The late summer here on the north island has turned into early fall, and there is a chill in the air, especially in the morning and evening that makes us pleased to have some of our Montana clothing along.
A chilly breeze chased some of the early fallen, dry leaves ahead of us as we headed down Anzac Street from our nifty studio flat toward Central Auckland. We were looking forward to Sheila’s Flat White (New Zealand’s version of a latté) and my Long Black (an Americano) which may come with a small pitcher of hot water. The amount of espresso in a Long Black varies as well. It was a hard choice what to have with our coffees, but I eventually decided on a sausage roll and Sheila had a brioche baked with cheese and bacon. [We’ve found that the Kiwi bakeries approach French quality and variety.]
In two days we will be leaving New Zealand and we are having a bit of a problem deciding what we want to do and see while we are in Auckland. We turned in our rental car yesterday afternoon, and, quite honestly, I am pleased that I don’t have to face driving here in the city. Contrary to what I reported about drivers in this country recently, it became of a nerve wracking experience the closer we came to Auckland from the rural north.
Last week found us staying in a charming little cottage just outside the village of Waimauku where we looked across a small pasture that contained five friendly Herefords and a view of the bumpy hills and thick woods with sub tropical vegetation. [I can identify the palms, and know some of the trees are evergreen. There are many large ferns, but I never learned what those tall, lanky trees with branches that hold bunches of leaves that sort of form umbrellas. Google is no help when I supply that description as it refers me to Dr. Seuss.]
Our cottage contained a little radio, which delighted us even though the car radio seemed to play only crappy stations that disappeared after five minutes. Sheila was able to find a classical music station that, in spite of some of the long-winded commentary, we played almost constantly while we were in Waimauku. The personalities on the station sounded quite cultured, as they reported the weather information, and sounded as if they were reading a menu from a trendy restaurant.
Despite the pastoral setting of our cottage, other than looking at our bovine friends and the stunning beauty of the countryside, there was absolutely nothing to do other than listen to the radio. It wasn’t even possible to go for a walk or jog as there is no shoulder to step away from traffic. It was always necessary to get in the car and drive if we wanted to do something besides sit.
We learned about the traffic around Waimauku as we attempted to find our rental cottage as directed by our message from Airbnb. It was located on Taylor Road, a distance of only a mile out of town. When we slowed to look for the number on the mail box, I noticed that cars were bunching up behind us, so I picked up my speed. It wasn’t long before we saw the drive, but I was going too fast to make the turn. It seemed as if I was suddenly in the Grand Prix as I sped down the curvy road looking for a place to turn around. Finally, seeing what seemed a suitably wide drive I turned on the windshield wiper to indicate my turn.
After hearing horns blaring when I was stopped in the driveway, I once again was reminded the the turn signal is on the right side of the steering wheel in New Zealand. After being chased up and down Taylor road a couple more times, I was finally able to enter the right drive, sort of. It turned out that our host shared a drive with another home.
The neighbor of the stylish home came out to greet us with only a trace of a smile and informed us that our lodging was not where we were sitting. It was pretty obvious that this error had happened too many times for him to respond with a bare minimum of courtesy.
Each time we left our comfortable cottage to explore the area, we seemed to be chased by little racing cars. For example, when we drove to a beach, there was a black VW with a surfboard on top that followed our little blue Toyota as if the two cars had a ten foot tether. Perhaps the surf was up and the driver was anxious to get to the waves before the crowd.
The beach had a different feel than that of Baylys Beach. The sand was dark and oily and there were more people hanging about as might be expected this close to a large city. The beach was softer, and our feet sunk into the sand as we walked.
We were looking for birds as the guide book suggested, but there wasn’t a even a gull around, much less anything we’d not seen. Spying a trail that appeared to lead inland, we followed it on to the other side of tall dunes where there was more vegetation, where birds might nest or at least roost.
So we trudged over to a road less traveled, so to speak.
There was much less wind, and there were actually some bird songs that could be head coming from the brush and bushes not far from the path. A few sparrows flirted with us as we continued, but nothing out of the ordinary came to our attention. We followed the trail for half a mile or so before deciding that the beach would be more interesting and took a path that seemed as if it would bring us to the ocean.
The path became ever more difficult as it seemed to continue over some steep dunes, and, indeed, it petered out almost altogether. We had to help each other up and down some soft spots that looked only suitable for animals to follow. At last we came to an area that was well cared for and absolutely flat. In fact, it was too well groomed as it was a golf course, and we were standing on a putting green. In the distance, next to a cart we could see two men getting ready to tee off in our direction.
We made a hasty retreat and with remarkable agility we tumbled back over the dunes and followed our trail back to the beach.
Walking along, admiring the surf we noticed a mob of people in the distance who were in the water despite a sign that indicated that swimming was not permitted. With our binoculars we observed that the crowd was not exactly swimming but standing in a line, bobbing up and down as the waves came through. The scene made us wonder if this was some esoteric activity that was peculiar to New Zealand or perhaps a movie set for another remake of JAWs.
As we came closer, we could see that there was not a haphazard arrangement of people standing in the surf, but a line (or “queue” as they say here) of males and females and a man standing at the deepest end who looked as if he was directing traffic. Each time a wave came crashing in, he would jump up and the people would follow suit making the scene look like a vertical conga line.
I could stand it no more. I had to find out what was going on.
There was a couple who were lying on a blanket, taking in the sun nearby, so I strolled over to find out what those folks in the water were doing. Trying to keep my eyes on the young woman in the bikini, I asked the fellow if he could explain what we were seeing.
It was his opinion that the group was a high school class, and the guy in front of the line was a surfing instructor who was teaching a safety class. The teacher would wait for the proper wave with a surfboard and at the right instant he would hand a kid a board. After a boost, the kid would try to ride the wave in as long as possible.
Is that not cool?