AT MACANDREW BAY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3672, 29 July 1924, Page 26

AT MACANDREW BAY.

By

Annie C. Anderson.

Before starting on my walk this morning I was reading in a book of uncertain age, but quite a treasure, a"poem, “The Bunken City,” and every turn of my walk cemed punctuated with lines from my reading. Strange that legends of engulfed cities meet one in so many parts of the world ! At Padstow I met the legend when visiting the little church of St. Enodoe, which had been buried by the sands, and & story is told the tourist of a wedding party having to climb in by an opening in vae roof. At Forrabury, Tintagel, the legend tells of the loss of a ship carrying the church bells—later the church was engulfed—the bells now chime a loud warning, indicating that danger is near. Again, in the island of Norderney, the people tell of the bells they hear from the church .at the bottom of the sea; and on a clear day the church spire and cottage roofs can be seen gleaming through the water. And again, m Brittany, in the He de Sein. where the poetic Breton Angelus is still sung in the little church, and where the Druids left the story of their life in stone. Breton guide's point out the submerged towers of the mysterious Ville d’Ys —the legend of which the composer Debussy has set to music under the title of “The Submerged Cathedral.” The following verse is pare of a poem by a little school-girl, on hearing this music:— The first sweet notes stole through the air, And mingled with the blackbird’s song. Entranced, I dreamed a dream most lair, That I was floating far along A northern shore, Where seagulls soar, And where, deep-drawn within the sea, Lies the Oathedrale englontie, Ding-dong. •'that verse recalled my “Sunken City/’ Which took command of my thoughts Where the sea is smiling So blue and cold, There stood a city In days of old. But, the black earth opened To make a grave, And the city slumbers Beneath the wave. Mv eyes wander to Signal Hill, Mount Cargill. Mount Barron, and Mihiwaka, buf> pressed with their rounded foothills, keeping guard over the little settlements nestling at their feet. Are they likely, I wonder, to find a place beneath the sea? Will it ever he said of them: But go there, lonely, . A t even-tide, And hearken, hearken , To the lisping tide. And faint, sweet music Will float to thee. Like church bells chiming Across the sea. But such fanciful thoughts! My walk continued, in a full enjoyment of the beauty of the bay and the long range of hills sloping down to Port Chalmers. The beauty of all is the vision—morning and evening—when, across the bay, the hills, green, rounded, and billowy, are often wrapped in mist soft as sleep itself, and the bay is a mirror, with every tree, every boat, boatshed. bouse, and the Norwegian spire of the little church reflected in the water. Magnificent are the sunsets, especially in winter, the bills opposite, in shadow, as if they dared not obtrude on the glory of the sea, which is a changing radiance of gold fading info red, red into pink—the last thought of the sky about the sun. To think of the beautv of those hills more than 60 years ago, clothed with lovelv bush down to the water’s edge ! The pity of it eo little is left! Civilisation is not always beautiful ! Again tho ghosts of the “Sunken City” ding-dong through my soul • It is the olden The sunken town, Which softly murmurs Fur fathoms down. Like the sea winds breathing, It. murmurs by; And the sweet notes tremble And sink, and die!

As I walk the banks, of a warm oeherous tint, axe overhung with-*creepers, broom, Uld furze, which, earlier in the year, make

a golden dado, with clumps of a small yellow flower and stray tufts of wallflower. Along the top are pines and many bluegums, at present a glory of creamy, silk cradles for the gum babies. In a kowhai a bellbird is chiming, and a few white sails dot the bay. Our evenings are a glory of sunsets—the sky, hills, and sea, ail bathed in light, the outlines softened into pearl, opal, and amethyst. Saddle Hill, sentinel-like, seems elusive, diphanous, so faint and shadowy its outline. My road winds, children are laughing and bathing, the air is still, not a leaf flickers —“earth lieth asleep in a calm so deep.” A long “Moo-o-o” sounds over the water (the cry or call of the bay) ; a blessed calm is over all. The trot of a horse, “three ha’pence for tuppence, three ha’pence for tuppence,” beats through the stillness like an echo. On the wharf sit a few motionless figures, each anxiously watching his line, only galvanised to animation when he has a bite. Yet it has been said that, by living in this tranquil spot, wo are vegetating, vegetating? Here are we living where our souls can grow! For a period of three months four boys came once a week to my verandah to hear stories and travels, see pictures, and receive and exchange childrens’ newspapers. Then a curly-headed laddie was asked to the number, who carried his slippers and donned them so as not to “muddy” our verandah. By and try the number increased to nine. Evidently the evenings were much enjoyed, for a request emanated from one as to their coming twice a week! But—hut —my one tree bearing apples, and my only plum tree, holding about ten plums, were stripped! Boys are the most untranslatable creatures in existence! Among our delights is gathering mushrooms, which toothsome treasures are to he found by those who fear not wet grass, barbed-wire fences, nor lordly bulls! A notice, ‘ ‘Trespassers, beware of the bull,” varns the mushroom seeker, and the best mushrooms are usually protected by these much-feared quadrupeds, which have been known to force a “trespasser” to find refuge in a friendly tree or to make a wild rush for a barbed-wire fence, leaving a toll of clothing behind. 1 have never suffered any reverses, for his lordship in charge of the paddock does not look upon me with angry eye.. He surrendered one morning, very quietly, when I sa'ng to him. Not that he appeared entranced —only courteously attentive. Then two little cows strolled along the grassy road. One went to the fence to speak to the bull ; he licked her face; his loneliness was quite forgotten for a few minutes, and I slipped between the barbed-wire and collected my mushrooms. Not for a moment would I advise anyone to follow my mode of action ; the only certain thing about bulls is their uncertainty! Doubtless the red-letter excitement of our little community is the regatta—held on Boxing Day, and, causing much stir and preparation for the people pouring in by the ferry boats, by motors, and lorries, which people camp by the roadside and on the banks, leaving traces of their holiday in dirty papers, cardboard boxes, decayed portions of fruit, remains of teapots! Boilers are steaming" with a supply of hot water, a hand discourses various tunes in front of the store, people prepare thqir alfresco meals: but there are no visiting shows, no giddv-go-rounds with their goblin-like steeds, no coconut shies, no swings, no food nnr fruit stalls, as one sees attendant upon all such occasions in the Homeland. Of beautiful and interesting walks there are many, one of the finest is that to the soldiers’ memorial, on the Peninsula high road, —the monument to those men of the Peninsula who made the great sacrifice. A friend and I climbed there on a warm bright morning, the scent of hot grass and trees mingled with the salt tang of the sea. For perhaps an hour we climbed, with two or three halts facing tho bay. The earth rested in a drowsy calm, Ravensbourne lay like a chequer-board ; Maia, Hastings, St. Leonards, Sawyer’s Bay led one’s view to Port Chalmers, and out to the Heads, the whole view a picturesque one. High hills formed tho background, rounded hills, green and wooded, sheltered many little red-roofed houses, while on our side of the bay the road wound round points and little sleepy bays on to Porlobello. The ocean, Heads, Kaik, and islands were wrapped in a fine veil of haze, so fine as to be just porceptibie, yet so soft

that there was not a sharp outline anywhere. Far beneath us the water glinted, rippled, and broke; the road was a pale yellow ribbon ; little farms" and market gardens dotted the slopes below and the hills above; while in every hollow clumps—alas, clumps only—of our beautiful bush, and left in the ojien, here and there, a fe w of our glossy green broadleaf trees, with twisted, gnarled trunks. On the way we met with only one crumpled-horn milky mother, who did not think we wore going to trouble her, and our walk was qute free from, all difficulties, bovine or otherwise. Boon tho high road was reached, then a little mount over a grassy road and among recks some so huge (as is the rock on which the monument stands) that one wonders what cataclysm of the world placed them there ! The great rock base is as much a monument as the memorial itself, A flight of steps (without handrail) on the ocean side, leads up to the platform. An iron railing runs round the monument giving the support needed, for there the winds are almost always in high frolic. But, you gazed out over a scene than which few finer can be found ; the great Pacific, calm and beautifully blue out to the horizon, shoa ling into green as it neared the shore. There is nothing like ocean’s awfulness when in commotion; there is nothing like its restfulness when it is at rest. Far below lay the Tomahawk Lagoon and snug farms resting in calm sunshine; Ocean Beach; a long stretch of golden sands; St. Clair, with its red roofs and green outlines ; and then the great bluff which lies beyond the Second Beach, a faint line of white surf marking its feet. But how changed our perspective! Saddle Hill, Hazily blue, seemed to have shilted; Dunedin dwindled to small dimensions; our Peninsula stretched on towards the Heads, but seemingly in altered course; Quarantine Island and Titiri Moana appeared to float upon the water, while the soft billows of hills were broken by dark lines of pines, marking many homesteads. Above us, towered the figure, of the soldier boy, with rifle, kit, and helmet, looking out over the Hills to the Heads beyond. About 50 names on the roll of honour —- names of those who shared in the struggles in France. Gallipoli, Belgium, Egypt, and far-away Mesopotamia. I wonder if many visit the monument? Let it not be said:

And no one sees, And no one hears, And few remember Those far-off years. To the monument is an easy walk, or drive by motor or trap, from Dunedin, yet a walker has the best of it. for all the shining angels accompany him who goes afoot, while the dark spirits are looking out for a chance to ride.” The winds had become so unruly that coming down from the platform was a difficulty—one felt such an atom beteen wide open spaces. My only way consistent with dignity was to sit down, and, so sitting, move from step to step. But here let me acknowledge the courteous, chivalrous, help accorded by a young pedestrian, who took charge of us up to the monument and back to the road; his care and help were much appreciated. Other good rambles can be had from the Bav to “The Camp” (Larnach’s), to Portobello and thence to the Hatcheries, from Portobello to Cape Saunders, to VYycliffe Bav. to Hooper's Inlet. The walk to town is a very pleasant one for the road, quite level, borders the shore that curves and twists into mimic bays and tiny promontories. But most of all I love tho walk back to Macandrew’s Bay in the late afternoon with the sunset behind me. and the summits of the long range of hills on my left silhouetted in amethyst and soft grey against tne pearl and opaline sky, while the bay, molten silver, lies calm, serene, wrapt in a dream of peace.