Life back on home turf

12 April 2014 Takanini, South Auckland, New Zealand

Whether or not to start another blog was more of an issue than any normal person would think, but I have been feeling the symptoms of withdrawn after just over two months of being back ‘home”. One would have thought that bothering the 60,000 or so readers of my blog would have satisfied any vanity, but alas, here I am again, flaws and all. This is me, for better or worse.

I said, “home”, however in this concept it relates only to New Zealand because our own residence is still rented out and will be for some time yet, so we are still in effect “living on the road”.

My husband and I returned to New Zealand on 8 February after three amazing years travelling as gypsies around Australia, apart from four months in total spent back touching base with family and friends, which is a poor effort at personal relationships to say the least.

Our youngest son and his family met us at the airport and put us up that first night back in Auckland, before delivering us to the care of our daughter and granddaughter who delivered us in turn back to our motorhome which had been housed for the greater part of our absence at the Paeroa RV Centre. There it was, waiting expectantly for us and to our great joy, started without undue effort. Alas, when we drove it up to Thames for its COF, it failed because of worn bushes and so we drove it between Paeroa and Thames over the next day or so without road worthy certificates or registration because one rests on the other and the repair was not immediate.

Finally we were roadworthy and able to travel on through to Waihi and Waihi Beach where our daughter lives with her family. We spent some days around the area in an effort to catch work-less days with the family and also reacquainted ourselves with the area which in the past has been but a place to pass through on the way to family, rather than a place to stop and smell the roses. In fact my first real memories of Waihi were of the days after the first long gold mining boom came to an end soon after the middle of last century. The PYE factory kept some employed but it was mainly a town of “dole bludgers”, or at least according to those I bothered listening to.

The second chance mining operations, kick-started in 1987, are run by the Newmont Mining Corporation. They and their seven hundred or so motivated employees and contractors, all the service people supporting these people and all their families, have poured their bounty and enthusiasm back into the town and the surroundings. If you are not impressed with the vibrancy of this small country town, exhibiting well maintained and signed heritage items along with the Information Site which houses an excellent little museum, there is the lovely Waikino Gorge that one must pass through coming from the west, which offers walks, cycling and wonderful natural beauty. In fact the trail through the gorge is part of the Hauraki Plains Rail Trail, another reason to pass this way. And of course just ten kilometres away there is lovely Waihi Beach, long and relatively treeless, appealing to surfers and sun seekers.

We had cycled half of the Paeroa to Waihi section of the rail trail on a recent return to New Zealand, and walked the shorter circuit through the rail tunnel at Karangahape often enough in earlier times, so to say we were previously unfamiliar with the area would be a lie. But now we are more open to spending slow-time here, both now and in the future. This time we cycled the more recently completed section from Waikino to Waihi which follows the lovely Ohinemuri River through farmland, unseen from regular road transit. 

We spent a night free-camped next to the gateway into the historic Victoria Battery Site, across the river from Waikino which was wiped out in the 1981 flood, or at least all but the life-worn pub and local community hall which managed to remain standing. There is a new swing bridge here across the river with little purpose than to entice cyclists on a detour to slake their thirst across at the pub. Perhaps the breweries contributed to the cost? It does serve however as a delightful spot to stand and gaze upon the waters which flow west toward Paeroa before turning northward and into the Firth of Thames.

Our Waihi Beach family were in the throes of having a re-locatable house moved onto a section they had bought as an investment and this provided us with days of entertainment and them with much grief. The house movers turned out to be from our hometown, and even more co-incidentally, the boss was the tenant of our own home still rented out. Such coincidences are a joy in most cases, but not necessarily so when jobs don’t run smoothly.

Other matters pressed upon us and we were unable to watch and wait for resolution which is just as well, because as I write this, there is still little progress with the house now perched on a council section waiting for action. The whole story is not for here, one reason being that it would put you off ever doing the same. Like everything, it is the sad bad cases of which you hear; the majority that run smoothly are not newsworthy enough.

 We headed north, travelling via Pukekohe, home to the Trailite factory and a yard full of beautiful and expensive motorhomes. At this point in time we were running with the idea of trading up, depending on the value ours was awarded by the salespeople.

In Whangarei we caught up with my sister and her husband, staying on their lovely elevated lifestyle block with views out over Maungatapere and toward the coast, and then stayed in various spots around Whangarei. Northland as a region offers little in the way of safe free camping, instead offering a multitude of low cost spots, which is probably just as well from a security perspective. But Whangarei itself rocks the trend and there are delightful poses all about the harbour as well as those more official ones made known to those belonging to the New Zealand Motorhome Association.

Whangarei itself suffers little from lack of rain, although the rest of the province is drought stricken as is much of the rural land further south. Although the word “drought” is all relative, particularly to those who have travelled extensively through Australia, but then just as I tried never to compare Australia with New Zealand during our travels, I must now try not to do the reverse. I recall that when I arrived in Whangarei in 1983, my sister, already an established resident, warned me that an umbrella was an essential accessory for every day in the city. 

I make mention of rain because we were soon reminded of the small leaks we had endured in previous years and all the minor repairs Chris had made with tubes of silicone. “Enough!”  cried our campervan, and gave way to the deluge. Still not having decided categorically that we were going to trade the motorhome, we realised that proper repairs would have to be undertaken whatever our decision. We settled on a boat builder, a contracting firm where one of our sons had once worked, and the extensive work was begun; stripping off of the rubber roof which Winnebago’s are well known for, removal of all the bits that live on such roofs (aerials, air-conditioners and vents) and the fibre glassing over what was left.

We begged a bed for a week in my parents two bedroom apartment and ended up staying just over two. While it was a delight to spend time with them, I am sure I once heard of a saying about visitors being a bit like fish and we were fearful we might have to be evicted for overstaying. We spent the weeks eating, drinking, eating and more drinking and undoing all the good work our healthy lifestyle in Australia had done, but we did end up with a new roof.

The days waiting for the completion of the repair were spent bushwhacking out on our section at Parua Bay which we named Jumbo some years ago; Jumbo, the White Elephant. The jury is still out on whether we will ever build there although I was thrilled to see Chris examining the boundaries and engineering documentation more thoroughly.  Needless to say this was purchased on my bidding, or perhaps I use the word “nagging”. Some women get handbags or lapdogs, others, sections!

We spent time also getting to know our smallest grand-daughters, calling at Bella’s kindy, babysitting little sister Aurelia and assisting their parents with minor construction. We were delighted that the grandchildren had taken us to their hearts when we had been all but strangers over the past three years. Aurelia’s second birthday party was an added bonus.

We stayed on in Whangarei, testing the repairs with Cyclone Luci and finding new leaks in different places. Chris spent a couple of days up a ladder stripping off light fittings and other bits and pieces on the side and resealing with yet more tubes of silicone. The effort was worth it because there has not been an ounce of water back inside since. However by this time we had decided that it was better to be spending tens of thousands on repairs and renovations rather than hundreds of thousands on a smart new camper that essentially did the same job. And so we have bought a steel box, still to be installed on the rear of the van, booked in to have solar panels and a diesel heater installed at the end of this month and shouted ourselves a new slim-line satellite-savvy television although we haven’t quite learned to drive it yet. I should note here that we have had a fat old television in the van for the ten years or so we have owned it, one that played videos and took up untold shelf space; time to move into the future!

Work beckoned from the south, maintenance on a couple of rentals, and it was evident that Chris was in no hurry to start. We lingered about Whangarei, passing some of the time in the excellent little caravan park we still think of as Alpha, but which has been rebranded the Whangarei Central Holiday Park in our absence. Proprietor Claire is always so welcoming and never forgets to ask after my parents who stayed there while their apartment was being gutted and refurbished, or my sister and her family from the days when we were all primary school parents, and they do offer excellent discounts for NZMCA members.

I told one of my sons we were off for a holiday weekend; he laughed and said that I should say “a holiday from a holiday” given that was our life now, was it not? He is too young and busy to understand that retirement is not a holiday at all; it is simply life at a slightly slower and less stressed pace. But whatever we chose to call it, we headed off across to Dargaville one Friday afternoon with no itinerary, although Chris had picked up on my suggestion of Pouto Point and mentioned that to my parents, as we bade farewell over morning coffee and muffins.

Dargaville is fifty six kilometres west of Whangarei and sits on the banks of the muddy tidal Wairoa River. Established back in 1872 by timber merchant Joseph Dargaville, it soon became a busy river town supporting the timber and kauri gum trade. Kaihu was the Maori name for the spot and still is for the tributary that flows down from the north meeting the Wairoa River here at Dargaville. The kauri gum enticed many Dallies to New Zealand, or more correctly Dalmations or Croatians, and many of their descendants still populate the North and of course the wine growing areas of West Auckland. Today Dargaville, with a population of about 4,500 folk, supports the well-established kumara growing and dairy industries. We did think the commercial centre looked rather jaded but then the town comes under the umbrella of the Kaipara District Council and they are still struggling financially having come a cropper on some poorly planned infrastructure on their eastern seaboard; expected development was superseded by the GFC and white elephants do not generate money for maintenance of public roads and buildings. Mention the Kaipara District Council to any slightly savvy Northlander and they will roll their eyes and growl before launching into their own take on the saga.

Sadly the Riverside Gardens established with funds from one of the philanthropic City Fathers are no longer what they were, many of the shops in the main street are either empty or filled with half-hearted efforts at commerce, although it was pleasing to note that the one large supermarket is undergoing massive expansion, so they, if no one else, have confidence in the place.

Perhaps I am being too harsh; Dargaville is home to the well-attended annual Northland Agricultural Field days and is gateway to the famous Kauri Coast of New Zealand. It also has an excellent museum perched high on the hill overlooking the town and river, and it was here we stayed, not for the first time. Self-contained motorhomes are welcome for a small fee and the views on waking are really worth it. The parklands around the complex are equally lovely and a visit to Dargaville is not complete without calling here. We had been to the museum a couple of times before so instead busied ourselves finding out about the large gathering of locals, making space for us almost non-existent. We soon learned it was a funeral for a chap who had come to grief in a mine at Norseman, south of Kalgoorlie in Australia; his friends and family were large but then such communities as this are like that. They eventually disbursed and two or three other motorhomes arrived to join us for the night.

On the Saturday we headed south down the Pouto Peninsula through the surprisingly lovely farmland about Te Kopuru, with the river appearing from time to time on our left, then the sealed road gave way to gravel and the landscape more to pine forestry. Here too was more evidence of the Council’s financial woes; the corrugated road, especially that down to Kelly’s Beach, was quite hideous.

The Wairoa River empties out into the Kaipara Harbour which is one of the largest harbours in the world, covering 947 square kilometres at high tide. At low tide a massive 409 square kilometres are exposed as mudflats and sand flats; needless to say it is a shallow harbour and in today’s more financially astute era, it is rarely used for shipping.

But back in the days before half decent roads and rail made their way up through Northland, it was part of the shipping life blood of the country, with Dargaville being one of the major ports, as was Helensville in the southern reaches.  The harbour extends from some sixty kilometres from north to south and several large arms reach like tentacles out into the harbour, separated from each other by five rivers and over a hundred streams pouring out into the harbour, which in turn rushes out to the sea twice daily through the wide and dangerous entrance.

On average Kaipara tides rise and fall 2.1 metres thus creating a flow of up to 7,960 million cubic metres daily. Traverse of the harbour entrance is not for the faint hearted, which we noted later as we walked along the beach.  Big waves from the Tasman Sea break over large sandbanks about five metres below the surface, two to five kilometres from the shore. Locally these treacherous sandbanks are known as the graveyard, responsible for more shipwrecks than any other place in New Zealand, having claimed at least forty three vessels, perhaps as many as one hundred and ten.

As a plus, these great mountains of shifting sand have provided a source of income to the area. Back in 2007, according to the documentation I am sourcing these statistics from, about 219,000 cubic metres of sand was mined from the entrance and the tidal deltas, and I do know from personal experience that just five years ago or so, consents were being sought for huge development in this operation.

The tides have offered yet another opportunity for development; in 2008 Crest Energy received resource consent to install about two hundred tidal turbines in the harbour, which in theory could provide enough electricity for 250,000 homes. The company plans to place the turbines at least thirty metres deep along a ten kilometres stretch of the main channel, at a cost of $600 million. Needless to say there were appeals and protests and the whole project is still sitting on the drawing board.

But back to Kelly’s Beach which is on the shores of the Kaipara, the Wairoa having become part of the harbour several kilometres to the north. Here there are only a few holiday homes or baches, because few folk live here permanently. By the number of vehicles and boat trailers parked adjacent to the slip it was evident however that it is still a favoured launching place for fishermen, despite the road and distance from Dargaville, or even Whangarei, whence they come.

As we came over the last rise and down into the bay, we were astounded by the hundreds, even thousands, of oyster catchers crowding the grassed foreshore and road. We parked at the end of the bay to avoid any disturbance then wandered along through them, causing them to rise in great drifts; quite beautiful, very noisy and very smelly. We stopped and chatted with a chap who was tidying up his mother’s garden and he grumbled about the birds, telling us about the stench at its worst when the winds were easterly. We remained enchanted but did accept that if we had to live down wind of them, we might consider them as welcoming as a gannet or sea colony; more a tourist attraction than a permanent neighbour.

Further round the bay we inspected the boat ramps and agreed that this was indeed an excellent launching spot, in fact, a charming spot altogether. With that we returned to the motorhome, gathered together the wherewithal for morning tea and sat on the water’s edge to ponder the Kaipara.

 

We were soon disturbed by the arrival of a tiny tractor, brightly painted and spotless, pulling a much larger boat. The driver turned and reversed into the sea in front of us, pushed the boat off, jumped into the vessel, started his outboard without hesitation and sped off out to sea, leaving the tractor in- situ with the motor still running. A few minutes later, he was back and we marvelled his actions whereupon he explained he had simply shipped out to take the offcuts and guts from yesterday’s catch out to sea for the natural garbage consumers. We had heard in Dargaville that there were sharks galore in both the river and the harbour, thus put two and two together; this man was feeding the sharks. We chatted for some time, about Kelly’s Bay, the state of the roads and the Council, his pattern of life and life in general, as you do. After a while he said he had things to do and we had more road to traverse before we parked up for the night, so we bid farewell and headed off.

About twenty kilometres south we came to the end of the road, at Pouto Point, the northern head of the harbour and the site of the Signal Station and associated complex. The remaining lighthouse itself is west of here, sitting high above the beach but here with views back across the Kaipara sit several modest holiday homes and a hall that now provides amenities to those who wish to camp on the grassy knoll. Again there is a charge; I already mentioned that free-camping does not really exist in the north, but $12 for power and the amenities was more than fair.

We spent the afternoon walking along the beach in search of the famous kauri lighthouse, built in 1884, now visited by those in tour sand-buses or those 4WD hoons from Whangarei, such as my son and his mates a few years ago. The tide was sufficiently low to enable us to walk along the firm sand, and we walked for an hour and a half or more, but still did not reach the lighthouse. I suspect we were close, but Chris’s injured toe was causing a great deal of pain for him, and unwilling to piggy-back him back along the shore, I agreed to try another day. We had been overtaken by many 4WD vehicles speeding along to prime fishing spots and perhaps if we do come this way again, will hitch a ride rather than walk ways already walked.

The next day we headed back north to Dargaville, this time passing on through, crossing over the Wairoa on the very long bridge, and on down river once more, this time on the eastern bank. We passed by the best kumara growing flats, fertile with flood silt from over the millennium, marvelling at the rocky tors that stand a little inland, one of which we have walked around some years ago, then paused near Tokatoka beside the river for a photo opportunity. The opportunity was more than I bargained for and I called for Chris to climb down out of the cab to share the view with me. Above us, in an oval cloud frame was the New Zealand Silver Fern. I did my best to capture it with my modest camera, taking a dozen snaps, hoping for at least one gem. We stood beside the river gazing at this spectacle until the high altitude winds blew the vision apart and hoped that we had captured this small miracle while it had lasted.

We stopped for lunch at Ruawai, beside the busy boat ramp and watched fishermen coming and going. I guess one would say that Ruawai is at the mouth of the river, but here the river is already wide and exhibiting sea-like characteristics. Ruawai doesn’t get a mention in the tourist blurbs but then it is not really a tourist destination. The toilets and picnic facilities by the boat ramp are pleasant enough to stop at, the streets are cleaner and tidier than they were when we last passed through, there is a smart looking little restaurant offering more than you would expect such a place to offer and a bed factory that looks like it employs more than a family and sells beyond the village boundaries. All in all, we thought Ruawai looked pretty good in the sunshine.

From here the road headed basically east, skirting the northern reaches of the Kaipara Harbour, passing close to the famous and normally never-to-be-missed Matakohe kauri museum which we had called into several times before. The road passes up and over well farmed hills, through the small settlements of Paparoa and Maungaturoto. At the former we turned south for a short detour on a sealed road adding about six or so kilometres there and back. Here on one of the peninsulas that reach down into the harbour is Pahi, famous for its Moreton Bay Fig Tree which does much better than any of that genus from where it originates.

The tree is believed to have been planted before 1840, and when it was measured in 1984, it was found to be 26.5 metres high and 48.5 metres wide. Chris was curious to know whether it had grown any since we last saw it; no doubt it has, as it will have in the thirty years since it was last measured, but when you get that big, a few centimetres here or there are really of no account.

We spent some time wandering about the water’s edge, again watching fishermen launch and retrieve their boats, a Maori family enjoying the sunshine and sea, the view across the narrow inlet to the Whakapirau jetty, and considered briefly about staying in the camp there.

Instead we drove on again, pausing to buy a generous serve of ice-cream in Maungaturoto; the lone attendant was filling in for his absent wife and took instructions from us as to how to correctly fill a cone with ice-cream. Apart from the fact the brand, that had something to do with castles, was inferior to others normally available, they were the best ice-creams we had had in years!

Joining Highway One at Brynderwyn, we headed north across the range of hills by the same name, coming over and marvelling at the splendid view of Bream Bay as we always do, and headed for the Marina at One Tree Point. We had recently taken a day trip out to the complex, growing with something new to see on every visit, then to simply charge up the batteries, this time with a view to staying overnight. Accommodation is made available here in this delightful spot, courtesy of the Marina, for a small fee, of course, but alas we were too late to catch the office person, so decided to head on back to Whangarei and found ourselves beside the Hatea River in one of our favourite free camps a day earlier than originally intended. Despite that, we had indeed enjoyed our little holiday.

Eventually we did head away from Whangarei, but not until we had replaced our television, and then only that first day as far as the DOC camp at Uretiti. There are not a lot of Department of Conservation camps in Northland, and most of them, if not all, are excluded for the best of the year from the annual pass one can buy as a self-contained motorhomer.

Years ago half of Whangarei used to camp here in the summer; that was when the whole sandy area was covered in pines, but then there was the fire, and the whole place shut down. Nearly ten years ago we came out for working bees put on by the NZMCA to plant native trees and tidy the restored gardens a bit; those same trees have grown little and it will not be until our great grandchildren are ready to come camping that the place will have resumed its real natural charm. In the meantime it is a busy well used camp for both the likes of us and the little whizz-bank tourist vans that come in late in the afternoon. The long expanse of white sand is just through the fence and across the dunes and if you walk up one way far enough, you might be lucky, or unlucky, enough to come upon the nude sun seekers.  Years ago we came out here, or nearby, to fish with a Kontiki line; then there were only topless sunbathers and that was quite enough for my eyes and those of my offspring.

We were now travelling as a caravan; the truck based motorhome and the Isuzu Bighorn pulling a trailer loaded up with ladders, scaffolding, tools and cans of paint. Places to accommodate such an entourage are scarce; we were delighted to find a park-over-property (hereafter referred to as a POP) at Coatesville, within spitting distance of the infamous Kim Dotcom. We had an appointment with the RV Supercentre at Albany to have the toilet fixed; this, another of the many niggling problems that had arisen since our return and another that gave credence to my complaint of taking two steps forward and one back. Chris had been preparing me for the worst; that we might have to have the whole unit removed and replaced. In case your imagination is getting away with you too much, the problem lay in the flush mechanism not working. Now this had happened through the years from time to time, often simply requiring a change in fuse, however this time Chris had tried this and a multitude of other “fixes”, none successful and all suggesting the problem was way too big for the DIY guy. So imagine our delight when we learned that it was just a matter of the Top Tank chemical having crystallised and jammed up the flushing mechanism; joy overcame any distress of payment for professional labour.

We had passed a very quiet night on the little farm after having watched our host perform various dressage exercises in the arena, the sheep in the adjacent paddock settle down for the night and the occasional squawk of the ever present pukekos. We were pleased that the cost of this security was made plain to us; $5 for no power, $10 with power, fair indeed and a price that none could complain about.

Our southbound motion was as the reluctant school boy in the poem; Chris was not the least excited with the prospect of work, especially painting, and so we lingered here and there. We spent time in the northern suburbs of Auckland acquiring electronic tools, or toys, all of which have remained puzzles for now. iPhones, iPads and a shiny new computer that has no plastic peeling from it or lines across the screen, although as I write this I persist with my faithful HP. We spent three days, the maximum allowed, at the Henderson POP and shared our six year old grandson’s birthday cake. And then Monday came and there were no more excuses so we came on south to South Auckland and took up residence in the strangest place we have been for some time. The following morning Chris donned his overalls and set off in the Isuzu, leaving me to my neighbours and new toys to master.