Tauranga and Gisborne

Isn’t time an amazing phenomenon? It doesn’t make sense how it appears to go at different speeds. When you are looking forward to something, I mean really looking forward to something, it slows right down to walking pace.

Yet, on the other hand, if it is a date in your diary, such as the deadline for submitting your tax return, it seems to gather pace, especially the closer you get to the target date. That is nothing, though, compared to how quickly things recede into the past.

Last month our friends, Steve and Gill, age before beauty, celebrated their Ruby Wedding Anniversary. Where the hell did that go? Forty years! Wow! Those of you that actually know me won’t believe this, but I was best man at their wedding. I know I hear you say, if he was the most brilliant example of best they could find, how bad were the rest?

All very well, but what on earth has that got to do with New Zealand ports? Well, it is just about half of their marriage ago, April 2005, that Steve and Gill upped sticks and settled in New Zealand. They chose to live in the Tauranga area, situated at the western end of the Bay of Plenty and, it just so happened that this was going to be our first port of call.

We are most fortunate in that we have visited this part of the world previously so did not, really, need to reacquaint ourselves with the attractions again. I am digging a bit of a hole here, Steve and Gill were the major attraction of our first disembarkation. And, what is more, the coffee was free!

I am not saying they will meet everyone off their ship so, it is worth checking out local excursions for yourself. You could climb Mount Maunganui, you could visit the geothermal splendour of Rotorua, and you could visit a local avocado, kiwifruit and manuka honey farm.

When we first visited one of these farms, twenty years ago now, helicopter flights were available over the Bay. As you might recall, I have vowed never to go on a chopper ever again. When we visited, it looked like the craft may have been beyond its best, so when Jane and the children went for their little joy ride, I sat in the shade and studied the life and travel insurance policies. Good news: they were covered for a lot of money; even better news: they got back safely!

Alas, it was time to say our goodbyes and, who knows, when we might next see them? As I get older, New Zealand seems to get further and further away. East Asia seems about my limit at the moment and, I daresay, I will need to rein that in a little as I get even older.

Gisborne was our next stop. Basically, we sailed the entire Bay of Plenty, before turning the corner and following the east coast to our destination. Of course, the beauty is, the ship usually does this overnight and when you open the curtains the following morning it is somewhere new.

Gisborne, I have to say, was a little sleepy when we arrived. That didn’t matter as we were booked on an excursion. I was quite looking forward to visiting the National Arboretum of New Zealand, situated at Eastwood Hill. Its modern day beauty is as extraordinary as its history, and, I do love a wander in a woods.

The land was acquired by William Douglas (Douglas) Cook in 1910. He was originally intending to farm the 250 hectares. Despite working in farming for a while, he was at first a cowboy before turning his hand to peach farming. The latter, rather sadly, failed after two successive years of frost, but he wanted to give it another go.

According to the locals he was a pretty inadequate farmer, doesn’t that sound a polite way of putting it? To be fair, later in life, he agreed with that judgment. What he went onto create at Eastwood Hill is nothing short of remarkable, given the start anyway.

After dabbling with the land for a while he went off to do his patriotic chore in the First World War. Following some previous dalliances with harm, as a child he managed to take a snifter of carbolic acid before managing to draw a kitchen knife across his leg, just below the knee, he gave it a proper go in that most horrific of conflicts.

Whilst at Gallipoli he lost the end of a finger to a bullet, lucky compared to many you could say, and then, when in the European theatre, he was blinded in one eye. Obviously, he is going to get a lot of kudos from me, I take my hat off to anyone from the visually impaired community who can make such a good fist of things despite their disability.

I don’t think you need to think he was some sort of poor, working class Kiwi trying to get by; it turns out that his antecedents were pretty well-to-do. He recuperated from his latest injury at his relative’s country estate in Scotland. It was here, after gazing out on the parkland that he decided to put Eastwood Hill to a different use.

He ordered what sounds like boatloads of plants to be sent to New Zealand. Over the years the failing farm changed into one of the most important arboretums in the world. It is now so important that it is known as an arboreal ark, that is it has stored away thousands of seeds for many trees that can be brought out of dormancy, if necessary, and used to save species that would, otherwise, become extinct.

I stand to be corrected on this, but it seems like the Arboretum survives off the public’s generosity alone. There are no grants from central government, local government nor any UN organisations. It is a most fantastic example of what a single man’s vision can do, especially when it is mixed with an enormous dose of dogged determination.

Now another thing about dear old Doug, he was a little eccentric you need to understand, he likes to wander about his woodland as naked as the day he was born. His two sacrifices to propriety were a pair of gumboots and, to protect his head and neck from the sun, a hat. I have heard of many gardeners who enjoy their hobby without the encumbrance of clothing. Not for me, though, if there was a bramble with a small prick I would be sure to find it. Ouch!

I really thought we could have stayed here longer but, cruises being cruises, meant we had to go off so that the older Americans could find some cake and coffee. It is a problem with this type of holiday, breakfast is very soon followed by elevenses, which is followed by twelveses, which is followed by oneses and so on! In between, you need to fit in lunch and dinner. You see where I am going with this!

I had nearly forgotten this next bit until I reread my journal. The bus we had been allocated for the excursion had had a mechanical malfunction. A real first world problem, the air cooling failed to kick in when it should have.

One lady, American and portly, I am afraid to say, complained that it was over a hundred degrees. Apparently, it was too hot to keep hogs in those conditions! Now I have seen pigs in hot countries before, no air conditioning, so I assumed that she meant first world hogs. It comes to something when, even, farm animals become entitled!

“A hundred degrees?” I said to Jane. A little too loudly it seemed. I do have a habit of doing that. Note to self, keep your opinions to yourself.

“That’s Fahrenheit,” the woman growled. “Not the stupid centigrade that you have that no-one else understands.”

It seemed like she assumed I was a New Zealander. Jane nudged my leg with hers. I got the message but it didn’t stop me from thinking, I’m not a New Zealander and, by the way, it’s Celsius not centigrade. Sense being stronger than valour, it stayed in my head! The driver promised he would do his best to get a replacement bus while we were in the arboretum.

On completion of a wonderful tour, we returned to the bus to find it wasn’t there. It had been replaced by a brand new spanker and, guess what, the air-con was in full flow. It was so cold that goosebumps were raised on my arms. “Christ!” I said. “It’s bloody cold!”

My American friend agreed. After the exertions of the walk around the trees she had taken on a florid complexion. At least the coolness should rectify that, I thought. OMG! You’ll never guess what? When the driver went and swapped the buses over he hadn’t realised that some of the passengers had left their coats and jackets on their seats. So, now there was a genuine need for another layer, they were about thirty kilometres away.

I honestly thought my friend was going to have some sort of apoplectic seizure. She was furious. I did think that, surely, the clue was in the statement that the driver would try and get the buses swapped over. He dutifully apologised although, in my opinion, he had no need to. He explained that the coats were now 30 kilometres away and he would happily go back empty and collect them.

“In English,” she demanded.

I stopped myself from responding with 30 kilometres as I judged it might not be the wisest of contributions. I did, however, suggest to the driver that we return to the ship without the air conditioning on. And, that is exactly what we did! What a lot of fuss about nothing.

Before we leave Gisborne I have to tell you this. It is the home of the shortest river in New Zealand. The Turanganui River measures a less than impressive 1,200 metres.

That got me to thinking, I wondered what the shortest river in the UK is? I tell you, when it comes to a river measuring competition, I am afraid we have nothing to brag about. The River Morar, to be found in the West Highlands, comes in at an even less impressive 914 metres. Wow!

Just imagine announcing that you were going for a summer afternoon’s stroll on the riverbank. Your loved ones might just say, “Don’t be too long!” The two shortest rivers in the world, weighing in at only 20 metres, are in Indonesia and Norway. If you take part in any of my quizzes it might be worth tucking that information away somewhere.