Open Writing

On a smooth stretch of grass at the edge of a warm calm bay, where the vegetation along it includes wild banana trees and hibiscus, sits a little caravan. It is quite happy there, refuses to go home, and twice a year welcomes us back to a place where we can switch off from the world and its demands and find peace and tranquillity.

Our caravan has found where it wants to rest.

Where is this place? Take a look at the top north west corner of South Island, New Zealand, on the map and you will find Golden Bay, 'golden' for many reasons. A place the jet-setters don't visit and tourist buses don't go, a place time has forgotten, the end of the road.

We found it while visiting Motueka one year. Motueka, what a name to conjure with. Once the tobacco growing capital of New Zealand, now, since smoking is no longer in vogue, an area of hops and vines, citrus orchards and tropical fruits and acres of New Zealand apples and pears. Gardens are full of exotic flowers and the sea is warm.

A trip to Farewell Spit was advertised, an exciting four wheel drive along the sand spit which stretches east to west along this top corner, almost enclosing Golden Bay. Here you can visit the lighthouse and look at one of the few gannet colonies in New Zealand.

We decided to go and a mini-bus took us over a very high and steep hill, over 2,500ft and we started at sea level. It tore through Golden Bay and dropped us off at Collingwood, where we climbed into a four wheel drive and hurtled along the spit and over the dunes to the lighthouse.

We were allowed to have a look round, given a cup of tea and a scone and returned to the mini-bus, which whipped us back over the hill.

In later years we came to know Golden Bay better, so when we retired and bought our little caravan, we wondered if we could take it over this rather large hill and have a good look at the place.

The poor thing, bravely hooked behind us, with our teddy bear mascot gazing at us through its window, trundled along swaying from side to side. The hill! No road was ever meant to go over here. We were soon in bottom gear and my poor husband, gripping the steering wheel with ever whitening knuckles, wondered about his chance of backing a caravan up a hill.

The poor thing hung behind us and I could almost feel it trembling. Milk tankers, on a road which seemed to be glued onto a cliff edge, approached from the other direction. Our caravan didn't like this one little bit. In its opinion this road was not wide enough for milk tankers, so it swayed madly about, trying to get out of the way, as hubby valiantly tried to keep it under control.

Number One we counted, as we turned the first hairpin, and so it went on until 117 bends later we reached the plateau. But what views on the way up. Surrounded by semi-tropical plants, nikau palms, passion fruit vines and silver tree ferns, breaks in the bush looked down on the Motueka valley and Nelson Bay, with its rim of hills. Heat shimmered above the road, while the cicadas kept up a never ending serenade.

Here we were at the top of Takaka Hill, a lime stone area, full of caves and potholes, well above the bush line. Up here, in the middle of nowhere, is a marble quarry from which most of the marble for parliament house came. Tracks lead off in all directions and caves are open for you to look around.

Howard's Hole, the deepest pothole in New Zealand, tempts the foolhardy. The view stretches out over Tasman Bay and on a clear day you can see Mount Tranaki, one of North Island's volcanoes, covered in snow.

It was a place to pull over and have a picnic, to let our little caravan recover its equilibrium after its ordeal, not to mention allowing our own heart beats to return to normal. We were on the top of Takaka Hill.

But what goes up must come down. So on the move again, avoiding the wekas, the almost flightless birds which resemble bantams, another nosey bird, like the kea, more interested in your food than you, we headed off over the plateau to its edge.

And there it was glistening in the sun, far below us, Golden Bay. Lush green pasture with contented cows producing rich creamy milk for golden butter. Mountains sheltering it from the west and Tasman Bay edging it to the north, a warm calm bay which moves out to join the Tasman Sea on its way east to the Pacific. A Shangri-La, a place to which writers, potters and painters have escaped, to join rural farmers and fishermen who have been here for generations.

Our caravan liked the look of the place and was prepared to descend the hill, at times pushing us. This side has long sweeping bends, its descent to Upper Takaka is easy and then a long run down to Takaka itself, the main town in Golden Bay, no bigger than a village.

Our map told us there was a caravan site at Tukurua, and so we trundled along the road towards Collingwood, passing a very interesting place called The Mussel Inn which we have come to know very well indeed, in search of this next town, Tukurua, which turned out to be a school bus stop.

It is an area with houses, farms and life-style blocks set back amongst the bush and here we saw a sign pointing down a lane saying 'no exit' and 'campsite.' We had found what was to become our bit of heaven.

We bounced over the potholes with our hiccupping van and wondered how many unbreakables would become breakables and at the end, where the sea joined the road, we found the campsite. 'Camp anywhere,' said the owner, 'It's quiet at this time of the year.'

So site 33 became ours, it is right at the sea's edge on nice green grass with a picnic table close by. They tell me that in the school holidays the place resembles a Butlins Holiday camp and the over 300 sites would indicate en masse encounters at times, but in early spring and autumn it is the haven of the retired, the civilised folk.

Our caravan has refused to leave. It likes it at the end of its leafy lane and has no intention of making the return trip over the hill. So in the next few articles I will tell you why it won't go home.