skyring

Napier on Tuesday morning was fresh and clean, rinsed by the night’s wind and rain. I left my sleeping family and wandered, RingBear and I, through the dawn city, pausing to pose before Art Deco buildings of increasing magnificence. I had a book with me, a New Zealand book about the fashion industry called “Undressed”, which found a temporary home at the doors of a strip club in a beautiful 1930s building.

A quick cuppa back at the hotel, balcony and morning papers overlooking the Pacific, and then we checked out and had a quick look through the town. I won’t say that the magic had gone, but I was certainly more starry-eyed in 2003. I almost lost wife and daughter at an antique pavilion, selling wares from the 30s. Probably in high demand during the annual “Napier Days”, when the whole town dresses up like The Great Gatsby, and Packards purr down Tennyson Street.

Then back up that wonderful road to Rotorua, whizzing past semi-trailers and tractors and little old Nissans. Green forests, green pastures, green mountains – the whole country has been Photoshopped into a higher hue. Magic.

Just outside Rotorua we stopped at a spa, hired swimming costumes and soaked in mineral waters. Soaked? Steamed, poached, boiled in the hot water. Grinning Maori carvings gushed out cascades of greenish water, fresh from the thermal springs.

Languid after our dip, we stopped beside a river for a classic Skyring picnic lunch. Pullaparts wrapped around smoked salmon chunks, apples and bananas, sparkling mango juice. Beside us the water foamed over rocks, splashing around tiny islands on its way down to Huke Falls a few hundred metres away. I left a book on the beach, resisting the temptation to send it over the most photographed waterfall (according to the sign) in New Zealand, wrapped up in a brace of ziplocks.

Home to Pukehina and a magnificent repast in the local pub. Jip Jip Shiraz from the Limestone Coast washing down Beef Connoisseurs, followed by some of the fancy champagne we’d rescued from the Duty Free shop in Auckland Airport. We talked into the night about the joys of owning a pub in remote rural New Zealand.

Wednesday evening as I write this in Auckland. We bade a rainy farewell to our hosts, and then drove through that impossibly green landscape to Paeroa, home of New Zealand’s national soft drink, Lemon and Paeroa, which the adverts reassured us was “World Famous in New Zealand since ages ago. Older than grandad’s socks. Older than the jokes at the Paeroa Bowling Club.”

We posed beside the obligatory big concrete bottle of L&P (the town actually has two, one at each end), downed a coffee and a vanilla slice each, and took the last steps of our Kiwi leg to Auckland, where the drizzle turned into hailstones as we searched for our boutique hotel.

Aspen House turned out to be more hostel than hotel, more backpacker than boutique, cheap and comfortable, no frills inner city accommodation. We nabbed the last spot in the basement carpark, lugged our bags upstairs, and took a quick tour of central Auckland.

The evening meal was a splurge. Costing more than our accommodation for the night, a meal for three atop the Auckland Skytower was a bit of a luxury. But o, so pleasant to tuck into Akaroa seared salmon, washed down with a Steinlager Pure as the sun went down over Waitemata Harbour and the city below us turned into a wonderland of golden lights, a ship easing down the dark channel between a pair of tugs, the tails of cars heading home over the harbour bridge a stream of impatient red.

We rolled down the hill and home. Pore over maps to plan our final day, and then to bed.