5 February 2017 - Petone Working Men’s Club

We were away from our racecourse camp early yesterday morning, and even after dumping and filling with water, across at Havelock an hour before our rendez-vous time with my cousin and his partner. Greg and Jenny have lived in the idyllic seaside village of Havelock for nearly twenty years and this was to be our first visit, despite having driven past their home at least half a dozen times in the last decade. We spent an hour and a half describing our families, admiring the décor and discussing the frustrations of life over a pot of tea and then it was time to go. They were keen to see our own little “home” and while they were full of admiration, they probably wondered how we could live so many years in such a tiny space. Some things are best left unsaid; however we did express our desire to call in again when we were next this way, and I had no reason to suspect their reciprocated murmurings were anything but sincere. 

The last of the sunshine on Ngakuta Bay

So we pressed on beyond Havelock, this time on the Queen Charlotte Drive, the winding road that hugs the coastline and offers the spectacular views firstly into Grove Arm and then into the upper reaches of Keneperu Sound, particularly on such a glorious sunny day. We slowed down by the DOC camp at Aussie Bay and agreed it looked too intimate to accommodate a vehicle such as ours, and then pulled into that at Momorangi Bay, which looked more like a commercial motorcamp than a DOC camp. We parked and started for the office, noting the per person tariff and thought we had better check our DOC camp literature, now suspecting it to be one of the serviced camps that are excluded from our annual pass. Finding it to be so, we left without further enquiry, but did ring ahead to a POP further along the road. 

At Ngakuta Bay we were welcomed  warmly by Judith and Gary who offer association members powered or unpowered sites at an absurdly low tariff, one which we topped up to a more realistic level. So we plugged in and spent the afternoon relaxing, reading and enjoying the surrounds. Up in a little valley, the birds sang of their joy for the fine weather, undeterred by the few vans occupying the grassy paddock.

Later after dinner we wandered down to the bay and found the place a hive of activity; families playing after-dinner tee-ball and cricket, families paddling about in kayaks, some with lifejackets and some without, children fishing off the jetty with lines and nets. The sun was already low in the sky, its rays only kissing sections of the bay. It was quite lovely and I regretted that we did not walk out after dinner often enough.

Children net-fishing at Ngakuta Bay

This morning we headed off in a leisurely fashion, after heartfelt thanks to our hosts. We were a mere 11 kilometres from Picton so were soon there, even though we paused at the lookout high over the bay. Once parked up we spent a couple of hours wandering about the charming little township, bubbling with activity as it must every day during “the season”, because the ferries come and go whether it is the weekend or the weekday, school holidays or not. The bright sunshine made for more vibrancy and brought those waiting for the ferry out onto the esplanade.

We discovered the National Whale Centre on the waterfront, a mini museum of New Zealand whaling history with interpretative displays, films and literature for sale. Panels explained how the Marlborough Sounds was the epicentre of 19^th and early 20^th century whaling enterprises, and that for nearly 140 years, whales on their annual migration north were sighted by whalers from hilltop lookouts at the entrance to Tory Channel.

Overlooking Picton

We found it quite fascinating, even more so because there was mention of the local Norton family who one of my cousins married into, who with fellow descendants of the first whalers were still amongst the crews of the whale-chasing boats when the shore stations finally closed after nearly a century and a half. I recall Tom Norton speaking of those whaling days at my father’s eightieth birthday celebration.

Our sailing was uneventful despite the wind and the sea I felt rise and fall beneath the vessel whenever I stirred from my seat. The rest of the time I reclined comfortably in the on-board cinema, dulled by seasick tablets and the mindless comedies shown, the sort full of kindergarten potty humour. However I was pleasantly roused from this stupor by the announcement of our arrival in Wellington, and felt better than I had during and after all such recent marine journeys.

The arrival in Picton of the Bluebridge Ferry

We rang ahead to the Club and were told that while the car park was busy, there would be room for us, however on arrival found this not to be so at all. We parked some distance away, then came across to the club to dine and be entertained by the live music and dancing before retrieving the camper and moving into this now slightly less busy spot. I imagine the next hour or so will see the car park empty out and we will be left pretty much alone.