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.
