Road Trip!

Friday 24/08/12

Thursday evening and Marc and I were contemplating where to head off to this weekend. Mooching around Wellington, as groovy as the City is, hadn’t satisfied the need to scratch my itchy feet. I needed the open road, and as I’ve only really explored Auckland and Wellington so far the whole North Island is up for grabs.

Fortunately Marc was of the same mind. Back in the day, when we were a lot younger, and were much more impetuous, we would jump in whatever car we had and head off around the UK. Driving to Ullapool in Scotland overnight, just because we’d not been there and Eileen Donan Castle, as used in the film Highlander, was up in that kinda area. Or heading off to France in a company van, as we figured if we’re not insured to use it out of work hours around our hometown, we may as well be not insured to drive in France. Not, I must say, something I would recommend these days, but like I said, we were younger and more impetuous then. They say that to be older and wiser, first you have you be young and stupid, and by god we’ve tested that theory out over the years.

I’ll let you know if I ever get close to the ‘wiser’ part.

Loading the car up with minimal supplies and my Uke on the back seat, we planned to head up the West coast, along the Surf Highway to New Plymouth and around Mt Taranaki to Stratford, before exploring the Forgotten World Highway.

I wanted to see mountains, and empty roads. To find more beaches where I could while away time watching the sea, wrapped up in thoughts of no importance, but most of all, I just wanted to hit the road.

I’m sure I will have great memories, and some pictures of Mt Taranaki, and the Forgotten World Highway, but they will have to wait.

As we pulled out of Marcs place in Porirua, ready to head up the west coast, chatting about where we were going, and what we will see, I mentioned that I’d been told of a legendary riding road by Big Dave, who was boss of mine back in the mists of time at a motorcycle store in the UK. The same Dave, who also introduced me to the roads to, and the tranquility of, Bethells Beach just a week or so ago.

I recalled how Dave had spoken of a mythical sounding stretch of tarmac that ran across somewhere called the Rimutakas. A name that, at the time, sounded as real to my English ears, as Avalon or Asgard.

As I told this to Marc, Dave’s tales of soaring climbs, steep descents and twists and turns had haunted the rider in me since those days, and I knew that I must see them for myself one day.

Marc replied to me, as he swung the car Eastwards instead of West onto the highway, Fuck it, why not make one day, today.

We drove out past Lower and Upper Hutt, yes I did make many ‘Jabba the…’ jokes, and surprisingly to me, they were apparently not that funny, no matter how many times I repeated them.

Sorry, where was I, oh yes.

We drove out past Lower and Upper Hutt, and started the long climb up into the Rimutaka Range;

all the while seeing what Dave had told me become amazingly, stunningly real.

The road sliced its way up bush and tree covered mountainsides, alongside sheer drops, mountain streams, and ever more impressive views. Every corner we rounded presented more black asphalt ribbon dancing along the contours before vanishing from view, only to reappear after the next corner encouraging us to press on, to chase it to the top, and when we did reach the top, by god!

I’ll apologize now, as any of the pictures I put up, just can’t do justice to the majesty of the views.

I can see why the road is a Mecca for riders, all the way up I couldn’t help but crave to be on two wheels rather than sat in-between four. My eyes were darting ahead, looking for where I’d want to peel in to the corner, and my heart yearned for the feeling of feeding the throttle open on the uphill exit, and riding the wave to the next corner, and the next, and the next.

Don’t get me wrong, my petrolheadidness (as far as I’m concerned, yes, that is a word) isn’t just restricted to two wheels, I adore boats, cars, planes, most things that eco-mentalists would say are destroying the planet, but bikes do hold a special, warm, fuzzy, slightly odd feeling in….. Let’s just say they hold a special place in my heart. It’s like they say, when you ride, which I admit I’ve not done anywhere as much of recently as I’d like, it’s like being ‘in’ the movie, rather than just watching it. It’s not that driving isn’t great in it’s own way, it’s just that on a bike you’re more aware and part of the world you’re moving through, all the sensations, all the smells, good and bad!

I digress, where was I? Ah, yes, twisty twisty scenery oooh ahhh twisty high views wow etc!

Reaching the highest point of the road, we pulled over into a large gravel lay by to take in the view, and for me to catch my breath and my thoughts, before the equally intense descent.

I chatted to a local rider, who was parked up and gazing across the hills to the plain far below on the other side. He told me how there used to be a tea shack in the lay by, and how at weekends it would be full of riders stopping to chat and to take a break, before immersing themselves into the next stretch. It was all gone now, bulldozed by the local council to preserve the unspoilt beauty. They obviously hadn’t noticed the bloody great road alongside it when deciding a small wooden shack looked out of place up there, dicks.

Yes, I thought they were dicks for knocking it down, and yes that was partly because I really fancied a cup of tea right then.

We talked and he told me how he and his mates rode the route whenever they could, and agreed that it must be ridden, if you really wanted the ‘full fat’ experience, but warned that it was not a road for the faint hearted or over confident. As he pointed out, few of the corners had Armco barriers, but more often than not, there was what could be best described as either a low picket fence, some chicken wire or nothing at all separating you from a serious bit of base jumping with a motorbike as a parachute. At a kilometer or so up at some points, at least you’d have a bit of time to take in the scenery before introducing yourself permanently to the valley floor.

After a passing goodbye of ‘keep it shiny side up’, we pressed on down and down towards the plains, towards Featherston, Masterton and the road to Napier.

Featherston, Greytown, Carterton, Masterton, as we passed through these towns they reminded me of the small American towns you’d see in the movies, where the hero/baddie/protagonist rides in on his Harley… Ok, I’ll shut up about bikes for a while.

The towns each followed the format of having everything you need either side of the main road, from dentists to Dairies (corner shops), to bars, hotels and banks. While keeping the houses mostly tucked away behind. All life in these towns appeared to revolve around the main street, and this was repeated through each of the towns on the main highway. As I suggested to Marc, why bother trying to make the town look stunning, when they have to compete with the beautiful countryside and scenery they have all around?

As Marc suggested to me, I’m from Reading in the UK, what would I know about attractive towns?

That’s not to say I didn’t like the towns. In truth, I kind of like the idea that you can drive up one side of the road, then back down the other, stopping off to buy or do whatever you need to do that day, in one easy loop to and from your home. Also, being a high street on the highway means there’s an awful lot of passing trade.

I must explain a little about the New Zealand Highway network. I’ll openly admit, before coming over to this country of wide-open spaces, that I looked at the maps and figured it was going to be like driving in the UK.

Hop on a Motorway (Highway), zip along at a merry rate, and peel off at any town I wanted to have a mooch around.

Erm, no.

After you’ve left the biggest of the cities, Auckland, which has three lane, and two lane motorways running through it, with the usual traffic snarl ups of any major metropolitan area, you’re in the countryside, and there’s a hell of a lot of it.

The Highways are what we’d refer to in the UK as A-Roads, at best. Single lane either side country roads. I soon realized after the days driving that my pre conceived ideas of how long it would take to get from place to place were very wide of the mark. As the other Marc, the one in the car with me, happily pointed out, told you so!

For me, the lack of Motorways is a blessing. Unlike the UK, there is no chance of scooting along at (or in the vague region of) the speed limit, missing out on places and things that could surprise and delight you, because all you can see are glimpses of what lies to either side, contra flows, roadwork’s and signs for how many miles to Sandbach Services.

This is how, quite a few kilometers after Masterton we passed a sign that told us the Tui Brewery was merely a couple of kilometers ahead, and had a gift shop, museum and pub.

Obviously this wouldn’t be of any interest to us, as we were taking a cultural highbrow tour of New Zealand, and we would sail past without as much as slowing down.

The gift shop was jammed with almost every conceivable product you didn’t know you needed, from beach towels to wall clocks and Rugby Socks, all branded to the hilt with Tui Beer imagery and logos. Marc and I had discussed before, and laughed at how clever marketing and a good sales environment could strip simpletons from their money.

Consequently the ever-friendly staff helped us to lighten our wallets somewhat. Marc even shelled out enough to get a free tote bag and beanie hat with his purchases, while I made do with a couple of small gifts for my Nephews back home, and some Tui branded underwear for myself, that state Tui’s ‘support for the boys’. Classy to the end, that’s me!

As we had somehow found ourselves in one of the hearts of Kiwi beer brewing, nay Kiwi culture, it seemed only right that we made use of the attached pub, to sate our appetites and quench our thirsts. That, and the fact the nice bar girl explained that we could have a ‘tasting block’ of Tui’s best beers, including a couple only available at the Brewery, and subsequently get a free Tui’s glass tankard to boot!

The downside to this is that it was now my stint behind the wheel, so I got to ‘taste’ the beers in a ‘sip and think about the flavour’ way, whereas Marc was able to double/triple check each beer in case he missed any nuances in the flavour on the first try.

I did try and swap the driving duties, but losing at Scissors, Stone, Paper meant that I settled for a rather well made and, welcome mug of tea.

Our meal of a stack of garlic bread was wolfed down, the tasting block was emptied, and apart from collecting the aforementioned tankard, we also came away with a subtle orange Tui branded tea mug, with the prophetic wording  ‘Stolen from: Tui Brewery’ printed on it. They must get a lot of light-fingered visitors in there, outrageous.

After reluctantly leaving the warmth of the Tui’s hospitality and Mangatainoka, where it resides under a sign on the hill that reads ‘TUIWOOD’ (up on the right, and yes that was full zoom.)

We headed onwards on Highway 2. Through scenery reminiscent of the Scottish Borders, except with hills that seemed almost designed to be extra curvy, lumpy and jammed together like big green upturned egg boxes, in exactly the way that hill's normally aren’t.

In fact, if you’ve been to the Scottish Borders and the Teviot and Cheviot hills, it would all seem quite, but oddly not at all, familiar.

Through Dannevirke and Norsewood, whose signs on entering the towns proudly displayed their Danish and Viking(?) heritage, we ate up the miles in the Kirishima, as I had christened Marcs car. It seemed apt, as the Kirishima was a large Japanese Kongo Class Battleship, and as Marcs car is a large Japanese land yacht… Well, it worked for me.

Marc thought Kiri was a good name, due to Dame Kiri and the rorty sound from her pipes. I didn’t pursue this reasoning, as the conversations we were having were getting just as odd as they always did in the past.

Cruising along in Kiri, introduced me to ‘cruise control’ actually having a use.

In the UK, I could never get with the idea of cruise control, as it was so rare that I would drive anywhere that wasn’t either fun little country roads, or stop start stop start traffic. Out here on a Highway that threw a corner in every four to ten kilometers, generally a gentle corner at that, and that has a quite tough, I’m told, attitude from the Police to speeding, the ability to set the speed and motor along at the legal limit with nothing but steering input was quite novel, if not a little disconcerting as I’m not sure I can get used to driving with both of my feet away from the pedals.

As the night crept in around us, we arrived at Napier, and headed for the centre and beachfront. The first impressions of the city were as expected, billing itself as the Art Deco capital of the world, the street lighting illuminated the stucco walls and crafted details of the buildings. As lodgings and food was our immediate need, we decided that the architecture could wait until tomorrow, and set about finding a hotel.

Having checked in to the Scenic Hotel Te Pania, right on the seafront, we booked a taxi to take us to the harbour side area, where we were assured of great food and a vibrant nightlife. A couple of sharpeners in the hotel bar and we were ready to embrace Napier on a Friday night.

Although asking the young, and attractive, barmaid where was a good bar/club in town didn’t make me feel in as much of a party mood, when she matter of factly mentioned a bar to me, and then added “Although, it might be….” she paused “a bit young for your liking?”

Okay…

With that in mind, and obviously ready to prove her wrong we arrived in the taxi at the harbour side area, we were ready for hearty food, drinks and a night of debauchery.

The first thing that struck us, was that for 7:30 on a Friday evening, all the bars on the harbour side were somewhat deserted, just a few pockets of people eating. No matter, I was sure it would pick up soon, and probably just after we’d finished eating, perfect.

The food was excellent. I must stop going on about it, but the Kiwi’s seem to do eating out exceptionally well from breakfast through to dinner. I managed to devour all of a huge venison burger, and the majority of the accompanying chips while Marc munched his way through an enormous plate of green-lipped mussels and assorted seafood. A couple of Tui’s, out of respect to our earlier stop off, to wash it all down, and we were ready for the mass of people cramming into the bar.

Unfortunately, it seemed that we were the only one’s ready for the rush, as even by 9pm the place was practically empty.

On asking the barman, when he expected any signs of life, he assured us that it normally all kicked off around 11pm on a Friday. How very European, I thought, relax with friends first, maybe eat, and then stroll into the bars to party until sun-up. That would be European as in Mediterranean Europe, not as in British Europe, where by 9pm on a Friday night you’d already have the first wave of pissed up people falling out of/being thrown out of bars and pubs, ready to fight/vomit/fall over/have sex, or possibly all of the previous, in whatever order they could manage.

Ahh home, how I sometimes miss it so.

The barman said no, it was actually to avoid the high price of drinks; most of the clubbers would pre-load on cheap booze before coming out. How very err, British European.

We had a choice, hang around in the empty bars paying over the odds for drinks, or head back to the hotel for a couple of hours chilling out and a power nap, before heading back for the 11pm rampage.

No contest. Re-group, re-charge and re-e-turn!

The sunrise bursting through the hotel window woke me, and was the first one I’d seen since arriving. My body clock had recently gone back to thinking that waking before half past eight of a morning was just plain rude, as is correct.

The memories of the previous night were crystal clear too, as the couple of hours power nap had turned into, ‘Too comfy to move right now’, ‘Not sure if I can be bothered to go back out’ and ‘Sod it, I’m off too sleep’. And to think, the barmaid six floors below thought we were a bit old to party? We showed her….

Looking out of the window, across the beachfront road to watch and hear the sea breaking onto the shore, I was happy to be awake so early. Napier had been on my ‘must see’ list while in NZ, and by waking early, I had that bit longer to look around.