NGARUAWAHIA TO RAGLAN

Waikato Argus, Volume XXXIV, Issue 5206, 16 January 1913, Page 2

NGARUAWAHIA TO RAGLAN

A BEAUTIFUL DRIVE

(By Rex Venator)

We started out from Ngaruawahia en route for Raglan on a Sunday morning in a brake drawn by five sturdy horses. The sun wan just hot enough, a pleasant breeze was blowing, and life seemed a pleasant and desirable thing. Our driver was a loquacious individual, with an apparently exhanstless fund of anecdote, and he punctuated his speech with flicks of his whip and encouraging cries to the horses. The result was that a story by him sounded something like this:—“ Got ter a pub one night (flick) about midnight (flick) and wet tor the skin (hey. Harold!). The publican comes into the commercial room where I was sifting vwhatchcr doin', Doctor?) and 1 says to him: “How is it for a drop of whisky? (Flick). He brings in a bottle, pours out about two fingers, says: ‘Put out the light before ycr go ter bed, and takes the bottle away with him (Shake her up, Jack!) Of all the rotten cows! What sort of way is that to treat a man?” (Flick, Hick). We all agree that the publican in question was the “dead limit.”

Two of us have been pretty well all round Australasia, and we exchange stories of elaborately guarded gambling dens in Sydney, opium “joints” in Melbourne, and nocturnal adventures in Brisbane. On either side of us stretches the fair green bush. Tree ferns rear their graceful branches aloft, and against a background of greenery wo see the delicate white blossoms of the convolvulus and the feathery fronds of Die toi-toi. We pass an occasional limber-cutters’ camp, where the men come to the entrances of their tents to wave and stare after us. On our left a limpid stream hurls along. Suddenly a bird with exquiste blue plumage iiaah»s out from the bush and darts across the road in front of us. It might have been Maeterlinck’s Bine Bird or the “little blue bird of fantasy” which flew before the knights of old leading them on to an ideal which, mirage-like, ever receded. The road narrows, and we drive through the Mile Bush, which at night is lit by myriads of glowworms and seems like a bit of fairyland. We lunch at the Hot Springs Hotel and inspect the medicinal baths, panacea for all the ills which afflict human flesh. Outside the hotel stands a little grey man full of the curious impassivity of the very old. “He's a brother of the famous Captain Webb who swam the English Channel,” whispers one of my companions.

Then on again between the rolling hills covered with dead timber, the fallen monarchy of the forest lying where they fell. The driver pulls up at a little btidge spanning n stream, and producing a bucket with a rope on it draws up water for the thirsty horses. On once more through what I am told is Maori land, the unlocking of which is one ot the problems which face our legislators. “They do nothing,” says a member of the party, "but grow a few potatoes and a bit of maize, and most of the land is lying idle.” Now wo round Inc bend and the road descends to tire Waingaro landing, where we gel aboard a motor launch to complete the final stretch of our journey.

A strong wind is blowing and the water is rather rough. The spray Hies into the boat, but wrapped in our oilskins we face it without discomfort. Hero a word may he ssul of the useful oilskin. The writer, usually a dweller in cities, has found it admirably adapted to travelling in the country, for it keeps out the heaviest rain and also makes an ideal duet coat for motoring. Here wc arc at Raglan. We leave our portmanteaux in the launch, to bo brought on later to the hotel and stroll along there. That night we sleep within sound of the sea.