Open Writing

So our caravan won’t move and, quite frankly, I don’t blame it. When we return after winter and have put in a few days cleaning, polishing, freshening, airing and generally turning it into our “home from home,” we realise why it won’t go home.

It’s warm and mild up here, the sea breeze is balmy and cool, rather than chilling to the body. Our caravan looks out over its picnic table to the blue, green sea gently breaking on flat, golden sand. It isn’t long before the mind switches off from its busy mode to the tranquil one of “let the world go by, there is always tomorrow.”

Once we are satisfied with its state, knowing it to be clean, fresh and fragrant, we plunge into the sea and swim along the bay. All the tensions we brought with us, all the frustrations with the petty little things of everyday life, dissolve and we feel relaxed and at peace.

Everything is in perspective. Our caravan has chosen wisely.
So what is so special about this lane? Lots of drives lead from it and two potters' showrooms, plus a candle factory, are beside it. It hides interesting people. Let’s take a walk along and see what it is like and what its secrets are.

We need to be armed with an apple or carrot for the first thing we meet, grazing in for what for all the world looks like an English field, with English trees, honeysuckle and five barred gate, is a horse. No ordinary horse, he is white and usually has a couple of friends with him, but he has a twisted nose, probably a birth defect, and he plays on it to the full. No one passes without a pat for him and his apple or carrot.

But it is not just an English lane. It’s a contrast of two countries a world apart. A stream follows it, sometimes beside it, sometimes away amongst those “English meadows.” There is a mixture of native bush, the tropical bush of this warm part of New Zealand, and of hawthorn, birch, ash, horse-chestnut and self-seeded apple trees, blooming in the spring and providing “scrumped” apples for apple crumble, flavoured with cinnamon in the autumn.

The bird life sees tuis, with their shimmering blue, green feathers and white parson’s collar, their heads often deceptively bright red, as they burrow into the scarlet flowers of New Zealand shrubs, and bell birds, with their ringing call, vying for space with the blackbirds, thrushes and sparrows, brought here by the early settlers to remind them of home. The morepork calls in the night, not the English owl, and the immigrant hedgehog snuffles in the grass verge.

Two hemispheres integrated, in harmony with each other.

But what of the drives leading from this lane, with their groups of mail boxes, indicating more than one dwelling amongst the bush, not visible to the eye? This is the haven of writers, artists, potters and alternative life-stylers.

The candle factory is the first place we come across, owned by a Swiss and American. Its roof isn’t the conventional type but a garden of tussock, mosses, succulents and self-seeded flowers. Brilliant nasturtiums run rampant and geraniums climb around.

A bridge, over a lily pond, takes you to the showroom, an Aladdin’s cave, perfumed with cedar wood, sandal wood, spices and floral scents, with the underlying smell of candle wax. Here is “Living Lights,” the home of the exotic masterpieces sold in high class boutiques from Singapore to Sydney.

I picture the dining tables of the up-market penthouses, overlooking Sydney harbour, with huge wax bowl centre pieces, filled with fruit or floating flowers and lit by the wicks around the rim. I see beautiful candle lanterns welcoming the exclusive to the private patios of the rich and famous and I smile, for I know that down this little lane these works of art were made.

We wander on, along a drive named “Lilies in bloom,” to meet a chap from Burnley, an avid supporter of Manchester United. We talk about Lancashire and top up our accents. His exotic lilies are exported to Japan for their winter and his bulbs are sold throughout New Zealand. Many flower in my garden and their perfume fills the air on summer evenings. He sits on his veranda in the evening with his wife, at peace, and gazes out on the bay he has come to love, a long way from home.

A Canadian fellow, further up the lane, lives off the land and pots. He has his own vineyard, from which he makes his own wine. He grows his own fruit and has a goat. His little boy has a pony and his wife enjoys the life style. His pots are lovely, bluey shades, green and brown and ivory cream. They are not over priced, meant for tourists, practical dishes, vases, bird baths and feeders. They give him the income to support his life style. He is happy for us to chat to him as he works with his clay.

Then Paul Winspear appears, almost at the end of the lane. Here we are in a different category. His work is of real value, the antiques of the future. The colours, shapes textures are magnificent. We are in the big money bracket here and it is value for money. This man is going places but he is an unassuming Yorkshire man, who has spent most of his life at sea, and he has no delusions of grandeur. He just likes working here and, again, welcomes you with a smile.

This lane is a mixture of all nationalities, a true United Nations.
Who else lives down these drives? I don’t know. We meet a few in the Mussel Inn, some are writers, some are painters, some have organic gardens, and others just live off the land or have jobs around the place. The school bus drops their children at the end of the lane each evening and waits for them in the morning. Life isn’t for rushing. It is for enjoying.

We have reached the end of our lane. The little stream, which has been bubbling along beside us, allows the main road to cross it by a curved bridge, the sort you see in the Yorkshire Dales. We linger for a while, watching the fantails and the welcome swallows darting above the water.

We admire the New Zealand vegetation and the blossom on the apple trees which will provide us with puddings in the autumn. Tonight we will sit and gaze at stars with the brilliance which only a dark and unpolluted sky can produce.

We know why our caravan won’t go home.