Any international flight we take seems prone to the Butterfly Effect. This time, however, we don’t lose our luggage; instead, we lose our car. It’s the usual problems: lack of ground staff (Covid), too few of those little vehicles that run around the tarmac towing wagons (Covid again), not enough flashing lights or high-viz vests (you guessed it). And then of course, in an effort to ram the plane full, some hapless bod must be marched onto the plane fifty minutes after our scheduled take-off time.
Eventually, our flight, which incidentally is quite pleasant, is over an hour late and then to add further delay to the injury, the New Zealand bio-security system keeps us queuing interminably while we answer the same questions multiple times. No, I haven’t been to Indonesia, no I don’t have half a cow or a muck spreader in my suitcase. So, instead of collecting our hire car before 5pm, it’s almost seven before we’re finally released into the world. The office is closed, no-one answers the phone. We’re stranded.
The following morning, Adrian is told that due to our non-arrival at the agreed time, the hire company simply cancelled our booking. We’re in central Auckland, it’s Saturday and nobody, but nobody has a car to give us. ‘Quelle catastrophe!’ I hear you cry. Mais, non, it isn’t entirely. Our intention has always been to buy a car for our New Zealand adventure, which looks like running for several months. So we head down south with a friendly South African Uber driver, choose a Toyota and drive away in a courtesy car. Aahh, perhaps you didn’t see that one coming!
Auckland is a far cry from the wild landscape of Bundeena and I immediately, and for the first time, feel home-sick. We explore the surrounding area on foot and fail to be charmed. Ponsonby, where we’re staying, is full of pretty traditional weatherboard houses and the high street has a hip, bohemian feel to it. It’s full of sustainable decor and up-cycled clothing interspersed with organic whole-food coffee shops. It manages -just – to stay on the right side of shabby, but there’s something about it that lacks appeal.
We head down College Hill Road away from the inner suburbs to the CBD. We duck under the freeway that dominates the skyline and search for the docks area. Our map tells us that Auckland sits on a wide harbour and that the shoreline isn’t far away, but from where we’re standing in Victoria Park, with the freeway running over our heads, it might as well not exist.
The city wears its docklands like a guilty secret. It feels like a place that no-one planned, that just randomly happened. But, apparently, that isn’t true of Victoria Park. Built on reclaimed land towards the end of the nineteenth century, its stated purpose was to provide exercise grounds for the working classes.
And on Saturday morning, a lot of exercising is going on here. The seriously, and I mean seriously, body aware young Aucklanders are running, squatting, performing press-ups and burps, pumping weights, all at speed and continuously. Nearby, it’s cricket training (and these men can really play), while across the green, numerous helmeted heads swoop, plummet and twist in a purpose-built skatepark.
The harbour front when we find it appears to be just as randomly configured as the rest of the city. A cross between a working dock, a marina and a leisure venue, it doesn’t seem to really know what it is. And the view of the harbour, even this close, is constantly obscured. Are we becoming jaded by too much travel? Possibly. But not so much that we can’t be charmed at last. The concert we attend on Sunday evening is a delight. And, yes, it’s definitely charming.
The setting is pure English nostalgia: Pah Homestead was built by a wealthy Brit in the 1870s and is now home to the Wallace Arts Foundation. We’re treated to an intimate concert given by the NZTrio in what was once the drawing room. Even the guests seem British, in their dress, their manners and their greetings (they all seem to know each other). The trio, three masters of their instruments, play Schumann and Tchaikovsky and the premier of a piano trio by Gao Ping, a Chinese composer resident in New Zealand. The latter isn’t quite up Adrian’s street, but I’m riveted.
Just as in many such events at home, we file out into the large entrance hall and mill about with our refreshments. It’s so very English – even the white wine is warm – and Adrian finds himself looking for the people we know. But of course we know no-one here. It’s an odd experience, being in a familiar world in a totally unfamiliar place. It adds to the feeling of dislocation. But it’s been a wonderful evening and we head back to our little flat with our charm buttons once more restored.
