30 April 2018 - Paeroa, Hauraki Plains

Three generations of fixit men

The intervening weeks have whipped past with a wealth of highlights. After catching up once more with our older son and his family, and satisfying ourselves that my mother was at last on the mend, we left Whangarei on Friday 20 April and headed down to West Auckland where we camped up at Tui Glen, our ever faithful stopover place so conveniently placed for calling on our youngest and his family.  We found this intimate little NZMCA park over spot jam packed with motorhomes and caravans, made worse by the fact that a very large bus conversion had parked sideways, taking up what is normally space for three regular sized vans. Even after we lodged ourselves into a corner and hoped like mad there would be no need to leave in a hurry, others continued to arrive and my last count by nightfall was over ten parties in. Pure madness! However during the two days we remained in residence, everyone seemed to get in and out without drama, or at least any we observed.

Enjoying our camp on the Mapara Stream

We spent some of our day with Olly helping repair a fence that had fallen victim of the storm which had come through Auckland mid-April. As we had driven through the north western reaches of the city to Henderson, we had noted so many roofs and fences still in a state of disrepair, so in the big picture, Olly and Jess had come off pretty well, just with this fence and part of their garden shed roof whipped off by a neighbour’s flying trampoline.

The children were unperturbed by the fact their paternal grandparents were flying away yet again; their youthful memory banks remember little else but the fact they have a couple of rather odd travelling grandparents. They were happy to leave us with their parents who kept us well entertained with updates of their lives and work.

As we came through Hamilton we called in on a cousin, then overnighted at a lifestyle block in Tamahere just out of Cambridge. Here we learned the owners had bought a young vineyard, which yielded a disastrous result after the first harvest. I could not help but think the neighbour, a “helpful” wine grower, may have had a hand in the fact that fermentation never occurred. No matter the sentiments or reason, our young hosts gave up their dream of selling their own boutique branded wine, and more recently pulled the vines out. Today they share their charming rural oasis with the travelling public, with or without NZMCA membership.

Sunshine greeted us on ANZAC Day

Further south, as we travelled on through the King Country, we stayed at yet another fabulous rural park over property, this the Aramatai Gardens. Life is full of strange coincidences and this was one of these. I recalled visiting the farm when I was about twelve or so, when my younger sister came here to stay with her best friend. That farming family has remained on the periphery of our own family stories over the last fifty years, although they sold the property many years ago. The expansive and very beautiful gardens, with a fine arboretum, lakes and other features to be discovered another day, were developed as a public attraction by the owners that came after the Jones family, although the foundations had been laid long before.

My amazing parents ready for the day

We arrived mid-afternoon and parked up in a small paddock surrounded by some of those fine old trees, now in their autumn dress as were most this far down the country. We then set off with a laminated map up into the hills to the advertised waterfall on the Mapara Stream, partly on a long ago closed road and partly through steep sheep country. The falls did not disappoint although after this modest one and a half hour walk, we felt we had had enough exercise for the week.

The next day we continued on south through drizzle, through National Park, seeing none of the mountains and very little beyond the road. We held on to the hope that the weather would improve on the morrow. Just before Raetihi, we turned up the Ruatiti Road and headed more or less north west, up past Orautaha, a distance of some thirty eight kilometres from State Highway 4 arriving at the Ruatiti Station which these days is more a place for moneyed hunters to hang out for a day or two and bag a stag or wild boar. The lodge and an assorted collection of huts are the remains of a once functioning farm, and still does have a few beef cattle wandering about, but one is more likely to come upon fishermen, hunters, walkers or cyclists heading off to the Bridge to Nowhere, the beginning of this latter cycle trail a mere kilometres from the Lodge.

Mum already in, Chris considering his spot

We were the first of our party to arrive and were parked up adjacent to the Lodge by the time a great collection of cousins, an aunt and my parents arrived. We were a group of near on twenty, a full house and challenge for the station manager’s wife, Bridgette, who catered for us all; two breakfasts and two dinners.

Younger cousins on the farmbikes

Of course we had all arrived to join the biennial ANZAC day celebration at the Mangapurua trig, or rather at the memorial designed by my uncle Ron, just below the trig. This day and the two previous celebrations were the brain child of author Raewyn West and her supportive husband, she who has just published the most wonderful book about the soldier settlors of the Mangapurua Valley, of which my grandfather was one.

This blogger with husband and mother

But Raewyn could not have put this amazing gathering together without the assistance of so many others; there was a shelter, and food and sound and all the ATVs and farm bikes that were gathered for transport, and this was how we all managed to arrive by 10 am high up in the Whanganui National Park ready for a rather unusual ANZAC service. TV One’s Seven Sharp cameraman and journalist were there to record the event for posterity and a fine job they did too, with a cameo moment with my mother, the last of the Bettjeman children who were brought up in the valley, that last family out in 1942 when the government refused to continue the maintenance of the problematic road.

There were about a hundred of us, some of whom had come on horseback. Chris and I had thought we might return to the Lodge on foot but the track was a mire of mud. We were already mud splattered from our trip up on the ATV and by the time we returned to the Lodge, our coats and pack were no longer in any pristine readiness for their overseas trip.

Traffic jam at the Trig

I met up with children and grandchildren of cousins, two of whom assisted Mum in laying a wreath at the memorial, and all of whom I was delighted to spend time with. It was truly a splendid occasion, with great quantities of food and far too much alcohol consumed. I noted a decided pallor on several faces on that final morning as we bid farewell, and while I regretted having headed to bed earlier than many, thus missing some of the tales of yesteryear, I was glad I had not subjected myself to the wine and spirits, the empties filling a wheelbarrow on the back porch.

Time to go

And so after heartfelt farewells, most poignantly with my parents who headed back to Whangarei, we headed across the volcanic plateau, the sun shining on the three main mountains; Ruapehu, Tongariro and Ngaurahoe and the scenery the best it could possibly be at this time of the year. After shopping for fresh bread at Turangi, we parked up on the shores of Lake Taupo at Stump Bay where The Chauffeur did see fit to have a nap before pressing on. (He had taken more time than I to acquaint himself with the stalwart cousins)

My mother was offered a more luxurious descent

    That night we stayed in Tokoroa, not a place that springs to mind as a must-stay-over location, once a thriving purpose built satellite town. The nearby Kinleith Mill, a pulp and paper plant commenced production in 1953, taking advantage of the extensive pine forest that had been planted back between 1925 and 1935. Prior to this industry, Tokoroa had a population of 1,100, just a centre for the surrounding farmers, but by the early 1970s, the town’s population had reached over 20,000. Since the 1980s the plant has been downscaled and the population has shrunk to about 13,500.

With the reduction of employment, there have been problems over the years with a less desirable sector of the population flexing their muscles in a less socially acceptable fashion, and as I said before, Tokoroa is hardly a must-see or visit spot. 

Over twenty four years ago, Chris had occasion to spend time in this cold inland place, for both work and pleasure and views it more positively than I, hence his suggestion we stop over, and so we did, at the Tokoroa Club, on power in a quiet spot on the northern reach of the town. One could not fault the spot and I would be happy for us to do so again, should we find ourselves looking for such accommodation in the region, however the outlook was hardly picturesque.

By the time we arrived in Waihi Beach, the weather had packed up and we spent the bits and pieces of our days with the grandchildren dodging the rain and buffeting wind. Here again we parked up on power, Chris by now concerned about the life of our batteries, those to be replaced when we return to New Zealand in November. Our daughter and her husband had decided to take advantage of a Grab-a-seat trip to Rarotonga, so we were left to be entertained by the teenagers who had been left to bach for a week.  They served us spaghetti bolognaise, then the next night we took them to dinner at the local RSA, hardly fine dining but always good value and reliably tasty.

The full day spent with the entire family, including the loopy dog, could well have been filled with walks or even a boat trip on the harbour, but instead was spent hunkered down inside doing very little, all suffering cabin fever; a day better suited for a short visit rather than a day lengthened by inactivity. 

That evening as we continued to watch the deluge, social media was alive with the state of the road through to Paeroa, the one Larissa needed to take for work the next day and the same we would as we relocated. Apparently at one point the gorge road was down to one lane, but the next day it was absolutely fine, although there was evidence of the river having been very much higher in the previous hours. We observed that the cycle way on the other side of the Ohinemuri  had, at some point, been under water.

Arriving in Paeroa, we found a spot along from the public toilets to park up and plug into power and this serves as our next immediate base. This afternoon, I pulled out the suitcase picked up from Larissa’s and started to pack, and as I did so, felt the excitement of our imminent departure mounting.