Not all cave dwellers were prehistoric

Press, 27 December 1985, Page 16

Not all cave dwellers were prehistoric

By

ROSEMARY BRITTEN.

. This article on

the cave dwellers of Canterbury won Mrs Britten the fourth, and final, prize of $lOO in the newspaper feature writing competition run by “The Press” and the South Island Writers’ Association.

For 10 years, March 31, 1936, was the deadline for the removal of baches at Hobsons Bay, Taylors Mistake, and Boulder Bay. Owners have fought hard for their retention and, while the mills of the Christchurch City Council grind slowly, they have won an extersion of time. Now they await a sewage scheme and the possible provision of a special holiday zone. The future of the baches has been extended but is still uncertain. If they go — when they go — this strip of coast will lose not only picturesque holiday homes and much of the membership of the surf life-saving club, but a link with some of the more eccentric men of the past Between the trim line of Rotten Row and the beach at Boulder Bay more than two kilometres of cliffs once housed a thriving community. These homes have already gone, but signs of their presence remain. From the Taylors Mistake beach a well-formed walkway skirts the cliff-tops, climbs Godley Head, and returns over the hills. Most walkers, intent on the round trip, ignore tempting side paths. For those who can spare the time (and are sure of foot and steady of nerve) steep cliff tracks invite exploration. There must be a little of the primitive in the most civilised of us, something that responds to the surge of the tide on a rocky coast, to tall cliffs, to caves. This piece of coastline satisfies an ancient urge and draws the city-dweller back to the edge of the land. Surprisingly, there seems no tradition of Maori occupation of this north side of Godley Head, but fbr about 60 years the cliffs sheltered sturdy adventurers in caves and recesses. Baches grew up along the Queen’s Chain above high water mark, and for many years the Sumner Borough Council struggled to keep these unorthodox homes under some sort of control. The Christchurch City Council took over the task in 1945 with

equal lack of success. In 1976, the council finally put down its collective foot; the cliff baqhes must go it said; they caused of sewage disposal and they were unsightly. The cave dwellings were destroyed. Unhygienic the baches may have been, but we can only marvel at the industry and ingenuity of the people who built them. Some caves are mere scoops in the rock, and it is hard to believe that people once built into and out from them.

Traces of occupation defy time and councils. A length of water pipe is left over from a Heath Robinson plumbing system. Here and there are a flight of concrete steps and a wobbly handrail, an overgrown summer garden, a few sheets of rusting iron, a water tank, a sturdy stone chimney or two. A stout bridge still crosses a cleft where the sea rushes fiercely in.

The cave dwellers brought flowers, too. Succulents cascade down sheer rock faces and cling to unlikely cracks in stone or patches of clay, raising stems of scarlet bells in summer.

The walkway passes half a dozen or more abandoned sites before reaching Harris Bay, where all the driftwood on the coast seems to wash up. On the rocks above, there was once a sundial; now only its concrete base remains, and that is broken.

Beyond here the largest cave, once known as The Hermitage is difficult of access though sheep find it in winter. Inside, it is sheltered and dry. My children and

I walked in unexpectedly and disturbed the residents, a pair of nesting pigeons. More than 70 years ago a Christchurch dentist, Jesse Worgan, built his holiday home here and furnished it stylishly with pieces from the 1906 Exhibition and Fullers old variety theatre. The shallow cave next to it was a bedroom for visiting ladies. There is still whitewash on the roof but the once linoleum-covered floor is coated with gritty volcanic dust We thought of his oak dining suite, his sideboards, and his phonograph. His grand piano made a hazardous journey by rowing boat from Sumner and was hauled up the sheer cliff. Somehow it was brought in; it was never taken out Poking about in the rubble, my son filled a plastic bag with black and white keys, hammers, felts, and piano wire. We sat on the ledge outside the cave and watched a kingfisher working over the tidal pools below. From the cave mouth a step and narrow path leads to the largest pool, its outlets filled with concrete to retain water for bathing. The water is warmed by the sun.

Near the table-flat rocks of the next bay a terrace and railing overlook a view that is Mediterranean in its beauty. Through the branches of an old pine tree we watched the sea dashing white against distant heartlands. Another large cave has the fading letters, “Pilgrim’s Rest,” high on the rock face, and a date, June 31, 1903. For a moment we wondered if, in this unreal world of

caves and sea, 1903 had an extra day. The cliff path has been swept away but the Pilgrim’s Rest can be reached by a tricky scramble around the rocks at low tide. A rock fall has filled most of the cave, but we found scraps of stained glass, all that remains of another well-furnished and hospit- < able home. Its owner, Alfred Osborne, spent 20 years chipping out the track between Taylors Mistake and Boulder Bay. The walkway is maintained by the Lands and Survey Department now, but the spadework is Mr Osborne’s. Nearby, charred timbers and broken brickwork protrade from two small caves where the first bach was built in 1897. It once had a home-made telephone link with the Pilgrim’s Rest, with insulators made from lemonade bottles.

There are legends of other residents, like the man who spent his long evenings making very fine billiard cues from driftwood And the man who arranged corrugated iron sheets to provide fresh rainwater run-off for his bach — and kept his ferret cages on top of them.

Boulder Bay, as far as .one can go before crossing the. Head to the Lyttelton side, lies.squarely to the sun. Its scatter of baches is dignified by a foot track named Hugh Street These small, civilised dwellings, like those of Taylors Mistake; await removal

There will be little to show, then, that people once lived along this coast, clinging to rock faces, carrying provisions along clay tracks, slippery and dangerous after rain, or hauling them from boats up the sharp volcanic rocks.