Another month has slipped by, closer to our reoccupation to
our house. We have made some moves toward that end, most in our heads and some
exploring options for replacement of furniture and appliances that may have
either died or deteriorated during eight years in storage; television and
lounge suite to name just two. Our tenant, when approached discreetly, has
suggested that she is still hoping to move into the property to the north of
the city belonging to the landlady who phoned us weeks ago for a verbal
reference, but it all seems rather nefarious. We may have to put pressure on her,
insisting we are moving in the day after her lease falls due; an action that
would seem rather harsh given that appropriate rental housing is apparently scarce,
especially for larger families.
Autumn has certainly descended upon us, causing us to become
less active in the outdoors, although we did spend a few days doing serious
work about our section. We moved a massive pile of dry vegetation from one
corner of the section to the middle of the mowed expanse, then several days
later, when the winds were light and rain was forecasted for later in the day,
we set fire to the pile and stood around like pyromaniacs, in awe of the force
of fire and glad the fire restrictions were lifted. Amazingly the conflagration
died down within an hour of lighting and we spent the rest of the day watching
over the smouldering heap, ready to rush for buckets of water if required.
We marked out the boundary with warratah standards and lengths
of rope, with a view to god-knows-what. We had called into a show home out at
One Tree Point and spoken to a builder’s representative consulted a couple of
years ago. He said he was travelling out to the north side of the harbour late
in the week and would call on us to see if the plan we were interested in would
work for the section. He never did turn up, but then he probably understands
that we are still sitting on the fence as regards plans for the section. We oscillate
between selling when we move into our house, and building our dream home, even
after eleven years of tenure.
For a few days we toyed with the idea of flying to
Queensland and sorting Chris’s driver’s licence out; it has since expired. We
toy with the idea of buying a camper van there and storing it for short trips,
but like so much of our life for now, these are all only thought bubbles. We
abandoned the plan when we considered our tenant might suddenly advise us she
and her family were moving out within days, understanding that we want to be on
hand when that occurs. But maybe these
are all just excuses, just like my abhorrence for the cold water when I
consider the kayak sitting on our rejuvenated trailer, waiting for an outing.
Little outings included a night into Whangarei, setting up
camp adjacent to the Fish Hook Bridge, aka (and more correctly) “Te Matau a Pohe" . We moved into town for the night to
rendez-vous with our youngest son who came all the way from west Auckland to
have dinner with us. For reasons that need not be recorded here, he came alone,
so we decided this more modest party would be well served by our favourite
budget restaurant, Café Divine. There we ordered the banquet for three and
feasted appropriately, then after returning to our motorhome by the bridge and
after-dinner hot drinks, Olly set off for home more than two hours away and we
settled down amongst the itinerants and budget travellers who frequent this
spot.
We made the most of our fabulous posse there in the small
city of Whangarei, and walked upriver to my mother’s apartment in the Town
Basin and separately checked out the prices of Kia vehicles here in New
Zealand. Given we had been so very satisfied with our Sorrento in the UK, our
preference is turned toward buying a similar vehicle here in New Zealand when
we fork out for a more prestigious replacement for our utilitarian Toyota Wish. 
Another day of idle otherness took us out to Pataua South, a
delightful spot on the southern side of the Pataua estuary. Years ago Chris and
I kayaked up to the upper reaches of the mangrove populated estuary, and years
before that I used to come quite often with my previous husband and sons when
they were little, gathering pipis, with which we used to make the most
delicious pipi and parsley soup; alas my newer and better husband is not at all
enamoured with the idea of such a delicacy. Life is full of compromises.
Instead we walked across the foot bridge to Pataua North
pausing to chat with the fishermen casting their rods into the fast moving
tide, walked up around the new subdivisions on that northern shore, watched the
surfers seeking their chances on the ocean beach, then returned to the estuary
and walked about the edge of this, discovering that groynes exist here in New
Zealand as they do on the British shores.
But our big-plans-but-doing-nothing (or very little) haven’t
precluded us from another small trip away within the confines of our North
Island shores. We had a firm committed
goal, to attend our oldest granddaughter’s 18th birthday
party, so set off a few days before the weekend for Waihi Beach, travelling
through Auckland and on down the Firth of Thames coast road, that travelled in February, the
repairs not much further on than then. We overnighted at Kaiaua itself rather
than the free seashore camp six kilometres or so further south, Rae’s Rest.
The Kaiaua Boat Ramp Reserve is an approved camping site for
travellers, albeit with a time limit. Here there are public toilets and better
still, walking access to the pub and fish’n chip restaurant -takeaway, and it
was this latter we patronised that evening; an absolutely delicious feast of
battered hoki and chips accompanied by a homemade salad and a bottle of red,
consumed in our own space. We were backed up to the launching channel, which on
high tide would be busy and beautiful; on low tide which we struck it was muddy
and deserted. It’s a popular spot for
travellers and in the morning, we counted thirty rigs including a few
whizz-bang vans sporting poached self-contained stickers.
From here we detoured to Thames, to seek a refund on the
Garmin navigational device we had purchased at Noel Lemmings in Whangarei. We
had phoned their head office and been told that any refund of the product,
advising that we had discarded the packaging and useless paper “instructions’
would be at the mercy of the store manager. The device was not faulty, simply
so limited and lacking in all the wonderful facets of the Tomtoms we had used
in Britain, Australia and New Zealand, and we were hugely disappointed. To the credit
of the assistance manager in the Thames store who was willing to offer us a
credit, the return was not successful because we had registered the item online
as the instructions said we immediately should, thus voiding the possibility of
any warranty a second sale would require. So the extra mileage around the
coastline of the Firth was wasted; we drove back to Paeroa and on through to
Waihi and Waihi Beach, setting ourselves up at a park over property near the
village, hitched up to power.
Alas, when we tried to turn on the fridge, one of the first
tasks one does on arrival at one’s overnight camp, it would not turn on. While
all other electrical appliances functioned perfectly, we absolutely could not
trigger the fridge, on gas or 12V or mains electricity. We called our
son-in-law at work who came by between jobs and confirmed electricity was
getting through to the fridge. He called back to their house and lugged in an
old fridge stored in the garage for our use; their own fridge and freezer space
in full use with party food.
Apart from the fridge debacle, our weekend in Waihi Beach
assisting in the setting up for the rather drawn out birthday party, went very
well. We joined extended family and family friends for an afternoon tea that
was more about cheap champagne than tea, and then stayed on to join the
supervisory crew for the teenage party held downstairs. My husband and I
retired soon after 10 pm while the rest of the chaperones stayed on into the
small hours of Sunday morning. Needless to say the chaperones and party-ragers
all looked rather the worse for wear on the Sunday.
We arranged with our camp hosts to stay a further two days
and set off for Tauranga on the Monday morning, too early to avoid the hideous
city commuter traffic, firstly calling at Harvey Norman to buy ourselves yet
another navigational device, a Tomtom this time, one that has turned out to be
quite a different animal to its predecessors, then across to Mount Maunganui to
RV Mega in the hope they might have a remedy for our fridge problem.
Contrary to the sweet girl at the end of the phone on Friday
who had said we were just to arrive and someone would be happy to help, the
service crew were flat-out but did venture out to look at our fridge. After
spending time listening to our woes, and dismantling the exterior cover to the
fridge, they pushed the on switch inside and guess what! It turned on!
So we drove north again to Waihi Beach, now with the fridge
on, feeling quite ridiculous. We retrieved the food from the fridge at
Larissa’s, or at least all that which had not been donated over the course of
the weekend.
However we were soon cheered up when we joined our
daughter’s in-law’s extended family at the RSA restaurant for dinner to
celebrate her mother-in-law’s 85th birthday. We had a lovely meal
and enjoyed the company, as we always do when we catch up with them at family
events.
The next morning, we packed up, ready at last to head off
for a road trip, but … were unable to turn the fridge off. So back we went to
Mount Maunganui to see the good men at RV Mega. This one poked and prodded and
said he would book us in for a diagnostic session on the 6 May, a week hence.
This would mean the van should be left with them for at least a couple of days
and we would have to either stay in a motel or with friends; none of this
excited us much. He suggested too that we could carry on with our holiday in
the meantime and either keep the fridge on all the time (an option we do not
like) or turn it off at the 12V switch which would disable all of the three-way
options of operation. And so we chose this latter, heading off, hoping for the
best and understanding that our holiday might have to be aborted at any point
along the way.
The point of this road trip was to resume that which we had
aborted back in February when my mother was in hospital, this entailing us to return
to Gisborne on the inland route we had come up on in haste. So we travelled
eastward along the Bay of Plenty, through Te Puke, Whakatane and Ohope.
I had promised friends of my mothers who live just beyond
Ohope that we would call when we came through again, but by now Chris had a
cold and was spluttering away like a sick old man; not particularly attractive
behaviour for a guest. We pressed on toward Opotiki and stayed at the Island
View Holiday Park, one of the many camping grounds around New Zealand that have
signed up as part of the off-peak heavily discounted tariff offerings to NZMCA
members. At $20 for the two of us on power, this is very good value, and with
our fridge woes and a need to stay warm at this time of the year, we were keen
to take advantage of this.
The camp is right on the shore, with an expanse of lawn for
recreation, plenty of room for caravans and motorhomes to plant themselves in
front of the cabin arrangements. These latter are perfect accommodation for the
current guests, dozens of ni-Vanuatu brought into the country to pick
kiwifruit. These poor folk looked miserable as they hugged their rather
inadequate clothing to their chests in these fresh temperatures, a far cry from
the climate enjoyed way up in the tropics. The U-shaped accommodation around
the communal eating and lounge seems to be custom made for Melanesian, or in
fact any island living folk, who live in such communal arrangements.
The following morning we headed off, on through Opotiki, then
on through the Waioeka Gorge and up over the Raukumara
Ranges, the summit in the rain clouds somewhere near 800 metres high. The
weather deteriorated and as we came down into Poverty Bay, the perfectly formed
rainbows did little to alleviate our disappointment at the blustery rain
squalls that blew in from the sea.
While we did not actually travel into
Gisborne, we did refuel at the truck stop near the airport and check out the
new NZMCA Park at Awapuni. Duly impressed we parked up on the shore within view
of this camp spot earmarked for the future, and lunched looking out to sea,
watching the five or six coastal freighters come and go in the misty squalls,
and the intermittent sunlight fall upon the white cliffs of Young Nick’s Head.
We then set off south on State Highway 2,
that which we had in fact been following ever since we left Waihi, the
alternate route to Wellington which follows the east coast in the main. We were
surprised to see the swollen creeks and so many paddocks lying wet like the
water-meadows of England. But when we reached our next camp for the night, all
was soon explained.
Our host at the Wairoa Riverside Motor Camp,
another of the Camp Saver members, was quick to tell of us about the three
weeks of rain, and the water bomb that had hit the town earlier that day. He
told us that he was ready to shut up shop and walk away, sick of the flooding
difficulties to accommodate guests. We had struck him on a bad day, because I
am sure that in a stretch of better weather, he would be a charming most
welcoming chap. However despite his misery, he found us a spot that was relatively
dry or at least one where the wheels of our motorhome did not sink into a
flooded mire. The grass was like a raft of reeds across a swamp and walking
across to the amenities was a unique experience.
The camp here beside the river is quite
charming and well situated for the shops and clubs. The facilities are
immaculate and decorated in a quaint, almost kitsch, style; just enough to
delight. Today the wide expanse of the
Wairoa River was brown and unattractive beyond the autumnal tones of the park
like trees of the camping ground.
The following morning after tracking the
telephone numbers for the sister of my first husband, who lives with her
husband in Wairoa and whom I had promised to call on when I did eventually come
by, I did make contact. Chris was still coughing and spluttering from the virus
he had picked up sometime over the past week, and I was feeling as if I was
coming down with the same. So for more reasons than one, I was somewhat relieved
when I learned that Val’s busy morning schedule and her husband’s health needs
did not really suit a rather last minute visit. But I, who don’t do telephone
conversations very well, did have a lengthy chat with my
ex-sister-in-law who sounded no older than when we last saw each other about
thirty five years ago. I regretted that I had left my contact so late and vowed
to myself to make a better effort when we next came this way. However it may
have been a blessing in disguise for her and her husband to avoid catching our
more northern viruses; exposing oneself to these bugs after a certain age is
playing with fire.
So we headed south again, following State
Highway 2, here a route that is frequented more often than not by logging
trucks, motorists avoiding the trip south if at all possible. To be fair, the
road was better than I remembered, but it is a twisty and turning road, winding
its way up steep hills and steeply down the other side, over and over again.
About halfway along the route, we wound
our way down into a deep ravine, cut out by the Mokaka River and from the
bridge across the river we paused to look up at the viaduct which I have
photographed each time we have come this way, and which remains as
impressive today as it was when I first
saw it. This 276 metre long viaduct, opened in 1937 and recognised as part of
New Zealand’s engineering heritage, has a deck ninety five metres above the
river. The plaque to commemorate this feat states that this is the highest rail
viaduct in Australasia which I did question, especially since the Makatote viaduct
just south of National Park was still fresh in my mind, having recently written
Jenny Patrick’s book based on its construction.
When this Main Trunk Line viaduct was
opened in 1908, it was in fact the tallest in New Zealand, but has since
slipped to the third tallest. This one is 262 metres long and is 79 metres
high.
We pulled into the layby in the Tangoio
Falls Scenic Reserve not far before the road arrives down on the shores of
Hawkes Bay. Here we made coffee then wandered across the swing bridge to check
out the walks on offer. If Chris had been feeling better, we probably would
have donned our solid walking boots and headed up the creek to see the falls,
even though everything looked rather boggy, but then it is all very well to say
as much when we chose not to.
The walks from here vary from 40 minutes
return to one and a half hours through to the White Pine Bush car park back up
the road, and pass through native and pine forests including seventy year old
redwoods.
Instead we were soon driving southward
along the Bay with Napier’s highland suburbs within sight, the flat marshy bird
sanctuary and the airport on reclaimed land on our right. It is this great
expanse of flat land that was pushed up in the 1931 earthquake and over the
years the bank protecting it all from the Pacific Ocean which rolls in, has
been added to, an on-going work in progress even as we continued on our way.
Here too Chris was keen to check out the new
NZMCA Park, this one halfway between Napier and Clive, and when discovered
adjacent to a delightful golf course, thought to be the most attractive of all
we have encountered. But for us, we will return in the summer when being
plugged into main electricity is not an issue. Instead we made our way through
to Havelock North where we would later find our camping spot.
But firstly we decided we would head up
Te Mata Peak for lunch. I have been up here several times during my life, at
least once of those with Chris, and then to the very top. These days there is a
prohibition for vehicles over a certain length to take on the last kilometre or
so of the winding access road. We parked part way up, lunched with beautiful
views up to the peak and west down to the Tukituki River and the manicured
vineyard blocks and the like far below.
The very popular Te Mata Park, gifted by
the Chambers family in 1927 to the community, boasts over thirty kilometres of
tracks set in ninety nine hectares. It’s located on the edge of dramatic
uplifted limestone hill country cut through by the Tukituki River. The Te Mata
Peak rises to 399 metres at its summit, offering 360 degree panoramic views and
a leap off point for daredevils in varying modes of sail and wing. The sedimentary
rocks making up the “hog’s back” ridge of erosion-resistant limestone scarps,
spurs and valleys, have been tilted and bowed upward by the immense geological
forces of the Pacific and Australian tectonic plates.
Looking west from a small hillock immediately above our
lunch spot, the expanse of the Hawkes Bay villages and towns, including
Hastings, Havelock North, Napier and Taradale lay beneath us, and beyond the
ranges , the snow clad mountains of the central volcanic plateau also visible.
After descending the Park road, we found ourselves still too
early to arrive at our camp for the night, so called into the Arataki Honey
Centre, just up the road from our planned destination. Arriving here I realised that Arataki Honey
had been part of my life for as long as I had been old enough to consume this
nectar of the bee-gods. Arataki’s clover honey has sat on our kitchen shelf and
made its way to our breakfast table for decades. The Centre is a retail outlet
targeting the tourist trade, but also offers a wealth of information regarding
the company, bees and their habits, honey and its production. There is a
tasting table where one can sample honey gathered from varied environments
although I really do wonder how the hive collectors and honey producers can
really be sure that their bees have confined their pollen gathering to any one
particular plant.
And just like the honey centre near Warkworth, there is a
window onto the world of the working bees, something that is truly fascinating
especially the first time one sees such a display.
The company, which announces online that it is the number
one beekeeping business in the Southern Hemisphere with 20,000 hives across New
Zealand, was established in 1944, which explains why it had always been part of
my life.
At 3 pm we pulled into our camp for the next few days, a
wide area housing a dozen campers and caravans and with room to host members of
the NZMCA who prefer to stay in these sort of places rather than the Club
sites. Unfortunately our hosts are winding down this service, the property
about to change hands, but they were willing to accommodate us in the meantime.
We hitched up to power and enjoyed the benefits of electric heating. And
happily our fridge continued to function, albeit not being able to be turned on
and off in the normal manner.
The next day we drove back into Napier, shopped and dumped,
then parked up along Marine Parade and set off on foot about he city. What a
lovely shopping precinct there is in Napier, and of course it is all
accommodated in the wonderful art deco architecturally designed buildings that
rose like a phoenix after that terrible earthquake in 1931.
We visited the museum MTG Hawkes Bay and enjoyed it very
much. Our main target was to explore the exhibition about the earthquake.
Twenty years ago there had been an earthquake museum down in Marine Parade, a
rather ramshackle affair packed full of memorabilia, or at least that is how I remember
it. That has long gone and now one is left with this more modern pruned down
exhibition here at the MTG. It is very good, but I could not help thinking of
the Canal Museum in Gloucester; how it was revamped between our visits three
years apart, how such a wealth of information, detail, stories, all seemed to
have been liquidated by modern curatorship. I suspect this approach is driven
by the fact that the modern visitor has a shorter attention span and the old
fashioned clutter of history simply switches them off.
The museum has other interesting exhibitions; “The
Architectural Legacy of J A Louis Hay”, tucked away behind the “Tenei Tonu
Exhibition”, this latter which would be particularly interesting to foreign
visitors, another of silver heirlooms which generally caused my eye to glaze
over, and “Project Banada” about the Kiribati islanders who were moved from
their ancestral home to Fiji in 1945 to enable the strip mining of phosphate
for New Zealand and Australian consumption. 
We had made our way through most of the exhibitions when I
was drawn outside by the sound of pipes; Scottish pipe bands pull hard at my
own ancestral roots. One thousand students from the Napier Girls High School,
the “kura on the hill” were gathering in the Veronica Sunbay at the Sound Shell
and Colonnade. Like rats following the piper, we followed the parade and soon learned
that it was all about celebrating 135
years of the school’s existence. Many of the pupils were dressed in uniforms representing
the school’s evolution. We sat in the rose arbour with a group of women more
senior than us, old girls of the school who joined the students in singing the
school song with great gusto, something that astounded me; I do know that we
had a school song at the High School I attended, a song we sang every morning
at assembly before lessons began, but I have absolutely no idea what it was. We
listened to other songs, speeches and watched the formally clad girls do a
haka, a rather incongruous exhibition, however in keeping with this terribly
politically correct world we live in. It was all quite entertaining and quite
unexpected.
By the time they filed off in a very orderly fashion, it was
time for us to wind up our day. We walked a few more streets exploring the
architecture then walked back along the sea frontage, along paths and past
sculptural works, all part of the wonderful development that is truly a credit
to the city citizens.
Returning to our camp, we caught up with our hosts and asked
if we could stay another day, consent easily given and more interestingly, we
learned that the property had once been home to an economic strawberry growing
business before climate and other
adverse events pushed the business toward bankruptcy. Fast thinking innovation gave rise to a small
mushroom growing enterprise and with resulting success; the property came
better known for its funghi production. Although the big old sheds now lie
vacant, the business did continue and is apparently thriving in another
reincarnation beyond the line of gums that delineate the smaller area about to
be handed over for residential redevelopment.
From here we drove across to Clive, on the river of the same
name, and parked up in the Evers-Swindell Reserve (named for the Olympic awarded
rowing twins) and after browsing the Saturday Herald, set off on foot along one
of the many many cycling paths that crisscross the more populated parts of
Hawkes Bay. We crossed the Clive River and set off along the path toward the
Pakowhai Regional Park, along the western shore of the Clive estuary then up
the southern bank of the Ngaruroro River. We encountered signs that warned us
to stay on the paths given that duck shooters were out in force for the season.
We did hear some ducks that would have done better to stay silent, and watched
hawks swoop about the flood plain of the river. We encountered quite a few cyclists,
and fewer walkers, but limited our walking to just less than two hours, perhaps
covering the modest distance of seven kilometres. We are in poor physical
condition; I could use the excuse of colds we are nursing but would be more
honest to say we have been slothful for too long and should do something about
it.
The road that took us back to camp, and those all about,
pass through pear and fig orchards, apple orchards where often there are piles
of surplus fruit lying unpicked on the ground. Sweet corn crops in this area
have been harvested, although further north up the coast they stood dry and
golden awaiting their fate. And all about are the autumnal shades of exotic
trees which never cease to entrance this daughter of the dense dark green New
Zealand evergreen forests.
We came away from the Hawkes Bay the following day, heading
toward Taupo up and over the steep and broken land that lies between the coast
and the centre of the country; it is some years since we took this route ; this
is yet another of the many roads that cut through the wild hinterland of this
country where one wonders at the skill and bravery of those first road
surveyors, although one should never dismiss the fact that most of these roads
followed old foot paths of the earlier inhabitants, or at least in part.
Arriving on the shores of Lake Taupo, we lunched on the lake
shore at Five Mile Bay Recreation reserve; a DOC camp, although for us it has
only ever been a spot to pull into for lunch or a cuppa. Today we were amazed
at the number of motorhomes parked up obviously intent on overnighting. From
here one has a distant view of the mountains of the central plateau and the
expansive lake surface. 
We drove into Taupo and decided that early May was a
decidedly nicer time to visit this otherwise incredibly busy resort town. We
dumped then did a pile of laundry, before heading a little north to our next
camp, this at the National Equestrian Centre just above the Waikato River and
the Aratiatia rapids.
The next morning we woke to 7 degree temperatures and fog
that obscured all the buildings that make up the Centre. We left in time to
observe the release of the Aratiatia dam, the first timed for 10 am. This occurs
three times a day, or at least at this time of the year, the gates open for
around fifteen minutes.
The Aratiatia Power Station was the first hydro-electric
power station on the Waikato River, opened in 1964. With so many hydro dams
along the river between Taupo and Hamilton, it is easy to forget the geology of
the terrain, now mostly hidden under lakes formed in the construction of the
dams since that date. But standing on the road bridge adjacent to the Aratiatia
dam, the course of the original river below is narrow and rugged, and it is
when that fifteen minutes of water is allowed to follow its natural course that
one is reminded of the true force of nature.
We walked to a view point someway below the dam, but high
enough to be well out of harm’s way, and watched as the great rock pools filled
and overflowed, bursting down the narrow channels, once more the rapids which
surely must rival the Huka Falls further upstream.
I had contacted my sister who lives a little out of Rotorua,
hoping to catch up with her, either at her home or at a mutually convenient
rendez-vous spot, but unfortunately she was unwell so we continued on through to
the city of Rotorua. It was about midday when we arrived; we made our way to
the lakeshore and dined while observing the thousands of birds that call the
lake home; scaup and the New Zealand
dabchick the most interesting although more common duck and geese species, the
inevitable seagulls and cormorants also enjoy this inland watery refuge. Here from
the boat launching spot at the end of Hatupatu Drive behind the Government
Gardens, there are lovely views back to the city and at this time of the year,
with the trees dressed in their autumnal
cloaks, quite stunning.
We called into the shopping mall in the city and contributed
to the city’s coffers; groceries and clothes extracted from the shops shelves.
Then we headed north again up over the Mamaku Ranges toward
Hamilton, turning off at Cambridge and making our way through the life style
holdings to our park over property at Tamahere. Here we stayed at a charming
little spot we have patronised before, guarded by the ugliest friendly little
dogs you can imagine, set amongst beautiful golden trees amid piles of discarded
leaves.
The next morning we set off yet again, this time for
Hamilton to call briefly on my cousin, Pam. While a mere five days older than
I, she is not as able as I, hampered by past injury and all the handicaps that
can follow that. It is such encounters that remind one how fortunate I am; “there
but for the grace of god, go I”.
Our last stretch was on through almost to Whangarei, just
short of three hundred kilometres. We stopped at Mercer, where the Waikato
River turns west toward the sea, we lunched and refuelled with diesel at a
ridiculous price. We had deliberately chosen to refuel here, south of the
Auckland region, to avoid the extra 10 cents a litre that the good folk of Auckland
have to pay over and above everyone else in this country, to cover the enormous
on-going cost of roads in their region. Alas it seems that Mercer has been
scooped into the same equation, to capture all those who try to avoid that
surcharge, although I do accept that we might have to eat our words when we
receive our fuel account with the club discounts showing.
Our last night was spent overnighting at the Waipu Caledonian
Park, where the famous Waipu Games are held every New Year’s Day. The
association supplements its income by allowing NZMCA members to camp within the
grounds paying the very fair $15 on electricity, a tariff that matches many of
the park over properties we had stayed at over the previous week or so. The Park
backs on to the main street of this pleasant little village, and is within easy
walking distance to the excellent museum which I was keen to revisit. However
now we were close to home and various matters had become more pressing, if only
for their physical proximity, the museum and the other charming features of
Waipu would have to wait.
And so we are now home again, or at least back at our
interim “home” until we move back into our house. I suspect my next post will
be made sometime after that return, when we have had time to lift our heads and
head away for respite from the renovation work that must surely arise.
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