Open Writing

“Abide with me,” I sang out, at the top of my voice, feet dangling over a two hundred foot cliff, with the Tasman breakers crashing far below. I was Kiri Te Kanawa, even though my husband says I change key five times in one note and my voice is painful to his ears. No one around, just me and the Tasman with a colony of fur seals, on the rocks beneath me, as my audience.

“Fast falls the eventide,” full volume, Pavarotti would have been proud of me. Then I glanced over my shoulder and found a minibus load of “eco tourists,” looking slightly afraid and backing off. Was I about to commit myself to the depths and was asking my maker for forgiveness, or had I escaped from the local asylum? They were not sure.

I blushed to the roots of my hair and tried to engage them in some sane and knowledgeable conversation, pointing out that my feet were planted firmly on a ledge they couldn’t see. They were not convinced and didn’t stop long.

Where was I? Nearly at Cape Farewell, so named because this most westerly point of South Island was where Captain Cook waved his farewell to New Zealand. It was one of those days when my “dud’ ankle was playing up, so hobbling, not walking, was my means of progress. We had taken the car to the start of the track and I had hobbled the few hundred yards to the cliff edge, while husband set off up the steep grassy slope to the ridge walk to the Cape.

It is magnificent scenery, the bright green of the grassy slopes, which only limestone can produce, and huge cliffs full of arches and caves, gouged out by the thundering waves below. Not walking for those afraid of heights and if you are out for the long tramp from the Farewell Spit Visitors Centre to Wharariki beach, you are well advised to have good grips on your boots and to carry sticks with pointed ends to steady yourself on the slippery grassy slopes.

But the view! From Cape Farewell you look out towards North Island and see the big sand spit in its entirety, stretching east to west along this top corner of South Island. The Marlborough Sounds and Nelson Bay lie away to your right, while, looking south, the west coast stretches as far as the eye can see.

Meanwhile the tourists missed all this, too nervous to climb the hill to the Cape and very wary of this strange looking woman.

My husband returned and, still full of energy, wandered up the hill to the north, towards the Spit. I moved myself, sort of hopping, to a less precarious position and stretched out, in the sun. I was soon disturbed by a chap from Birmingham, surprised to find a lone woman lying in a field. We chatted about this and that, sharing our knowledge of Shakespeare’s home and “Spaghetti Junction,” before “hubby” joined us. I met the same fellow again at “Poet’s Night.” How do these people from all over the world find these tiny corners?

The tourist centre and café at the beginning of the Spit, the point where the four-wheel drive leaves the road and heads over the sand dunes to the lighthouse and gannet colony, marks the beginning of the ridge walk to Wharariki Beach. A long walk and what seems even longer back, if you don’t arrange to be picked up at the other end, or you could trek there, on sure footed ponies. You will head uphill along the ridge to Cape Farewell and continue onwards and upwards to Pillar Point lighthouse, then down to Wharariki beach.

Or you can drive along the gravel road. Stop where the track to the lighthouse begins. Walk up and slip down on the loose gravel. It won’t take you long and will certainly burn up the calories. After that you can continue to the end of the road.

Now follow the track, no wider than the width of your boot, along the side of a steep hill, one slip and you are in the stream below. This leads you to a pleasant stroll, through cool bush, and out onto the big sand hills. Imagining you are in the Sahara and following the markers with red blazes, you finally find your way to the beach.

And what a beach! The walk was worth it. This must be one of the most spectacular beaches in New Zealand. The great Archway Islands stand, like tripods, just off shore, their arches large enough for fair sized ships to sail through, if it weren’t for the breakers pounding against them. Huge caves are found in the cliffs, caves you can wander into, passages lead to others and pinpoints of light show new ways out to pristine sand and thundering surf, with colonies of fur seals basking on rocky ledges. Join them, but not too close, and lie in the sun for a while before you return.

Don’t rush back. Explore the rock pools and tickle sea anemones, seeing them open their tentacles to resemble exotic cactus flowers; watch the little crabs scuttle away into their hiding places when they see your shadow. Try dipping your feet into the sea, among that pounding surf, but don’t dive in. The Tasman is not for swimming. It is one of the roughest seas in the world and, with its rip tides, undertows and huge waves, which would sweep you off your feet and pull you out to sea, it is a force to be reckoned with. Enjoy the place and explore.

Time to head home and, in spite of the long climb, one step forward and two back, with visions of Lawrence of Arabia in your mind, you will have done a walk you will never forget and seen a beach for which there is no equal. Long may it remain such an inaccessible place. Let’s keep it our secret, the haven for birds, seals and the things of nature, not the province of property developers and their high-rise flats and hotels.