A RUN SOUTH.

Auckland Star, Volume LXII, Issue 102, 2 May 1931, Page 1 (Supplement)

A RUN SOUTH.

THROUGH TUSSOCK LAND. QUEENSTOWN TO TKE HERMIT AGE. . ' : (By A.E.M;) (No.. IV.) The warm winds blow through Kuringai; the cool winds from the South Drive little clouds'across the sky by Sydney harbour But Sydney Heads feel no such breeze as comes from nor'-west rain And takes .the pines: and the bluegum trees by hill and gorge and plain, And whistles down .from Porter's Pass, over the fields of wheat. And brings the breath of tussock grass into a Christchurch street. —Ernest Currie. Among the things that an observant Northerner notices in the South is the freer use of the word "station" in speaking and writing of. sheep farmers' properties. In some parts of the North Island,-I believe, stations are generally referred to as such, but not in Auckland. This is primarily a dairying province; the number, of large sheep farms is not great, and neither socially nor economically have sheep been so import- : ant a factor in our history as in that of Otago, Canterbury, and ' Marlborough. As I said in my opening article, if you wish to understand the differences between North and South you must know something of our national and local history. For one thing you must realise what it meant to New Zealand that so much of the South Island was open tussock country, ready for the squatter and unburdened with native troubles. Within a few years of the foundation of Otago and Canterbury the squatter had driven his flocks far inland, and his wool supplied most of the wealth of the infant colony. It was as early as 1859 that the famous Samuel Butler settled in Canterbury, and his run was in the .back country, on the head waters of the Rangitata. You may read in "A First Year in Canterbury Settlement" the lively record of his experiences. In five years lie had made enough money to ; retire upon." All "this-time' pioneers "in-

the North Island were struggling with dense, forests or heavy scrub, waiting for land to tic purchased • from the unwilling Maoris, or actually fighting these original owners. In Station, Land. The "use of "station". is one of many indications of the place of sheep in the community. An owner puts "Redhills Station," or whatever the name is, ..at the top of his letters, as naturally as an English .county gentleman uses the name of his main" house or grange. He writes it also, on his family tombstones, as you will see if you visit the cemetery at Queenstown —"beloved wife of So-and-so, of, Mount ; -• station." He is proud'of his occupation and of his home, and he has a right to be. Life in these high-country stations, isolated and semi-patriarchal, lordly, and, in both the physical and the economic sense, dangerous, is unique, in this country at any rate. -, . .>. ,'.'...' - - The common use of the word "Pass" is another difference. It testifies to the dominance rof - mountains in the South Island. Is there a road or route in the North Island that is commonly referred to as a pass? Khyber Pass Road, in Auckland — generally , shortened to Khyber Pass—suggests anything but the perilous romance of the real Khyber, along ' which 'armies have marched through the ages, and which, to this day, is guarded by armed troops as caravans go through. A pass is invested with mystery and romance. It suggests raids .and invasions, adventure and endeavour, cold and cleansing altitudes, and the mystery of the unknown. In the South Island passes with well-known names are fairly, common — Arthur's Pass, Jollie's Pass, Burke's Pass, Lindis Pass, Copeland j Pass. You cannot get away from the mightiness and majesty of the Alps.

The long drive from Queenstown to the Hermitage, and on to Timaru, is part of the education of all who wish to know the basic facts of South Island geography. It is 192 miles to the Hermitage, and you pass through open tussock country the whole way. Back again to Pukaki and on to Tekapo and Fairlie, and it is the same story—tussock everywhere. You cannot realise the extent of this kind,of sheep country until you have made such a journey, and it must be borne in mind that this is only part of tussock land. All round the Canterbury Plains it stretches, right away up into the Amuri country, the home of sheep barons, and far north by Kaikoura into Marlborough.

You leave Queenstown —with great reluctance—just after breakfast, and you reach the Hermitage in time for dinner. The travelling is oleasant, for the vehicles are comfortable and the roads are good —better than the remoteness of the country might lead you to expect. And even if the travelling were less agreeable, it would be worth undertaking for the all-day view- it gives-of territory so strange to the Northerner. Queenstown seems to. go down to the front gate, so to speak, to wave a last farewell, for when you have driven through the cut in the hills that leads out of the town to the north a beautiful landscape opens out. The road runs along a cultivated valley where the brown and green and gold of the fields, diversified with poplar groves, haystacks and homesteads, are contrasted with tussock slopes running up to skylines, and in the distance the blue rock and snow of mountain peaks. Especially seen from the higher road to the Skippers, it is one of the most enchanting scenes of: the kind in New Zealand, a perfect blend'of mellow cultivation and natural grandeur. Then you come to Arrowtown, which I had always associated with the aridity of Central Otago. But on that fihe summer morning Arrowtown was a charming picture, with its neat stone buildings, its air of age and romance, and its avenue of chestnuts and other English trees basking in the sun. Cardrona Valley was our next stop, a place that broods, like Mr. Kipling's city, on ancient fame. We stretched our legs at the dog-kennel-like post office store and refreshment room,.and talked to the oldest inhabitant. Long ago there were thousands of miners in Cardrona Valley; now the tussock is again master. But the few inhabitants dream, no doubt, of a mining revival. The hill opposite, where sheep graze, is, so I was told, full of gold, but it does not pay to get it out.

NotMng But Tussock. On to Pembroke, always through tussock country, and by the shores of Wanaka we halted and took on a young Englishman who was spending his vacation—he was a master in a New Zealand secondary school —climbing mountains. Or rather trying to climb them, for he had been two or three weeks in the Mount Aspiring country and the rain had blocked him. He described appreciatively a cattle station out there that must be one of the most remote and isolated in the Dominion; the wife of the manager had been a typist in a Liverpopl office. On we went, mile after mile through open country, and some of it pretty bare. Then we came to Lindis, where the cars meet and lunch is eaten.

Lindis is unique, and ought to be in a museum. It consists of a low stone whitewashed accommodation house, like a crofter's cottage. About it are cue or two shrubs and perhaps a tree or two, but there is not another tree on the landscape. Nor did I see another house in all that wide stretch of tussock hills. Except the tearoom-post-office-store at the Skippers, never have I seen a place of resort that gave so deep an impression of being at the back of beyond. The smiling waitress gave us a choice of cold or hot mutton, and I wondered how many times she had presented these alternatives to travellers. But it was a good meal, and no one, I feel sure, grudged the price of it. Always Sheep. On and on, over the Lindis Pass, through leagues and leagues of tussock, with never a tree save plantations round homesteads and huts. "Sheep, sheep, sheep, sheep," so the droning of the powerful and comfortable car seemed to sing. We passed a huge two-storeyed gabled shed, which, if the tale were told of a New Zealander and not of an Australian, might be the building referred to by the young colonial when he was shown Westminster Abbey—"You should see my father's woolshed." A stop at Omarama, a golden bowl in the hills, and we were making another lap to Pukaki, where the lake of that name, fed by the mighty Tasman Glacier, overflows into the Waitaki. Then we headed straight for the rampart of the Alps, and thirty odd miles round- the lake and along the Tasman River, past homesteads and through shingle river beds, brought us to the hospitality of the Hermitage, almost in the shadow of mighty Sefton. Not even there do you get away from sheep. They browse round the Hermitage and beyond.