Return to Rotoroa

Talk about island-hopping. From Waiheke to Tiritiri Matangi on Thursday, then back to Waiheke, and off again to Rotoroa yesterday. I was last there three weeks ago, to witness the release of a kiwi chick into the island's safe and pest-free environment, to grow big and strong enough to return to the wild on the mainland. I came again to get the more usual visitor experience: of escaping the city rat-race - well, Waiheke in my case - for the peace and laid-back relaxation of the island. Except it's not. Peaceful, that is.

Since the Salvation Army addiction treatment centre closed down, and the lease was acquired by the island's Trust, masses of work has been done by eager volunteers, and, after just ten years since the revegetation of the island (which had been cleared for farming) the bush is back and burgeoning. And with it, the birds - which are SO NOISY! There are oystercatchers on the beaches, putting on broken-wing dramas to draw you (me) away from their nests, squawking piteously. There are pukeko darting about everywhere on the open grassy areas, hooting away, plus weka, ditto. Tui are a constant, running through their huge repertoire of calls from above; fantails twitter, kereru coo, takahe squeak - and also boom, oddly. It goes on and on, even at night, when kiwi are added to the roll call.

Of course that's not a complaint, and I loved it all. Having done the guided tour last time with ranger Milly Lucas, this time I just wandered, looking for birds and frogs, and having a very relaxing time. The ferry was busy today with people taking advantage of the discounted fare to take part in Experiencing Marine Reserves, which hosts snorkelling events, everything provided, and free. The volunteer hosts were all full of enthusiasm, and it was well done, but the downside of the Hauraki Gulf is that it's so thoroughly fished that even the reserves aren't exactly teeming yet. While I was waiting for the ferry on the jetty at Orapiu, a chatty man was delighted to catch two very respectable snapper in just fifteen minutes.

The EMR event was at Ladies Bay, a long, sandy beach where the women being, er, hosted by the Sallies could swim - round the headland was, of course, Mens Bay, which was a bit more boisterous. The water looked lovely but I knew from recent experience on Waiheke that it wouldn't be warm. It was good to be able to borrow a wetsuit, even though it's always such a demoralising experience, getting into one - and out again. Such a struggle. Plus, it turns out that no-one can take off a front-zip wetsuit without assistance: getting it off your shoulders is impossible.

My home for the night, Oranga, was one of the four rentable houses on the island - spanking clean, remarkably well-equipped, private and very comfortable. I would happily live there, as would many others, judging by the comments in the Visitor's Book. Paradise, oasis, sanctuary, magical... one person was on their 6th stay there; and some came regularly for Christmas, which seems a lovely idea to me.

This morning I was very smug about tracking down the pair of takahe with their chick, exactly where I calculated they would be. That pleasure was diluted, though, by finding a dead penguin on a beach, sadly. Then I spent ages vainly trying to photograph a whitehead - they are so fast, they just dematerialise the instant you (I) click the shutter. Fun, though. 

Finally, it was time to head to the wharf to catch the ferry back to Waiheke, after a properly lovely time. It was only slightly marred, while we waited to board, by an OWM volunteer chatting with Milly, who was being amusing about her husband. "But you married him," he said. "And gave him a male heir." When I asked what difference it made that the child was a boy, he was satisfactorily nonplussed, I'm happy to report.

Not spying but flying

With thanks to Waiheke Wings

Today I should have woken up in a boutique cottage overlooking the Bethell's Beach black sands, and then pottered around various arty places en route to Matakana - sculpture, modern Maori art, pottery - and finished up by having a nice dinner out before retiring to a spacious garden villa overlooking a vineyard. But a rogue Covid occurrence in the community (a post-negative test flare-up of the South African variant) has put paid to that famil for the time being, so instead I went up on a spyplane, with Waiheke Wings.

Well, not really a spyplane, since we weren't hiding - but we were going to observe from above the America's Cup yachts having a practice ahead of this weekend's racing. So we took off from the grassy airfield here on Waiheke, puttered (it was a 4-seater Cessna) along the coast and over sundry scattered islands to Rangitoto's brooding bulk. 

There we should have been able to see the yachts skimming over the water on their foils - except there was no wind, so that scheme was, er, foiled. Shame. All we could see was one yacht (possibly American Magic) with not even its sails up.

But it was lovely anyway, flying over the turquoise sea, dotted with other boats, and the sandy beaches of the North Shore, and then the city, bridge, marina and ferries. We moseyed back along past Mission Bay, St Heliers and Musick Point. 

Then we flew the length of Waiheke again, with its real contrast between the populated west and the empty east, and its clear focus on farming wine, oysters and mussels.

I had some of the former afterwards, plus a delicious baked Brie, at Thomas's Bach near the airfield, as consolation for not having had the hoped-for America's Cup flurry. And then we headed home again, to hide from the sun on this blistering hot day.

Waiheke whining

Seven! Even I'm impressed. Seven times on a Segway, now - in Sausalito, DC, Durban, Perth, Queenstown, Kaikoura and today Waiheke, with the cleverly-named SegWai. Andrew's been in operation here for two years, but I only noticed him last month, parked with his punters at the gelato stand in Oneroa. So this morning I tagged along, joining two others (who, by what is by now for me a ho-hum sort of coincidence, have also done the DC thing) on a 2-hour, 20km ride around the western tip of Waiheke.

Since we were all veterans, after signing the single-sentence waiver (two PAGES in the US, plus a video) and helmeting up, Andrew checked that we were able to handle the machines, and we set off - off-road. I'd already noted the knobbly tyres, fitted because we would spend over half the time on tracks and the beach. The first bit was up through the bush and along the edge of some of Cable Bay's vineyards, to stop outside their restaurant with its views over the water to the city; and then we popped along to Mudbrick.

It was a bit unnerving, to be bumping along past hazards like potholes and logs, around trees and signs; but it was fun too, much better than gliding meekly along the road. Where it got really good, though, was after Andrew released our inner tortoises by disabling the speed limiter (not everyone gets this: but we weren't beginners, remember) which allowed us to reach the heady speed of 20 km/h. That was pretty exciting, when we were trundling along a stony beach and over rocks, as far as we could go.

It was a bit testing, ducking down to fit underneath a leaning pohutukawa tree, but we all managed it, and even got confident enough afterwards to go no-handed - not just along smooth road, but even over a speed bump. That deserved a reward, so we popped up into the town for a treat from Island Gelato, no doubt (I'm sure!) arousing envy in the breasts of all the boring pedestrians who saw us arrive and then leave again, whining away in single file down the road to return back through the bush to our start at the beach. Good fun!

PS: Just thought I'd mention - these photos, those horizons? No straightening necessary, despite being taken with one hand while in motion on an electronically balanced machine fitted with 5 gyroscopes. On uneven ground. At 20km/h.

Waiheke Walking Festival - Onetangi to Man O' War Private Land Stunner Walk

Today is the start of the 2018 Waiheke Walking Festival, its ninth year of operation and evidently going from strength to strength. This year there are almost 60 different walks on offer, all over the island, with varying themes, levels of strenuousness, and locations, so that there really should be something for everybody. It's the first time I've been able to take part, and I'm doing it for work, having chosen a selection of walks to try to get a feel for the whole festival.

The first one started this morning on the beach at Onetangi, a two-kilometre stretch of sand between bush-clad headlands, and this morning it looked splendid as we gathered near a yoga session to be checked in, and have our shoes scrubbed and sprayed to prevent the spread of kauri die-back disease (not yet on the island, and let's hope it stays that way). The sun was shining, the sea was blue and everyone was eager to get cracking. It was a big group (I was #100) so it took a while, but finally we were all headed up the road and into the bush.

The great appeal of this walk is that its two halves cross land normally closed to the public. The first section began above gorgeous Piemelon Bay and took us through Rorohara, which is private farmland. It belongs to Bruce Plested, very unassuming in his shorts and old shirt, who has been assiduously planting natives for years, thousands of them from flax to totara. He was candid about the mistakes he had made, and it was interesting to see the different rates of growth according to how close the trees were planted, and the aspect. Mainly, though, it was just so lovely to walk through so much green lushness, especially a beautiful nikau grove with the sunlight slanting through. It was a sheer delight.

We passed through to the road on the other side and walked along to Waiheke Station belonging to the Ngati Paoa iwi, where Morehu Wilson talked about the history of the land from the Maori perspective. To be brutally frank, though the information was interesting, his delivery was a bit dull - but the walk was lovely. We passed Tequila the goat, followed the farm track under the gaze of a herd of Herefords temporarily yarded while we went by, and then climbed up and up and up to a fabulous lookout over the sea to the Coromandel, Little Barrier and Great Barrier Islands, and the other islands further north. 

Then, to everyone's relief, we went down and down and down again and fetched up finally at Man O' War vineyard where we thankfully sat down at tables with our complimentary glass of very nice rosé, and, eventually, got to eat our delicious pulled pork rolls. Which we really felt we had earned, after walking more than ten kilometres, from one side of the island to the other. Excellent day.

Scorchio!

Another sunny Sunday, hooray, so I had a second go at having my first swim of the year - much more successfully this time. And it was easy: ferry to Waiheke Island, bus to Palm Beach, bake in the sun for a bit and then straight into the sea - past the oh!-zone and flop ahh! into the water. Perfect. Lots of warm bits to find, floating, only the occasional big wave, and all around blue sky, white boats, green hills and biscuity beach.

Waiheke's such a lovely place, and not just because it's been our family summer holiday place for years: it's so quick to get to, only 45 minutes with the detour to Devonport, and yet it feels miles away from the city. The sign above, at the car ferry jetty, sums it up: Waiheke is all about winding down, looking around and enjoying the moment.

And there are few moments better than hot, crisp salty chips with marty sauce and a cold beer, seagulls swooping overhead, kids busy digging holes in the sand, teenagers being self-consciously laid-back, old people titupping over the hot sand with bare feet, and nothing to do all afternoon except get hot again and go for another cooling dip. I could perhaps have done without the group of gorgeous Latinos parading their perfect young bodies in front of us, but that's just being picky.

And then afterwards, bus and ferry and car home again with salty skin, sandy feet, stiff tousled hair and a faint glow of sunburn, and total relaxation. All that was missing was the orcas.

Fuller(s) excitement

I don't know. I've been all over the place, going up in hot air balloons and small planes, riding horses, swimming with whale sharks, getting close to bears and rhino and lions, climbing peaks and going down into caves, scuba diving and kayaking, and the most proper drama I've witnessed was heading across to lunch in the city today on the Waiheke ferry.

Well, actually, there was that time I was mugged in Santiago - oh, and dislocated my shoulder in Norfolk, and, um, got tipped out of a white-water raft near Taupo, and, that's right, ran aground in a ship off Stewart Island... but I'm sticking to my premise, that this afternoon it could have got really nasty on board Fullers' Quick Cat. 

Not that it did, of course, I'm here typing this and besides, this is New Zealand, even a fire on board a ferry is a laid-back experience. Because that's what happened: I was sitting reading the local rag in the main cabin when there was a flurry behind me and a serious-looking life-jacket-clad staff member was opening a hatch I'd always wondered about below the window, and dragged a fire hose out of it, and across to the door. An announcement told us that there was a problem with one of the engines and we might like to go outside to avoid any fumes. Not many did.

Then we were told that, actually, we all had to go up to the top deck because the starboard engine had caught fire and we needed to be in the open. So we trooped up there, a bit bemused, no-one particularly worried, tourists laughing, and got whipped about by the chilly wind for a while until we were allowed down into the upper cabin. "The fire is contained," we kept being told and, apart from a faint smell, that seemed to be it. 

Except that obviously the engine was out of commission, so we had to limp across the harbour on one engine at just 8 knots, so our journey ended up being about three times longer than usual. Never mind, we had entertainment: the Coastguard gave us an escort, and the police launch Deodar III came alongside so three firemen in all their clobber could leap on board.

Eventually we chugged up to the pier where, kudos to the skipper, we eased into the mooring with no hiccups. There was a fire engine waiting by the Ferry Building, and more firemen on the pier, a couple pushing a stretcher for a crew member who, we learned on the TV news that night, had been overcome by fumes. And that was it. Apologies from the skipper, and thanks for our understanding, and everyone trooped ashore as usual, faintly relieved at not having had to get wet.

All in all, it was a lot more traumatic way back in 2006 when I fell off the side of a staircase in a holiday house we were renting on Waiheke, knocking myself out on the washing machine below, and breaking my wrist. The local ambulance people took me to the jetty - somehow, can't remember - and I rode in the original Deodar across the harbour to a waiting ambulance that took me to hospital. I missed out on being delivered there from Waiheke by the Eagle helicopter because it was attending a big crash up north, which also meant that I was left waiting for hours on a stretcher under a bright light while the casualties from that accident were seen to. Not that I'm bitter, at all... Oh, and they sent me home next day in a taxi, bare-footed and wearing somebody else's ghastly too-big top because they'd cut mine off. Tch.

Waiheke Sculpture on the Gulf. Yay.

It's been a rough week, so it was a gift to wake up to a glorious sunny autumn morning and head out on the biennial Waiheke Sculpture on the Gulf trail. I don't know if it's a result of the shooting, or because I'm especially sensitive after it, but everyone I met was so friendly today: the ticket lady, the shuttle bus driver, the volunteers along the route, the other walkers. Lots of smiles and cheerfulness - it was good to see.

I was out early so the trail was quiet, which added to the enjoyment (it will be really crowded later, and especially over the coming, final, weekend) - birds singing, waves lapping, ferries buzzing past. The sculptures were the usual mix of pleasing shapes, impressive workmanship and ridiculous arty pretension - so, all just as it should be.

Metal, as rusted iron or polished stainless steel, seemed to be the material of choice this time; so it was pleasing to see some beautifully shaped and engineered wood being used.

This year's prize for pretentiousness goes from me to Garden Shed, which is a very faithfully reproduced scruffy tin garden shed full of tools and spider webs, with a screen showing drone footage of a garden. I didn't bother to photograph it, but this actual shed a bit further along the track was similar, if a bit tidier.

I have to say, though, the caption accompanying another work was a close contender for that award: "The artist aims to reconstruct Moholy-Nagy's concept into a participatory transitional approach of perceiving light and colour which visitors will experience in the work through navigating the Walkway". 

But it looked pretty (although, confusingly, no navigation was required. It's a box).

The Dance that lasts Forever was a variety of single-use plastic blowing in the wind, and of course that's a statement rather than art, and a valid one too - but it was hard not to notice that a lot less work went into stringing up a bunch of carrier and rubbish bags than, say, welding, painting and polishing the spheres in Round and Round.

As ever, it was the gloriously natural backdrop that stole the show: the sea, the islands, the sky, the trees. And there were some enviable houses, too.

But considering the art did - temporarily, natch - tune my brain into seeing art everywhere, suddenly noticing a pole with a plastic bag over the sign on top of it, and wondering what the message was (Er, this road sign is not yet operational?), or the interruption of horizontal planes by um, a crane on a building site. And how about this, for expressing the ephemeral nature of the human footprint, in contrast with the dark foreboding permanence of polythene?

Of course, it's a soapy shoe-washing spongemat for preventing the spread of kauri dieback disease. But you get my point. Anyway, Waiheke Sculpture on the Gulf. Always worth it.

Waiheke Walking Festival - Earning nosh

I paid for this outing myself. I know!

Since walking 100km last week wasn't enough, I headed off to Onetangi again this morning on another of the Waiheke Walking Festival's offerings - the much gentler, and gastronomically rewarding, Progressive Lunch.

We set off along the beach again, lamenting the fact that insurance costs have recently been hiked up so far that the classic, fund-raising Onetangi Beach Races won't be taking place this summer, and headed up the hill. It took us no time at all to stroll past sprouting vineyards, and a couple of unexpected turkeys, to the lovely Casita Miro, where I hadn't been for ages. 

Since my last visit, they've got into mosaic work, big-time, and it was fun to see the latest project, the wall alongside the driveway, taking shape. I've done my share of mosaicking, and could admire the skill and detail. 

At the cellar door, we all (50+ of us) streamed in under the high ceiling and sat eagerly waiting for our entrée course, which was a pleasant sliced potato dish and a triumphant goat's cheese croqueta, which was so delicious, I could have eaten six and gone home happy. The rosé was good too.

We carried on, through more rolling vineyards to Te Motu, where we settled in on the long benches at The Shed with its open sides for the main course - beef eye fillet, burnt parsnip, chimichurri and cauli rice. It was a bit of a long wait, but well worth it, and everyone was fully into the mood by now, chattering away happily and clinking glasses (smooth red for me this time). The food was excellent, and we were fully fuelled for the next section, through more vineyards - Stonyridge and Tantalus - and past a beer brewery and a gin distillery. Honestly, Waiheke can supply just about any alcoholic desire.

We had a lovely taste of nature next, trailing through bush, up a hill, through a leafy nikau forest, along a boardwalk, over a bridge, up steps and along some quiet roads past a scattering of very nice houses, and finally down again back to the beach.

The weather had been lovely, but clouded over now as we sat outside at Charlie Farley's, eager for our pudding. Apple and blueberry pie, with icecream, and more rosé, since you ask - all very yummy - plus plenty more chatter. What a lovely way to spend a day, getting just enough exercise to earn all that delicious food, without any of the serious exertion involved in last week's Te Ara Hura expedition. I can't wait for next year's Walking Festival. Great job, guys!