17 January 2019 - Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

The good weather has continued for some time and we have made the most of it. On New Year’s Day, rising as normal, not having bothered to see the old year out, we headed back into Whangarei, parking at the edge of the A H Reed Park and walked up to the Whangarei  Falls, the most attractive approach to this city-famous tourist attraction. A walk along the Hatea River, much of it through lovely native bush is far more aesthetically pleasing than a drive up through Tikipunga. We were pleased to find that many tourists had already been alerted to this and were sharing the route with us. Parking up at the top of the Falls is asking for trouble; many of the locals have light fingers.

The A H Reed Memorial Park is a remnant of an original kauri forest and here one can walk across a canopy walkway, across a deep gully populated by massive totaras and more modest kauri trees. Kiekie climb up toward the tree tops and nikau palms crowd the sides of the creek. 

The 2.1 kilometre path up to the falls is the same that takes walkers and cyclists all the way from the Onerahi Foreshore, into the city along the wider part of the Hatea River, that part which could be mistaken for an estuary, then up through Mair Park and on up to the falls. Development of this has taken all the years I have lived in Whangarei, since 1983, but has been worth the wait.

The 26.3 metre Falls themselves have been a tourist destination for far longer than that, and are worth checking out, even in periods of lower flow like the day we called, and even better in the middle of heavy rainfall. I remember just a few years ago being quite frightened by the surge of water over the top of the falls, access to the base denied by the flow. Alas in the last week, two people have lost their lives here; these are best to be viewed than played in.

The entrance to the A H Reed Memorial Park has been smartened up since we were last there, and a large sign tells the visitor all about A H Reed, who was English born, but grew up in New Zealand gaining fame as a publisher, author, entrepreneur and philanthropist. I remember many of our school texts on geography and Maori culture (such as we were offered in those days) was published by this scion. However nowhere does it actually suggest what link Whangarei specifically had to Alfred Reed, except for the fact that the Whangarei County Council voted unanimously to name the park after him in 1957, just a few years before I was to become acquainted with his school texts.

We lingered a week or so here at Parua Bay while we worked our way through the bureaucracy of having power connected, most of it mumbo jumbo because the hard work was completed by my husband who dug the trench which the electrician in turn laid the cables. Fortunately Chris was on hand to assist the tradesman when he arrived; this very able man was short of his original leg albeit quite agile with his prosthetic.

We hung about even longer and spent our idle days putting together a kitset garden shed, eventually erected snugly into the bush, after several interesting discussions regarding the interpretation of the instructions, complicated by the fact the pictorial instructions differed from the words in the text.

Finally we came away from Whangarei, the water tanks full, the waste tanks empty and the diesel tank bursting with gold, or at least that is the impression one gets these days with the inflated cost of this black gold. We called into my mother’s for morning tea, making sure she understood we were only were away for a couple of days, then headed south joining the queues of holidaymakers heading back toward Auckland. Fortunately our itinerary took us inland less than ten kilometres south of the city and we continued on in that general direction through Mangapai and followed the old rail line as much as the road allows, through Mareretu, emerging on to Highway 12 at Paparoa, pulling into a little park by the old historic landing, from where we checked out this little rural settlement at the end of an inlet of the Kaipara Harbour.

The inland road is certainly not a fast route, but travels through wonderful rural landscapes; we particularly enjoyed the agapathus growing along the roadside near residences (the next “noxious weed” to fall foul of the Council, l  am sure) and the many hawks rising from their road kill feasts of possum, pukeko and rabbit as we drove past. Swallows darted across our path and everything was well in the world, or at least in our little part of it.

The Kaipara Harbour warrants many days exploration, parts of which we have delved in the past, but more latterly considering a history information cruise to hear the full story, albeit one man’s view. Such cruises do exist; my parents took one a few years back and waxed lyrical on its merit for weeks thereafter.

The first European settlers arrived in Paparoa in 1862 and were welcomed by the Maori who had called the area home for the previous few hundred years. But the specifics of the Maori settlement in the immediate environs is a confusing one; up on the hill above Paparoa are the archeologically excavated remains of a Pa site, long abandoned and not part of written or oral history, either Pakeha or Maori. And this far down the track, it is highly unlikely that anyone will ever be able to slot the village’s past into local history. Such is the problem of pre-European history when nothing was recorded in writing.

The Landing here at Paparoa is an important part of the area’s colonial history; when logging began in 1886, it was here that kauri logs were stored ready for rafting to sawmills. The tidal stream was the arterial arm for shipping in provisions the nine kilometres from Pahi (that settlement with the massive fig tree that has featured somewhere back in this blog) and where the steamers unloaded chattels and supplies of local storekeepers.

We wandered up through the village, a surprising collection of shops and services clustered in the hollow. The old National Bank squeezed into a triangular intersection appears to be now a private residence, another nearby residence of dubious quality is surrounded by a fabulously colourful garden and on Saturdays a small but vibrant farmers’ market covers the little green opposite the shops. Here one can spent absurd amounts on homemade tarts, coffee, plants, vegetables, et cetera. Even by midday the prices did not seem to have been reduced; perhaps the vendors prefer to take the unsold items home for personal use rather than diminish their own mana by discounting prices for quick sale.

After enjoying the peace and shade of our little picnic spot, we headed on, now traveling westward on Highway 12, across to Ruawai at the mouth of the Wairoa River, then nor’north west toward Dargaville. We pulled on to the side of the road near Tokatoka, where that strange shaped peak rises above the otherwise flat Wairoa kumara growing river flats, noting not for the first time, the amazing cloud formations. It was exactly here some years ago, when we still had our Winnebago motorhome, that we had stopped to marvel at the “silver fern” in the sky. (I will duplicate the photo here because it really was quite amazing.)

Poor old Dargaville doesn’t seem to improve much, although I suspect those who live here would dispute this criticism. But we were impressed by the new NZMCA motorhome park-over-property at the confluence of the Kaihu and Wairoa Rivers. The area is expansive, flat and so very handy to the centre of the town, which if you were of a mind to dine out, offers a few ethnic restaurants and a Club establishment right on the river’s edge. In normal Clarke style and in the interests of avoiding paid employment, we self-catered.

The following day we left the site promptly, the sun shining and the day promising more of the absolutely gorgeous weather we had been recently enjoying, and headed northwards for thirty or so kilometres, before turning into the Kaiiwi Lakes and more specifically the Taharoa Domain, the reserve covering an area of 538 hectares. The lakes are reputedly New Zealand’s largest dune lakes, and are an absolute Mecca for sun and water aficionados from Whangarei to Auckland and plenty of places between. The camp was bursting at the seams, and at $25 a head for the privilege of cold water and no electricity, better enjoyed in the off season.

Although it is now that Lake Taharoa is such an attractive swimming proposition, even for those like us who are lucky if we average one swim a year.

This particular lake has a maximum depth of thirty seven metres, but a wide edge of shallow water lying over the pure white sand, allowing the water temperature at this time of the year to be quite delightful. Or at least it would have been if there had not been the cooling breeze to offer relief to those sitting out of the water perving at the assortment of bodies making their way in for a swim. I make this statement as someone who does exactly that; marvels at the size, shape and immodesty of would-be swimmers in the summertime. It is at such times I could almost sympathise with the Moslems and their burka mentality.

We arrived at the Domain before 10 am, in time to see the changing of the guard, or one week’s campers leaving for the onslaught of the next. The day area has been massively increased since we were last there, and while we were able to drive around until we found a suitably flat area, we were soon hedged in by the rows and rows of cars that had brought the day trippers. We lazed about most of the day, venturing into the water with our wobbly white skin clad in our rarely used togs in the early afternoon, but were otherwise just happy to enjoy the wide open sky, the clean blue lake waters and the regenerating forest. 

Fifteen years ago, or maybe less, we came with our camper trailer, or maybe it was with the caravan, when we still had our youngest at home, and camped here below the towering pine trees. Later the trees were all milled, including those on the hills above the camp and for years, the Domain was an eyesore albeit still about these lovely lakes. Now the scrub and young native trees have some hold and if you had never been here in those pine-tree years, you would never guess at the wildly different scene. 

On our way out a little before 4 pm, we encountered a young chap broken down on the side of the road. With no cellphone coverage here we thought we’d better offer our assistance. Given that we had no socket set to offer, all we could do was alert the garage out at Kaihu Valley and ask them to send assistance. This we did endeavour, however the young Indian woman at the counter busy selling ice-creams explained that there were no mechanics working on a Sunday, but she would ring through to Dargaville. We only hope she was able to raise some sort of help, or a spanner set toting traveller also stopped and offered better practical help than we were able to.

Back in Dargaville, we returned to last night’s camp site although exact position was taken; such is the disadvantage of a motorhome versus a caravan. And then the next morning, we left beneath scattered showers and headed back to Whangarei, a mere forty five kilometres to the west on a less interesting road than that which we had travelled two days before. However we did remark that the Northland countryside is quite lovely and all the better for having been absent for a while. When one is living in an area, just getting on with the business of living and working, one rarely appreciates the beauty beneath one’s feet.

This afternoon the sun has finally emerged from behind the clouds and the solar panels are drinking in the free energy, thus I can compose and post without the guilt of bleeding the batteries. Hopefully next week we will be connected to the national grid.

This morning the wind was quite fierce and to my delight as I was down the hill plucking young bracken fern for the rubbish heap, a wood pigeon cavorted in the updrafts above me. It would seem that this one was not taught by his mother that wood pigeons do not “cavort” or “have fun” in the wind. Flying is meant only from getting from A to B, not for the delighting of humans.

30 December 2018 - Parua Bay, Whangarei Harbour, Northland

We moved back out on to our section yesterday and were set up within a couple of hours; awning out, electric cords laid out in readiness for the generator, et cetera. We even erected our brand new gazebo on a flattish mown spot behind the motorhome, although my ever practical husband insisted it come down again before nightfall; who knew what winds could stir in the night. This was very disappointing because I had visions of a semi-permanent shelter from the sun, an ever ready outdoor lounge. Still the regular erection and dissembling will offer some form of exercise. Speaking of which, as I write this, Chris is outside with his newly serviced weed-whacker trimming the tall dandelions that grow on the clay bank directly beneath our steps.

This morning I enjoyed the rosellas and tuis, and late yesterday while sipping my glass of wine in the gazebo, a pair of wood pigeons across my view of the bay and far below,  paddle boarders and sailors bobbled about the calm waters.

My father expired mid-morning on Sunday 16^th December, my mother, younger sister and I at the side of his bed, generously provided by the local Hospice. Outside the sun shone on the pohutukawas in full bloom along the riverside, pennants waving in the gentle breeze from the mast tops in the marina and within the first floor, his life finally fading before  us. A chaos of emotions had raged inside me over the preceding weeks, most to do with the resentment of having to do so much all so foreign to my experience, and yet when the time came, I was so very glad to have been there through it all.

We buried him four days later after hasty but super-efficient funeral arrangements were made by email and telephone, a task made more complicated by the fact the plot awaiting his body, and that of my mother when her time comes, is in Pio Pio over 350 kilometres to the south. Fortunately my brother-in-law was willing to carry out Dad’s wish and take the casket down in the back of his car; fortunate too is it that modern SUVs are getting bigger each year. 

Less fortunate was the panic when we discovered the plot was officially not in the Bevege name and that the title had never been formally changed when my third cousins gifted it to my parents. It was by mere chance I recalled a visit I made some years ago to one of their progeny and still had the telephone number in my phone, and they in turn were able to advise contact details of a sibling who “might” recall the transaction. It was fortunate too that the funeral directors, and apparently the County Council, were willing to accept an email from this distant cousin recounting the gift enough to cover their backs against future eventualities. 

So finally everything came together and as I stood on the hillside above the Mokau River, here not much more than a creek, I recalled standing beside my father early this year on this very site, murmuring my appreciation of the view he would have when his ghost rose up early in the morning, the best time for an old shepherd to be out and about. Poignantly a bugler played the last post from higher on the hill, on a World War I bugle my father found in a second hand shop in London thirty years or so ago, and gave to the said bugler on the condition he play it at his funeral. Alas the piper had already passed, so there had been no processional  lament as grandchildren carried his coffin up from the hearse.

Christmas came and went with little to mark it but a few hours spent at my mother’s late in the afternoon cooking dinner for her and my very supportive husband, and now just two weeks after his passing, my mother must learn that life can be lonely and unfair, but she was lucky to have the years she did with my father, almost sixty seven of them and all of which she recalls in a positive manner. How many can say that?

We spent seven and a half weeks at the Whangarei Central Holiday Park, and the Park was almost full when we pulled out yesterday morning. It had served us well, as had those who work away meeting the needs of the travelling public, the berry farm workers backpacking their way around this beautiful country of ours and the semi-permanent caravan dwellers of which we were two for longer than expected. (More correctly it was my husband and the motorhome who remained at the Park while I spent most of my days and nights in the apartment beside the river, popping back to have the occasional dinner with my husband when the carers came to support my mother)

Our own travelling and tikki-touring about will recommence as soon as my sister returns from her boating holiday and returns to work, thus available to pop in to check on our recently widowed mother, a task that remains for now our own. But our spells away will be shorter or at least within a day or two’s drive from Whangarei.  

Tomorrow will see the last of 2018; who knows what 2019 will bring? Hopefully we can start making plans; there are challenges ahead and alas, few of them of the travel variety. But then perhaps this blog will become more of a diary than a travel account. May the New Year bring us all (you included) good health and contentment with our lot.

2 December 2018 - Whangarei Central Holiday Park, Northland

It’s almost two months since I returned to New Zealand with matters other than travel filling my days. I flew into Auckland on 7 October, exactly four weeks earlier than our original itinerary, leaving my husband to follow en schedule.  My father lay in hospital having been diagnosed with a terminal brain tumour, and the family was still struggling to accept this shocking news. Had my intrepid father, fast approaching his 90^th birthday, not stumbled on his way back from the library and been carted off to A&E to be stitched up, we may have been none the wiser until matters had progressed another month or so. We sisters gathered at the bedside to support my shattered mother, groping for some sort of direction. While death was always going to be on the future agenda, the reality is always a surprise. I have mouthed these words in sympathy to clients, friends and family over the decades; this time I was to heed them myself.

The reality is that almost two months on; my father is still with us, the centre of attention and care demands, but with us all the same. We gather about his bed, the restrictions of which are very recent, and reminisce and fuss and adapt our own schedules. My mother clutches at the limited intimacy left between her and her husband of almost sixty six years. Carers and Hospice nurses, all with hearts of gold and years of practical experience surround us with support as we grope our way through this journey, one we have not taken before.

I spent the first four weeks staying with my parents in their beautiful apartment beside the Hatea River, enjoying the view down over the marina and Loop Walk, watching the hundreds of walkers and runners who take advantage of this wonderful feature of Whangarei’s Town Basin. 

One day we ventured forth, my mother and I on either side of my father tottering along on his walker, across the Canopy Bridge and along as far as the Hunterwasser folly. We managed to shuffle him to the top of the viewpoint, hoping to observe the progress on the Hunterwasser  Gallery. High security fences precluded this but we were buoyed by the fact we had succeeded with the outing, accepting this is far from the intrepid adventures these two elderly folk have enjoyed in the not too distant past; rafting down the Clarence River, bungee jumping off the Kawarau Bridge, 4WD safaris across the South Island high country, circumnavigation of these southern islands we call home, and so much more. How life is diminished at such times.

I met up with a few of my friends, all of whose lives have been complete and busy in my absence, and continue to be so. I was glad they could find time to accommodate my erratic schedule. I walked the Loop myself on several occasions and would still be doing so these days if my husband had not brought back a gift on his own arrival a month ago. 

It is not the first time either of us has contracted a ‘flu like bug on an international flight, and I was very thankful that I had avoided doing so on my way back in early October. I had found my mother’s own health much depleted on arrival, and while this was due to poor medication management of her chronic condition, it took most of that live-in month to restore her to normality. Had I arrived with a bug of my own, I may have caused her early death. As it was, Chris came down within a few days of arrival with a nasty cold, which he duly passed on to me and my own dicky chest. What a pathetic lot we are! 

Our children and grandchildren have not been entirely ignored since our return; we spent a couple of days with our Waihi Beach family after picking up the motorhome and getting it road-ready again. Chris and I settled back into our motorhome, relearning where our possessions are stowed and relearning routines, different from those in our caravan in the UK. We parked up in the Whangarei Central Holiday Park and have been here for a month now, joining the other permanent and semi-permanent occupants. Although we have no intention of settling here for good, its proximity to my parents’ dwelling serves us well. We can respond within ten minutes to a call for help and have done so on several occasions. It is also an easy distance if I had the stamina to make the twenty five minute walk; hopefully I will manage this soon.

One Sunday we popped down to West Auckland to collect our trailer and to catch up with our grandsons, their mother and our son and his new partner; rearranged family situations since we left in early May. We drove back up the west coast road through Helensville to Wellsford before continuing on up Highway One, a route we have not taken for several years and one which could be done in a more leisurely fashion in the motorhome, perhaps pausing or overnighting at Port Albert or the Atiu Creek Regional Park.

Today we took our Whangarei granddaughters to see the remake of The Grinch, probably appreciating it more than these reserved young ladies. We delivered them home to their parents who were clearing their overgrown garden; here in Whangarei the native vegetation thrives in the humidity, the sunshine and frequent rain.

And back in the UK our Sorrento remains unsold, the lack of active marketing the problem rather than price; I am sure we will end up almost giving it away, as we did with the caravan. However we did have three years of fabulous travel and regret nothing.

5 May 2018 - Paeroa, Hauraki Plains

So here we are back again in the home of L&P, but this time parked up in the more formal RV Centre, a simple camp full of many shareholding permanents, with excellent though simple facilities, which supplements its income from storing motorhomes and offering overnight sites to the travelling public. We are here to ready our motorhome for its six months in storage and to ready ourselves for our departure tomorrow.

We did manage to escape a few days this last week, firstly on a day trip to Auckland to deliver our granddaughter to the “Spirit of Adventure”. Her mother lent us her car and we spent the whole day enjoying India’s company; given that she is now just seventeen, we realise such opportunities will become more rare and are to be cherished. 

Arriving at the Quay

Lunch was had in the Food Court of Manukau’s Westfield Shopping Centre, our white faces in a sea of various shades of brown. I do enjoy spending time here, observing the multitude of races which enrich South Auckland, and I say this in a positive way. I was reminded of the bus rides from our camp at Abbey Wood, through Brixton and on to central London last year; a busload of fabulously coiffed and gaily dressed woman with glorious glossy complexions, so unlike my own pasty fairness. On Tuesday we watched small groups of immaculately dressed petite Asian women dine daintily, large Polynesians consuming diabetic encouraging food, sleeveless young people exposing their intricate tattoos and an assortment of types, as you find in malls about Britain, and not so much in the smarter malls of Sylvia Park, St Luke’s or Botany Downs in Auckland. Our own dishes of tikka masala and naans went down a treat.

A friend already

Still with hours to fill we found our way to the Auckland Museum and wandered a little aimlessly until we spotted directions to the exhibition, titled “Let Me Be Myself – The Life Story of Anne Frank” on the top floor. India was quite absorbed by the display or at least made a good show of being so; both Chris and I were familiar with the subject matter but were no less interested. After that we continued on through several galleries relating to service in the various wars New Zealand has paid a part in, with emphasis on the two World Wars. I was disappointed that there was nothing here on the Maori Land wars or the Musket wars, but then these are possibly dealt with on the ground floor which is all about the people of Pacifica. 

Soon it was time to find our way down to the waterfront, and with street closures this was not without its drama. Several times we found ourselves stopped across bus lanes or in the wrong lane, however no one died and we arrived in the Downtown car park without damage to Larissa’s car or ourselves.

We were early, as usual, but were able to stand above the vessel and admire her form, and tell India that tomorrow she would be scrubbing decks and climbing masts. This was all said in jest; however I do think it may have turned out to be reality. The young people taken on these ten day youth development voyages are not namby-pambied and our granddaughter will meet challenges as never before.

An opportunity for a family photo

The “Spirit” is a 45.2 metre three-masted Barquentine, with a mast height of 31.3 metres. At top speed she can travel at 13 knots under power or 15 knots under sail. That latter fact surprised me; here was I thinking motor was more powerful than sail; apparently not. She carries a crew of fourteen and the trainees normally number forty; twenty boys and twenty girls aged from sixteen to eighteen.

Another would-be sailor was waiting near the door of the Trust office, having flown up from Dunedin with her mother. The older woman asked if we would keep her daughter company as she needed to catch a flight home, so young Sam joined us as we wandered about the Viaduct Basin, admiring the city skyline, the super-yachts and the restaurants and bars that offer hospitality to the city dwellers and visitors.

Back at the ship, the trainees had congegated, and the girls, now joined by another from Hokitika who was happy for the company, gathered their luggage and made their way on-board. Phones and other communication devices were confiscated at the gangway and the girls disappeared down into the bowels of the boat. So with that we headed home, leaving the centre of the city at about 4.30pm and arriving back in Paeroa two hours later; a surprisingly good trip.

The next day was our own, so we headed away up the east coast of the Coromandel Peninsula, overnighting in Whangamata at the RSA. We have been to Whangamata several times before, at least one trip reported earlier in this blog, however this lovely seaside town continues to impress us, and even more so on such a lovely sunshiny autumn day. We strolled about the shopping area and on down to the wharf, and drove about the wider area, settling into the Club carpark mid-afternoon. It’s a busy club, or at least on a Wednesday evening; the carparks were full for a few hours and I suspect there are some membrs who curse the large motorhomes and their occupants who are made so very welcome.

The Spirits is an impressive vessel

Wednesday morning we drove on north then crossed back over the range south of Hikuai, the most popular route for motorists. It is a lovely drive, the bush so dense and extensive that one can imagine it might cover the entire peninsular. The mountains are so very rugged, the land so broken, the roads a credit to those surveyors of old. One of the mini-highlights of this trip was coming upon half a dozen wild suckling pigs; we wondered how far away their mother was and the fact they were so close to the road. Anyone following us may have wound up with bonus roast pork; I hope not.

In Thames we dealt with several small matters, but still had time to drive a little north to Tararu for lunch on the shoreline. The view from our “dining” window was across the calm Firth of Thames to the Hunua Ranges and up toward the islands of the Hauraki Gulf, where no doubt our India will be sailing some time over this week. 

Beyond Tararu, there was evidence of major roadworks, because it is here and further north in early January this year that a storm ripped up the Thames Coast Road. The road was pounded by waves, partly washed away, and left with chunks of asphalt on it after high winds and tides. The road from here to about twelve kilometres south of Coromandel was closed, and even now it does not invite travel, hence I was not interested to go on further.

We returned to Thames and settled into a little park over property, owned by a ninety five year old widow, a fellow NZMCA member, who has space on her front lawn for just one motorhome and offers electric hook up via a cable across the flower garden and up through her lounge window. The house was in the process of being painted, so we took great care to avoid the trestles and workman.

Whangamata estuary scenes

Yesterday we came south back to Paeroa, the road skirting the western edge of the mountain range. The sun was shining yet again and the rural vista spread out in front of us was quite lovely. Funnily enough this route has never particulary appealed, the untidy dairy farms same old, same old, but yesterday they did not seem so.

This morning arrived without the sunshine of the last few days, however remained fine enough for us to complete our chores without event. We had woken to the sound of guns; fortunately we remembered today was the first day of the duck shooting season. Later we observed flocks of refugees attempting to escape the range of the keen shotgun toting amateurs; alas no one had told then they were safer to stay on the ground.

During the morning we walked down into Paeroa’s “CBD” , found the lovely new library where we had some printing done and came away with a couple of discarded books, then on to the weekly car boot sale, an assortment of rubbish as most are, but we still managed to find half a dozen DVDs for our on-board library, and Chris sniffed out a sausage sizzle which served as his morning tea.

The rest of the day was spent cleaning and polishing the van inside and out, and packing for our six month absence, a mammoth task for the likes of us who don’t travel light, and are suspicious of the lists we made of “stuff” left in the caravan in the UK. However, as of tonight, the bags weigh less than the allowed 30 kg, which is fine for the flight but not so great for the struggle via rail to our hotel in London. Still I am sure we will manage.

The Chief Cleaner has poured me a glass of wine, unusually the first of the week; my resolve has been broken. There is little left this evening but to eat an enormous dinner of bacon, potatoes, beans and eggs, which should just about clear the last of the perishable food, and to pack this laptop away until I pull it out again to restart my UK blog.