Open Writing

“It must be that.”

“It can’t be, that’s just a hole in the bushes.”

We turned round and drove back.

“No, you’re wrong.”

“Well there’s nowhere else.”

Where were we and what were we looking for?

We are now in a bit of New Zealand where I have never taken you before, just another piece of this wonderful country. We are in the south west corner and at the end of the road, Jackson Bay. Most folk, heading down the West Coast from the glaciers usually turn left over the Haast Pass to Wanaka and the lakes, however if you continue straight on down, crossing the Arawata and Cascade rivers and hugging the coast with its great beaches, the road finally stops in this idyllic bay sheltered by the last headland on this bit of the coast.

But we will save Jackson Bay and the Arawata and Cascade for another day and go back to the hole by the road. We had been camping up the Cascade River and, consulting the ordinance survey map, had discovered a track which seemed to lead to a beach otherwise inaccessible except by sea, so we decided to give it a go. According to the map we were in the place where the track started but no signs were obvious and there was no visible track, just this hole. The sort of hole you would expect some creature to pop out from, a bit like “Alice in Wonderland'' or “Wind in the Willows''.

“Don’t be silly,” I said, “that can’t be it.”

“I’ll just take a look,” Martin replied and vanished down the hole, just like Alice’s rabbit, then he reappeared. “It’s here,” he said, and so it was. Crouching low, I crawled through the hole and, lo and behold, there it was, or at least what was left of it. A landslip had taken most of it away, certainly the bit which would have opened onto the road, now just a pile of debris.

“Well?” We looked at each other then up to see where the remains of the track were.

There, perched on a rocky outcrop way above us, was a park bench, yes I kid you not, a park bench and by it appeared to be a reasonable track vanishing into the bush.

“If there is a park bench up there there must be a proper track.”

“Yes, but how do you get up to it?”

So we sat beside the hole and looked around. It was then that we spotted red blazes on trees around the edge of the slip. “They must have found a way round until they can repair it,” said my husband, then got up and started tree-hanging around the scree. I don’t like screes, in fact I hate them, but, as the car keys were in his pocket, I decided I had better follow him and, hanging onto far more bushes and trees than him, I eventually reached the safe but giddy heights of the park bench.

We could see why the bench was there for it commanded a panoramic view over the bay and headland, what a place to watch the sunset and no doubt when the real track had been there it would have been an easy stroll. So there we were, sitting on a park bench on the top of a rocky outcrop and wondering what to do next. We took out the sandwiches and ate a couple and looked at the track ahead.

“Seems OK,” said hubby.

“What if there are more slips,” said cautious me.

“We can come back.”

In for a penny in for a pound, and so began a very memorable and enjoyable walk.

We climbed up through the trees, the tall hardwood trees of the West Coast, the kahikateas, the matais, rimus and totaras, with supplejack swinging from them, all ready for Tarzan, and the mosses and creepers climbing up from their roots, while the dappled sunlight mottled the path ahead. How I love the bush.

It was easy walking and we started to descend. “Ah not far to the beach,” I thought and plodded on down, avoiding roots and boulders, until we came to a sudden stop and, wonder of wonders, there was a sign, a bona fide sign, pointing “that-a-way''.

“I’m not going down there.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a river for one thing and look at the height of the banks, what if the tide comes in, where can we go?”

“Oh stop being such a wimp. If the sign says down there it means down there.”

“Yes if you’ve got a canoe.”

“Oh come on,” and as he had the keys and I needed help round the scree I went on.

Should I take my boots off or not? The rules are leave your boots on but the river had a fairly sandy bottom, just a few rocks to watch out for and the water was clear and not too deep. Take them off and put them back on again, I decided, so I slung them round my neck. The next obstacle, the bank. Now I’m not 6’10, I am 5’0 and shrinking and I only have little legs, so steep river banks pose somewhat of a problem.

“Slide down,” he said.

“How do I slide up?” I asked.

“I’ll give you a hand,” and he set off merrily down the stream, humming some tune he was composing in his head.

Splash, ah well here we go again, and my feet hit cold water. What a pleasant paddle it turned out to be. It was a gentle stream, the odd fish flashed past and a kingfisher took a look at us, no canoes appeared, it was just us and the ripple of the stream and the noises of the bush and then the sound of waves hit our ears. I’m not sure how long we had been wandering down the river, it had been too restful to consider, but there, finally, was our little beach, full of sunlight and white sand with the blue sea beyond, and sheltered by its own little headland.

It was gorgeous.

“Glad we came?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

And we propped ourselves up on a couple of rocks and ate the rest of our sandwiches before dozing in the sun. The odd fishing boat passed and the day wore on but the tide didn’t seem to be roaring in so we stretched out and just relaxed.

Eventually and very reluctantly we looked at our watches and decided we had better start to wander back up the stream, to the scree and the hole in the road and everyday life.

It had been an unexpected and very pleasant day indeed. Just another corner of our little bit of paradise on earth.

More next time...