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.
