks and all the supporters, volunteers and birders from
afar had come to watch this exciting event. We walked the kilometre or so down
the steep hill and found the parking area to be busy as indicated although we
could have found a space. Others take one look at our high motorhome and
imagine it to be far larger than it really is; we are only six metres long.
After consulting a chap in an official looking shirt and being assured that we
were welcome to stay over at the side of the lake, we set off for the top of
the hill once more but were saved from the whole climb, offered a ride on the back of a ute for the
last few kilometres.
The Rotokare Scenic Reserve covers 230
hectares of forested hill country, extensive wetlands and a 17.8 hectare
natural lake. Mature tawa, rewarewa or honeysuckle, and mahoe dominate the
forest which is home to kiwi, morepork, the New Zealand Falcon, tui, bellbird,
wood pigeon, saddlebacks, whitehead and the North Island Robin along with other
less exciting bird species. We came upon many of these as we circumnavigated
the lake on a well-made path, albeit very muddy, and those we did not see, we
heard in abundance. Never before in New Zealand had we felt so thoroughly
surrounded by native birdlife.
The Reserve is administered by a Trust, formed
in 2004 for conservation purposes and after intensive trapping efforts realised
that the best solution was to erect the 8.2 kilometre fence. Most of the work
is undertaken by volunteers and funded by corporate sponsors or donations from
the like of us who appreciate the efforts and even more so, the results.
The lake side provided an excellent camping
spot and so much better than the more formal site further away from the shore.
Perhaps this would be different if one were to come during the summer school
holidays; the peace of the bush and wilderness would be lost in the noise of
joyous children.
We also spent a couple of nights at a golf
club just out of Normanby in South Taranaki and enjoyed spending time with a
few of the regulars. Money saved in camp fees was soon allocated to
refreshments; staying at Clubs is not a good idea if the sole reason is to save
money, but well worth the effort to interact with the locals.
We spent another at Te Ngutu o Te Manu, a
small domain which marks the locality of the fortified village thus named which
in 1868 was the headquarters of the Maori tohunga and warrior chief,
Titokowaru. On 21 August 1868 it was attacked and partially destroyed by
colonial forces and again on 7 September by a combined European and Maori
force, which resulted in a decisive victory for the defenders. Among the twenty
four killed on this second occasion was Inspector von Tempsky of the Armed
Constabulary who led one of the three detachments of attacking forces. Von
Tempsky’s name graces many geographical features about Taranaki; streets and
roads to name a couple.
Needless to say I learned these facts from a
story board on site and I was pleased to note that there was also a memorial to
the Maoris who had died here. While I mourned all those who had fought and died
here, I was sorriest for the stupid Europeans who chose to fight here in the
winter. The mud, rain and cold must have made for hideous conditions but then
perhaps by then they were as used to all of that as were the Maoris who had
called the region home for so many years.
The theme of war and unrest was pursued
brilliantly at the Tawhiti Museum, which proved to be well worth the wait. We
paid for the deluxe tour which includes a boat cruise through a Weta
Workshop-like world of the past, where the natives peer from the undergrowth
and you cannot doubt that you are as your ancestors; usurpers into an already
settled country. The museum is full of brilliant dioramas and peopled by more
Weta Workshop-type creations. The farm machinery exhibition is the best we have
seen and we have seen many marvellous exhibitions throughout Australia, but this
certainly takes the cake. I was particularly interested in the machinery
constructed to tame the box hedges that carve the Taranaki farmland into neat
grazing areas, especially in the light of the recently pruned hedges we had
travelled beside and the subsequent discussions with the golfing farmers at
Normanby.
The caretaker at the golf course had warned us
to allow at least three hours to enjoy their prized local tourist attraction;
we took five but then for any who have followed our travels in other regions,
this would come as no surprise.
We drove the coastal Surf Highway 45, calling
in for lunch at Opunake and marvelled at the coastline, a series of high cliffs
with small pockets of accessible beach attracting surfers all about. The dairy
pastures were lush and green and the ocean stretched out to the west all the
way to Australia. We found a delightful camping spot right on the seashore a
few kilometres north of Tataraimaka, near Fort St George. Just up the hill from
our delightful camping spot where once stood the fort, is a memorial to Maoris
who were killed in the battle of Katikara in 1863.
From our windows we watched the sunset and
several idiots venturing out onto the deep sandy beach in their vehicles, all
to struggle with escape. We wandered along the beach ourselves, navigating the
driftwood and the small creeks emerging from the farmland directly above, and
generally agreed that Free Camping was the ultimate.
At Bell Block, the industrial suburb to the
north of New Plymouth, we had the shocks on the front of the truck replaced and
so were more confident to tackle the roads that lay ahead between this isolated
corner of the country and the regions to the north as we headed slowly for
home.
And so with a sense of inevitability, but
vowing to return many times more, we headed north on the windy highway north,
up and over Mount Messenger, through Mokai, Awakino and PioPio, and finding our
way to the Mangaokewa Reserve beneath the Waititi Viaduct.
This viaduct just two kilometres south of Te
Kuiti was the first rail viaduct to be built on the North Island Trunkline and
was completed in 1889. It spans a narrow
gully through which one drives to reach the Reserve and could be missed if one
was more focused on the spectacular limestone bluffs on the west side of the
Mangaokewa River. There are extensive picnic grounds and some of the big old
trees that were about when I used to come here as a Primary School pupil. The
Te Araroa Trail, that which stretches from one end of the country to the other,
passes through here and one can sample a small stretch by walking upriver to
the Cascade Waterfall.
Alas, the Reserve has been haven to hoons over
the years and even the meticulous placement of picnic sites and speed humps
obviously do not entirely deter the determined. There have also been some
rather gruesome crimes committed here if hearsay is to be believed although I
suspect these are exaggerated. We have stayed here at least once before and did
so again this night with no adverse events whatsoever. Although I personally
would avoid the area around the weekend; but then one should always be wary
when the idle youth are about.
The following morning we drove back into Te
Kuiti and wandered up and down the street finding it altogether more pleasant
than Taumaranui, however it was far earlier in the day and others would say
there is little difference in the general social health of the town from that
to the south.
I was born here so do have a certain affinity
with the place although it was only ever a place to shop in, catch the bus to
and from boarding school, and of course, to be born in.
Te Kuiti was the centre of the last stronghold
to the King Country Maori, the last frontier which was finally opened up after
the rail came through at the end of the 19th century. Apart from
those fierce and determined warriors of old, Te Kuiti is also famous for its
other “sons”; All Black legend Colin Meads harks from just a few kilometres
away and probably like me, was born here in town. Te Kuiti is the “Shearing Capital
of the World” containing the world’s largest shearer, seven metres high. One of
the Fagan boys, brother to an old classmate of mine, is immortalised in the shrine
to these illustrious toilers among the sheep, however it should be noted that
there are places in Australia that announce themselves to be the Shearing Capital
of the World, so let us simply say that this here in Te Kuiti is indeed the
King Country’s Shearing capital. And, it should be noted that in 2006 the
largest sheep show in the world took place here with more than 2,000 sheep.
This would have been the annual Running of the Sheep, the world’s largest Sheep
Run, comparable to Pamplona’s Bull Run, with less gore and less stupidity, but
no less nonsense, if that makes sense?
In 2001 the census collectors found Te Kuiti
had a population of 4,374 people, a decrease since that ten years before. The
last census just last year showed an even lower figure; 4,221. Despite the
Japanese garden and the monster shearer, I struggle to get excited about the
place although I will always love the farmland and countryside all about.
However Otorohanga, just eighteen kilometres
to the north is a totally different kettle of fish. The commercial centre seems
to buzz. The fact there are two menswear stores in the main street bodes well
and the tearooms where we used to dine once in a blue moon when we were small
children on a feast of “pea, pie and chips” whilst being treated to “Bonanza”
on the small black and white television that used to sit high up on the wall,
now sells up market pastries and lattes in the most modern fashion.
In 1971, nearly ten years after we left the
area, Otorohanga established New Zealand’s first kiwi house, to breed and
display the country’s elusive bird. In 1999 some enterprising citizens decided
to promote the town further by claiming it to be the capital of Kiwiana,
celebrating all that is typically Kiwi; our icons, heroes and customs.
Now in a short mall connecting the main street
through to the railway access is a collection of twenty four boxes displaying
Kiwiana. There one can learn about team New Zealand, Bonus Bonds, Marmite,
Buzzy Bees, Sir Colin Meads, the Pavlova, Quarter Acre Sections, Weetbix, No 8
Wire and so forth. Many of these icons are equally claimed by the Australians,
however this is thoroughly worth checking out even if you wish to dispute the
claim to fame.
We spent some time enjoying the displays in
the mall before resuming our route, turning a little west then up the back road
which emerges once more on Highway 2 at Ngaruawahia. Hunger drove us to stop at
Pirongia; we popped into the local bakery and purchased some delicious bread
before deciding not to side-track up into the hills.
About twelve years ago when we took advantage
of a Maui Winter Break, to hire a commercial motorhome at discounted rates for
five days, which in turn persuaded us to convert from caravanning to motorhoming,
we had spent one night high up on Mount Pirongia, or at least on the northern
side, from where we had wonderful views out over the north Waikato stretching
all the way toward Auckland. I was keen to re-live that moment but on checking
my map, could not remember which access road we had taken and Chris was not
keen to wander about a series of gravel roads just to satisfy my whim.
Instead we found a level spot next to the Alexandra
Redoubt, a little off the main road and an absolute surprise. I am well aware
that the Waikato and the Waipa areas were the scenes of unrest during the times
of the Maori Wars however did not realise there was any particular significance
to this particular spot.
Pirongia is situated on the banks of the Waipa
River which flows into the Waikato River at Ngaruawahia, an important transport
route for Maori in pre-European times. The 962 metres mountain stands to the
south west and today, all about the area are lush farmlands. The first
Europeans originally named the place Alexandra, a name that became confused
with that in Otago, hence the change to Pirongia, although many local
businesses and organisations still retain the earlier name, such as the
Alexandra Racing Club, which I did always wonder about.
The redoubt was sited here because of its
proximity to the Aukati (the confiscation line along the Puniu River) which I
have always known to be the start of the King Country. Alexandra was planned to
be the hub servicing several redoubt settlements in the area. A large
settlement was envisaged and eight hundred town sections were surveyed.
The redoubt was built in 1868 to protect the
Pakeha settlors who took up more than a million acres the government had
seized. Pirongia / Alexandra did retain
its strategic importance until 1881 when King Tawhiao and his followers
symbolically laid down their arms, signalling an end to armed conflict.
Pirongia for many years was just a very small
service spot on the alternative route north, but more recently has become a
desirable and more affordable place for retirees, close to larger centres but
still allowing some of the nest egg to remain in the bank.
Today we were able to walk around the trench
perimeter of the redoubt, and look down on the land all about, and wonder about
our own history, as one does, before resuming our tour, soon turning east
toward Hamilton.
We have come through Hamilton many times and
always had the problem of where to stay, free that is, except for the times we
had attended the annual motorhome and camping shows where accommodation has
always been made available at the showgrounds for a modest fee. But generally
we had felt that Hamilton was not a motorhome friendly city, a fact compounded
by a very unpleasant experience we had had when we once stayed beside the
Hamilton Lake and found ourselves surrounded and bothered by a large group of
drunken youths.
However the latest NZMCA directory had a few
more suggestions so we took advantage of one overnight stop offered by a
central school. The spot was quiet through the night but early the next
morning, despite permission to stay over the weekend, we were surrounded by
energetic sporty children and their chauffeuring parents; we felt as if we were
in the way. We left after placing our donation in the specified port and
decided that we probably would not bother with this one again.
Short term parking is also problematic in
Hamilton, and I guess this is really because I fail to put it in the same
category as the four or five larger cities of New Zealand. To me it is still
the town I did my secondary schooling in, held my first employment and first
sampled the freedom of independence.
The fact is, today Hamilton has a population
of 145,700 and with that comes the
normal congestion of a large city. Parking for motorhomes anywhere within the
CBD is always going to be problematic. I am sure the City Fathers would say,
“use public transport” but again I can’t see past being able to walk everywhere
as I could in the late ‘60s and the early ‘70s.
Despite all that, we did manage to find a spot
down by the river near the ferry bank, within walking distance and discovered
the wonderful Waikato Museum. Apart from an excellent local history section, we
enjoyed the exhibitions titled “Fight to Power: Protest and change 1970 - 1990”
which covered the anti-apartheid riots, women’s liberation, gay rights, and so
on, another titled “With Bold Needle & Thread”, a collection of journalist
Rosemary McLeod’s eclectic collection of vintage sewing regalia, and much more.
We also took the opportunity to revisit
Hamilton’s excellent zoo. We called here at least ten years ago
and were most impressed then. These days it is even better; not better than Auckland’s
wonderful zoo, but different.
The zoo covers an area of twenty five hectares
at Rotokare, on the western outskirts of the city and was originally established
in 1969 as a game farm. I thought I remembered it way back then as being a Lion
Park, however research proves different. It was founded as the Hilldale Game
Farm, and in 1976, on the brink of insolvency, was saved by the good ratepayers
of Hamilton. However even with public ownership, running the park faltered
again in 1984, but those same ratepayers pressured the Council to keep it open.
From there, with better management, it has grown from strength to strength.
The zoo itself is well laid out with spacious
grounds and a large walk-in aviary, which I particularly enjoyed. I was glad we
had made the effort to spend a good art of the day there.
That night we stayed at the Classics Museum
which welcomes self-contained members of the NZMCA. This classic car museum which
has over one hundred cars and an extensive collection of petrol memorabilia,
pedal cars and pinball machines, and promises to cater from every member of the
family. I probably would have found something to capture my attention if I had
bothered to join Chris the next morning, but I knew he would be happiest
puddling about in his own time and I was happiest left to the unread weekend
newspapers and my book.
Hamilton was our last destination on that
particular tour before we headed back across to the Bay of Plenty to see if
there had been any progress. There had been none so we returned north to mark
time again, filling our days with family, bushwacking, reading and walking.
Most of the winter was spent holed up in a
Whangarei caravan park despite the fact we had solar panels, a generator and a
roof that no longer leaked. We had been spoilt by the warmer temperatures in
Australia; it seemed to be a very wet winter but then memories play tricks
these days.
I escaped for three weeks or so in August to accompany
my mother and sister on a fabulous trip to Canada and Alaska, and have written
of that elsewhere, while Chris made the most of my absence indulging in all the
foods he otherwise sacrifices from his diet. Lamb was top of his menu, while I
was trying out buffalo and salmon on the other side of the Pacific.
Then finally, early this month, Larissa and
Andy’s house was ready for some work; we came south to Waihi Beach and my dear
husband has been commuting daily into Waihi ever since, while I am being
treated to solitude, space and much time with our oldest grandchildren and
their goofy dog. I do worry about how long
a man of a certain age can work, day in day out, without break. My next task is
to take him away before something worse does!
We left the morning after the Big Move,
facilitated by professional movers whose job was made easier and quicker by the
fact that Olly had spent the prior week transferring boxes of sundry items.
That final morning I was treated to the joys of horse riding lessons, or at
least those taken by my six year old grandson, and saw first-hand the patience
of parents and instructors alike. Needless to say, my own sons were never
treated to such lessons.
