MARLBOROUGH SOUNDS

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXIX, Issue 21118, 27 February 1932, Page 1 (Supplement)

MARLBOROUGH SOUNDS

BY ELSIE K. MORTON,

A REVERIE BY THE SEA.

The clink of rowlocks and rhythmic splash of oars becomes fainter and fainter, as tho little boat moves slowly out into the silver dazzle of tho sun on the clear waters of St. Onier Bay. The rest of the party, incurable optimists, are bent on fishing. I lie on the hot sand of a little beach, and wonder why nobody has yet told Aucklanders of the beauty of the Marlborough Sounds ? Bold headlands, crowned with native bush, and the dark green birch of the South Island, guard the approach to scores of little bays and inlets in this beautiful Kenepuru Sound. High hills, mounting over a thousand feet, rise sharply from the narrow strip of foreshore, and beneath groves of poplars, walnut trees, and stately blue gums, nestle the cosy homes of settlers, that are the summer accommodation houses of tho Sounds.

Some of these giant trees were planted nearly half a century ago. Since then the hillsides have been cleared, homes built, post offices and schools established. There are as yet no motor-cars in the Sounds; trampers may stroll at leisurely pace along the picturesque bridle tracks that run for miles from bay to bay, with never a jump for their lives. No hooting juggernauts disturb the tuis in the trees or the lambs in the fields by the sea. The only horse-drawn vehicle I have so far seen was a sledge, the only sound to remind one of. the outside world the tinkle of the telephone bell, and one long call from the whistle of the little cargo steamer Tuatea which conies to the Sounds from Wellington once a fortnight. But we are by no means cut off from the privileges and joys of civilisation. Launches and telephone keep us in touch with the outer world, there is a nine-hole golf course in the wide fields climbing up the hillside, we compare the weather reports from our home cities each night, and jazz by starlight to wireless on the wide verandah of our seaside home. The Friendly "Weka. The little fishing boat is just a speck now in the far blue waters, and lying on the hot sand, with the cicadas droning steadily in the trees that shade my little beach, I think how good it is to bp far away from all the noise and confusion of the busy world for a little while during these long, lovely days of summer. A tui is fluting some choice bit of bird chitchat from a tall birch tree, and a bellbird is applauding with throaty chuckles. A fluffy, round black tom-tit is eavesdropping shamelessly, pretending to be very interested in the movements of a gnat. The bracken fern behind me rustles, and 10, there steps daintily into view a weka, followed by several tiny wekets. The mother bird is beautiful, much handsomer than I had imagined wekas to be. Her drooping, hair-fringe feathers are a glossy golden brown; she walks with grace and dignity, her keen red eye eagerly searching the fern for grubs, her sharp bill making lightning thrusts. . . Her little ones run swiftly into the bushes as I move to get a better view of them, but the weka shows no sign of alarm, stalking along a few feet away intent on her quest. Presently she utters a queen-, grunting sound, something between a hiccough and a sneeze, and vanishes into the bush. May she never have cause to fear a human being any more than she docs now! The Trip from Wellington. So still and beautiful is the day that it is hard to believe that only a few days ago we were shivering in Wellington, sotting out for Picton, a 52-mile run, in the Tamahine in the teeth of a tearing southerly. As we got out into Look Straits wo ran into white-capped seas that broke across the bows and sent torrents of water streaming clown the decks. But as we neared the entrance to Queen Charlotte Sound, a silver glint tipped the waves ahead, and soon the suji was streaming down from a rift in the lowering clouds. We passed into smooth seas and sunshine, and left clouds and stormwrack behind. For over an hour wo steamed down the narrow waterway, winding like a silver ribbon between high, barren hills. Not a tree, not a sign of life, just thfi brown, bare hills, with here and there a patch of scrub. Yet when Captain Cook sailed down Queen Charlotte Sound in 1770, these same hills were clothed with luxuriant bush to the water's edge. What a picture of tranquil beauty, the little white-winged ship, the towering, forest-clad hills reflected in calm, deep waters! A few of the rugged hills round kenepuru and Pelorus Sounds are still bushclad, but there is little of that old time glory left on the slopes of Queen Charlotte Sound. Some of the hills are still black from recent grass fires; here and there •tihe pitiful bareness is relieved by a clump of trees near the water's edge. A few bleached trunks, pitching down precipitous slopes, the open gash of a land slide, remind one once again of the reckless vandalism of those who fought and ruthlessly conquered with axe and fire the grandest forests in the world. We reached Picton just before the sun slipped down behind the dark, steep lulls that guard the little town, and set out on the second stage of our journey, a launch run up the Sound to Torea Bay. A ride over the hills in a motor-lorry to the Portage followed; on the ridge between Queen Charlotte and Kenopuiu Sounds stands a cross, a memorial to those men of the Sounds who served and died in the war. . . The fourth stage of our journey was a half-hour launch run down Kencpuru Sound. In St. Omor Bay our destination, we crowded into a dinghy, and were rowed to a half-submerged trolley, upon which, seated precariously on our luggage, we were finally hauled ashore through the darkness to where a lantern gleamed benea'h the trees. Summer Joys. But next morning, when the sun shone brightly across the water, and birds sang in the trees, we decided the long journey had been well worth while. For where elso can you row half a mile into the bluest of summer seas and count over a score of beautiful little beaches, any one of them solely yours for the taking? Where else, when you tire of rowing and swimming, can you walk mile upon mile round the bays, along a track that winds in and out beneath the hills, between the fields and the sea, through little groves of bush where scarlet teloki berry, purplo tawa, and rich orange globes of the kohia, gleam through the dark foliage overhead? As you walk, the scent of new-mown hay and clover mingles with the tang of the salt sea breeze; the droning of bees in the pennyroyal, (lie light " swish-sh" of the waves, and the bleating of sheep on the steep hills above are music in the still, warm air. By night, mopokes call from the tall tress by the water's edge, and the cry of the weka echoes across the slumbering bay. . . The sound of splashing oars breaks in upon my reverie. The fishing party is returning. Their hooks will prove to have been just a shade too large or too small, their bait not quite right, the wind in the wrong direction, but they leap ashore, gloriously sun-scorched, perfectly happy, as the boat grounds on our little beach. And out there, just inside all the other bays and coves and inlets, are thirty more little beaches, all glittering in the sunshine, all empty, all stretching out welcoming arms.