Over the Hills and Far Away

Auckland Star, Volume LXIV, Issue 303, 23 December 1933, Page 3 (Supplement)

Over the Hills and Far Away

i Into the By~ways

1 Beauty Awaiting the Motorist

(By F. C. J.)

THIS is a talc for all 'who have felt the restraint of city pavements, stony-hearted, of city buildings, which loom, oppressing and over-powering, like canyon walls. This is a tale for those who have tl rilled to stand on the high piaces, to see the land spread {here below before their eyes, and have longed to go. . . • l r or it tells of how a man might answer that urge, might rise and follow to its utmost end yonder road, which has wrapped a caressing white arm round the shoulder of yonder steadfast hill. If after a tour of the North a traveller might wish to sum up his impressions, he might speak of a sojourn in a land of pocket editions. For the North, particularly the East Coast, is in many respects a miniature of the. South. Everything that is found in the South is present in j the North —but on a smaller scale. On the East Coast, Jn particular, has Nature showered with a lavish hand. Here beaches are flung, like a length of pearls, round a land of slumbrous, sunkissed valleys, or still, shadowed forests, of streams that laugh with a silvern laughter, that tinkle with the sound of bells as they leap with the joy of life towards a still, still sea. Not that the West Coast lacks a beauty; but this is a beauty that is not blustering, a quiet that means peace. For ever, without cease against the bare- face of the West Coast thunder the white-man ed combers, made mad with a wild unstayed race of 1000 miles. No such tumult shoulders an unheralded presence into the quiet eastern bays. This the Maoris knew, and knowing, they called this coast "Te Tai Hoenga Tamahine," the sea where girls may paddle their canoes; ®but the storm-lashed wild West Coast they knew as 'Tai-Tamatane," the man-like ocean. Passing Mangawai Heads, 77 miles from Auckland, one has the feeling of being led beside still waters, for an arm of the sea reaches far in there, and on a still day everything seems to have ceased to breathe, waiting for something to come. But the something never comes, and the quiet remains. Then when the day has not been long born, the mists hang low over the sea arm, which, in the light which is not quite light, is a sheet of mirrored glass. The reeds are double-edged, an old boat sleeping its last sleep there is twin-faced, so perfect is the reflection; and the startled flight of a, kingfisher across the glass is double. Bay-spangled Whangarei. And thence to Whangarei, set at the head of waters, and beautified by them. The near coast is spangled with crescent bays. Great beetling cliffs have been forced to yield at their feet enough room for the bays to nestle secure. Pataua, Horahora, Ngunguru, Tutukaka, Matapouri, their names are as musical as the tales which the streams, curving out over them, sing to the sea they have come so far to meet. Though they are all within a 30-mile radius of Whangarei, they are not encumbered with popularity. It is early afternoon. The day is still—the North seems to abound in still days—so still that the flood tide in yonder knife-edged rpeks simply wells up and falls again without noise. The splash of a fish in flight for its life is too, too loud to be real. The cliffs break to allow a grassy slope and tiny stream to roll down to the sand. A sheep or two dot the slope. From the sand where the visitor lies, the horizon is lost in a shimmer of heat. From the pohutukawa-splashed cliffs drowsily, drowsily falls the undertone of the bees. From the shallow water the gulls forgot to light. The waves sing a little song to themselves. The edge of consciousness begins to dull. ... To such a place might the sirens have lured the Heroes of old. From Whangarei on one feels that the North has really begun. The character of the country changes; it becomes more fruitful—but not merely that. It, more than any other part of New Zealand, has a claim to age; and one feels insensibly impressed with its tradition. Here history- was written; here Aotearoa gave up its name for a newer. Though for a variety of reasons—deep-sea*fish-ing, historic, social —Eussell has always been popular, only of late years have people been able to go there by road —57 miles—and to explore the by-paths on the way. From Whakapara, 14 miles from Whangarei, the road branches to climb the

hills through to the East Coast; and once the hills are reached, the beauty of Te Tai Hoenga Tamaliine is spread out before the eye. , Radiant Helena Bay. There is a rorest fire in the distance, the sinokc drifting down the funnel of the valley. Through the stillness of the afternoon comes the sound of a cow bell, and the distance robs the call of a lone sheep of its harshness. From the arm of yonder great kauri the notes of a tui fall. All again is still, and then across the glen echoes the startled call of the blackbird. Away in the other direction, the hills shimmer brown and sleepy, until lost in the "distance. The descent is rapid now. A little overgrown road leads down to Helena Bay, another typical of those •with which the coast is so freely indented. Between the bushclad cliffs the beach sweeps in a half-moon From far back the bush comes right down, so that the bay appears to be shut in, a place apart. The sunshine picks out a thousand glittering points on the water. From far out beyond the bay a small ship with sails agleam passes by and is lost. A gannet wheels in solitary dignity. The headlands afar off almost merge with the sea, and the sea itself seems almost gold. On such a bay as this well might girls safely paddle their canoes. A few more headlands passed, and Oakura Bay is laid before the eye. It, too, is hill girt, with tho bush seeming to advance to dispute with the beach its few yards of possession. At one end-a great tor rises, stern and bald, like the head, of an eagle. It was once a Maori pa, and even to-day a Maori dwells on the flat under its shade. He had laid out his nets to dry under the shade of a grove of pohutukawas, trees that are so bent and twisted to be themselves like a Maori carving. Country of the Never-Never. The way runs north again, on past Whangaroa, which everyone knows, on to Mangonui, and Cooper's Beach, the first of Doubtless Bay. Backed by peaceful grassy slopes and shaded deep by lowbending pohutukawas, Cooper's Beach belies the desolation to come. Sheltered within the great sweep of the bay, the inmost water is ever calm. Here is jj good camping, safe bathing, while the sun drenches | the sand. Here the silence is Deace. i But beyond Cooper's Beach, for some miles, the | silence is not peace. The countryside changes. The grass gives way to the greyness of endless hills of sombre scrub. The road falters and loses heart. The day also changes. The clouds, grey and massive,

gather to frown. Far away eta wards the reeds and sedge stretch, and round their loots the water is still with the oilincss of opaque stagnation. A wind moans in from the water, the edge of the far beach is lined with a fitful white. The scream of the gulls is tossed high and away. On the other side of the hills loom up and billow away until their greyness meets the grey of the sky. A little beyond the first of the reeds, where the fringe of the beach swells into the first of the hills, the road makes a troubled way. It is the country of the never-never. Lovely, Lonely Places. To say that all Doubtless Bay was the "nevernever" would be an injustice, for some of the inner beaches, like Pcrekehape Bay, round its western shore are lovcTy Indeed. The road runs on to the beach, and for the rest continues round it at low

tide. Here the sun shines again and lightens the darkness. The shores are massed with the green and scarlet of the pohutukawa, the sand a golden brown, and the waves croon. And so the East Coast merges into the west, for the northernmost peninsula is fingerlike at this point. Of the West Coast not as much can be readily written as of the east, because there is not the same variety. From Scott's Point at the uttermost end of tlie Klnety-Mile Beach right down to the Manukau Heads, the line of the coast is almost unindented. Everyone should traverse the G2 miles of the so-called Ninety-Mile Beach. It is an experience never to be forgotten—and only by experience can one the utter monotony of that mighty stretch of sand—sand, nothing but sand—the utter sameness of the undying roar of the breakers. Motorists, however, are advised to take no risks

with (he beach, for it is not safe for three hours before and after high water. There is another route north, up the inland road, whence one may see Parengarenga Harbour from which the god wits leiyve round about Easter time—an awe-inspiring sight—and by which one may reach Kapowairua, on the east of "Land's End," the most northern coast of the island. Just beyond the Mangamuka Bridge, on the way south 2<> miles from Kaitaia through the Victoria Valley, an inviting little road runs off. It leads to tho Omaliuta Valley, a tract but little known until it was opened up a

few years back by the Government for settlement. But once opened, it has revealed to the touristexplorer some of the finest kauri bush in the island. Here the bush is virgin, some untrodden; and many of the trees are larger than those in the Waipoua Forest —although, be it saidj the greatest of the Waipoua kauris are far from the beaten track and are not displayed for gaze. An area not so large as Waipoua, but more readily visible; is Tijounson Park. Here the grass of level meadow reaches right to the foot of the trees, so that, with the windwhispering through their summits, there they stand, like great organ pipes, with music in their throats.

Thence to the south there is much to see, much that there is not space enough to mention; but the scene shifts to the south of Auckland. But a few years gone the Urewera was synonymous with the unknown; and it is only a little while since a road lias l>een completed from north to south, from Rotorua to Wairoa, 145 miles. Bush Wall of Urewera. And along the length of that 145 miles is to be found the best remnants of an unchanged past — the Maoris with their customs, unspoiled by progress, and forest set on highlands, that reaching to the clouds, loom, illimitable, range upon billowing range into the grcyness, as changeless as time. Through the forest, the road ventures as an arrogant intruder. From Murupara, 41 miles from Rotorua, the Urewera proper begins, and the road from there to the end, without cease, stumbles up weary ridge after ridge, like a choppy sea. The country is all bush, bush that shuts in like a vast black Avail, dark, oppressive sometimes, and mysterious ever. The road is unbelievably tortuous, for it of necessity follows the narrow slits of valleys. There is very little level ground in the Urewera. That is a literal truth; and when there is, the bush stands all round, a noiseless, everpresent sentinel. On the lower levels grow the mighty forest trees, the totaras, the matais, the miros, the kahikateas. From Te Whaiti to Ruataliuna, the way passes many such a giant. Under their shade the road — goes, the way ahead is veritably darkened beneath H their branches. There is a cold stillness. Not even H the masses of festooned creepers that hang like a I myriad of unravelled ropes of many greens can move. H The little plants and ferns round their base hide H the ground in eternal shade. A little further on, H round an acute-angled corner, the sun bursts through. H The birds sing. A little stream in yonder hollow H bustles on with furious importance. A slanting sun- H gleam burnishes its haste to silver, and the leaves ■ overhanging smile a brighter green. I

The beech forest at 3000 ft, like long, straight, lithe children, is the forest for which the Urewera is renowned. The road under their shade is tinged with red; for great masses of mistletoe cap their upper reaches with scarlet. It is as though some artisan has regretted the sombreness of eternal green; and woven through their woof a broad, irregular, vivid design. Then through the beeches the road rises yet again, to the dwarf trees of the winter snowline, which cover the tops of the -liills like a mat. A by-path dives off into the tangle. It leads to a lovely little tarn, clear and still. Its depth looks immense. It is ten inches. "The Peace That Passeth All Understanding." Up the steep Huiarau Range, along its shoulder to Lake Waikarem'oaila, the road "runs. One feels that the road should go no further, for it has led to beauty's home. Nothing more majestic than this great water, set apart in the hills, near the clouds', could be imagined. Impregnable cliffs guard its shores, cliffs that are capped with crags, and gowned dark with bush. There is 110 motion anywhere. Here, said one aged rangatira,. who has since passed from the courtyard of his cliiefdom, should dwell "the peace that passeth all understanding." Eight from Mlirupara through its length and breadth, until the abrupt descent of the hills on the Kaingaroa Plains, the land is brimming with romance, for it was the last retreat of the Maoris against the civilisation that was bound to come. It is a sad, proud land of lost endeavour, as sad as its passing people, the men of Tulioe, as pr.oud as its great upreaching trees. 1 j : . ~■. . If there was much to say. of the North, the pocket edition, so-called, how much more could be said of this South? If a selection must be made, let it be Tauranga, 'tfliere the sun shines for ever, where the sea is wine-dark in the evenings, and sparkles again like wine alive all the day. On the one hand the beach sweeps in a bold curve, full-faced to the sea, while oil the other side, away from 1 the ocean, -the'' waters, sheltered in the harbour, are pellucid-calm and at rest. There is bathing for all tastes, those who • love to ride with the wiid, white surf horses, those who would rather that the seas were gentle. ' Nor is Tauranga inaccessible. It is only 130 miles from the city, some five hours' comfortable run in a car. Thus far has' the tale run. But there are those who cannot move far from the city: Are there no places for them to see? But "lift thine eyes to the hills," the Waitakeres to the west, and there arc a dozen places within as many miles. For those who would wish to see upstanding kauris there is 110 need to go to the Waipoua Forest, but only to the "Cascades," just beyond Swanson. Then there is a new road just formed to Pilia, perhaps the finest of the near West Coast beaches, so that access there is very easy now. Other roads are comparatively new in the other direction. One of them is a road which follows the coast right from Clevedon to Waitakaruru, through 08 miles of lovely coast scenery. There is a tendency to deprecate what is easily arrived at, be it success or a place of beauty; but there is 110 need to deprecate such places as Kawakaua Bay, or Orere Bay, or Miranda. 'The pohutukawa here is vividly crimson, waters peacefully blue. Here the waves sing quietly to themselves, and the poliutukawas bend down to try to catch the song. And so does the tale end. It has told how they that seek beauty may find, how it shall be opened unto those who knock. The holiday season is at hand. Now already perhaps these very bays are dotted with camps. There are many lovely places other than those described, many more; and the way is open for all who have felt the urge to go.