Year: 2022

Our quiet life in the Wellington suburb of Tawa continues with few interruptions. There’s the overnight visit to Napier, New Zealand’s Art Deco city, but apart from that, the routine is unremarkable: we write, we run, we walk, we visit the beach. 

I must just note that Napier is rather charming with its hills overlooking the sea, dotted (and in some places crowded) with its iconic late 19th century and early 20th century houses. We take a speculative look at a few of them and enjoy their beautiful timber floors, white painted verandahs and wonderful views. We also eat the best Indian meal we’ve ever had and enjoy walking the miles of seafront boardwalk.

We talk to Alex who, with his partner, Lia in New York, is having Christmas with friends on a light ship on the Thames. Kate is on her remote mountain and out of contact, so we can only imagine what she’s doing. My sisters and mother are all having their Christmases in various places in Australia and Adrian’s family are in Meribel, skiing. We’re all rather dispersed and, although we’ve had Christmases a deux before, this one feels just a little unreal.

In truth, there’s little to report, so I’ll just wish you all a very Happy Christmas and hope you stay well into the new year. 

Just as Britain is plunging into sub-zero temperatures, Wellington decides that it’s summer after all. Our second week house-sitting settles into a relaxed routine which we break every so often to take in the features of the surrounding landscape which, due to the unique mix of volcanic activity and glaciation, is quintessentially New Zealand. 

Fifteen minutes away is Titahi Bay and its beach, like so many in this country, is surrounded by spectacular hills that rise almost directly from the sand. This guarantees  not only an otherworldly landscape, but also a plethora of houses with a sea view. We walk onto the beach which is buzzing with Sunday activities. 

At one end of the sand, a group of children, spurred on by an enthusiastic father, play an entertaining game of cricket, although the entertainment derives more from the father’s running commentary than from the game itself, which given that some of the players are under five, is necessarily patchy. 

Further along, the local surf boat team is practicing its racing technique by repeatedly rowing away from the shore and returning on the waves. In contrast the modern day life saving team scream out to sea in their high powered inflatable and throw a member of the group overboard – presumably the one who drew the short straw. There’s a cliff walk that provides us with stunning views back towards the iconic combination of beach and jutting hills.

On Wednesday, just as the temperature rises to twenty nine degrees and the sky shines blue and cloudless, we decide to walk to the top of the highest peak in the area known as Colonial knob. In the New Zealand vernacular there’s no pun attached to this name, but personally I prefer the Maori title of Mount Rangituhi. The route is a constant uphill climb but the path has been designed to keep the gradient comfortable and steady and, as the majority of it winds through a cool, lush forest of broadleaf, pine and tree ferns, it’s only during the last steep leg through grassland, that we begin to feel the heat. 

The view at the top has us exclaiming in superlative synonyms, as if we’re trying to rival a thesaurus. To the west is the Tasman Sea and Mana Island, to the north sits the deep bite of Titahi Bay and turning south, we can see Wellington city ranged around its harbour. Between our viewpoint and the blue of the sea, the land appears thrown together in a muddle of hills, mountains and deep glaciated valleys. It’s difficult to describe the effect, except to say that it’s very Lord of the Rings.

The return walk takes half the time of the climb up, as we tramp easily down hill through the forest. All the while, we’re accompanied by the unique call of the Tui, New Zealand’s most common bird. It’s blackish, medium size and unremarkable to look at, but its song resonates like the high notes of a pipe organ. We also hear blackbirds which were imported into this country by home-sick Brits. 

In fact New Zealand has numerous imported British birds including finches, ducks, sparrows, starlings, pheasants and skylarks. There seems no end to the enterprising endeavours of the settlers to recreate Britain abroad. It’s no surprise then that the Brits keep coming. If they ever pine for the old country, they only have to close their eyes and listen to the spring call of the blackbird to feel as if they never left home.

Except, right now, Britain looks like this:

Tawa, the Wellington suburb in which we’re currently house-sitting, is unremarkable in every sense of the word. The only noise is the occasional brief testing of the earthquake siren, the only distraction the pretty reserve that climbs the hill behind our house and the only attraction, the local shopping centre that holds no surprises and no attractions. The residents keep themselves to themselves and are barely visible.

The city centre of Wellington is altogether different and we take a drive through the city to view some of the lovely art deco houses that perch on the hills overlooking the harbour. They abound in elegance and charm and have the sort of views that incline us to believe we could live here. It’s only a short bus ride into Wellington city, billed as the world’s ‘coolest little capital’. And all this is eminently affordable. 

But the weather here is just too much like the weather we’ve left behind. It’s early summer and we’re still dressing in multiple layers. Some days, we even put on the heating. In January and February, Wellington has a lovely climate and it’s a very attractive city, but it isn’t enough. It would seem an absurdity to move to the antipodes to be just as cold for most of the year as we were back home.

So we look after this property for Gareth and Tao and forget about house-hunting. I’m making good progress on my second novel: a murder mystery set in a quiet rural village. Yes, I know this is a well worn trope, but hopefully, the uncovering of the bizarre  history of the murder victim isn’t. In fact, apart from running and walking in the reserve, it takes up all of my time and the plot thickens daily.

But this gives me little to report here, except to correct an omission in my previous description of New Plymouth (Being Places). The name’s a bit of a giveaway, so it will probably come as no surprise to learn that the town’s historical population consisted almost exclusively of Devonians. Encouraged by cheap farmland from their lives of poverty in Devon, they took the perilous journey to New Plymouth and built the agricultural foundation of the area. And with the lush rolling grasslands, the rivers and sea and the blustery wet weather, I’m sure they’d have felt at home. 

But it was a tough life in a place that was barely developed, had few facilities and saw constant battles over land rights. And before the lush grasslands could be enjoyed, the forests had to be cleared. Still, life back home in 19th century Devon was so dire for the poor that hundreds of families were prepared to take the risk. And so they built the dairy industry that dominates today. Devonshire cream in New Zealand and some of the richest milk in the world.

We spend our last day in Mimi avoiding spending the day in Mimi. Adrian is keen to visit Mt Taranaki, a still active volcano webbed with numerous uphill walks and footed by a visitors’ centre. I, on the other hand, am just as keen to continue writing my murder mystery but with our host next door hoovering and cleaning only feet from the table where I sit, my train of thought is being constantly interrupted. So I come up with the perfect solution: Adrian will drop me in New Plymouth where I can spend the day in the peace of their very pleasant library and then continue on his way to Mt Taranaki where he can indulge his penchant for climbing mountains. 

At around three in the afternoon, we meet in the library cafe, both having spent a satisfyingly productive day. I’ve written another chapter, Adrian has walked his socks off in fine weather so we’re both feeling quite pleased with ourselves. Then we drive back to Mimi to spend our last evening before heading south to Wellington. We’re up early next morning, packed and out the door in record time. By now, we’ve both had enough of listening to the conversations and television of our neighbours and are glad to be moving on.

It’s a long drive to Wellington which we break firstly with a stop for coffee. Patea is a one horse town that has clearly lost its horse. Most of the shops in the short high street are closed or boarded up, which probably explains the lack of people. There’s an odd disused building, a large tin shed, with an old facade stuck on its front, like something from the plywood set of an old-fashioned Western. The Backpackers Rest and Retreat hasn’t seen a backpacker for several years and the take-away shop has all but been taken away. 

In stark contrast, the Cafe Fika, run by a group of charming enthusiastic women, represents a 1960s retro oasis. We enter to find one of them optimistically decorating a Christmas tree. The coffee is excellent and the counter displays a wonderful array of cakes and slices that has us dithering for several minutes. Buoyed up by caffeine and sugar, we travel on.

Our next stop is Bulls (and you can imagine the advantage business-owners take of that particular name! and yes, ‘load of’ definitely features). We eat a sandwich and carry on, not wanting to delay our journey. We’re getting very bored with the drive and  our restricted selection of entertainment on BBC sounds, and are relieved to finally see ahead of us, the range of large hills that preludes entry to Wellington’s outer suburbs. 

Our accommodation in Newlands has a wonderful view of Wellington harbour and everything we need for our two night stay. There’s a reserve directly in front of us with a winding hilly path and shops and eateries at ten minutes’ distance. It has everything that Mimi lacked. After a much needed run, we book a table at the 3 Little Birds, one of only two Jamaican restaurants in the whole of New Zealand. The owner, a young enthusiastic American-Jamaican, tells us of his battle to convince the local people that there are more cuisines on earth than Chinese and Indian, but these are two predominant immigrant groups in New Zealand and their restaurants are well established.

On Friday, we have a date with the owners of the house we’ll be sitting for the next seven weeks. Gareth and Tao are off to visit family in Manchester and Thailand. They’re easy, likeable people and the house looks easy to care for and comfortable to live in. We arrive the next day to bid them farewell and begin the process of unpacking and discovering. Later, with the sun shining, we explore the hilly reserve that sits behind the house. We agree that there’s everything we need here and Wellington CBD is only a short train journey away. It isn’t exactly exciting, but for the next seven weeks, we’ll be able to call it home. We’re both rather relieved to be stationary for a while. 

Our first thought when we arrive at our accommodation in Mimi, south of New Plymouth, is that there has been some sort of mistake. The beachfront cabin that we thought we had booked turns out to be an extension of our hosts’ house and only ‘beachfront’ in the sense that the beach is accessible through two boggy fields divided by an electric fence and only at low tide. What’s more, as we discover almost immediately, there’s no sound proofing between us and them and we can hear their television, their cooking and the friends they have to dinner.

We arrive with many bags of food, this place being miles from any supermarket or restaurant, but the ‘full kitchen’ consists only of a couple of cupboards (already full), an oven, a two ringed hob and a fridge the size of a cornflakes packet. The kettle and toaster are stored under the sink because there’s nowhere on the tiny workbench to put them. 

We send a message to the owner who’s out and suggest that there’s been a mix up. We booked the other place with a washer and dryer and views of the sea. This place has none of the former and the latter is only obtainable from the bathroom and bedroom windows. Our host duly arrives back from work, looking harassed and rather cross. She assures us there’s been no mistake, that they have only one guest suite and this is it. In the meantime, we’ve discovered there are two different listings for the same place, with different photos and different descriptions, something she vehemently denies, until several days into our stay when she checks it out. ‘Oh’, she says, ‘sorry, that listing should have been removed.’

But there’s nowhere else to go, so we can do nothing but make the best of it. We learn to cook minimally in the tiny space and place two chairs in the bedroom, where we can enjoy our evening wine and music with something of a view. It’s also the room furthest away from our hosts’ living space, so we spend much of the rest of our time there as well. Of course the lawn outside the glass sliding doors is theirs and not exactly private. An afternoon rest with a book is likely to be witnessed by them and their dogs.

The final irritation for me is a quotation stencilled in large letters on the wall of the ‘sitting room’ (i.e. small sofa opposite the small kitchen bench). It’s supposedly a definition of ‘nest’ which is what this accommodation calls itself. It reads: ‘Nest – a snug, comfortable or cozy residence; a retreat, or a place of habitual resort.’ I’m sorry, but no, it isn’t! A nest is a place where birds and other small creatures lay their eggs and raise their young or, alternatively, in the words of the Oxford dictionary, ‘a place filled with undesirable people, activities or things.’ Oh, the temptation to engage in undesirable activities in this ‘nest’ is almost too much!

Oddly, given the location, we find there’s nowhere to walk or run around here except along the road or along beaches which are only accessible at low tide, currently occurring first thing in the morning and in the evening when it’s time to cook supper. Given a warm dry day and the right tide, I can imagine this coastline would be quite spectacular with it’s volatile geological history exposed in the cliffs. In fact, before breakfast, we brave the bogs, the long wet grass, the electric fence and the rain to take a walk along our closest beach. We look at the dark volcanic rock jutting out of the black sand and the diagonal layers above it of brown and yellow sediment and wonder at its story. 

As we paddle our feet in the sea, we’re charged by the black oystercatchers that nest on the beach. They snap their long red beaks at us and screech their disapproval and we’re happy to give them a wide berth. And there’s another thing. Why are they called oystercatchers? In my experience oysters tend to be rather stationary creatures. 

One morning we’re delighted to have news of our daughter, Kate, who has just arrived in the mountains of Transylvania for an eleven week retreat. She sends us photos of a vast mountainous wilderness with no sign of other habitation. Once installed in her cabin, there’ll be no internet or mobile signal and, when the snow starts in earnest, travel to the little town where there is some, will be difficult. She warns us to expect only sporadic contact. 

From another part of the world, namely Bali, we hear that our niece, Lizzie, and her partner, Ben, have become engaged and, in Thailand, our friends, Penny and Geoff, are about to take a boat trip down the Mekong into Laos. We’ve had sad news too: our friend, Jenny, back in Devon, is now in the hospice, in the final stage of her life. It just doesn’t seem possible and it’s a ghastly time for her daughter and son, who are constantly by her side. 

On Monday, we drive to New Plymouth and visit the museum which is, thankfully, extremely interesting and entertaining. After a couple of very informative hours about the early history of this country, we find some lunch and then walk along the coastal walkway, a raised path that stretches for miles along the seafront. After ambling happily for some time, we’re just debating how far to go when the rain starts up and makes the decision for us. We turn back towards the car, laughing at just how British the weather is here. And then we remind ourselves that New Zealand is just coming into summer. Back at the Old Rectory in Bratton Clovelly, the new owners are plunging into a cold Devon winter and busily raking up tons and tons of leaves. 

After the storm of the day before, we’re pleased to wake on Tuesday to blue skies and sunshine. Today, we’re driving into Hamilton to meet up with Wendy and Mark (the owners of this bach) for a chat and to share Turkish meze platters in a cafe called Babaganush. But, before lunch, we visit the wonderfully surprising and utterly unique Hamilton Gardens, set on the banks of the Wakaito River and covering fifty four hectares of land. 

The first lovely surprise is that there’s absolutely no charge for the experience. This seems extraordinary considering what’s on offer. We wander in, collect a map, realise just how vast these gardens are and decide firstly to fortify ourselves with coffee. Then, as recommended, we begin with the Enclosed Gardens, a marvellously imaginative collection of individually themed living tableaux, each a discrete entity that, like a film set, draws the wanderer into a particular time and place. 

Here, we experience the Italian Renaissance, there we enter the garden of Chinese Scholars. Another turn, another gateway, and we walk into ancient Egypt, or Mughal India, or a garden imagined by Katherine Mansfield, the New Zealand author. Some, such as the Tudor knot garden and the traditional Maori productive garden, are based on research of the known. Some are simply fantastical, mirroring various artistic movements or capturing creations by artists themselves. 

It’s a wonderfully inspiring morning and there are far more delightful surprises than I can possibly describe here (or even than we managed to see) but if you’d like to know more, here’s a useful link: https://hamiltongardens.co.nz/collections/  And, I repeat, this  magical experience is absolutely free for everyone (with the exception, of course, of the Hamilton rate payers).

Just as we’re thinking it’s time to meet Wendy and Mark, the sky clouds over and rain has us running back to our car. Babaganush is only a few minutes away and the food is delicious. Wendy has spent the morning campaigning for an upcoming bi-election and Mark has been tutoring his post-graduate students. They are also renovating their Hamilton house, doing much of the work themselves, so we’re rather chuffed that they’ve taken time out to spend with us. 

From the start, the conversation is easy and interesting. We’re all on the same political wave-length and these two are very bright, well-travelled people. Wendy still consults on social and environmental projects in developing countries and Mark is still actively researching and writing. Until recently, they also had a farm not far from Raglan, where Mark more or less built the house. By comparison, Adrian and I feel like frivolous light-weights. 

I suppose it isn’t surprising that Mark and Wendy are as they are, given the histories of their forebears, which could stand as exemplars of New Zealand’s recent past. Such pioneering people, both practical and determined have produced a national culture of cheerful resourcefulness, hardiness and free-thinking innovation. We’re in conversational mid-flow when the cafe closes so the four of us head to Mark and Wendy’s for atomic coffee and Turkish delight.

During the night, a thunder storm erupts. Lightening flashes into our bedroom, the thunder roars out at sea and the wind threatens to blow down the bach, which happily we know to be inviolable. The rain is hurled against the walls like solid objects, but surprisingly, we both manage to turn over and go back to sleep. We’re acclimatising to this wild sweep of New Zealand coastline. In the morning we find that the weather has now quite settled in and feel fortunate when there’s a break that allows us out. 

We grab at the opportunities to have a run, or in the afternoon visit the spectacular Bridal veil falls. We walk through the gorgeous forest set on an ancient lava flow, almost taking for granted, by now, the well maintained paths that are a ubiquitous feature of such places. We tramp easily down the two hundred and sixty one steps and, at various levels, pause on the viewing platforms to take in the awesome sight: tons of water thundering down the basalt rock face with a power that is almost frightening. When the blanket of water hits the bottom, the pool sends spray in all directions and it lands on our hair and coats where we stand many metres away. It seems to say: you can build your neat paths and your wooden bridges, but I’m still as wild as ever. In this otherworldly setting, it feels like a metaphor for New Zealand. 

The scene in front of our bach is constantly changing. On fine mornings, there’s the entertainment of horse schooling, in the sea, in harness, trotting to and fro along the beach. When the wind gets up, the sky above the bay is alive with brightly coloured whirling kites beneath which scoot the surfers on their tiny boards. They fizz across the water at tremendous speed and sometimes leave it altogether to leap and perform flips and pirouettes in the air. On the sand, there are dogs, joyfully charging in and out of the sea or racing each other along the shore for the shear fun of it. 

There are people too, of course, occasionally calling to their dogs or running bare foot, three abreast. One evening we witness a lovers’ quarrel, the angry stance of the woman unmistakable. They give each other a shove almost into the water and then she marches off along the beach, occasionally turning to him to gesture in exasperation.  And all the while the sea churns, a mass of turbulent white horses breaking on the sandbars and crashing into each other in a muddled jumble of mini explosions.

This bach which shares with a few others on this promontory, this wonderful view, sits on leasehold Maori land, a legacy of the Treaty of Waitangi, not always honoured and a paltry compensation for what was stripped from them by the British Crown. What the Crown couldn’t take by negotiation, they took by invasion and war and this area experienced some of the worst of British aggression. And yet, New Zealand is often sited as an example of benevolence and mutual cultural accommodation. 

In truth, the history is a shameful and shocking one. The Maori, who had been here for centuries, were culturally advanced with a well organised society. They were prepared to negotiate with the new settlers. As it was, they were duped, dominated, pushed out and stripped of many of their assets. Recent attempts at recompense go someway towards healing the wounds but New Zealand is now an established democracy with a majority Pakeha (white European) population and fairness is an infinitely debatable ideal.

On Saturday, Adrian’s keen to climb Mount Karioi. It’s a steep assent that, in places, consists of heaving oneself up a rock face by means of a vertical chain. The owners of this bach have already warned against making the climb in wet conditions and, as it’s very wet and very windy and the mountain is more or less hidden in cloud, I decline to join him. Having a bad head for heights even in the best of conditions, I take a moment to consider my options and then bravely wave Adrian off and settle to my writing. Half way through the day, he phones to say he may be some time. The climb is hard going with (surprise!) mud and slippery rocks. He arrives back around five, covered in mud, tired out, but rather pleased with his performance, completing the climb in two hours and ten minutes. 

In the evening, we take a trip into Raglan to the local flicks. An Emma Thompson film is showing: ‘Good Luck to You, Leo Grande!’ and the evening is a total treat from beginning to end. The cinema is housed in the little assembly room of the old school house. There are sofas, armchairs as well as rows of standard seats and in the foyer a group of volunteers are serving drinks and home baked cakes. It’s my first experience of a film accompanied by lemon and ginger tea and my first taste of hummingbird cake, a New Zealand creation involving bananas and pineapple and absolutely delicious. (google it for the recipe)

The film, if you haven’t yet seen it, based on the relationship between an uptight, retired, widowed R.E. teacher and a gorgeous young sex worker with mother issues, is absolutely worth the viewing, if only for the dialogue, which is brilliant. And Emma Thompson, revealing her sixty year old body like a Renaissance Eve, is a delight.

Today, the wind is whipping itself into a frenzy. Our run back from Raglan is accompanied by a facial sandblasting and, after lunch, just as Adrian and I are dozing with our books on our noses, it hits the bach so dramatically that it shakes the walls and vibrates the satellite dish into a scream like a banshee. The scene in front of us has changed once more. The beach is deserted and the white horses appear almost flattened by the the wind. All activity has ceased and, as if at the sound of a siren, everyone has vanished. 

This is turning into a week of firsts. Apart from it being our first visit to Raglan, which isn’t really news, and having our first New Zealand swim, which was a little chilly, it’s also the first time I’ve witnessed a live sea rescue. Oh, and the first time I’ve seen an Atomic coffee machine in action.

The rescue incident begins as many such incidents do, with a feeling of unreality, like one’s perceptions must be giving the wrong messages to the brain. After all, no-one on the beach seems to be taking any notice, or looking where I’m looking. I walk along the shore back towards our bach while the kite which has been floating on the water for five minutes or more, still floats, still drifts. I can just make out a figure in the water and I will them to pull the kite off the water, fly it in the wind and surf back to safety. 

But it doesn’t happen. After ten minutes, the kite is still on the water, floating further from the shore, pulled out by the strong current that rips between two facing sandbars. No-one swims just here because people are occasionally dragged out to sea and drowned. 

As wind is more or less guaranteed in this part of the world, kite surfing is very popular. But mostly, the surfers career to and fro on their tiny boards in the harbour. Some very experienced kite surfers do sometimes venture between the sandbars but only when there’s a strong south westerly that will blow them back to shore when they’re ready to return. 

I now have to leave the beach to climb the hill to our bach and by the time I’ve washed the sand off my feet, fetched the binoculars and walked out onto the verandah, the kite is no longer visible. For a moment, I entertain the idea that it’s finally caught the wind and is scooting back to safety but, when I look around, there’s no sign of it. It’s only when I peer through the binoculars and search the mass of white horses boiling far out on the sandbar that I finally spot the kite, still floating, still drifting further and further away. Even then, it keeps disappearing from view, constantly swallowed by the waves, and popping up again. I think of the tiny figure in the water, hidden now somewhere behind the kite.

It’s then that I see two police officers standing on the beach, their binoculars also trained on that distant bobbing shape. It’s been out there now for about forty minutes and it’s another five minutes or so before two jet skis speed into view out of the bay and take the circuitous route between the sandbars. I’m so relieved. They skirt around the tumbling waves and I watch as they stop either side the kite and begin gathering up the equipment. 

I wait until they start the return journey and are close enough for me to see a small figure safely sitting on the back of nearest one. I lower the binos gratefully. My arms are killing me! When the young woman is dropped ashore onto the beach below me, she seems none the worse for her experience. I even hear laughter, but surely she must have had a moment or two out there all alone.

The rest of our days pass very calmly with miles of beach for walking, running and swimming. The little town of Raglan, which is tucked into the harbour, has a great community feel to it and supplies us with all that we need. The simple life is the best, I think . . . Although we do, of course, have an Atomic coffee machine, an Italian, circa 1940s, hob heated expresso machine, which is as aesthetically appealing as it is effective. And we are staying in a very well organised, very comfortable bach with the best views we’re ever likely to have. So there’s another first. . . And possibly a last. 

After a walk to the Karekare falls, west of Auckland, we drive to Piha for lunch. The cafe is closed but the local shop serves delicious coffee and a variety of home baked tarts and calzone. On the verandah, at the table next to us, are the same folk we’ve just seen at Karekare and after lunch, we’ll all climb the towering Lion Rock on the beach. It’s the local activity. The rock is named for its crouching shape but the local Te Kawerau people called it Te Piha – waves breaking on the prow of a canoe. It has military associations, both for the Maori people who built a defensive pa (settlement) on the top of it and for the Europeans who fought in two world wars and erected memorial plaques at its base.

We finish our day with a pretty walk through the forest and a climb to the waterfall of Kite Kite. The forest is peaceful and lush but, back in the day, it rang to the sounds of axes and saws and logs crashing over the falls and plummeting to the stream below. Europeans dammed these falls (and many others) for just that purpose and the huge Kauri tree, the King of the forest and valuable for its wood, was almost wiped out. These are slow growing trees that can live for two thousand years, so it has taken a great deal of time and protection to help them regenerate. They’re also susceptible to fungal disease, so we’re required to scrape and wash shoes before entering the forest.

In the evening, we attend a play at the Rose Centre on the north side of the harbour. Jez Butterworth’s Jerusalem, a satire on the English rural idyll, grows progressively darker over its three hour length. I’m amazed that Adrian stays the distance – his usual limit is an hour and a half – but its very well acted (a semi-amateur group) and, as in MacBeth, the narrative of gradual self-destruction becomes strangely gripping. 

But has it taken me forward? I wonder as we drive away. I don’t think so. I feel I already know a great deal about the casual nastiness of life, about the othering of difference, about institutionalised neglect and I don’t have much patience with futile heroic speeches. But, as a modern Shakespearean play, it’s well done and I can understand Mark Rylance taking on the leading role in London.

In the morning, the sun shines as Adrian drives to East Tamaki to collect our car. Hoorah! After numerous encounters with stubborn bureaucracy and fraud protection agents, our bank finally agrees to let us have our own money. We have wheels. And tomorrow we’ll head south. But before we go, we wander on foot down to the docks, determined to find what we seem to have missed: the quayside proper, the vibrant, attractive area of Auckland.

Walking east, we arrive at Viaduct Harbour, which is all super-yachts, shiny office buildings, cafes and restaurants. The New Zealand America’s cup contenders are floating in the marina and smart business people are meeting over drinks on the terraces. There’s obviously a great deal of money concentrated in this part of the city, which covers perhaps two blocks, both on the water and on land. Its glamorous and upbeat, architecturally coherent and pristinely groomed, such a contrast to the rest. And here, at last, the city embraces its harbour. 

I’m glad to have seen this side of Auckland, to have broadened our view, before we head south in the morning to the bach (holiday house) of friends of mutual friends. Adrian met Wendy years ago in Papua New Guinea and, in truth, they hardly know each other. So we feel hers and Mark’s generosity all the more keenly as we arrive in Raglan and take in the stunning view from their beachside house. They are letting us have it for two weeks. We feel so lucky. We chat with Wendy and she shows us around. The bach is simply designed, beautifully equipped and wonderfully located. Then she collects up her cats and heads back to Hamilton, leaving us perched on a hill, with the sea on all sides, the bach sighing in the sun and the wind. 

Our friends in Britain send us messages about the weather and/or political situation, both of which sound as uninspiring as each other. But here in Auckland, there is also something of an air of gloom. The cost of living is soaring, support for the Ardern government is dropping and the weather is cool, overcast and prone to drizzle. We point out that things are exponentially worse in the UK, but people, as you know, are generally only concerned with the ‘things’ that immediately confront them, like rent and the price of cauliflowers.

Our immediate and self-centred concern is to find something to amuse us in this city which still fails to dazzle. We settle for a trip to Auckland’s art gallery, where there are two current exhibitions of interest: one featuring the New Zealand artist, Dame Robin White, whose work focusses on indigenous populations, and another featuring the Mexican artists, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, famous as much for their public and personal lives as for their art. Both of these exhibitions focus on the strong, almost fierce attachments these artists share for their home countries, their politics and traditions.

Auckland is a hilly city; the art gallery sits on a hill in the CBD, while Ponsonby sits on another hill to the west. Between them is the low reclaimed land of Victoria Park through which we walk before climbing back up towards the Sky Tower that juts its concrete column incongruously out of the pavement. All around, there are road works and construction sites and, amongst these, it’s difficult to find a single attractive building. The art gallery is an exception. First opened in 1888 as a public library it’s been extended more recently into a light contemporary space with interconnecting exhibition rooms surrounding an airy galleried foyer. Nineteenth century  on the outside, 21st century indoors.

As the weather isn’t great and I’m feeling decidedly lacking in energy, we take the exhibitions over two days. Robin White is a champion of the local art of New Zealand, Fiji, Tonga and other islands. Onto enormous canvasses of traditional geometric stencilling, she inserts the everyday objects of the artists’ homes, an addition which, while paying tribute to the lives of the islanders, simultaneously demonstrates the Western preoccupation with the personal, the individual, something lacking in the islanders themselves. The result is striking, but I can’t decide if these large tapa cloths represent a departure from or a repeat of history.

The Mexican exhibition echoes White’s love of bold vibrant colours, but there the similarities end. There’s nothing gentle or homely about Rivera’s murals; grand political statements, the style influenced by contemporary artists and friends, such as Matisse and Picasso. By contrast, Kahlo’s paintings are intensely personal, most often self-portraits that make statements about her own physical and emotional pain. All the while her identity as an ethnically mixed Mexican woman is constantly reaffirmed in both her art and her exotic dress. 

The two artists, married, divorced and remarried, were conspicuous political activists, supporters of communism and revolution and, at one point, Kahlo had a brief affair with Trotsky. They set the scene for post-revolutionary Mexican art: bold statements that mix the surreal with the social realism. This style is perhaps best summed up by their friend and artist, Sequeiros who wrote: “The artist must paint as he would speak. I don’t want people to speculate what I mean, I want them to understand.”

On Wednesday, the weather improves and we head west to the black sand beaches of Karekare and Piha to walk and explore. Karekare in the Waitakere Rangers, is famous as the setting for the rather grim film ‘The Piano’. Standing on the deserted beach in the chill wind, looking back at the looming forest-covered mountains, one can admire the choice. It’s a bleak and forbidding landscape and there’s something rather alien about all that black sand and rock. 

As we retrace our steps to the carpark, we’re startled by a tiny feisty bird who runs at us, beak jabbing aggressively. We realise that we must be near its nest but can’t immediately see where that could be. Surely this pale cream bird doesn’t bury its eggs in all this black sand? That would constitute a serious evolutionary error. We look around in search of some gentle place where it might comfortably raise its young and decide it must have travelled some distance just to tick us off. But we have no desire to stay on the beach anyway and, as we tramp back to the car, I completely sympathise with the mute, dislocated Ada McGrath.