Travels with George

by Vivien Fallows

  His time is past, his bone at last,

  Must now support thy brest. [sic]

  The poem was etched on a whalebone busk, the rigid element of a corset placed at the centre front, and I have since discovered that is cited in Clifford W Ashley’s book entitled The Yankee Whaler.1

  After the culture with its emphasis on the bawdy and profane, I wanted to visit the sacred in the shape of the church, Christ Church, which is the oldest in New Zealand: a pretty, tiny whitewashed building. But it was Easter Sunday and a service was in full swing, so instead I pottered amongst the headstones, noting that several marked the premature demise of whalers, until it started to rain.

  The deluge ensured that I did what I always do at times like this – had a cup of (excellent) coffee. A fellow coffee drinker handed me her Sunday newspapers and I suddenly felt very cosy and comfortable. Eventually, the road beckoned and I ambled back to the car, feeling just a little sad to be leaving such an atmospheric and welcoming spot. The ghosts of those hard bygone days do not roam the streets with any form of menace or malice.

  Back on the ferry again and on to Paihia, which has an aquarium I wanted to see. By the time I arrived it was getting late, so I decided to give the fish a miss (after all, I had been swimming with their liberty-loving cousins) and head for the main item of the day – Waitangi, where the Treaty of 1840 was signed whereby the indigenous Maori population handed over their beloved country to Britain. I really enjoyed my visit as it was yet another stunningly beautiful spot, although the history did make one particular British individual feel a little uncomfortable.

  To one side of the splendid colonial Treaty House, sits the Whare Runanga or Maori Meeting House a potent symbol of tribal prestige and a monument to the tribal ancestors. The building is given life with the ‘Koruru’ at the apex of the roof representing the ancestor’s head, the ridgepole his backbone, the bargeboards his arms and inside the rafters represent the ribs and chest of the ancestor. The meeting house contains carvings from each Maori tribal area and alongside the building sits a magnificent Maori war canoe; the world’s largest and built from three giant kauri trees. It was not quite a whistle-stop visit, but once again I felt a reluctance to move on as the environment was so calmly tranquil.

  The next attraction on my agenda was a little further north at Kerikeri, where stood an 1821 mission house, New Zealand’s oldest standing European wooden building and inhabited until 1974. Nearby the stone store is the oldest stone building in the country. Again, a perfect trip in peaceful pastoral surroundings to see buildings and artefacts all beautifully and lovingly restored and preserved by the New Zealand equivalent of the National Trust… and if I had had my membership card about my person, I could have visited the site for free, as they operate a reciprocal arrangement. I’ve learnt the hard way that you can never do too much preliminary research, although I could hardly begrudge my entrance fees.

  Oh dear, another site was suddenly scratched from my itinerary. I had intended visiting the hot spring at Kaikohe, but the lateness of the hour, the creeping cold and the now incessant rain sent me in the direction of a ‘quality’ hot bath… and a plate of roast beef. I slept like a log until five in the morning when the bloke in the next room started snoring basso profondo. Anyway, can’t complain as Sunday had been tippety tops. Fabulous coastal scenery, marred only by a slight panic when I decided that I ought to eat something and stopped in a winery area for a fairly yucky piece of quiche garnished with, well I needn’t tell you, bleeding colourfully into the partially cooked eggy concoction. Whilst the food was enough to cause panic, in fact it was the realisation that I had lost my car keys which really quickened my heart rate. Scrabbling in vain through my bag, pockets, etc., I finally retraced my steps back to the loo where they sat waiting patiently perched on top of the hand dryer. Hey ho, there are probably worse places to be stranded!

  Monday 1st April: a drive to the maritime museum at Dargaville and then south to Hamilton

  A new month compounds the feeling that I’ve been away from home for weeks whilst in fact this is day eleven of my absenteeism. This journey was never intended to be about ‘finding myself’ but it is proving that my skill at ‘finding my location’ is not quite as useless as some at home had led me to believe; I don’t count my orientation circuits as anything other than fact-finding. Today I was on the road before nine-thirty, this time with only a slight blip regarding my inboard navigation as I managed just one wrong turning on my way out of Whangarei. No great drama there and anyway, you see more when you take a few extra turnings.

  Back on track, I headed over to the west coast to visit a maritime museum at Dargaville. I had forgotten all about the ill-fated Greenpeace protest ship Rainbow Warrior and there on the lawn lay its mast, the ship having been blown up in nearby Kaipara harbour. The ‘maritime’ aspect of the museum was a bit of a misnomer and whilst there was much pertaining to the sea, there were masses and masses of artefacts recording the lives of the early pioneers, especially those who had dug kauri tree gum from the peat bog areas. The kauri tree is becoming increasingly rare, but had been plentiful in the northlands. These noble hardwood trees exude an amber-like gum, true amber being the fossilised gum of coniferous trees from the Baltic region. Over time, kauri trees had fallen becoming buried in and preserved by the peat bogs. Pioneers, predominantly Scottish Highland and Islander crofters seeking new lives in the wake of the Highland Clearances, had come in substantial numbers to New Zealand to dig for the gum of the swamp kauri trees. The trees they were excavating were approximately 44,000 years old.

  A hard life and a frugal one, recorded amongst mesmerising old sepia photographs. On second thoughts, I should underline the lot of pioneers by saying that it was an excruciatingly tough life with scant reward. Weather-beaten individuals, both men and women, leant against their corrugated iron shacks and stared with an hypnotic intensity into the photographer’s lens. It was almost painful to turn away: I wanted to know their individual stories. And who was behind the lens? I wondered about the grit and determination of the unknown photographers… they weren’t carrying point and shoot cameras, but hefting cumbersome tripods on alien terrain. I could almost hear an oozing soughing sound as feet and tripod paddled viscous mud.

  From the past to the almost present. As expected, there was also a display which told the tale of the Rainbow Warrior…although, upon reflection, not very well. The information was a bit random and just raised lots of questions, which it was impossible to find answers to. Nevertheless, this is being a bit picky as I thoroughly enjoyed the museum visit which, irrespective of its homespun feel, was very worthwhile. And the Bay of Islands sea views were picture book perfection. Although for a few moments I didn’t think that I was ever going to see the views again, as the volunteer on duty was very chatty. Her son had been living in Brixton, England and she had been worried about that – but all was well now as he had moved to Sheffield. She had tried twice to get over to see him, but ‘events’ had prevented her from travelling. I finally extricated myself with a cheery, “Third time lucky,” and went in search of my car. Fortunately, I had not let ‘events’ get in the way of making my journey to see my son. Yes, although I was on a maternal mission, I admit that I wasn’t exactly taking the most direct route.

  Back in the car and heading south I passed signs to the Kauri Museum at Matakohe. Having been intrigued by all I had read and learnt at the Dargaville Museum, a detour to another museum with a further nine dollar outlay seemed a must: right decision! Fortunately, I have a handy leaflet which sells a visit to the museum as being ‘an excellent choice’:

  Discover the mighty KAURI TREE, its TIMBER and its GUM, and PIONEERING SETTLERS in New Zealand. Outstanding displays, real exhibits, original early photos and fascinating stories await you. This huge museum provides a stimulating insight into the kauri theme…You will be inspired and impressed by this wonderful exhibition.2

  All that upper case e
mphasis was no idle claim, as indeed I was both inspired and impressed. Despite the ‘roll-up, roll-up’ tone of the leaflet, this purpose built museum was a bit more professional than the two I had visited earlier, and it was stuffed to its glorious wooden rafters with heaps of interesting artefacts. And the hundreds of early photographs managed to tell the life of the kauri diggers more eloquently than a ‘thousand words’.

  The sawmill replica helped to illustrate the way in which growing trees were felled and then, together with the bog exhumed trees, cut. The gum had all sorts of uses, including varnish and lino. This unscheduled stop was an unexpected treat for a 21st-century traveller but what a desperately hard life those 19th-century pioneers must have lived. I feel only hardy crofters could or would have coped. And having made the gruelling four-month sea journey from northern to southern hemisphere, turning around when life got even tougher was probably never an option.

  Change of tempo – from the inner ruminations of my brain to the inner rumblings of my tum. It’s surprisingly exhausting driving across North Island and dashing into and out of museums, so I rewarded myself with a cup of coffee and a date scone (the needle on the scales must have been soaring to new heights…) and then it was back on the road. I decided to keep driving south, bypassing Auckland and heading on down to Hamilton. I know I ought to describe the route in great detail, but more of the earlier pampas-edged switchback is the best I can come up with. Driving down to the ferry on Sunday, I narrowly avoided the squashed remains of a hedgehog on the road (masses of squashed fauna everywhere). At the time I thought it a little strange that it should be a hedgehog, but on my way back, realised that it was a squashed kiwi… not really how I had hoped to see my first one!

  Anyway, continuing on to Hamilton, a few heavy showers and lots of traffic kept me company. On arriving at my destination, as ever, I then spent half an hour going round in rectangles (you can’t do circles on a grid pattern) until I found a fairly modest Flag Choice motel… which could have done with a lick of paint and a few creature comforts. No hairdryer and my adapter didn’t work, but it was no great panic as I’m past caring about the vanity stakes. Time for my next meal and I’m not sure why I seem to get drawn to rather bleak eating establishments, as I dined in an empty canteen-like stainless steel and Formica eatery. From the basic menu I selected and enjoyed Hoki fish, a member of the hake family, followed by fresh fruit which had been cut finely and arranged artistically on a silver platter – as if to tempt a picky eater. Of course I appreciated the trouble that someone had gone to, but my platter did seem daintily incongruous in such an industrial setting. In contrast, the bottle of invigorating local beer which accompanied my meal was certainly not out-of-place and was downed with gusto.

  My journal records that ‘it is now 10pm and I need my shut-eye’ as I was off to Cambridge in the morning and then on to Waitomo Caves for two days of adventure. There must have been a tiny twinge of apprehension because with a dramatic flourish, or perhaps a tiny prayer, I added: ‘Dear reader, I hope I may return’. I then signed off the day’s entry with a note that the weather had unexpectedly turned from warm to FREEZING.

  Tuesday 2nd April and let the adrenalin fun begin

  Ate a solitary breakfast and in spite of the continental being free, decided to upgrade for five dollars to the egg and bacon option. Absolutely scrumptious! It might have been a fairly basic hotel, but the catering was a notch or two up on most I had so far experienced. With a long day ahead, the calorific fuel seemed sensible and might stop me from eating another muffin.

  Said goodbye to Hamilton (a straggly town of no great significance… oops, except perhaps to the Hamiltonians) and headed down to Cambridge, which was as lovely as its English namesake, with a very friendly atmosphere. I pottered around and wandered across the cricket pitch which was surrounded by majestic oak trees. There are more deciduous trees here than I’ve seen before and they are beginning to turn shades of yellow, gold and deep plum… a result of the unexpectedly cold weather. I read in the local paper that parts of North Island have had snow, which is earlier than usual.

  Feeling the chill, I bought a padded sleeveless jerkin, I’m sure there’s another name for this type of garment, but my brain’s on holiday, a merino wool top and a pair of shapeless, sexless, fleecy trousers. Very middle aged, very practical…and very warm! From the shop next door I bought needle and thread as the trews were rather long. After a cup of tea and a quiet moment of reflection, I decided that the needles would stay in their gleaming state and be carried back to England, where I obviously need new needles as all the sewing I’ve done in recent years has taken its toll on my existing sharps and darners. I tell a lie, the sharps and darners have passed generation unto generation untouched in their ornate packaging and will probably continue, in this manner, on down the female line. The trousers would just be hitched-up over my expanding girth.

  A bit of map reading followed and I opted to head for a minor road and then cut across west to join the SH3 and then down south to Waitomo Caves. Fabulous road, I think probably only about 45km, 40 of which I drove on my own, but a really, really lovely drive. Green undulating vistas, tempted me to stop and take pictures, and for once scenic stopping was easy. Hitting the SH3, the traffic became heavier and slowing down through Otorohanga I saw signs to the Kiwi House. Only a slight detour and I think another worthwhile one. Kiwis live in the ‘northlands’ of North Island where they are now an endangered species, as their habitat is under threat from the expanding human population. Additionally, where there are people, rats are never far away and kiwi eggs provide rats with a nutritious protein rich meal. The sad outcome is that whilst the rat population increases the kiwi numbers dwindle. Obviously drivers weren’t helping either.

  Kiwis are nocturnal and as soon as I saw the only pair they had in captivity (the name of the establishment had raised my expectations a little high) realised that the poor squished mound I had seen earlier really was, or indeed had been, a kiwi. To make up for the paucity of kiwi, the eponymous House had a high number of caged birds for the visitor to admire. In truth, most were rescue birds which wouldn’t survive if released, plus an assortment of non-indigenous vagrants – birds which had flown off course during their migratory passages. These birds are kept in caged captivity as New Zealand does not want them breeding in an alien habitat and upsetting the country’s ecology. Additionally, there were reptiles alongside water birds, birds of prey and owls, which eyed me with a 360 degree air of disdain unlike my busy escort. At some point along a maze of walkways I had been joined by an inquisitive fantail – a bit like a wagtail, but where one wags, the other fans. The Maori people call them messenger birds and it’s easy to understand why… you really feel they are trying to tell you something with their fanning and posturing. They are all over the place and are truly delightful.

  Somewhere I also saw what surely must have been a robin – brown all over, round body, shorter tail than our robin, with an unmistakeable robin eye… bright and round and looking hopefully for a handy grub that you might have about your person. Later, I was thrilled to see a picture of a North Island robin; glad I wasn’t suffering from homesickness and that it really was a robin. I don’t understand how a country can have flora and fauna which is so dissimilar to ours, whilst at the same time being home to indigenous species which are so similar to ours. Robin, please explain…

  Wandering around the grounds I discovered that the upright trees with neat ferny tops are Pukas: how appropriate! And in the small shop, where for once I ignored the refreshments, I read that the Kiwi House is a breeding centre of high repute: another tick in the box for an excellent visit. A little sadly I said good-bye to my fan the fantail and set off once again for my holy grail: Waitomo Caves.

  Arrived at about 2pm and checked in to the Waitomo Caves Hotel… could this be the template for Bates Motel? I found myself in a grotty bedroom in an old weatherboard colonial style building; it had been a Government
Rest House circa 1890 and extended over the years as its uses changed. I expected ‘Norman’ to shuffle forth from the bowels of the building, but a cheery girl checked me in, instead. At 40 dollars a night, I wasn’t going to complain about the lack of creature comforts, including hairdryer. They seem rarer than hotel washing machines which probably illustrates the needs of the average tourist: to wash/dry activity grubby garments and not care a fig about looks. [Before I’m sued by the hotel, I have just taken a look at its 2016 website… and its refurbishment has indeed lifted it into a different class: it looks gorgeous!]

  Location wise, the position was and is awe inspiring. The hotel sits in a delightfully higgledy-piggledy garden, set high on a hillside giving uninterrupted views across the surrounding peaks and gullies. Leaving thoughts of Norman behind, I walked down through a shady, hidden pathway to emerge in the centre of Waitomo, which consists of an information centre, a shop and assorted adventure companies. I wasn’t sure who I was booked to do what with, so decided to sort things out.

  First things first, a drink and a muffin: you can have a muffin too many but they seem to be a national delicacy, and trying to find an alternative small nibble was proving fruitless. Slurping and munching contentedly, I mused over the fun I had had weeks ago, Visa card to hand, booking my adventures over the internet. Now thoughts of ‘being too old to make a fool of oneself, breaking a leg, or having a heart attack’ were squashing my earlier gung-ho version of never being ‘too old to have fun, push boundaries, or rediscover long lost youth’. Anyway, the Lost World adventures would soon reveal which path was the more accurate.

  Refreshed, I wandered off in search of the Lost World office, which nearly lived up to its name. Entering I was greeted with “Hello Vivien”… which was a bit startling. In response to a mental alarm bell clanging, my mind flashed up a series of questions: had no other suckers signed up; perhaps no aged suckers; had the office really been waiting all these weeks just for me? Baffled, I received my instructions for two days hence and felt the first flicker of nervousness.