Mud glorious mud!

10/09/12

Rotorua to Waihi Beach

In the morning we breakfasted at Fat Dog.

The food had been so good the previous evening it was a no brainer. Breakfast didn’t disappoint either. Eggs Benedict with Bacon, and a portion big enough to feed a family.

Stomachs full and coffee quaffed it was back on the road.

The feeling of complete relaxation from the Spa the night before hadn’t worn off yet, and we decided to take a very leisurely drive, and stop off at a couple of places on route. The first of which was to be Hells Gate.

Hells Gate is an area of high volcanic thermal activity. Bubbling mud pools, boiling lakes, and as with most of the Rotorua area, a constant strong smell of sulphur in the air.

This was no more evident than when we arrived and crossed the small bridge over a steaming stream, to be hit in the face with choking cloud of eggy sulphurness.

Paying our admission, and a little extra for a mud bath & hot pool session, we were given a map of the park and headed off into the smelly clouds.

Walking from the visitor centre into the park is like walking into another world, a world that set designers from early Star Trek episodes would have wet their pants over.

As the path wound around the park we were confronted with bubbling, plopping mud pools and boiling, spitting pools of water. Some of the lakes further on the path were reported to be between 130 and 140 degrees C, the cooler pools were a much more comfortable 90 to 110 degrees. There were signs warning you not to leave the pathway, although even this in places was pretty hot to the touch, and had been marked to show which bits of the path to step over. Yes, I did touch one of these spots, and yes it did burn. Learn? Me? No.

(Very poor Captain Kirk pose)

Any of these pools could have boiled an egg in a matter of seconds, in fact one of the pools used to be used for that purpose. Just not eggs, well maybe eggs, but primarily for boiling whole pigs. A complete adult pig could be cooked within a couple of hours, and often was. Apparently the sulphur doesn’t taint the meat, but with the whole area smelling so strongly, I’m not sure you’d notice either way. You definitely wouldn’t with eggs.

The park is bordered by deep green woods, which end abruptly where they come into contact with the superheated soil and rock. There were small patches of scrub on some points, but even these were surrounded with burnt wood that had been cooked on the surface.

(What. Planet. Is. This?)

Between the two main areas of the park is a walk through these woods, alongside a hot waterfall that connects the upper and lower park. It winds through trees that have been dusted orange with the sulphur carried by the breeze, giving them a look of rust on the windward side of the trunks.

Near the back of the park, a cold water stream ran from the surrounding woods, through the scorched earth to one of the hot lakes. Where the water had cooled the ground on its way through allowing a blast of colour to tear through the grey yellow scene.

After walking the park we were given the chance to try our hand at wood carving, instructed by a craftsman who had the demeanor of man who had trained and studied for many years to perfect the nuances of shaping intricacies into his chosen medium, only to have to spend much of the day complementing tourists on their ‘good efforts’. Mine was no exception, and as he probably does every day he said he’d tidy up a couple of bits for me. Consequently re doing most of what I’d butchered. The finished article did resemble a Kiwi, rather than the tennis racquet with one leg that I’d created. We thanked him for his time, and he in turn thanked us. I think this was more thanks that he could get back to the delicate mask he was working on between tourists messing with his mojo.

We had a quick cuppa and headed in for our mud baths. We were told that unfortunately they were doing some work on the main mud baths, but that they would put us in the private pools at no extra cost. This was very generous of them, and I’m sure had nothing to do with keeping us away from the other customers after Marc making one of the staff jump, and my amazing dinosaur impressions.

This was probably for the best, as once the attendant had explained not to get the mud in our eyes, avoid getting it on our foreheads or in our hair, and left us in the pool, we were head to toe in mud and doing dinosaur impressions within seconds. Laughing like a couple of five year olds given a muddy puddle to play with.

(Mudzilla & Finchysaurus Wreck)

(Work that camera!)

Our attendant did seem to take all this in good humour, and even took a couple of pictures for us.

An ice cold shower cleaned the mud and took my ability to breath away, before we were allowed to relax in the hot pool. The water soaked away the remains of our immaturity, until we started dunking our drinking cups under the water to simulate fart bubbles rising. It’s pathetic to some, but to us, right then…. I don’t think I’ve laughed hard enough to nearly cry like that for a long time.

Juvenile? Yes.

Highly amusing to us? Hell yes!

From soaking in the hot pool under a canopy of stars the previous night, to this pool in the light rain, I could see why some people swear by the relaxing and therapeutic properties of them.

The only issue was that we were both so relaxed now, that we couldn’t be arsed with pressing on too far this afternoon.

Instead we headed coastward.

Following the highway north to Paengaroa and through Te Puke, where I made all the obvious jokes, to Tauranga and Mt Maunganui looming above it's namesake town.

Marc explained how the last time he was there, Mt Maunganui was a small town. Now it’s all beachfront properties, suburban homes and has become an extension of Tauranga itself. Building rapidly over the last eight to ten years.

The area around Mt Maunganui and the harbour below was full of elegant modern houses and apartments, stylish hotels and bars, giving an air of vibrancy and prosperity, but he beachfront and Mt Maunganui itself were still its crowning glories,

and with the stylishness of the town behind them, I could see why people would want to live here.

Driving through Tauranga and its dockyards and industrial areas we were soon back in the countryside

and heading for Waihi Beach, a small holiday town on a beautiful quiet long beach.

Stopping for a coffee and food at the Long Black, a cool little café near the beach, we were recommended a camping site about a mile up the road.

The Top Ten campsites are dotted all over New Zealand, and are reminiscent of the holiday camps of my youth, with pools, games rooms, chalets and camping grounds. We enquired about the cost of a pitch, and the cost of a chalet, and as there was only $15 difference, we opted for laziness and not having to mess around with a tent, and checked into a two-bed shed.

The beach itself was nigh on empty and we sat and talked, watched the sea gently ripple onto the shore, and drank from a hip flask brimming with Whisky.

As night fell we wandered back to our shed. As I was writing up some of my journal, I’d forgotten about the race to sleep, and lost.

This shouldn’t be a problem now, as while in Tauranga, I had popped into a pharmacy and purchased a couple of boxes of earplugs.

Excellent!

I finally found some rest, a few hours later, sleeping in the car.

I’m sure earplugs used to work better than that. Next on my list is a pair of ear defenders from a farm machinery supplier!

Soaking hot.

 09/09/12

The long drive started a day earlier than planned. The idea that we would head off on Monday morning vanished when I shuffled through the living room into the kitchen on Sunday morning.

‘Morning’ Marc called from the living room as I filled a coffee cup

‘Uh huh’

‘Beautiful morning’ he stated

‘Yep. Coffee?’

‘Beautiful morning’ he repeated, pointing out of the window at the blue sky.

I looked out of the window, and sipped my coffee as I realized what he was hinting at. ‘Oh. Yes. Right.’ I took another sip ‘I’ll get my shit together then’

An hour later we were loaded and driving the coast road, heading North.

‘The plan was’ is turning out to be a phrase I’m using more and more, but always in a good way. Like they say, ‘the best laid plans of mice’.

Anyway, the plan in as much as we had one, was to head north until we ran out of land, and to get to Cape Reinga to see the Pacific collide with the Tasman.

To head up State Highway One, up the Desert Road again, past Taupo, maybe even stopping to look around this time, then on to Auckland and up.

Back to the road, and as we left Porirua the ‘beautiful morning’ had started to turn into a windy and damp midday. As we headed towards Paraparaumu the sea that I had stopped to photograph on my first day in Wellington was being whipped up into wave after wave breaking beside the road, and throwing a haze of spray across the highway.

Even Kapiti Island was only a grey silhouette out to sea. We weren’t worried about the weather, as the forecast was for clearer skies ahead, and as it was, it was good to see now familiar roads and scenery given a fresh filter and atmosphere.

Past Palmerston North, Taihape, Gravity Canyon and the rolling cartoon like hills we plugged on. Through Waiouru, where we had stopped on a previous jaunt for dodgy chicken and chips, we were back on the Desert Road.

The sun came and went, fighting with the clouds and rain to make itself noticed, and losing for the majority of the time, until it finally gave up in a sulk and left the rain to it. As we drove on, Mt Ruapehu was shrouded in rain clouds allowing only the lower slopes to be visible this time, and Mt Tongariro had ceased to exist. Or was completely lost from view this time.

Back past Lake Taupo and towards Taupo town itself we made the decision to press on to Rotorua to find somewhere for the night. Twice now I’ve intended to stop over in Taupo, and both times have carried on past. I hope Taupo doesn’t take it personally, I will stop there one day I’m sure. It just wasn’t to be this day.

The air was thick with egg.
Well sulphur actually, but eggy all the same, and night was falling as we arrived in Rotovegas, the nickname that Rotorua has been given due to the streets leading in being lined with neon lit hotels, motels, stores and restaurants. We headed for the lakeside to find accommodation. As we drove through the neon lit ‘strip’, it did strike me that the nickname should be Roto’early ‘60s’ Vegas at best. As is with most towns i've seen outside of the cities, there were few buildings over two stories in height, an occasional three story building, and only closer to the lake side were any buildings of four or more floors, and no casinos that I saw at least.

Maybe RotoBlackpool would be a better name?

After laughing in the face of a couple of hotels and motels that thought $150 was a reasonable price for a twin room for one night, out of season, we checked into a simple motel for less than $70 for the night. Basic as the motel was, it was the first time I’ve stayed anywhere that had a party sized thermal water hot tub in the bathroom, and having seen it I did double check that the room had two beds, and that we’d not been given a ‘Honeymoon’ Suite by mistake, or misunderstanding.

Bags dumped in the room, Marc recommended that we head to the Polynesian Spa by the lake for a soak in a hot pool. I figured that after the long drive, a soak in a hot tub would be great, but surely I could use the one in the room? Marc scoffed at this question and explained we were going to a hot ‘pool’. Not a hot ‘tub’.

Not understanding the difference, I agreed, as I was sure Marc knew what he meant, even if I wasn’t clear.

Having changed into our ‘Togs’ and walked through to the pools it became abundantly clear what the difference was.

(This is a stock photo of the pools, as I left my camera at the motel)

There were four or so different sized pools of steaming, sulphurous, natural water nestled amongst the rocks and foliage around us. A couple of the pools had wooden roofs reaching over them, protecting them from the elements; the others were open to the skies above. A sky, which was clearing from the downpour of our arrival, to a just a fine drizzle spotting on the water.

Each pool was of a slightly different temperature, ranging from a mild 37 degrees to a toasty 42. I ended up floating in the warmest pool for a long while gazing across the lake to the lights of Owhatiura bay, and as any rain had drifted away I also drifted away, lost in the canopy of stars above me.

The hour or so spent at the Spa was the most relaxed I think I’ve felt since… Since I don’t know when. What I did know was that when the solos from Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’ came whispering into my head, I was getting way beyond relaxed, my whole body was tingling, and I was also starting to get the munchies.

With this in mind, we gave it a few more minutes then left to find food.

The girls in the Spa had recommended a Ribs & Steak house in the town, so headed to the address given. The town was relatively busy; at least I assume it was, as most of the parking spaces were full, yet there seemed to be few people on the streets. Maybe everyone had gone under cover when the rain came earlier, and were having too good a time to venture out again. Either way it meant passing the Rib place to go around the block in the hunt for a space to moor the Kiri.

Halfway round the block we spied, and slewed into, a parking space outside of a funky looking café called Fat Dog.

We checked the menu, checked the skies, checked how much we could be bothered to walk back around the block, and decided that this was the place to eat. Happening upon the empty parking space in front of Fat Dog was truly serendipitous. The food was excellent. The vibe of the place was relaxed. The prices were good, and Tara our waitress was incredibly cute and funny.

Happy days!

Having thanked the staff for their wonderful food, leaving a generous tip, and asking unsuccessfully for Tara’s hand in marriage, or if she wanted to try out our hot tub, we headed back to the motel for what we knew would be a race to get to sleep first.

As budgetary constraints mean it’s better for the long term of my visit not to book Gucci hotels and separate rooms, Marc and I have chosen to share twin rooms.
The downside to this is we both snore…
Think somewhere between a badly tuned V8 and a chainsaw.

Friends back home have found this amusing, as where they may have had to share a room with me in the past, and have found themselves contemplating murder at four in the morning, they are seeing this as Karma. They’re right, payback is a bitch.

I can’t blame Marc, as I know only too well that there is sod all you can effectively do about snoring, but there does come a point in the night where you start thinking that the punishment for murder would be worth it. Just to get half an hours precious sleep.

I can also understand why in the past I have woken up in the morning to find various girlfriends asleep in another room, or on the sofa, even in their own homes. Oops, Sorry.

I had prepared for this situation after the night of almost no sleep in Napier, and used alcohol as a sedative, and dosed my self until it worked. It didn't take much, as after the soaking in the Spa I was half gone as it was.

Busy doing something and nothing.

This week, Wellington decided to live up to her ‘Windy’ name, by introducing some Southerlies, and boy, when she blows, she blows.

Over the weekend there were recorded wind speeds from the top of the Rimutakas of 172kph to 128kph down at the airport. She’s thrown downpours into the mix as well, just to put on a show!

But between these blustery rainy bouts she has on occasion let the sun come through and highlight her charms.

This has been a week where I’ve been busy doing something and nothing, and it’s been marvellous.

From strolling from coffee shop to coffee shop, via eclectic little shops and galleries, to checking out museums and eating out, this week hasn’t had an agenda or schedule.

I’ve picked up a harmonica and new strings for one of Marc’s guitars, spent a good few hours searching magazine stores for a publication which has an article on York Street Mechanics in Auckland. In my search I found a great little magazine and coffee (naturally!) shop called Magnetix on Johnston Street, where the staff were superbly helpful, and a copy of the magazine has been ordered in for me.

I took a short ride on the cable car up to, and to look around the Botanic Gardens, and the park alongside.

I spent a glorious afternoon sat near the observatory, overlooking the city. As the wind whipped around me and the afternoon sun warmed me, I just sat and watched the harbour for a good couple of hours. 

Staying to watch a container ship glide slowly into the bay, to be met by two small (from that distance) tugs, that gently guided the ship into it’s mooring. I’m sure from the dockside that it was all noise and bustle, but from up high it was a graceful dance, that drew me in as I ignored the time passing.

An afternoon that was nicely topped off by comparing tales with the girl piloting the cable car on the way back down. A Bristolian by birth, she was out here eighteen months into her two-year working visa, and her tales of travels helped add to my list of things to see.

I took a long afternoon looking around the Te Papa museum. From all the great exhibits inside, and displays of New Zealand through the years, it’s geography and peoples; I was the most overawed by a simple display.

A solitary motorcycle, pawing at the air on a plinth next to the large museum café.

A Britten V1000. Resplendent in its carbon, blue and pink. I soaked in the intricate and purposeful engineering of this rare racing machine. The complexity of the exhaust routing, and the craftsmanship in its details drew my gaze and my wonderment. To me this machine is as much art as it is a motorcycle, and all the more impressive when you know that basically, it was imagined, created and built by one brilliant man in his shed.

The evenings were split between trying out eateries around Wellington, cooking and drinking at Marc’s, and meeting up with friends of friends for a drink or two.

All in all, things this week have just happened as they’ve happened, and I couldn't be happier.

Admittedly there aren’t many pictures in this update, as for much of the time I was either engrossed in the museum itself, thought I’d just be repeating shots, or I simply forgot.

I’ve always got time to get some another day.

The road is calling again, and early next week we shall be winding our way northwards. The aim is to throw a minimal amount of necessities, which I will stretch the meaning of by including my Uke, into the Kiri, and for us to keep on driving until we run out of road and land, to a place where I can stand and watch the Tasman Sea and the South Pacific Ocean collide.

Boozy Blues and lost in the hills

Due to feeling battered by the annoying head colds that neither Marc nor I had been able to shake, we had decided have a quiet night, grab some spicy food in Wellington, and force the colds to sweat themselves out.

A fine plan until Marc was contacted by a friend of his, who suggested dropping in to a live Blues Jam at the Bristol Hotel in Cuba Street.

We agreed as this seemed like a calm diversion for the evening. Seemed, being the key word here.

We picked Jelena up and headed back into the city centre, forgoing Indian or Thai to get out pores sweating out the stuffiness from our heads, we wound up at Southern Cross. An eatery just around the corner from where the Blues Jam was to be, and finding a table in the garden out back, under a heater, we sipped gingerly on a few drinks, getting to know one another, and devouring a ‘share platter’ of epic proportions. Introductions made, and drinks quaffed, we made the short walk to the Bristol, to be met with a great rocking blues band, belting out covers and self-penned numbers.

Within seconds we appeared to have drinks, and shots, lined up on the bar in front of us. Oh yes, a quiet night ahead.

There’s not much detail to go into that wouldn’t be a revelation, it was a boozy night out, of laughs, piss taking, bad impressions ranging from Walken to Rickman, to the old Kinder Surprise adverts, which we decided were decidedly creepy, and trying to outdo one another with inappropriate comments.

The band changed line up as people took to the stage to show off their talents. Either Wellington has an incredible pool of talent, or the slightly more ‘amateur’ players had seen what they had to follow, and kept their lights well and truly under a bushel.

There was a harp (or harmonica player if you like) blowing the place down with wild and heartfelt solos, and this evening was the first time I had seen Blues Trombone. Jazz Trombone I have seen, but Blues. I wouldn’t have thought it would work, but I was happily surprised at just how well it did.

The evening continued on this theme, the band played, shots and conversation flowed, and a good time was had.

It didn’t shake any of the cold off, but at least it was forgotten for a while.

Waking up to the mid morning sunshine, and I oddly didn’t feel any unwelcome effects from the previous nights frivolity.

Guiding the Kiri out of Porirua, we headed out towards Petone, to an Italian family run Restaurant and Coffee shop that Marc said would be worth stopping in to for a cuppa, and also to pick up some supplies for lunch.

 La Bella Italia was tucked between units on a commercial estate within sight of the bay, and was a wonderful cavern of delights.

Apart from the already busy restaurant, a deli counter, running the length of one wall, bordered the room. On the other side shelving selling imported wines, oils, biscuits, pastas and all manner of Italian kitchen staples drew my attention.

I was in great danger of blowing an absolute fortune as I eyed all the products for sale, and the mouth-watering fare at the deli.

Fortunately for my wallet, I managed to control myself. Anyway, I know where this place is now, so a return trip or three won’t be too difficult.

Having bought bread, meats and cheese for eating later, Marc and I ordered coffees and settled into seats on the pavement outside in the sun to decide where to head to today.

Not having bought a map with us, I took Marc’s advice and we decided to head out past Wainuiomata on the coast road.

From leaving La Bella Italia and houses, commercial and industrial areas we swooped up a wide road over the first of the hills, giving me amazing views over across the bay to Wellington, looking small nestled in amongst the hills.

Barely a kilometre out of Wainuiomata, with me at the helm, we were back in the rolling gorse covered hills of the countryside, following a sparkling river coastward.

We passed a sign for the Rimutaka Forest Park; Marc noted that it wasn’t somewhere he’d been before, so spinning the car around we ventured in.

The park road ran into a picturesque valley, ending at an almost empty car parking area. After having a brief stroll around we fetched the food from the car, and spread everything out on a table under the hills, by a gurgling stream. It had been placed perfectly to show off the beauty of the spot. Not an easy job I’d imagine, table placement, in somewhere like this. The few spots where tables were located all seemed to take in as much of the view as the next, without overlooking each other. It really did feel like we were the only people there. The other reason for that being that we were. There were one or two other cars parked up, but I assume that the owners were off walking in the hills, or had found their own tables tucked even further out of view.

Lunch was a multinational effort, French cheese & bread, Italian salami & breasola, New Zealand water, Swiss army cutlery and all munched at by two Poms. While being watched over by possibly the best dressed pigeon I've ever seen.

Marc was annoyed at not having found this place before, but as he said, when you live in a country that has a similar landmass to the UK, but a total population of only around 4.5 million (Greater London has around 7 million alone!), there’s going to be a lot of beautiful unspoilt countryside to see. Occasionally little gems like this place will get overlooked.

Heading back we followed Highway 2 towards the Rimutakas again, but in search for a coffee stop we veered off at Timberlea and ended up following a small twisty road up into the hills.

We had no idea where we were, or where the road went to, but as it was switchback after hairpin after switchback we decided to stick with it. My desire for coffee forgotten by the fun of driving this road.

The views across the gorge were spectacular, the drop down from the crumbly edged road with no barriers was awesome, and occasionally, frequently unnerving. After a while, it became a battle of concentration, look at the view or look at the road and around hairpin after hairpin as the road thinned to a single lane. While still enjoying swinging the big old barge that is the Kiri around these roads, I couldn’t help but think the ideal transport for this route would’ve been something smaller and more nimble, maybe a supermoto or a mountain goat?

At the top, the road opened out to a generous lane and a half, at best, and we came out of the trees to a clearing and a stunning view across yet another beautiful valley.

I shan’t go into descriptions here, as it seems with all the valleys, all the gorges, open spaces, mountains and beaches I’m rapidly running out of descriptions that don’t sound like repetitions.

I may have to just start grading the views instead. Oooh nice! That one’s a 7.5, but not nearly as 9.0 as that 11.3 I saw yesterday… Or maybe I won’t eh?

We passed greetings with a lady cyclist who had stopped at the top to take a breather and a drink of water. I suggested that I let her head down first, as if the road was similar to what I’d just driven up, she’d be faster than us.

She was.

Finally coming into the basin of the valley, we eventually passed her as we arrived at Waikanae.

Then back onto the main road past Paraparaumu and back to Porirua.