THE OLD COACH

Greymouth Evening Star, 30 August 1932, Page 10

THE OLD COACH

(Contributed).

It was an intriguing iron fence Its height hid just enough to inspire my curiosity and. a peep thr <”Jgl i a rusted nail-hole whetted my desire to penetrate it. Soon I came upon a high iron gate, its latch was u d and then I was inside the old Innyard unused for many years. IJerelict and forgotten vehicles littered its grass-dotted pavement, but, most pathetic and, to me, most attractive, was the old faded coach. I knew that coach. I had seen it in prime when it was the pride of Cobb and Co.’s fleet and a competitor worthy o£ the railway. Now one wheel was gone. "The other three once brilliant in their coat of yellow, were cracked and askew. Beneath the body were still the leather springs—those springs which had marked its superiorityhut the iron grips were sadly rusted, flaking at the touch and powdering the soft grassy bed beneath a‘fine red. The doors were hanging. Inside were still the well-covered leathern seats covering the lockers where once the Royal mail rode. Before the coach the long pole with its hanging rings reached out as if to call the staunch bays which once jipheld it. The rest of the coach was little altered. The boot looked still capable and ready to cover its weight of baggage and the seats on-top were, just inviting as'ever* thejr onde had beOn. Alas, the days of speedy transit will never bring back the exhilaration given by the laden coach gay with its chattering well-rugged travellers. It is good to remember, even faintly, the grandeur of that southern station scene with the swift river flowing on’ one side and the mountains on the other with the comfortable hotel beside the road winding and beckoning and the whole surrounding of mountain scenery. It is a perfect jewel of sunny days, the bright sun makes rails, roofs, trees, everything scintillate and one’s heart is too full for expression. Then after a warming at the station one climbs

aboard the coach, one of many, red, blue, green and all with the flashing yellow wheels. One by one with a ! clatter of heels a burst of good wishes and a crackle of wheels we are away. Up the winding road we sweep, the horses, five to every coach, prancing joyously before us. Soon we view the Gorge and are through the River, the hotel, the station and the rail are behind us and we ascend the Pass. We ford rivulets hastening down to the brawling river beside us and passing thundering and whispering waterfalls we reach the top. AU around are purples and greens crowned with glistening indescribable white. It is bitterly cold but that in itself is exquisite. Round the base of every post and rock is piled the snow, and through it peep the mountain daisies and lilies. The driver, unmoved by such beauty, the vista of which enthralls us,’ sits stolidly conversing with some favoured passengers. It is a narrow white road but it leads on through a realm too majestic and splendid to be called a fairyland. On the righty the steep wooded slope and to the left

the rugged range, below the glorious kingdom of the forest with its ferns and birches shaded with that lovely mixture of greens and red as only nature dares to attempt. These are not the only sights which this old coach has passed. From the high road one sees the sparkling glacier and the leaping waterfall. Then we rush down at last to the journey’s end. The travellers, are tired but intoxicated with this surfeit of beauty. We are cramped and ready for the comparative comfort of the train but the coach has given us a peep at nature’s glories. It has been, a glorious experience. Ail tnis had the old coach seen, now it rests, forgotten. It must be very tired, this old coach. Its line j has been defeated. Man, seeking speed, has undermined the haunts of the coach; Electric trains now roar below the mountain kingdom and all this beauty. No more does the crack of whip or the clatter of heels brekk the forest silence. The old coach is sleeping. In our hearts he cannot die.