Sitting life out at Waihi Beach, Bay of Plenty

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 15^th 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 19^th 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!