Haven in the west

Paradise is at the end of a road which leads nowhere in a region which is neither a golden bay or a west coast.

The sparkling Tasman Sea.

I’m reliably informed that Westhaven is in Auckland, boasting the southern hemisphere’s largest Yacht Marina, and Whanganui is a large coastal town in Manawatu, near the mouth of New Zealand’s longest navigable waterway.

We didn’t go to either of those places, as lovely as they sound, but we did go to a Westhaven, also known as Whanganui inlet, which many people don’t seem to know exists.  Which is perhaps why it is one of the most unspoilt and breathtakingly beautiful places we’ve ever been to. It is described as being on 'the west coast of Golden Bay', a geographical anachronism like Harry Potter’s 'Platform 9 3/4' which only enhances the magic, and seclusion of the place.  One of New Zealand’s largest estuaries (roughly 13km long and 2-3km wide), it is filled by the Tasman Sea at high tide which flows rapidly through imposing heads glimpsed briefly as you take the winding drive from Pakawau. (As with any route heading North of Collingwood, don’t expect to reconnect with civilisation – you are pushing into the wild west).

The western peninsula from the other side of the inlet.
If you have bionic eyes you might just make out the lodge on the ridge line at the centre of the image.

And it was on the western head that we were lucky enough to stay, which is also a privately-owned 400 hectare peninsula, and home to Westhaven Retreat, a 4-star luxury lodge.  Anyone who knows us won’t be surprised to hear that we didn’t stay here, however - our accommodation was a much more modest cottage, adjacent to the main building.  

After the long drive we had started to wonder if we had come to right place, as I picked my way through fresh cow pats to open a farm gate, loudly serenaded by dogs before manoeuvring carefully around huge wandering cattle beasts.  As we crested the hill and the lodge came into view we weren’t left in any doubt. A unique and exquisite structure of which there will be more about later.

The lodge is designed to compliment the landscape.

“You’re kiwis, we knew you wouldn’t mind!”, explained our host about our farm encounter entrance. She also apologised for the nearby helicopter, the way most guests usually arrive, which crouched close to our cottage like a giant shiny black dragonfly. The fact that Rose scampered out to photograph it ferrying its wealthy passengers to the beach later that evening would have shown just how much we minded, it’s rare we have a helicopter in our garden.

The 'other half' leave for their beach trip.

The cottage was everything we needed but as with all things here, it’s really about the location.  I’ve loved coastlines and this part of the country for almost as long as I can remember, but Westhaven is something else again. From the top of the peninsula views of the Tasman Sea to the west and the inlet on the other side were literally jaw dropping. Paths weaving down through surreal rock formations and a nikau palm forest led to perfect sandy beaches which we literally had to ourselves. 

A mysterious wall built by a primitive tribe.
Not Skull Island, but the Westhaven nikau forest.

Rose looks back at 'our' beach.

On our second day I interviewed the 'Westhaven family' about the retreat and then Rose joined us for a tour of the facilities which I will be writing about for work.  They seemed almost as interested in us as we were in them, and this led to them inviting us to use the spa and opulent indoor swimming pool that afternoon as an anniversary present from them.

The lodge's indoor swimming pool.

The lodge itself was designed and built by the patriarch of the family, an extremely accomplished Austrian engineer whose experiences working in Asia led him to believe in the principles of Feng Shui.  And so the building is formed of three interlocked octagons (a 45 degree angle being spiritually preferable to the hard right angles of most western structures).  The interlocked building is designed to be safely flexible during a quake and the shape also resonates what Bruno referred to as the two 'landscape guardians' of their home.  Two remarkable rocky outcrops sit above the lodge, the ‘lion’ to the west and the ‘dragon’ to the north, their shapes being quite self explanatory and also echoed within the low crouching form of the lodge.  It is a beautiful building inside and out which completely fulfils its aim of harmonising with the surrounding landscape.

The lodge and cottage (tiny white blob on the lower right) photographed from the head of 'the dragon'.
The 'lion' ridge can be seen in the distance.

Rose and I both did a lot of walking (almost every track available during our short stay), and after much goading I even braved the chilly waters of the Tasman. But we also did a lot of reading - something which I’ve shamefully let slip far too much this year.  And as eager as I was to write about the experience I also left my laptop alone, and I’m glad I did. ( I met a work mate at the airport when we flew out from Wellington who all but insisted that I hand over the PC to her so she could put it in my locker until I came back to work).

(Very) amateur body surfing was unplanned,
  but the waves were persuasive enough to carry me all the way to the shore.

Quite a different experience to our Melbourne holiday last year, the combination of exercise punctuated by long blissful spells of inactivity helped us both to relax more quickly than usual.  New Zealand’s earliest sea captains knew about this hidden inlet which provided shelter and safety from westerly storms, and it certainly worked wonders for us.

We discovered this hidden corner of New Zealand almost by accident at the beginning of the year - and look forward to coming back.

A friendly Kereru followed me through the nikau forest.

Dry spell

A month without alcohol?  Can't be that hard, can it?

In a fit of reckless inspiration after speaking to a friend who had successfully completed 'dry July', I suggested that our own household embark upon 'sober October'.  We decided not to be too uptight about it: we had a special night out coming up and wanted to enjoy the pre-show meal with a glass of wine, and another friend who was also a connoisseur of pinot noir was staying the following weekend - we weren't about to make him feel awkward by sanctimoniously abstaining.

It was more about interrupting the routine of pouring a well-earned glass of crisp sauvignon when we got home from a hard day and a long commute - every evening.
The fact that October has so far been deliciously summery, just made for sitting out on our deck after work with glass of wine in hand to enjoy the last hour of sunshine, has caused me to condemn this as the 'stupidest idea' I've ever had.  But we've passed the half-way mark, and are somewhat relieved to find that we've broken a habit - not cured an addiction.  The beginning of next month marks our silver wedding anniversary, and we'll certainly celebrate that in traditional style - not just falling, but gleefully dive-bombing off the wagon again.
In the meantime, to make it really hurt, here's an essay praising the many virtues of 'the water of life'.

Sweet drams are made of these

The first time I tasted whisky I felt as if my chest was starting to glow from within, like ET’s ‘‘heart light’’. Initially a slightly alarming experience, in the time this warm radiance took to spread to my extremities I had become a convert.

Carbisdale Castle - scene of my eternal dram-nation. 

Living about 50 kilometres north of Inverness, in the depths of the Scottish highlands, is probably the best place to be introduced to whisky. My wife Rose and I were working in a remote youth hostel, which also happened to be a castle, overlooking the beautiful Kyle of Sutherland. Sneaking across this large estuary, via the ‘‘strictly no trespassing’’ railway bridge, the hostel staff were often drawn like thirsty moths to the lights of our local – the Invershin Hotel bar.

I had come to social drinking relatively late and was somewhat naive, so I almost got banned from that establishment, if not Scotland itself, when I tried to order a brandy and dry. There was only one liquor consumed around those parts and after workmates took me aside to have a quiet word, I hastily amended my request to a glass of everyone’s ‘‘usual’’ – Glenmorangie single malt whisky.

This was distilled a few kilometres south, and had a fierce following among the local population. After just one taste I remain to this day a fan of this smooth, somewhat spicy ambrosia.

It was winter’s final days when I became initiated, and for me this dark, smoke-infused time of year is linked to a warming nip of single malt. Enjoying a good whisky with friends in front of a roaring fire makes the gloomy, cold months something to look forward to.

By a process that the Scots admit originated elsewhere, but was perfected in Scotland, the pure, natural elements barley, peat and water are magically transformed by malting, fermentation and distillation, then matured into uisge beatha – the ‘‘water of life’’ to us non- Gaelic speakers.

Glenmorangie was only the beginning. I visited distilleries and sampled single malts all over Scotland and beyond – I even shared a dram while gazing up at Everest from the base camp in the Himalayas. Please note, this was Scotch and not the local Nepalese whisky (Ye Olde Earl), which admittedly does chase the cold away – and probably several years of your life, too. Enjoying a single malt isn’t just about the taste, marvellous as it is. The nose – the aroma of the whisky – is almost half the experience for me.

As my other faculties have started to falter my sense of smell remains acute; which is to be expected when you steer a nose the size of mine around. Smell is incredibly evocative; whiskies distilled on the Isle of Islay have an undeniable seaside frisson about their flavours and aromas, unfailingly reminding me of a driftwood bonfire on the beach. Glenmorangie, on the other hand, always evokes for me the peatiness, heather and bracken of the Kyle of Sutherland.

Whisky has accompanied many gloriously happy times in my life, but I’ve also learned the hard way that it commands respect. The penalty for treating this esteemed and venerable elixir with over-familiarity can be at least a day of your life wasted: curled up and braced for an impact which has long occurred, groaning and flinching from any light and sound under a crumpled duvet.

It might be thought that a return to New Zealand might quell the passion for this most Scottish of drinks, but the case seems to be quite the opposite.

Locally held whisky-tastings have been well supported by me and my friends over the years. These are curious but always enjoyable affairs, beginning with typically muted Kiwi reserve and six drams of whisky per attendee, and ending with a raucous din and empty glasses everywhere. As a non-partaker, Rose was often tasked with having to pick us up afterwards. Her reward was to become the one sober person at the party, then to endure what seemed to the rest of us to be uproariously witty banter all the way home.

The final tasting for the year would bloom into a fully-fledged Burns supper, complete with haggis, tatties and neaps (mashed potatoes and turnip) – a meal I honestly find is delicious. Less enjoyable was the traditional address to the haggis. My slight form would ensure I was always picked to represent the ‘‘poor, unfit, spindle-shanked foreigner’’ who ignorantly forsakes the ‘‘great chieftain of the pudding race’’ in this peculiar ritual. It hurt more that I was probably the only Scottish-born person there – but the traditional ‘‘participant’s dram’’ eased the pain a little.

There are many dusty quotes about whisky but I’ll end with a reflection from illustrator Ralph Steadman: ‘‘Single malt whisky is a drink to be respected, treasured, savoured and even kept for half a lifetime. It gathers momentum with every passing year. It fires dreams in the depths of despair and it gathers stories inside itself, as rich and dark as an ancient peat bog.’’

I'm walking here

As the weather settles and warms in seasonal fits and bursts,
here is my second ‘spring essay’.

 

With apologies to Solace in the wind

I’m convinced that the phrase “You can’t beat Wellington on a good day” was coined in summertime, at Oriental parade.  The Wellington sea front from Frank Kitts promenade, sweeping past Chaffer’s Marina to Oriental Bay and on to Point Jerningham beyond, is a golden mile (actually 3 km) of vibrancy and beauty rivalling any urban shore in the world.

The best part is that our waterfront isn’t just to be enjoyed on weekends, mental health days or by visiting tourists – for many of us it’s almost literally on our employer’s doorstep. Assuming you can get an hour for lunch (never certain these days) and the weather gods are smiling, the sea is within the easy reach of we drones from central business district. It’s a much healthier option than sitting at your desk, dropping bits of lunch into your keyboard – and cheaper than failing not to spend money on Lambton Quay.

A quick walk through Civic square – one of Wellington’s most successful sun (or wind) traps depending on the weather, over the Para Machitt land sea bridge, and the sparkling harbour is laid out before you.

Circling around the north bank of the lagoon – taking time to see if any stingrays have returned after last summer’s Orca banquet – leads you to the promenade running between Frank Kitts Park and the sea.  This sunny stretch of concrete can be a perilous place early in the morning, as cycling commuters in lycra nightmares seem to regard it as a velodrome, and anyone on foot as a hindrance to their personal time trial. But by lunchtime sanity is restored and the walker reigns supreme once more - not counting the inline skaters, of course. 

Alternatively, if you’re in it for the long haul, cut across to the far corner of Hikitea wharf, where 'jumpers' used to be seen launching themselves the beautifully designed spiral staircase tower and plummeting into narrow gap of water below.  This sculptural monument to exhilaration has sadly been closed since last summer, whether because of harbour bacteria as claimed, or deadlier nanny state-motivated back-tracking, remains unclear  

Once past this former spectacle you’re in crocodile bike territory.  These always make me smile and wonder if I’ll ever be able to find three willing people to hire one with me.  Very tame as a far as an item on anyone’s ‘bucket list’ is concerned, but it’s there all the same.  Also raising a smile is the Solace in the wind statue, always happy to have his hand held in a group photograph, although he never faces the camera.  I now put this down to failing eyesight, but at first glimpse I assumed he was one of those once-common street performers who used to paint themselves head-to-foot in a single colour and hold the same pose for amazing lengths of time – just like a statue, really.  It was the complete lack of clothing which dissuaded me from examining more closely. 

Eventually you pass some waterfront cafes and then catch sight of the forest of masts at the Chaffer’s marina. Dipping down below the Oriental parade footpath level to walk past the brightly coloured doors of the boat sheds, you can avoid the legions of sweaty lunchtime runners, bereft of their cell phones but still able to talk work via staccato gasps and grunts, and almost believe that you’re in a smaller, quieter seaside town.  The chlorine-scented monolith of Freyberg pool looms and it’s time to briefly rejoin the throng before dipping back down to my own regular destination in summer – Oriental Bay beach.  The whole point of this trip for me is to get into the water as quickly as possible, swim out to the floating raft and back again, get dried, changed and back to work within an hour.  I’ve tried to explain the ‘almost physical pull’ which the sea has for me, the urge to get into the water being so strong that even jellyfish infestations or forgetting my swimming shorts hasn’t prevented me on a couple of occasions.  The ‘togs, togs, undies’ rule was inverted without any widespread panic, it was just a shame that I had to run into a long term friend of my parents on my way back out of the water. Whatever awkwardness might befall, this lunchtime dip has always been well worth it for me.  

If you are a walker rather than a swimmer, the sensuously-curving Oriental Parade sea wall can lead you ever onwards, offering an ever shifting view of the city you’ve temporarily escaped, before you have to reluctantly turn around and head back to it.

The atmosphere of carefree happiness which pervades this magical edge of the harbour can sometimes lead you to believe that everyone else is still on holiday.  But for a precious hour you too can stretch your legs, fill your lungs and enjoy the best that the waterfront has to offer, free of charge and without even taking leave.

Weapons of grass destruction

A brief foray into the world of reality, and one of my major preoccupations at this time of year.

 

A warm, wet spring has seen an even more pronounced rampage of greenery than usual for this time of year.  The inexorable rustling of grass growing out of control can almost be heard above the frequent showers of rain, while males all over the country watch frowning from their living room windows, powerless to halt the green tide.

It is probably safe to say that this compulsion to tame and control one’s immediate grassy surroundings is a male affliction; alas – fantasising about making an almost instantaneous impact on the environment with as big a machine as possible seems to go hand-in-hand with ‘testosterone poisoning’.  Ride-on mowers are proudly displayed to friends, and duly examined and admired with the same degree of envy and respect afforded exhibits at a classic car rally.  Urgings to ‘take her for a spin’ are usually instantly accepted, and often regretted all round as an inexperienced driver inevitably finds the one hidden rock or tree stump on the entire property.

There are a number of theories behind the phenomenon known as the lawn, one being that they were originally an attempt to emulate the semi rural estates of the landed gentry.  Difficult to apply this to your typical quarter-acre slice of paradise, but perhaps the psychology is sound.  A lawn is a status symbol, why else would we lavish so much time and care on them, and fret when the weather prevents us from firing up the mower?  In New Zealand we are mercifully free from the moles and gophers who famously decimate the lawns in Britain and the US, but in our rural areas at least, grass grubs and the chickens who love to excavate and eat them can make grown men cry.

Finding myself with two and a half acres to control when I moved to the country, it became clear that a push mower wasn’t going to cut it, as it were.  I managed to maintain a sad little moat of mown lawn around our house, but the pampas ruled everywhere else - looming like a solid mass of triffids waiting patiently for the opportunity to reclaim ground.   So I was thrilled when my wife made the semi-serious gesture of presenting me with a genuine scythe which she’d bought from an antique dealer – and delighted in how ergonomically perfect the gracefully curving wooden handle felt to hold. Great swaths of grass fell instantly before my wildly swinging onslaught, and I was even vaguely proud of the fact that, when combined with my skeletal build, the image must have strongly suggested the Grim Reaper. “I am the Death of grass!” I exalted, until the absurdly long blade found another hidden rock or tree stump and I’d come to a juddering halt, more like Wyle E Coyote than the fearsome personification of mortality.

As satisfyingly physical as scything was, the effort and blisters didn’t really justify the fairly modest results, and so the 21^st century interceded in the form of a huge petrol-driven scrub-cutter.  Sporting handle bars like a motorcycle and requiring a harness to support its weight, this was the muscular, evolutionary pinnacle of the humble lawn strimmer – on steroids.  Steroids were almost required to be able to operate this behemoth as well - but this time treacherous rocks and tree stumps tended to disintegrate in showers of sparks and wood chips. Urban myths involving the ferocious circular blade suddenly working loose and bringing instant spinning carnage to anything within its radius always meant that I checked this machine carefully before unleashing it on our rapidly retreating meadows. 

The scrub-cutter’s main drawback was the noise it produced. On one never-to-be repeated occasion, I accidentally snagged my ear-muffs on a low-hanging branch, and the sudden exposure to the engine sound made my ears ring for days afterwards.  It was also frequently pointed out to me by my significant other that this weapon of grass destruction was absolutely no fun to listen to for hours on end, either.

The scrub-cutter’s life burned brightly but relatively briefly, the mighty beast finally succumbing to an internal fault which was too expensive to fix.  But by now, our ‘estate’ had been subdued and it was now a case of refining and maintenance.  A ride-on mower was the only remaining option, and after ‘big red’, a sprightly Masport five-speed, was delivered, we’ve never looked back.  It’s definitely a more sedentary way of keeping our grass down - I’ve been known to wear my iPod under the ear muffs, although certainly never installed a beverage holder as some reputedly have - but the result is unrivalled by any other method.  There’s a huge satisfaction in noting how even the scrubbiest, most weed-infested wasteland can start to look like a lawn after just a few repeated mowings.

On a sunny day, meeting the gentle challenge of grooming an area of grass with as few unhurried traverses as possible, overlapping each pass by just the right degree and keeping these graceful sweeps as straight as possible is a close to nirvana as a male on a large-bladed machine can ever hope to achieve.