11 November 2019 Onerahi, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

It’s not long since my  last posting but our stationery lives suggest that any escape by way of touring should be celebrated, or at least reported here on this blog, if only to remind myself that the gypsy call still stirs within my veins.

Labour Weekend is a major point on the New Zealand calendars, mostly forgotten for its genesis, but more for the fact it offers the first holiday for workers since Queen’s Birthday back in early June. Traditionally it heralds the change of one’s wardrobe, from winter to summer, although most of us fashionistas these days have wardrobes to meet the in-between seasons as well. It is often the first time one will don one’s bathing suits and venture into the cold briny or bare one’s legs to public view without the armour of pantyhose.

Elsewhere about the western world,  Labour Day is more commonly celebrated on 1 May, originally chosen to be International Workers’ Day to commemorate the 1886 Haymarket affair in Chicago. In the 19^th century the workers were sick of being exploited,  often been made to work up to fifteen hours a day, and rose up against this and demanded paid leave, proper wages and breaks.  Eventually after a rather volatile general strike in Chicago, a rather sensible request of eight hours for work, eight hours for recreation and eight hours for rest was granted. 

But here in New Zealand,  this precocious little country, which has often been at the forefront of political change (e.g. granting universal suffrage), we celebrate Labour Day in October. The eight hour working day was granted here in the newly founded Wellington colony way back in 1840, primarily because of a carpenter Samuel Parnell’s refusal to work more than eight hours a day. Initially the event was celebrated on 28 October 1890, the 50^th anniversary of the eight hour day, and in 1899 legislated to be a public holiday from the next year on.  We are a progressive lot here in New Zealand.

But as I have already alluded to, it is these days more an excuse to enjoy the warmer weather.

For us it offered an opportunity to catch up with our son who works in the corporate Auckland world at a spot mutually convenient, because realistically road travel at Labour Weekend is a trial one should avoid at all costs. Accidents abound, but more importantly holdups for hours on the north and south motorways out of Auckland would cause one to move to the South Island. 

So on Olly’s suggestion we agreed to meet up at Leigh, tucked just inside Cape Rodney at the northern extreme of the Hauraki Gulf. The Central Leigh is a collection of cabins, motels and motorhome sites sitting high above the cliffs, adjacent to the little cluster of shops and eateries that make up the village, and proved to be an ideal spot for us to spend a couple of nights catching up with our youngest, his partner, and her mother and step-father.

The other two parties had to brave the north bound traffic out of Auckland; we were glad the southbound early on the Friday was not much worse than any other normal weekday. After leaving the main highway at Warkworth, turning eastward for Leigh, we paused at the famous Morris & James Pottery on the edge of Matakana. 

The small Matakana River runs through this charming little town, and back in the 1850s when the white settlers arrived, they felled kauri and other timber around the hills, some making its way down river and some into the shipbuilding yard that was established early on. By the 1860s there was a small brick works established on the site where Morris & James stands now, using the clay that lay at their feet.

The founder of the current pottery,  Anthony Morris,  and his wife, Sue James, bought the property at Tongue Farm Road in the later 1970s and began to turn out their wares.  The business remained in the same ownership until 2008, when it was offered for sale to staff. Pottery from this workshop can be found in craft shops all around the country, the large planter pots available in upmarket garden shops, and the more decorative pieces in shops selling high end arts and crafts.

Every Labour Weekend, the works has a four day sale, drawing crowds from Auckland and further afield. We had been to at least one of these decades ago, and were now keen to secure a couple of pieces for our renovated home, so decided it would be wise to call on the Friday rather than during the family frenzied weekend.

We could have come away with dozens of pieces, arty wall panels, massive pots to stand in the hall, platters to fill the shelves, but instead left with three pottery abstract sails for the stairway wall, and a brightly coloured cockerel to grace the kitchen. “Quick! Let’s go”, I said to Chris, “before we see anything else we feel we have to buy”. 

 As we drove back to Matakana on the Saturday morning, a distance of about thirteen kilometres from Leigh, back through the charming seaside settlement of Whangateau, we saw the lines of traffic making their way down Tongue Farm Road, and were glad we had called the day before.

Friday evening we all bought fish’n chips from the well-patronised takeaway just up the road. Both “mothers” provided salads and we crammed into our motorhome, by far and away the largest of our diverse mobile accommodation and bonded over several bottles of wine.

Leigh with a population of less than 500, is primarily a fishing village around the small but excellent little port, where my parents often found shelter from storms when they were making their way up the coast in their yacht. Although it is still the headquarters for the well-known company, Leigh Fisheries, who have over fifty independent boats fishing for them on a permanent basis, and can be found unloading catches from fourteen different ports about the North Island, it is these days better known for its proximity to the Goat Island Marine Reserve, or more accurately, the Cape Rodney – Okakari Point Marine Reserve. This is a five and a half square kilometre protected area just three kilometres north-east of Leigh, and established in 1975, was the first such marine reserve in New Zealand.

Apparently this giant natural aquarium now hosts over 200,000 visitors per year, which does not surprise me, given the number of cars squeezed into the ridiculously small car parking area. But I am jumping ahead of myself.

Saturday morning dawned as beautiful as our arrival day had been, hundreds of tuis singing their hearts out in the pohutakawas and flax, both yet to flower. The previous afternoon after we arrived, Chris and I had walked down to the port and around the little harbour; the tide was half out and so we had been able to easily access the track that continues on for some way toward the Cape. We had been delighted with the tuis then, as with all the other small native birds darting about the gullies that rose up from the harbour. Truly it is a delightful spot.

After some discussion, we all agreed that we would head off independently for the day, perhaps meeting up along the way, perhaps not, but all congregating back at camp for a shared dinner. So we all made our way firstly back to Matakana, as packed out as Morris & James promised to be, despite the fact it was not yet 10 am. We had to park at a considerable distance and walk back into the village. Saturday mornings are generally busy in Matakana, again with folk coming up from Auckland, and Labour Weekend was cause for it to be even busier. 

Back in 2002 the Didsburys, a local couple, purchased the old Matakana timber yard, and with the support and encouragement of local horticulturists, had an architect create the village complex that is today the venue for the weekly Matakana Village Farmers’ Market.

The Matakana area is home to a diverse collection of growers, but it is not only they who sell their wares in this vibrant market; there are crafts folk, and providers of ethnic food, entertainment, and a wonderful ambiance of busy camaraderie. There are few bargains to be found because it does cater for the more wealthy folk to be found close to Auckland, of which we are definitely not. However we still found it as delightful as every other time we have called in. There we ran into Olly and Jamie, who were on the lookout for a particular foodie experience, and Paul and Terena who had their arms full of organic vegetable plants ready for their garden.

After sitting by the river for a while, listening to the guitarist and watching others also enjoying the sunshine,  checking out the massive eels thrashing around in the river waiting for offerings from the open mouthed children, we set off on our own re-exploration of the area, firstly heading out to Omaha. 

Omaha is a seaside settlement on a long tongue of land offering four kilometres of white sand and surf. The folk who live, or more likely come out to stay at weekends,  or turn up once a year, are not your average Joe-Blows. Their numbers include our ex-Prime minister, John Key, and famous fashion designer, Trelise Cooper. Access to the beach for the plebs, people like us, is limited to where the surf club is, and a couple of other spots with limited parking. Certainly the houses that have been built more latterly are quite stunning, but this is not a place that does much for us. Despite the beautifully designed houses that shout out “Money!”  I find it without character. I prefer the little settlement of Port Wells, on the road back to Matakana, although that too has grown since we were last there, and also has quite a few new palatial residences.

We called in to the Matakana Country Park, a privately owned 50 acre estate that offers miniature train rides, horse rides for children who are happy to be led about, a couple of restaurants, a craft shop and a wonderful art gallery. It was this latter we had called to see, remembering an earlier visit. Unfortunately the art gallery is in a smaller premises nowadays, and the previous gallery, a barnlike shed with mezzanine galleries, has been turned into an eatery. Still, we did enjoy looking at the art in the gallery, and saw many fabulous paintings we would dearly have loved to buy had we been in the league of the Omaha dwellers.

We were the first of our trio back at camp, and I left Chris with the weekend newspaper while I went for a walk along the top of the cliffs toward Matheson Bay. It’s a charming walk, up and down out of small inlets and gullies, but the day was still hot, so I returned along the more direct and easier route of the streets, from where I had wonderful views of Great Barrier Island.

Our shared dinner was again a great success, this time dining al fresco on our collection of outdoor furniture. It is quite wonderful what wealth of resources a mixed group of people can assemble at such times. However the cool of the evening drove us back into our camper for dessert and coffee.

The next morning Olly and Jamie breakfasted with us and we had an opportunity to spend time with just them, which was a rare treat. Then with 10 am fast approaching, we all broke camp and headed off on our own ways, us toward Goat Island and the others intending to call at the School Gala just up the road in Leigh.

As I mentioned earlier, parking at the Goat Island Reserve is tight, and even more so when you are manoeuvring a motorhome the size of ours. We took the last large parking space and just hoped that we would not be blocked in my desperate parkers.

Again it was barely 10 am, but the whole place was packed out, with divers, kayakers and folk such as ourselves who hoped to see the fish from the rocky shelves. In the past we have been amazed at the hundreds of Blue Maomao, Red Moki, Snapper and Paketi, certainly seen when snorkelling, from the glass bottom boat or just from the rocks. Alas this day we spied only two snapper; large but solitary, most disappointing.

And so we left the frenzy of people, and headed north again, now on the windy narrow gravel hill road across to Pakiri Beach; this a road labelled as being not-suitable-for-caravans. We once pulled a caravan over it and were fortunate to encounter no opposing traffic; these days I suspect it would be a miracle to do the same, and backing up could be problematic.

We detoured off the road to the beach, backed up to the fence and watched the bird life and far off surf from the comfort of the camper while enjoying our cups of coffee.  We called here once before, and then did bother to cross the dunes to the sea. We returned to learn a fellow camper, German folk who had arrived in the country just one day before, had had their camper broken into and the wallets and passports stolen by mongrel locals. Thus my memories of Pakiri Beach are not very positive.

From here it was a simple matter of following the road, now sealed and appropriately wide to accommodate normal traffic, back across to Wellsford. There we parked up at Centennial Park to lunch, before heading further north, then turning at Brynderwyn on to the Kauri Coast Highway. We continued on through Maungatoroto where we found the excellent ice-cream shop of yesteryear no longer operating, turned at Paparoa south to Pahi, where, at the end of the peninsula,  grows  one of the largest Moreton Bay Fig trees in the world, this one with a girth of over 14 metres.  But I have written of this before, and then the camp store was probably open for ice-creams, this day it was not.

Back on the Kauri Coast Highway we continued to Matakohe, not pausing to visit their amazing kauri museum, but turning south down yet another finger into the Kaipara Harbour, this to Tinopai. Our decision to travel  here was based on the fact that the Community Campground is offering NZMCA members the off-season Camp Saver discount, and so for $20 we backed up to the seawall, plugged into power and were in our own paradise, far superior to anything those Omaha dwellers enjoy (unless they were seeking big waves or mana). Once set up, we headed off on foot along the pathway above the mangroves toward the “GAS” sign, soon to find that this, the only general store and fuel station within cooee, was also closed. The Calorie Watching gods were conspiring against us!

We followed the road on to the end, arriving at both the old and new wharves. The tide was out and the local Maori people had arrived in their carloads, disgorging large families and keen shellfish gatherers. We watched for a while, attempted social contact met in part with disdain. These folk seemed mostly competent Te Reo speakers, and their wee ones were responding, or not as the case might be, to the language of their forefathers. We were white folk with little or no will to murmur Maori greetings, so I guess we got we asked for.

Back on the road to camp however, we fell into step with an elderly couple and their son, who were heading to the hall, adjacent to the camp, for a community meeting. The one gentleman, a retired architect from Auckland who had been partly instrumental in designing the replacement wharf, was full of information and left no silence between his verbal offerings.

Tinopai is a very peaceful spot and even more perfect for shellfish gatherers, which we are not, only because shellfish gives my husband gout, and there is little joy in feasting on such wealth alone. But we would be happy to come here again, but will be mindful that we bring our own ice-creams.

 The next morning, we headed back out to the highway, and back to Brynderwyn, joining the Labour Weekend traffic, crossing the range north to Waipu, where we settled into the Caledonian Park, plugged into power yet again, this time for a lesser fee.  I was keen to revisit the House of Memories, the Waipu Museum, that which celebrates the rather unique white settlors of the area.  

Most of the European locals can trace their heritage back to Norman McLeod and his brave band of followers.  The religious zealot McLeod gathered a flock of Scottish folk, many of whom had been cast off the harsh Scottish Highlands during the clearances, and in 1819 sailed from Ullapool for Nova Scotia to start a new life.  There they honed their skills as shipbuilders and farmers, and then driven by famine, came on to New Zealand in 1853 after a brief and disappointing stopover in Australia. They mainly settled in Waipu, although others went on to settle in Leigh, Kauri, Whangarei Heads and Okaihau up north.

We had visited the museum some time ago, and I was keen to call again, particularly so after travelling through Scotland last year and learning of the clearances and understanding how that impacted on some of my own ancestors. The museum was re-curated in 2008 so for us it was an entirely different experience to our earlier one. 

On leaving the museum, we did secure a couple of large ice-creams, which turned out to be quite disappointing; perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here after all? We walked out to one of the new subdivisions and agreed that Waipu has certainly moved ahead in the last few years, is a desirable spot to live and has not suffered at all from the bypass.

The next morning we came on home, firstly calling into the Vehicle Testing station to secure our new COF. Alas there was a problem with a steering part, which we have subsequently had repaired. Fortunately Mercedes came to the party again, and we were little out of pocket, although you would wonder how a vehicle with only 30,000 kilometres on the clock, ours since new, could develop the problems we have had. Perhaps Mercedes are no better than any other make after all?