Through the Bush to the Rainbow Isles

Star (Christchurch), Issue 18380, 4 February 1928, Page 17 (Supplement)

Through the Bush to the Rainbow Isles

A Traveller Visits Papatowai, Down Otago Way, and Vows to Peturn.

(Written for the “ Star ”)

WHEN in doubt about your holiday, try a branch line. Tired of much-boomed resorts, the writer left tlic beaten track three weeks ago and discovered numerous picturesque corners of New Zealand that are unknown to thousands of citydwellers, places that have no equal for the delectation of the boating, bathing, fishing and tramping enthusiast. From Christchurch to Balclutha, 283 miles; from Balclutha to Maclennan, via Owaka, thirty-seven miles. The main point about the excursion now to be described is that it involved r»o wearying tour through the backblocks, no heavy travelling expense, no ordeal of roughing it on scanty rations. In the end it was but. a mile from the railway, but that mile might have been a hundred so completely was separation effected from the jostle and hustle of the average, popular, seafront promenade. Not that the promenade is a bad spot on a hot day, but for this particular Maorilander the bigger the change from the general atmosphere of town life the better. Rata and Bellbirds. Think of hillsides green with native bush, valleys red with rata, bellbirds sounding a chorus in the early morn, blue waves breaking into foam on leagues of almost untrodden sand, rivers full of sport for the angler. So it is in the Gatlins Bush district, at the most only two days’ journey by rail from Christchurch. Just one thing the traveller craves at the end of his vacation—a substantial extension cn his leave permit. Let something be said first of the journey down. Leaving Christchurch at 8.50 a.m. on a Tuesday, you get to Balclutha at 6.23 p.m. That’s enough for one day. Next morning get back to the railway station at 10.30 and catch the train marked “ Catlins River Branch.” Luncheon at Owaka at noon, and the traveller is in good trim for adventures ahead. At first the country presents

the characteristics of land that has been cleared of bush and is now providing profitable occupation for that estimable and essential gentleman, the dairy farmer. Scenes along the route are varied. The Winding White Road. Over there, smoke is rising from some settler’s house. At the foot of the valley runs the winding white road. Now and again, a lorry clatters round a corner carrying milk or wool. Round a hill and we come upon several hundred acres cleared of vegetation with a thriving settlement that boasts post office, store, and dairy factory. Thanks to pioneers of axe and saw, a winning fight has been w’aged against the wilderness. The grandeur of rimu, beech and totara must fall in time before the march of civilisation if the Dominion is to prosper. Sad, perhaps, but have patience, there is plenty of virgin forest ahead. Near llouipapa is a siding stacked high with enough timber to build a street of houses. The sawmills are still busy in the lee of yonder ridge—you can hear the whine of the serrated v/heel. At the next bend, eyes rest on a bush home prettily set behind a tinkling stream. See the trestle bridge, the garden on the slope, the flowers, the broad verandah with a saddle on it, the neat fences. A smiling, gre\'-haired woman stands at the side of the house with a basin in one hand. She waves a long wooden spoon at us. I should say that she has been feeding the “ chooks.” The Trail of The Sawmill. Further and further, the train steams from civilisation. Another valley is a scarred and blackened battlefield. Fire and sword have passed over and left victims by the score. A few old warriors are still standing, but their heads are charred and ugly. Rotted limbs creak in the wind. Mostly, the relics of the fight are no more than stumps and decapitated trunks. Round about a little bit of green undergrowth tries to hide the scars, but fails. The sawmill has passed through the valley like a ruthless Moloch. Quickly, this ugliness is left behind. The train steams boldly through

Tawanui, Puketiro and Caberfeidh, and bare hills no longer block the view. This is the heart of the forest at last. '1 he views in golden sunlight defy description. The noble hills, bush-clad, make a- panorama that would inspire an artist. This is New Zealand at her loveliest. “Here we are—Maclennan.” Luxuriant growth on the surrounding hills gives but slight foretaste of the magnificent scene, at Papatowai, a seaside settlement barely one mile from the station, but, as mentioned before, a fully complete and satisfying mile. The travellers clamber aboard a motor lorry and soon we have crossed the river and edged eastwards, passing as we do so a few little outback farms and clearings. Our destination comes in sight—a square, white house perched on a rounded knoll, with a background of tall, green trees, clematis in flower, and rata blazing red. The hostess turned out to be a Scottish woman. A separate article could be written on the skill and comfort with which she ran that hostel in the bush, aided, of course, by a six-foot New Zealand husband. It sounds trite to say that it was a home from home, but that must suffice for want of a better term. The attention, service and food were better than can be secured at high price in the biggest of city hotels. The writer will be there again, if the gods are good, in January, 1919. How far off that sounds to-day. The Crooning Waters. Of the attractions of Papatowai, adjectives superlative to the Nth degree could give a very vague idea. Two hundred yards from the house, the silver waters of the river crooned over the bar to join the great blue Pacific. Deep pools afforded the most delightful of bathing places. The sea beach extended in a shelving half-moon sweep for two miles to the north. From the rugged promontory to the south, masses of rock ran out like breakwaters into the ocean. Here one could heave a long line free from all risk of kelp and haul in blue cod by the dozen. The whole place is stocked with edible fish. In the estuary, nets are trawled in the cool of evening, and within an hour there are flounders enough to fill a sack.

Further up. anglers cast successfully for trout. In the hills there are rabbits by the thousand. Trek up into the ranges of the hinterland and you will strike wild pigs and wild cattle. Yes, a sportsman’s paradise, and yet what guide books ever say so? Verily, New Zealand is a rich and teeming land. Never think that holidays spent at Rotorua, on the Wanganui, in the Buller, at Mount Cook. Ilanmer, Franz Joseph, Timaru, the Cold Lakes, and Stewart Island exhaust its attractions. Hundreds of other little corners have a fresh and abiding charm. The Picnic to Tautuku.

Papatowai can serve as a field for wide exploration. One day, for instance, we mounted again into the lorry and our capable host drove us for a memorable picnic to the Tautuku beach, four miles away. Imagine Sumner extended four fold, not a house in sight, bush in a crescent behind the high, white sandhills, fresh water streams trickling dbwn—then you gain some idea of the place. There on the left are the Rainbow Isles, aptly so named on the map. Spouting Cave, Isa’s Cave, and the miniature Oyster Bay. About here are peculiar rock formations that would keep a geologist busy for a year. One cave alone could house twenty motor-cars. Then at the southern point is a jutting piece of land like a lump of Bank’s Peninsula, a good deal of it in use for grazing. One corner holds historic relics of the early whaling days. At Tautuku Beach the bathing was delicious. So was the picnic lunch that followed. Scottish womenfolk know how to pack a basket. Other diversions could be enumerated by the score—trips up the river in rowing boats, tramps through the bush, drives to neighbouring hamlets, fishspearing episodes—but already this chronicle of a happy holiday is overlong. After all, the Catlins Bush is only a day and a half away from the capital of Canterbury, and railway fares are cheap. When in doubt about that annual leave of yours, try a branch line. Set cut with zest and a bold heart. New Zealand was specially built for adventure. T.Y.X.