28 April 2015 - Taupo NZMCA Park

We did not watch the live coverage of the ANZAC services across the other side of the world, although Chris did check in briefly and confirmed it was full of the pomp and ceremony you would expect. We had watched the Steven Spielberg movie “Warhorse”, a heart wrenching Black Beauty (updated from the nineteenth century sad saga to a violent battle scene), not for the faint hearted, although nor was Black Beauty from memory. It was all too much for me and I retired to bed.

We spent Sunday in an entirely sedentary manner, nursing our less than perfect health, an excuse to read and relax. We did venture out after lunch, across the Domain to the supermarket to replenish the wine supplies, because even in such times, in fact perhaps even more so, the fruits of the grape are necessary for one’s health and well-being, being full of vitamins and relaxants.

Yesterday morning we woke bright eyed and bushy tailed, Chris looking better than he has for the last couple of weeks. The weather was shocking, the winds forecasted to gust to dangerous levels. We weighed up our options and decided to head north, Plan A to go as far as Marton, Plan B being anywhere in-between.

Once clear of the Kapiti Coast, the wind became less of a hazard and we pressed on, pausing at Foxton, lunching down by the river. We watched the ducks feed on the wet banks, the drowning worms offering themselves for sacrifice, and watched an athletic shag hunt for lively fish.

Back on the road we soon arrived at Bulls, and wonder of wonders, the little Bulls & District Museum was open. My great great grandfather was born at Scott’s Ferry and farmed in the area until he moved to Apiti, all rural areas in the region. Currently the exhibits in the museum have been moved about to highlight matters relating to the First World War, so the local settlement records had been pushed into the shadows, but I did find Henry Burne’s name on the list of settlors “post -1849”. Alas the day’s custodian could lay her hands on nothing further, but I left my name and contact details on a slip of paper and today when I turned this computer on, there was an email from a more locally entrenched historical member of the museum team with all sorts of information, and more to follow up when I can waste more time on line.

We drove on to our now well favoured camp at Marton, joined the other campers at the Happy Hour (and a half) and passed a very pleasant evening. During the night the rain came in torrents and my husband slept little, spending most of his waking time coughing. His recovery is not perhaps as advanced as first thought, however when he did finally crawl out of bed, an hour after myself, we breakfasted and headed north once more, braving the wind and rain, a slow trip up through the Rangiteiki, the Ruapehu District (stopping for lunch at Waiouru as we had on our way south all those  months ago), up along the Desert Road, from where there were no views of the grand volcanoes at all, and on up the eastern shore of Lake Taupo to our camp here tonight.

On arrival the sun was shining and there was hope of better days to come. Chris pulled the generator out of the hatch and serviced it as per the instruction book. But soon the day had closed in and we realised that the bad weather enveloping New Zealand is here on the northern shores of the lake as well.

25 April 2015 - Ngatitoa Domain, Mana, Porirua Harbour

We woke long after those committed souls who made it to the dawn services all around the country and probably even Australia, did. Later when I rang my father, he told me how there was a turnout of between 8,000 and 9,000 at the Whangarei War memorial service, how the hill at Laurie Hall Park and the car park below was packed with folk, many of whom had to make do with strategically placed screens. I did not ask him, but hope that he was granted a seat near the front; he is aging and no longer the strong man he was, he deserves a seat in the front row, but then I am prejudiced; he is, after all, my father.

Here at Mana, the skies were clear on rising, the reserve packed out with motorhomes, a fact that surely must annoy the locals. We set off after breakfast to the nearest public dump station, one at Plimmerton at a commercial motorhome service centre, providing the very least of services, then found a source of public water elsewhere which I shall not disclose, or the manner in which we acquired it. Suffice to say, our water tanks are full and the black waste legally disposed of although the grey still lies under the vehicle; the contour of the site not suitable to any more than the immediate necessity.

We returned to the Domain, and could not believe our luck in securing a site vacated by a car and caravan, a site large enough for three motorhomes carefully parked. We quickly packed our lunch and made our way to the railway station, catching the train within minutes, a more frequent service than would normally be run but enhanced by the fact that it is Anzac Day and that this country of patriotic souls were intent on gathering in the capital.

Our fellow passengers included many wearing impressive rows of medals earned by their fathers or grandfathers, perhaps even their great grandfathers. Arriving in Wellington we retreated to the local McDonalds which was packed out with air cadets and AFL scholarship recipients, all of whom had been part of the earlier ANZAC service, and all of whom exhibited the wonderful characteristics of desirable future leaders and citizens.

From here we made our way along the waterfront to Te Papa, keen to see the Peter Jackson sponsored ANZAC exhibition, “peopled” with larger than life manikins which I imagine to be in the style of Patricia Puccini whose work I have marvelled in the past, during our travels through Australia. Alas there we found thousands of others doing the same and while there was free entry to the exhibition, there was measured entry rather than open slather. This we appreciated, but it meant we would have to make our way along a queue line of perhaps one and a half hours. Yes I know we endured this or similar at the Tower of London to see the Crown Jewels, but learning this was still open to the public until 2018, we decided to abandon Plan A, and venture into the Museum to explore  “the rest”  apart from the Art Galley section which we have enjoyed in the past. “The rest” was dismissed by us many years ago, soon after the opening of Te Papa; then we dismissed it as an interactive display more suited to kindergarten children than discerning museum goers. It would seem that the curators, who we understand to have changed in the intervening years,  have registered the error of their ways, and today, that little we saw, pleased, educated, simulated, and called for a return visit.

We caught the 3.16 pm train back to Mana, the weather having closed in and promising the poorer weather forecasted for tomorrow, Chris hacked and coughed his way back to our camp and for myself, I was glad to get out of the cold wind. Back home I rang my father to check out their day and learned that one of my nieces had secured her roots to her birthplace, purchasing a house not too far from her grandparents and us,  should we actually settled down again, and that the piper scheduled to perform at my father’s funeral had inconveniently got himself killed in a car accident, this latter proving that you cannot pre-plan your funeral completely.

Tonight we shall watch the live service at Chunuck Bair in Turkey, perhaps catching site of our son’s “mother-in-law, Lynne and my cousin, Wayne.

24 April 2015 - Ngatitoa Domain, Mana, Porirua Harbour

This morning we hung about hoping for a great exodus from the Domain, leaving space for us to relocate to a more suitable spot; alas there was no such event. We gave up and set off for the railway station across the grassy fields, backpack packed with lunch and the day full of promise. The train arrived moments after 9 am, and we found ourselves joining the cauliflower brigade travelling free on the public transport system into the capital city.

I had expected to find a small Information kiosk at the station on arrival or at worst, a rack of maps and brochures to inform the arriving traveller. Alas there is no such thing at the rail station, but outside there are maps with “you are here’ and “Information centre is up here” kind of signs; quite a hike, but then there is a solid line of taxis to transport the weary or lazy. 

Our primary motive for travelling back down into the city was to call on the British Consulate to seek information on renewing Chris’s passport. Now this is a typical story of a stubborn male; he had phoned them (apparently) some time ago about this and been told that he would have to obtain another full birth certificate and do his application on line. This he found unacceptable, especially since the person on the end of the phone line had not inspired confidence. I had suggested we revisit the website because systems change with technology, but no, he would only accept personal advice, as in, in person. So we arrived at the gates, were told by the guard that these matters should be done on line because the Consulate did not deal with such matters anymore. No, my husband had to see someone, so we were divested of our bags and phones and allowed entry to the reception area. There we were spoken to by a delightful woman, from behind layers of bullet proof glass, who told us that the Consulate no longer dealt with passports, that it had to be done on line. She did hand us some documentation, which gave us the website address …. surprise, surprise. 

What we did learn was that with his Australian passport Chris could only stay in England for six months, and even if he renewed his British passport, I, as a “foreigner” (a Kiwi), would only be allowed six months and would have to have a return ticket on entry. In summary, there was nothing to be gained by his renewing his British citizenship, unless I could then succeed in gaining a visa for a longer than six month entry. 

For me, none of this was a surprise; for Chris it was and most unacceptable. He had been under the miscomprehension that because I was his legal wife and that he was English born, we would have open slather to legal entry.

We walked back down the hill from the consulate, through the parliament grounds which today were the venue for an exhibition of World War I vehicles and machinery, all to be set in motion later in the day for a special parade to commemorate one hundred years since the landing at Gallipoli, because tomorrow is ANZAC Day, New Zealand’s unofficial National Day.

We had read of the new Australian Memorial at the National War Memorial in the papers over the past week and thought we should take the opportunity to check it out. We found our way to the Information Centre, in our opinion poorly located, but informative all the same. Armed with a tear off map and instructions as to the most direct and convenient walking route, we set off up the hill once more, walking up Taranaki Street, closed to traffic and busy with event preparation, to arrive at the Pukeahu War Memorial which was also the scene of preparation for the services tomorrow; that at dawn and then the later at the more acceptable 11 am.

There has been some controversy about this new installation at the War Memorial, the fifteen red sandstone pillars supposedly to represent the red earth that Australia’s servicemen left behind when they went off to war. The materials were actually sourced from a stone quarry near Agra in India, close to the home of the Taj Mahal. Some commentators say this spoils the whole narrative and we were keen to see this for ourselves. The stones have insets of carved grey granite and the whole work is impressive, the source of the materials really quite immaterial in our view. Apparently Australia’s Prime Minister Tony Abbot had been oblivious to the fact the stone was Indian, which is a little bizarre; $5 million of Australian tax payers money was spent on this as a gift to New Zealand. 

The design of the Australian memorial, by architects Tonkin Zulaikha Greer in conjunction with artist director Janet Laurence, was chosen from a competitive tended process. Each of the fifteen columns is six metres tall and is made up of ten sandstone blocks, each with a core of steel. The columns are surrounded by a type of eucalyptus tree know commonly as the red flowering yellow gum which grows in western Victoria and coastal South Australia. When they mature, they will be about ten metres high.

The memorial is a counterpart to the New Zealand Memorial on Anzac Parade in Canberra, which was opened on Anzac Day 2001, that we saw when we spent time in the Australian capital.

Today we watched a small group of Australian servicemen practice manoeuvres amongst the stones as part of the ritual celebration of the ANZACs disastrous landing tomorrow.

Speaking of which, I revisit my comments made some days ago about symbolism versus reality. I do get the symbolism of the commemoration tomorrow, although I do question words used like “glorious” and “heroes”. There was little glorious or heroic about either of the World Wars.

And as a memo to myself; it is quite curious that our family have two representatives attending the centenary celebration in ANZAC Cove in Turkey tomorrow, or rather our grandchildren do. My maternal first cousin Wayne is attending as grandson of our grandfather, Fred Bettjeman, who survived the event, albeit invalided, and our son’s partner’s mother, Lyn, is attending as granddaughter of her grandfather, William Griffiths, who perished in the field. This is all quite special.

We spent some time absorbing the preparatory business going on about the site; the black uniformed special police combing the area for bombs or the like, the female cornet player practicing the Last Post, groups marching hither and thither to drum rolls, and hundreds of spectators such as ourselves. The closed streets were now lined with portable fences and yellow vested officials stood about at all corners waiting for the parade still some time off. We descended to the lower streets, found a spot along Vivian Street below the Architecture School and shared our lunch with a flock of pigeons before making our way down Cuba Street, a mass of colour and vibrancy, pungent with the medley of ethnic restaurants and hashish indulgence.

As crowds gathered along Wakefield Street and Taranaki Street we returned to the scene of the action and waited along with everyone else. Finally the parade arrived, bands, marchers and the collection of  soldiers, including a good turnout of Ghurkhas,  and volunteers, making their way under the bright sun shine, an almost summer day with temperatures of 18 degrees, the 2.8 kilometres from the Parliament to the Pukeahu War Memorial.

Peter Jackson’s fleet of WWI vehicles were joined by thirty eight descendants of the New Zealand Tunnellers who served in Arras, France. The horses all decked in parade paraphernalia were followed by a couple of period costumed chaps pushing wheelbarrows charged with cleaning up the inevitable horse-poo along the way. Further up the street from us, a great shower of red poppies was released, then as the last of the parade passed, street cleaners followed up to restore the roadway to its former functionality, with the same efficiency that truckloads of athletic looking guys arrived to dismantle the barriers. We departed before they were finished but I suspect that within an hour there was no evidence of the poo, poppies or spectator refuse.

With still time before the final free train at 3.03 pm, we made our way back down to the waterfront to revisit the National Portrait Gallery, today with a special exhibition titled “Tranquillity Disturb’t: A contemporary look at historical New Zealand”, with work by Nigel Brown, Gavin Hurley and Lisa Reihana.  The main focus is the impact of English navigator Captain James Cook’s three visits to this country and the wider Pacific region in the late 18^th century, a subject open to wide interpretation.

I liked the photo portraits by Reihana, Chris complained that there was too much photography in galleries these days. Neither of us were impressed with Nigel Brown who seems to be a reincarnation of Colin McCahon, an artist we absolutely do not appreciate. Gavin Hurley’s work left me bored; at least Brown’s work stirred up criticism. But with free entry, a visit to the Portrait Gallery is never wasted and we will go again next time we are in Wellington.

There was just time for a Scottish ice-cream before making our way to the station and joining the crowds heading north on the train. Arriving at Mana, we called into the nearby New World supermarket, shopped for provisions and then walked across the sports fields back to our motorhome. There were even more vans in this afternoon, so moving to a better spot was out of the question. 

Perhaps we will move tomorrow, perhaps not. Chris is still coughing and we are taking one day at a time. Hopefully the morning will reveal some plan for the new day, but one thing I do know; we have no intention of rising before dawn to attend the dawn ANZAC service. I shall leave that honour to my father and like ex-servicemen.

23 April 2015 - Ngatitoa Domain, Mana, Porirua Harbour

It did not take us long to drive up to Havelock and then come through to Picton via the Queen Charlotte Drive along the shore line of the Sounds to Picton. Our Tomtom and the tourist directions suggest the more suitable route is through to Renwick, up to Blenheim and then to Picton, a route about three times the distance of that we took, but in time, probably not a whole lot longer. Truth be told, it is more likely that the Transport Authorities prefer the tourist driver to stay well away from the coastal route, because it is slow, windy and very picturesque. Had Chris woken feeling as unwell as he sounded as he hacked and coughed through the night, I would have insisted I drive the last section of our South island tour, but I would have taken us on the longer route. As I explained to him when I told him the same, I see no point in travelling such a scenic route if one has to concentrate so intently on the road that the scenery is unseen; why not take the more efficient route where there is at least some peripheral scenery safely seen? 

We arrived at the ferry terminal by about 10 am, filled with diesel at a price more attractive than that encountered further south, and parked up in the car park close to the Marina. We donned jackets and set off out into the light drizzle to reacquaint ourselves with this charming seaside centre, delighting in the quirky signage and charming small town. We watched our Bluebridge ferry enter the harbour, passing the incident prone Government Interislander ferry heading out. The harbour was calm so I held on to the hope that it would be an equally calm crossing.

Bluebridge are such a delight to deal with, efficient, friendly, family like, and soon we were on board and settled down in the cinema lounge, where we were subjected to the ever entertaining movie “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”, the third viewing in recent times. I was happy to absorb myself in the entertainment, because when I did bother to ascertain the crossing conditions, I found myself feeling particularly seedy. It is amazing what frivolous distraction can do!

We disembarked after 5 pm, into the busy Wellington rush hour. It took us almost an hour to make our way the thirty kilometres or less to Mana, and once arrived, we were dismayed to find that dozens and dozens and dozens of other motorhomers had arrived and settled in before us. We managed to find ourselves a spot on a grassy corner, reasonably level once I fiddled with the blocks in the dark, dined and fell into bed. Hopefully tomorrow we will find a more suitable camping spot.