New Zealand 2019
Robert G Barnes
This time it was different. No particular place, but many possibilities. Memories of past pleasures and the excitement of the new.
A few years can erase the memories of the process of travel. Local travel is easy. Get into the car and head off always with more “stuff” than you will ever need “just in case” but without any hurdles or barriers, except for a fill up at the local servo. But go further afield and hurdles are aplenty. All the steps and stages - bookings, tickets, timetables, places changed, scans, ID checks, queues, then submission to a cosy space for several hours in a metal cocoon to be served food for no purpose other than entertainment or to stop you from screaming at the kid behind you kicking the seat.
And then you land and queue and drag your bag full of “just in case stuff” through more scans and checks and wall to wall liquor and fragrances into the bright lights of a new land.
You muddle through and anyway visiting New Zealand is like visiting a distant relative.. Related with family and heritage, familiarities and differences, some subtle as if morphing of the universe had offset things just a little - like returning to a town you knew well twenty years later and things have different colours, or awnings or a new owner in the coffee shop in the old butchers.
Having seen most of the” must see” places it was time to travel with a different purpose - to return to places for comfort or pleasure, to stop and absorb - let places seep in - let them tell you their stories before you close the door and head elsewhere to somewhere you “must see”.
And so the shift of sensibilities. New Zealand is small but three dimensional, always shifting or eroding, or bubbling. Our previous visit to Christchurch was just a couple of years after the city centre was devastated by an earthquake and wide open spaces with piles of rubble marked what would have been the buzzing heart of the city.
And other disasters. Days before we arrived, a different type of displacement had shaken the city. In this beautiful far away land worshippers had been murdered by a madman. It was impossible to avoid - the piles of debris were not from buildings but shocked and broken hearts. It needed to be spoken of, to be broached almost apologetically by hotel owners, and others, indeed the whole country for healing had yet to come. A moral stain on the country not of its making. The caprice of nature can do these things, but how could a person?
And so you travel with an acute awareness of the gift you have been given to see and absorb beautiful things, knowing than none of the things can be taken for granted.
So here we go again. Going to places for a second or third time brings forward responses, some being quite unexpected. “Never as good as the first time”; a song by Sade sort of sums it up. The excitement of the new heightens the senses, magnifies the responses, adds to the thrill. So when it comes to the second or third time, impacts are lessened. Oh the traffic is worse, maybe the chef has changed, it’s not as warm. And as Theodore Roosevelt famously said “Comparison is the thief of joy”. I think he was right.
But in a parallel world, the old is familiar, comforting, soothing. And so it is with travel.
Returning to New Zealand for our fourth trip brought out all the responses. Memories flood back as you snake through customs and push into the chilly breeze of a type foreign in a Queensland summer.
The roads are the same: at least I can read the signs and drive on a familiar side of the road. But places are subtly different, the leaves are in another colour, on the edge of a displaced season. Earlier and autumn had yet to take its hold. Yellow and brown hints tinged some of the leaves.
An excursion up Mount Pleasant Drive took us to the ridge tops overlooking the city and Lyttleton. We drove into the hills hoping to cross the ridge and descend to Lyttleton but the road was still not yet open. Scars and landslips, wrinkles in the landscape. A crowd of cyclists were gathered near the still closed descent to Lyttleton. I found out later that the road which had been closed for so long was to re-open that very afternoon. Some of the cyclists had been on that road as rocks and boulders bounced down from the mountains. I can only imagine the terror as events unfolded - nowhere to hide, nowhere to be safe.
Christchurch still has its expansive parks and leafy suburbs. But look carefully that many of the buildings are either new or have been extensively renovated. We chatted. New venues, new hotels filled with activity - this place has not been abandoned. A local lady chatted while we ate a caramel glazed Kumara desert, a masterful Kiwi - Korean fusion creation of Martin Moon in Ferrymead. Next were chocolates from the Tannery. I swooned while browsing in the book store there - I would have loved to have left with an historic volume or a photographic coffee table book. Damn 23 kgs!
The botanical gardens in CHC provide a haven from surrounding re-building. Grand visions and optimism are built into parks such as this - embracing and comforting. Settlements built with a vision often have parks close to the town centre and this is true in CHC, but also at numerous other places in NZ - Queens Park in Invercargill, Nelson’s botanic garden, the fabulous botanic gardens in Dunedin.. Rich in history and diversity these places provide space for wonder, contemplation and reflection. They live on and become part of the cultural fabric of the cities which host them. They remain well loved and link personal and cultural and social interactions. Seeing huge Californian redwoods planted more than 100 years ago provides a measure of time and persistence often not apparent in modern life. If someone with a sense of the future had not planted these trees what would we see today? Modern day planning requires a small measure of open space here and there, but rarely is there such a marvellous sense of vision which can imagine a future which would not be personally seen.
Earthquakes, floods, winds, snow - NZ has them also it is wise to build some slack into your travel schedule. Waves of weather stream across the Southern Ocean then Tasman Sea with few constraints until they crash into a mountain range seemingly abandoned in the vast stretches of ocean which surround it. It pours and mountains are ground down, debris swept away by the numerous, steep fast-flowing rivers. Just days before our departures from Oz, floods hit the west coast and in dramatic fashion the river crossing on the one and only highway near the Franz Josef glacier wash washed away. No travel down the highway was possible. The west coast does not have the wide outwash plains of the east coast. Mountains abut the sea and the rivers and streams cut through the mountains. In the far south, past and present glacier have carved deep chasms, many drowned. Elsewhere unimaginable quantities of stone end as pebbles filling valleys and ultimately are spread along the coast by the relentless surf.
So Plan B. We had been to the South Island before and spent most time on the east coast and central interior. The standouts were the glacial lakes such as at Wanaka and the trip from Te Anau to Doubtful Sound - considered by many to be even more spectacular than the more famous Milford Sound. So off to the north end of the South Island.
Hanmer Springs is less that two hours from CHC. You know you are near when you cross the Waiau River at the Ferry Bridge. Another “oh wow” moment. Soon we were back to enjoy the deep soaking baths, the crystal clear skies and the fine eateries.. A bit like a snow village but with beautiful tree-lined streets, abundant gardens, and all surrounded by mountains in every direction. We stayed at a motel just a short walk to the baths and the town centre with its eateries and shops - a great place to unwind and fully embrace holiday mode. At the baths - every body shape imaginable from all across the globe.
Mountain passes are always spectacular - the landscape like the cracked crust of a sponge cake overcooked. Extensive valleys controlled by major faults provide major transport routes into the interior, then over a mountain pass and across the divide into the next valley. The enormous amount of erosion is the dominant impression. Wide valleys filled with detritus, largely pebbles and cobbles in their millions or more probably billions. Braided rivers run grey or green, sometimes aqua. We were heading across the island via Lewis Pass and Reefton. Mining heritage again. In the main street was a most unusual tourist stop - The Bearded Miners - a replica mining hut with all the accoutrements, and some genuine miners. They told me of their adventures in the hills and every brought out a few small gold nuggets. In the visitors centre, an extensive display markers the numerous historic gold and coal mines in the surrounding hills. One area was called “Quartzopolis” indicative of the fact that there were abundant quartz reef gold deposits, not just the placers often found elsewhere. The town retains its historic character. A coffee and pie in an original building with high pressed metal ceilings, and then we were off. The geologist in me wanted to stay and look for gold.
Heading southwest towards Greymouth. Highway 7 follows a broad valley. At Stillwater we intersect the TranzAlpine rail line. A few kilometres further and we sight an old bridge we had glanced from the train on our last trip in 2016.
A tall, round blackstone chimney stands sentinel to the Brunner Mine Historic Site, a place not mentioned in most tourist information. Short walk down to and across the restored bridge takes you to a comprehensive information shelter - discovery, history, geology and coal processing and the grim tale of the day in 1896 when sixty-five mine workers died in a methane gas explosion in the mine. It is a marvelous and moving location - extraordinary efforts to discovery and establish a mine to power the west coast, and then the horror of the fateful day when it was all so tragically blown away. - people, families, livelihoods.
A few more kilometres and we reached the west coast at Greymouth. Seldom do you hear of a town spoken of so disparagingly. “Oh, there’s nothing in Greymouth” was a common refrain. But it was an important western port and is rich in history, but tourism seems to bypass the town. The broad, fast flowing Grey River digorges into the Tasman Sea at Shipwreck Point. We climbed the floodwall to spot the dangerous river entrance. Old Chinatown was nearby the faded sign said. Industry of sort persists but goods are transported to and from via rail and the highways over the ranges these days. In the suburbs there is evidence of a relatively prosperous past but much is neglected. An old town by passed and waiting to be re-born. We had seen the main street on a previous trip - as have most tourists who made the day long journey on the TranzAlpine from Christchurch and return.Across a country and back again - an idea hard to imagine for someone from Australia.
We headed south to Hokitika - jade and memories of past glories. Some grand buildings, including huge but abandoned municipal offices. Some other measures of civic permanence repurposed. The old mental hospital sits abandoned on a ridge top with a splendid view over the ocean and cemetery. But there is enough to keep going. Tourists flow through the town like the water down the rivers. They take their pictures at sunset of the town sign on the beach made of driftwood. Silhouette and sunset - the day is given some colour. Driftwood, abundant, sculptured by tortuous journeys from the forest to the sea, and then the pounding of the relentless surf. At the river entrance a memorial in the shape of a sailing ship records the numerous shipwrecks as the young and hopeful attempted to come ashore and then march into the hardships of the bush in search for gold. On the beach we walk and look for green stones - you can find jade here, if you’re lucky, amongst the countless rounded pebbles which sample the geology of the mountains beyond. I picked up a few stones, ever hopeful, but later gifted then to a motel garden. In the main street, numerous shops sell jade of all qualities, some beautifully carved.
No point going further south, so back through Greymouth and to one of the highlights of our west coast excursion - the drive along the highway which hugs the coast taking us towards the imaginatively named Westport.
Not too far north of Greymouth is Rapahoe, a small village sitting on the edge of the sea. We ventured to the beach road and onto the “beach” - an endless pile of rounded lithic travellers. Coal mines are tucked away in the hills behind the town and some rounded cobbles of coal can be found on the beach. Nearby a coal digging machine sits proudly in the local park. This is a coal miners’ village. Not far from east of here is the Pike River mine where, in 2010, 29 men lost their lives in a devastating explosion. Lessons of gassy coal seams from the Brunner mine disaster had not been learned, or had been forgotten.The mine had been sealed, along with those lives, ever since, the mine still being too dangerous to enter.
And a few minutes away, beautiful vistas appear with wild surf and a fog of sea mist veiling spectacular cliffs between deep gorges. Beaches covered in boulders and driftwood. Small houses, and some “resorts” snuggled between cliff and sea. This is a fabulous drive, but it is hard to admire the view as concentration on staying alive on the winding road takes precedence.
At Pancake Rocks, a large car park, full of cars, campers and buses says “MUST STOP HERE”. The dense scrub at the start of a short walk opens to a view over thinly layered “pancakes” of limey sediments, split and moulded by the eroding sea. Below, at the base of the cliffs, waves pound below overhangs, and puffs of mist blast up through fissures. Crowds gather around prime vantage points before being herded back to their buses. In the distance, the ethereal beauty of a rugged coastline fading into the sea mist evoke an almost mystical vision of ancient seafarers approaching.
We drove over the Buller River into Westport, just to have a “look”. I have rarely seen such an obvious example of ribbon development, with various shops and services scattered for several kilometres along a straight road. The result is that the town seems to have no centre, no heart, no hub. The reason - the road follows the path of the river and for most of the length of the city, is barely a block away behind the various stores. We filled the car with fuel, drove past the Coaltown Museum, and pressed on northwards, upstream and through the Buller Gorge and yet more “wow”.
First impressions of Nelson were not great as we drove through commerce and industry ribboned along the highway from the southwest.There were signs to wineries but they weren’t in sight. I followed the advice of my female friend attached to the windscreen and ended up amongst warehouses and wide open streets with barely a soul around. Time to ask for Mr Google’s help - ah I had closen “Port Nelson” as a destination rather than “Nelson”, and so ended up at the waterfront. Try again, and after skirting the marina, had found our way to a pleasant motel with a friendly host and a small garden situated just a few blocks from the city centre. It was late but it is often pleasant to discover places when it is quite. A compact CBD with its mall is overlooked by a church on a steep hill. We found a welcoming Japanese restaurant and I ordered a NZ beer. It was the start of a great few days. Compact CBD’s create a human space and small malls add to the feeling that this place is for people, not just cars and commerce, places where it is OK to linger, chat and listen to music being placed on the community piano. The town’s museum sits on the corner of the main mall. Inside local history unfolds. A travelling exhibition on dinosaurs was excellently presented.
One car park becomes a market on Saturday and is reserved for local and NZ products; food as always including local honey, confectionery and pastries (yum), but also a wide range of arts and crafts, woodwork, knicknacks, carved jade and jewellery. Imports would have to be found elsewhere.
On the edge of the CBD are the delightful Queen’s Gardens with its winding paths, grand trees and hidden spaces. A Japanese garden contrasted in the corner. The Art Gallery overlooks a large pond full of ducks, autumn leaves and reflections. People live here, families on picnic rugs, loners, perhaps a poet, scribbling in his notebook under massive trees, girls giggling.
Not too far from here is a monument marking the geographic centre of NZ. It is a steep walk. We drove to a nearby avenue with million dollar views over what is called “Nelson Haven”. This is a feature I have never seen before and it is very rare. Nelson is sited where a small river runs out to a broad shallow bay - a good spot for a port - but intriguingly the entire bay is bounded by a gently curving boulder spit only a few tens of metres wide but extending for over ten kilometres. Apparently boulders from headlands composed on granite to the east have been pounded and rounded and transported in storms to form the “Boulder Bank”’ across the bay. It is an amazing natural seawall.
We lunched at Fords in the mall and the food was special, so we returned for dinner. The maitre de or whatever you call the person who fusses around, finds your table, and directs others to provide menus and drinks and later food, had an unmistakable presence. He stood tall and proud, flounced around and made coming in for a meal a piece of theatre. In addition to a wonderful meal, we were made to feel special. It was unexpected, exuberant, personal. As I enjoyed my meal I watched this fellow fuss and manage and enhance the evening for many who came through the door. I could see how he worked, and was impressed. At the end of our meal, I gestured him over and even to my own surprise, told him how he had made our evening something to be remembered.. He proceeded to tell us something of himself, how he had been a makeup artiste for celebrities in the USA (including Janet Jackson) but had come to NZ after his partner had died - OK he was obviously gay - and was now living on the other side of the globe with his “mother-in-law”. I gave him a hug as we left and wished him well.
Although we were on the north coast of the South Island we could still go further north. I hadn’t realised that the northern tip of the south island is north of Wellington on the North Island. So we ventured northwest along the coast, past numerous inlets and coves, past Mapua to Grossi Point and then following the Highway 60 to Motueka. The coastal flats were an easy drive and then we struck a demanding mountain called Takaka Hill - only in NZ would it be called a hill. The tortuous road seemed to go on forever. Yes, there were views, but there were few places to pull off the road and you wouldn’t dare take your eyes off the road for more than a second. It was a relief to descend into the fertile and wide Takaka Valley.
The physical barrier of that mountain creates a mood of disconnect, of self sufficiency and isolation. In town, Takaka, tourist shops, art galleries, cafes and even a chocolate shop are strung along the main street. There is an artistic demeanour, almost hippy like. Looking at the community notice board just across the road from “The Dangerous Kitchen” gives a sense of the vibe. - Mystery Bike Ride, Preserves and Recipe Swap, Contemporary and Empowering Death Practices, Sustainable Living Course, Attunement Therapy, Chakra Sound and Movement, Meditation Dance Journey, Drama Lab, Deep Listen Silent Retreat were amongst the posted leaflets. I took a deep breath and felt better already - helped by some goodies from the chocolate factory. “May the Forest be with You” were playing at the Roots Bar.
We headed over to Pohara and found a small motel overlooking Golden Bay. From the window we could watch the ocean with its changing moods and colours, and at night, the twinkling lights of the fishing fleet far out to sea. A “no need to go anywhere” mood sort of took over and we decided to stick with our lovely view from our motel window, but there are only so many chocolates you can eat and we visited the Blue Penguin Bar just down the road for dinner.
And there are always things to see. Not far up the road are Waitapu Springs, an extraordinary, amazing, stunning and beautiful natural feature - a torrent bursting out of the earth with crystal clear water forming a river flowing through rainforest. “The tears of spirit ancestors”. Remnants of past gold mining can be spotted as walls of boulders. Water races adjacent to the now pure waters are barely visible through the moss and vines. The volume of water bubbling forth to create the river would put almost any river in Australia to shame. Underwater plants danced and sands sparkled. It was well worth the fifteen minute walk.
We drove further north to Collingwood and watched the tide turn but that was enough. This island has innumerable edges.
The Edge
The Edge is hidden
Some see it and approach with caution
A certain edginess takes hold
The Edge is dangerous
Don’t go close to the Edge.
Sometimes we do not know of the Edge
Until the tanks roll down the street
Or the roof blows off
And we find that the Edge has found us.
Edges are everywhere
They creep up and hide.
Some approach and step back
Some jump and disappear
Some find a new colour
Red or brown, green or pink.
And some call back
And tell of joy or PAIN
But not often
Because people who have not been to the Edge do not
Understand.
And when at last we cross our Edge
We are alone
And cannot return.
Forgotten we will be.
And others will gaze and wonder.
After a most enjoyable few days it was back over the mountain, no “hill”, down the highway, skirting Nelson and heading to Blenheim. The highway hugs the coast before heading into the hills and along the Ria Valley, over the Pelorus bridge and along the Pelorus River Valley past Canvastown (an old gold mining centre) to Havelock and our first real sighting of the Marlborough Sounds. Green lipped mussels seemed to be Havelock’s claim to fame. We didn’t linger.
Not far out of town was a turnoff to Picton and then Blenheim and a sign posted as a “scenic route”. I had had enough of winding mountain roads; we continued on the straighter highway route. Quite suddenly we were out of the mountains and driving through prolific and bountiful vineyards, and oh yes, another chocolate factory required Lou’s close attention. Expecting to find accommodation easily, we headed for the fringes of the CBD - motel after motel booked out until one helpful lady offer to phone ahead for us. We found our lovely motel a couple of kilometres from town and the sun was low in the sky. This was our new destination.
We pulled in having passed numerous “No Vacancy” signs. Serendipity plays its part in travel. Immediately behind us, as we pulled in, was an elderly couple we had met in Pohara a couple of days earlier. We chatted, and agreed to share dinner. We spent the evening in an old school Italian restaurant a few kilometres away. We learned much about old NZ and living on a farm on the North Island. This place would have been top of the list 25 years ago, but now was dated and but remained an experience. We could barely believe it when we intersected again the following day at Wither Hills winery at lunch time. We were invited to share the table and it seemed like we were meeting up with old friends. I hope they had a great time at their grandson’s wedding. NZ seemed like a great big village. The wineries are exceptional and classy. We lived for many years in the Hunter Valley in NSW and the places we visited put them to shame.
Back in Blenheim, we headed for dinner in town, having selected a French inspired restaurant Sauvre. The town was established on the banks of a small river running across the vast and productive plains now covered with vineyards. Along the river was a walkway. Like most places in NZ, Blenheim has its earthquake story. After a major earthquake the ground dropped allowing sea-going boats to travel well inland - a real bonus for the town. And now a FRENCH restaurant sits overlooking the river with its walkways. We dined there three nights in a row.
Picton is an easy drive not far north of Blenheim. Snuggled away between high forested ridges, the village is set above the dock and bustles with tourists and travellers finding their transport after arriving from North Island. The interisland ferry quietly made its way into the harbour as we watched from the Edwin Fox marine museum on the waterfront. This is an amazing piece of history preserved by enthusiasts and history buffs. In the dry dock is the hull of the last wooden sail ship to ferry immigrants to New Zealand. After long and global travel the ship ended its days ingloriously in the harbour where it was bought and refurbished to now give visitors a real sense of what it must have been like sailing across the globe as a convict or immigrant, confined to the rank interior, and dealing with the vagaries of the sea, sailing into the unknown on the other side of the known world.
The main street of Picton is like a large tourist shop, and the French cafe provided a meal in the form of a slice of delightful carrot cake. On the way out of town, we took a short drive west to Shakespeare Bay - so this is where they hide their industry - a small steep sided incision with docks covered in harvested timber. NZ is a great big pine tree farm.
Back in Blenheim, serendipity again. While paying for petrol for our return to Christchurch, I overheard a conversation suggesting that the main highway south, along the east coast, had been blocked by a landslip. Ah NZ!. Unlike Australia, NZ detours are manageable distances, so we headed inland and looped around and back to Hanmer Springs- longer but very scenic.
This time we stopped in Murchison and absorbed some of the history - again gold prospectors pushing into the wilds. And the inevitable earthquake story memorialised in framed newspapers on the walls of the cafe in an old bank. In the main street was a huge boulder of orbicular granite, a surprising geological interest.
After a few more “Oh wow” moments and a couple of hours on the road we were wrapping towels around our waists and heading for the very therapeutic hot baths at Hanmer Springs. Next morning, a stroll around the block from our motel and we came across a beautiful walk up a wooded creek, all within a stone's throw from houses, but hidden away. Sometimes the things, some of the best things, are not the grand tourist spots, by lie tucked away nearby, just waiting for you to find them. Another NZ plus.
And then back to CHC where at the ultramodern motel I had to gift some lovely rocks I had collected to the garden. Up at 4 am into the chilly air and it was off to the airport. Before long we were flying over snow-covered mountains at sunrise. It was a wonderful trip.
