1 - Northland

My aunt Lyn picked me up from Auckland airport. It was turning into a hot sunny day in Auckland, and the sun was brighter here. It was late February - the end of their summer. It was great to see Lyn, John and Julianne again. Lyn and John kindly put me up while I was in Auckland, and showed me some of the sights.

Auckland's a sprawling city, but it has plenty of parks and leafy suburbs. The Sky Tower, a giant metallic needle, dominates the sky line. There's some great foodie places, but sadly Auckland has far too many McDonalds, Burger King, Subway, etc. I visited many bike shops and eventually bought myself a new bike - with which to travel around the country!

From Auckland, I did some day-trips, including to Piha beach on the west coast, a beautiful beach of dark, almost black sand, with great rolling dunes, dense bush and huge lumps of headrock all around. The steep, twisting road to the beach was a little breath-taking not just for the views. Apparently this beach is where they filmed the Piano, but it's not a movie I've seen. Good-looking surfer dudes here.

After a week of staying with my aunt & uncle in Auckland, and generally starting to feel far too comfortable, I put my cycling shorts on, and set off North, to the little town of Warkworth.

The Kauri museum at Warkworth featured a bush walk like a stroll in tropical rainforest, with cicadas, bellbirds, strange winged insects, heat, humidity, and of course, some 800 year old Kauri trees.

On the way to Leigh, I started a detour to Omaha beach, but the road looked long, so I went to Buckletons Beach instead - which turned out to be much further. My first brush with injury was coming down the steep road to the beach when a dog ran out in front of me and only just escaped being hit. I was so cross I wanted to go back and have another go. Instead I had a sandwich and a swim, and then continued through the vineyards of Matakana.

Leigh is absolutely tiny, but boasts an excellent bar/restaurant, the Sawmill Cafe. A severe drenching was forecast, and while I tried the suggested 'Green Fern' organic beer, Steve and Linny, some locals, entertained me with stories of rats being driven indoors by the rain. Linny had heard that in London there are super-rats, extra large and immune to poison.

They also gave me recommendations of places to go clubbing in Auckland, and some strange tale involving possum-fur nipple-warmers and assorted fruit that I'm not sure I understood completely. Also had a chat with a guy from Glasgow, and somehow ended up talking about Scottish football. He knew nothing about it either.

To save a drenching in the rain, I was offered a lift back to the backpackers by one of the staff at the Sawmill. He told me he worked there just to top up his income, most of which came from his work as an artist.

In the Leigh Cafe the next day, I sheltered from the appalling weather, drinking tea and eating cake while looking out at the rain bouncing up off the street, little wave patterns and rivulets scattering across the asphalt, and cars passing through in a cloud of spray, headlights on. I wrote some postcards, and the cafe lights flickered.

Apparently the bad weather was the tail end of a cyclone, so I stayed in Leigh for a couple of days until it passed. I was glad to leave cos I was going a little stir crazy watching continuous Lord of the Rings and Whale Rider Oscar coverage on TV.

I left Leigh and cycled further North, to the slightly Scottish town of Waipu (see left). Despite all the Scottishness, the backpacker lodge, Waipu Wanderers, was run by a guy who moved here from England - and all the other folk staying there seemed to be English too.

The hostel proprietor worked from home as an environmental impact consultant, receiving work by email, and running the hostel in his spare time - a pretty good arrangement! We chatted a bit about environmentalism; NZ's green image is mostly good PR, he suggested - there's few qualms about building on greenfield sites, for example. I had noticed on my cycling many new housing estates being constructed, and so many times I'd seen a wooden gate opening onto a beautiful big field or woodland, and a sign says 'For Sale, Excellent Development Potential', or 'Build Your Dream Home In Paradise Here'.

Leaving Waipu, I headed North again along Uretiti beach. Having lost my shades that morning, my memory is of a dazzling pale yellow beach, and scorching blue-white sky. Various islands (such as Hen and Chickens island - I passed Goat Island the previous day) were visible against the clear sky. For one stretch it became a nudist beach (at least I presume it was given the people not wearing anything). I thought - why not? - so went for a skinnydip, then worried about sunburn and set off again.

It was good to arrive at Whangarei (Fung-a-ray) - at last a town with useful stuff like a bank and internet place.

The food in NZ has been consistently good, though pizzas are very well featured everywhere. And yes, the people are really friendly. Even tellers in banks (but not the automated ones) ask me about my travel plans and suggest things to see, and even apologise when its raining. Other travellers have all been friendly too. Jens, a Norwegian guy staying at the same hostel in Whangarei, and who was funny, friendly, fanciable, and straight, shared his wine with me while we watched a video one evening. He told me he was going to stay with his girlfriend in Oz in a few days.

I visited the waterfall at Whangarei, and its short bushwalk nearby. For one stretch, a wooden platform took me past 1,200 year old Kauri. I met an Australian (I think) woman and an English (I think) girl with her who were really in awe of these trees, and with good reason. They both pressed their hands and faces against the sculpted copper-stone bark. I looked up in wonder at this organism that had been here, alive, for so long - and how almost unnaturally cylindrical it was. The Aussie woman said she could feel its energy, making her finger-tips tingle.

The sounds helped too, of course: the roaring noise of the waterfall, lowering in tone and volume as I followed the path down; the rasping cicadas; the occasional clear, bright bird call of the musical bellbirds; the bubbling of the river; the deep swallowing bouncing echo of my footsteps on the wooden platform taking the footpath over the water... At one point I stopped at a particularly melodic birdcall, only to look up and find two branches rubbing together in the breeze, for all as if it was the forest speaking in this cello voice.

When I left Whangarei, just as I was cycling out of the town's industrial outskirts, I noticed my rear tyre was going soft. I stopped, and pumped it up, and it seemed okay for a while, so I carried on. D'oh. After about half an hour I put some more air in. And so the intervals between shops and houses increased, and the intervals between the tyre going flat decreased. Eventually the tyre only stayed inflated for about a minute, so miles from the nearest town, I stopped. Drenched in sweat, squinting in the sun and heat, I walked with my bike along the road. Some cars passed. Distant sirens sounded in the woods that covered the hillside across the valley. Up came two farmhouses, one with a barking dog. I leaned my bike on the fence and walked down the driveway of the dogless house.

A woman was sat on the step of the house, fiddling with a mobile phone. She assumed I was lost at first, but soon was showing me into the garage and bringing out tools and making suggestions. I dipped the inner tube in the stream beside the garage to find the hole. She told me this valley had been flooded a few years back. They lost their livestock but the house was okay. Her neighbour had woken with the sound of the storm and had gone to bring the animals somewhere safe when he'd turned around to see a three foot wall of water coming his way.

She went away to pick up her kids from school, leaving me in the garage becoming frustrated with my tyre. I was hot and tired and doing stupid things, and being bitten by mozzies from the stream - I saw drops of blood on my legs where they'd bitten. The woman came back, and I was all set to go and sit by the road and hitch back to Whangarei, when she mentioned a neighbour who drove that way each evening - in a car with a bike rack. Without a hesitation this neighbour agreed to give me a lift back to Whangarei, and we chatted on the way. He's a BMX-riding goat-farmer, it seems.

Back in the hostel that night, I marvelled at the kindness and generosity of these people, and thought how in many ways I was lucky to have had opportunity to see that first hand.

The next morning I got a bike shop to change my inner-tube, and of course they spotted what I'd missed - the little metal staple still embedded in the tyre, and then I set off cycling the same route as the previous day, but without all the stops (though I did keep looking down to check the tyres were still firm). Not far beyond where I'd spent the previous afternoon being eaten alive, I reached Oakura, a little village in a sunny sandy bay - full of holiday homes and camping and caravan sites, one of which let you put your tent just seconds walk from the water's edge.

A long ride to Russell. I took the Old Russell Road, a gravel track through hilly Russell Forest. A beautiful, exhausting, exhilarating and sweltering ride.

It was a funny little backpackers in Russell. When I got there, there was a note saying what beds they had available, and that if no one was there, to come in and take a look. So I did, and found a crooked old house full of books, peculiar ornaments, model aeroplanes, and walls and ceilings at unexpected angles. Also oddly, on this Friday night, still (just) in the summer season, I was the only one staying there. The proprietor Jerry seemed to live alone there apart from his cat.

Russell is another very small town, but definitely one of the best I've stayed at. It's had a strange history, starting off as the first capital of New Zealand, and some of the oldest settlements were here - though mostly destroyed since. Now it's a town of cafes, restaurants and art & craft shops.

For my good day's cycling, and because it looked like a lovely evening, I rewarded myself with a meal at Sally's Restaurant, sat outside with a view over the waterfront, eating oven-baked Bluenose (fish) with a glass of wine as the sun set before me. That made every push on the pedal, every mozzie bite and every aching muscle seem so worthwhile. Walking back to the backpackers, I looked up at the dazzlingly bright moon, and the fabulous, alien stars.

From Russell, I took the ferry for the 15 minute trip across the bay to Paihia (Pie-here). What a different place Paihia is. It still has beautiful views across the bay, and still has very pretty sandy beaches, but tourism has made its mark, with coachloads of tourists arriving in the town centre. There's a hundred places to book cruises or kayaking or dolphin trips or scuba or paragliding or whatever, but finding somewhere to buy fresh fruit and veg is a little harder.

At the hostel, the Pickled Parrot, I met up with an American guy I'd met at the Whangarei backpackers, Bill, and we joined a 'Swim With the Dolphins' catamaran cruise. We saw dolphins within about 20 minutes of leaving Paihia.

Our boat carried on, and we found an uninhabited island with yet another small sandy bay.

Back on board we had a barbecue, then set off with the sails up for a while in the very gentle wind, and nearly everyone sunbathing on the catamaran's 'trampoline' nets between the hulls and central gangplank.

Went to a bar in Paihia and danced very badly. A farming couple from further south invited me to stay on their farm within about two minutes of me meeting them. Hopefully I will do when I go down that way.

Just next to Paihia is Waitangi, a very historical spot where the Treaty of Waitangi was signed.

Roughly, the treaty was an agreement to allow British settlement and governance here, but guaranteeing Maori their rights and property, and way of life. The treaty is still in effect today, and differences in interpretation of certain parts are making it a hot political topic in New Zealand - many people see it as being the treaty giving Maori things that non-Maori don't have - giving them special treatment. Anyway, at Waitangi, you can see the English and the (slightly differing!) Maori translation of the treaty.

On the beach between Waitangi and Paihia, there were kids playing in the shallow water, Japanese students racing each other and posing for photos, and many families with picnics or sat eating chips. At one point, a guy in a crumpled hat was playing blues on his guitar, and the soft, laid-back sound complimented the scene so well.

The next day, and a different town, also in Bay of Islands. This too has historical connections, with the oldest surviving European-style house, and the oldest stone building in NZ. I didn't find them especially interesting, but nearby there's a recreated traditional Maori village, showing the different styles of huts, food stores, etc., which was was fascinating.

In the town, I bought a canvas-board so I could paint a picture for my cousin Julianne's 21st birthday. Then I bought bungy straps to hold the canvas precariously on the back of my bike.

Not much to do here though, so I only stayed one night [in a run-down little holiday camp with dark & dirty little dorms].

Going further north, this little village sits beside Doubtless Bay. It's a small place, with a pub, a hotel, three or four shops, and a take-away or two. After I arrived, I went and sat on the waterfront. I read the paper, my feet on the sea shells, a bag with camera, water, post-cards, etc., beside me. Not far away, at the water's edge, seagulls pecked at a beached jelly-fish. A voice said, 'Don't forget to move when the tide comes in, eh!' I looked up, and some old guy in hat and shades was stood, up on the road, smiling down at me. I smiled and said some predictable response, and he half-turned to walk away, then stopped and said 'a few years ago, a girl was sat down there. She must have been 22 or 23. She was sat there with a glass of wine waiting for her boyfriend to pick her up.

'I said to her, "don't forget to move when the tide comes in!" and she says no she's fine.' I was being drawn into this little story, clearly from a local character, and I expected him to say how she fell asleep and only awoke when she had a soaking from the incoming tide.

Instead, the old guy says, 'that was the last we saw of her. She was murdered by her boyfriend who chopped her up into pieces. You see that path up through the bush on the hill over there? That's where it was.

'He just got out of prison recently. He was a Mauri, see, so he only got manslaughter. Seems he -accidentally- killed her and then -accidentally- chopped her up.'

After he went, I soon stood up and left too. It seemed a slightly less serene spot to sit and read.

I was staying at the Old Oak Inn, which being built in 1861, was very old by NZ standards. It was pleasant enough inside, but not especially clean, and with 1950/1960s decor. There was a great comments book. I copied this out:

17/1/98 Hi, the reason for me staying here is because Ihad to get away from Auckland as I'm having a lot of trouble with my love life and it stinks. I needed to tell someone and seen as this is just a book I thought I would write all my problems down for you to read. Well this is going to take forever, well from the start. It all started when I met this girl called Lynda and she became my best friend... [continues for full page of A4].

Kaitaia is the most northerly town of any size - I mean it has a bank, post office and that sort of stuff. I liked the hostel, with its adjacent Maori arts and crafts centre that was very interesting. When I arrived I met the cats, a friendly long-haired grey one, and a moodier short-haired young black cat who I was told was called Black Bitch. Spent the first night talking politics with a German guy called Fred, a Dutch guy called Sebastian, and an Aussie, whose name I missed.

The next morning, Fred, Sebastian and I joined a tour up to Cape Reinga, nearly at the very top of NZ, and the point from which spirits of Maori dead leave the island to return to the fabled homeland. The bus storms down Ninety Mile Beach (which is 90km long), mostly driving on sand, but often going through the shallows and sending salt water spraying up the windows. The driver gave a commentary peppered with bad jokes I'd have been proud of. He laughed at these jokes, with a peculiar cartoonish laugh, and that cracked us all up.

"See those birds up we just passed? They're called terns. They come in two types - these ones flew off to the left, so they must be left-terns. Huh huh-hee-hee-hee-hee!"

It was a little odd travelling along in a bus, actually have to crane my neck to see the view ahead, and not feeling the wind on my face or hearing the quiet whir of the bike. Comfier seat though.

Spent a day doing some painting, diary writing & relaxing, then chatting into the evening with fellow backpackers and some people staying there to do a marathon along 90 Mile Beach. One Maori woman (who really was called Tina Tuna) had done an 'ultra' marathon that sounded just ridiculously masochistic. Another runner was wearing what looked like rainbow tie-dye pyjamas and made a meal consisting of nothing but tomatoes. I saw him healing another (rather sceptical) runner by applying his finger-tips to the guy's scalp to direct positive energy flows.

Tina Tuna and Sharkie, the resident Maori wood-carver, chatted about what it means to be Maori, about the Maori language and how it allowed the Maori to pass on their knowledge from one generation to the next, long before westerners introduced an alphabet and written forms of the language.

This was an enjoyable place to hang around before starting on the trip back down the west coast.

The ride from Kaitaia south towards the village of Kohukohu was great, despite staying up chatting far too late the previous night. The sun was out most of the time and there were some gorgeous views across huge pine forests, valleys with deep, green rolling hills, mangrove flats, birds of prey flying so low and close I couldn't believe it, and some bizarre distorted looking trees with a distinct supernatural look about them.

A treasure of a backpackers' here, peaceful and hidden away in amongst the rustling bush. I sat out on the shady wooden verandah talking with folk, including Rob, a photographer who apparently used to be a postman in Linlithgow.

The next day, and a short ferry trip across the bay followed by a fairly short bike ride, and I arrived at Opononi and its close neighbouring village, Omapere.

The backpackers' here was eerily quiet, despite there being four or five other people there. In the evening I made a note of what I could hear:

- the distant sound of waves crashing

- cicadas singing outside

- the quiet sounds of a guy eating in the kitchen

- a couple playing chess - a quiet word, a shifting of weight in a chair, the tap of a chess piece being placed somewhere.

- the ticking of a clock in the kitchen

- the sound of a guy turning the pages of the book he was reading

One summer in the 1950s, this bay had its very own resident dolphin, so friendly it would play with kids swimming on the beach, and do tricks with beach balls. 'Opo' the dolphin attacted visitors from across NZ and beyond to visit, and at weekends the tiny village was swamped with tourists. I visited the museum, and saw newspaper clippings and even a newsreel-style film about the dolphin. Somebody tried to take a pot shot at it, and afterwards they had a sign erected 'DO NOT SHOOT THE GAY DOLPHIN'. Sadly the dolphin was killed anyway, seemingly stuck by accident on some rocks.

The landscape around here is amazing. Great big hills made from pale yellow and red sand, huge sandbanks that haven't moved in generations, in places carved in peculiar ways by wind and rain.

I did some more work on the painting I was doing for my cousin's birthday present.

In the evening I walked down to a small pier with Magnus, a cool friendly Scottish guy, and watched as he tried fishing there. Sadly I left my camera behind, and missed a gorgeous peachy-pink sunset. But I did have the pleasure of talking to a local confused person about the relative perils of poor dental hygiene, smoking, prison and electric-shock therapy. He seemed friendly enough, if a little lonely.

Kaihu was really just a little farm with backpackers', just south of a large kauri forest. From Opononi, it was a hard slog up into the hills of this forest in drizzly rain, but the scenary made it worthwhile. The rain made the bush look all the more verdant and alive. There's a whopper of a kauri here, estimated to be about 2000 years old and still going strong.

Eventually the road levelled off, and I was able to relax going down the other side, out of the forest. The road wound close between kauri in places, and red volcanic mud had slipped onto the road surface where the mountainside was steepest.

Kaihu Farm was a welcome rest, with a friendly proprietor who had a selection of frozen home-cooked meals he'd heat up for guests, and who had a short path out the back that through the bush to a spot brightly decorated with glow worms.

After being in the middle of nowhere at Kaihu, I was looking forward to reaching Dargaville, a small town, but a town none the less. It turned out that a few thousand other cyclists were hoping to spend that night there too. They were doing a clockwise tour of Northland over three or four days for charity I think, and as I cycled out of accommodation-less Dargaville, I passed cyclist after cyclist reaching the end of that day's riding.

Oddly, I've seen very few cyclists, and almost no touring cyclists for most of my time here.

So I stopped in Ruawai, which is really just a village. As I cycled in, I passed school kids walking home along the roadside. One said, "Hello!" then a little further down the road another called out, "Hey are you German?".

I stopped at an okay hostel, and later had a mixed grill at a greasy spoon - the only eatery in Ruawai, and chatted with a truck driver about his U.N. work (!). There were bored, friendly kids everywhere, many on bikes. As I left the cafe, I caught the remnants of a colourful sunset.

Another cyclist was staying there, Dorothee, from Sweden. Unlike me, she was going clockwise around Northland. We exchanged thoughts on the parts of the route we'd seen. Dorothee was camping, and as I set off the next morning, I saw her bike was covered in luggage. I didn't envy her carrying all that weight.

Dorothee had told me already there wasn't much to see at Wellsford, and little in the way of accommodation. Rather than cycle past the town, through the intimidatingly-named Dome Forest and Conical Peak, I ended up paying for a room in a motel. That did mean I had the novelty of my own room, ensuite bathroom, tea and coffee, lounge, Sky TV - and no one to talk to.

In town, I went to a sports bar that doubled as a restaurant, and had a very tasty meal there - a rack of lamb with mashed potato and mashed kumara. On the menu it was called 'Baa-bera's Chest'. There was a big TV projector showing a Super 12 rugby match. I watched, not the slightest clue what was going on.

The next day, I had breakfast in Wellsford, then cycled through picturesque Dome Forest to Warkworth, passing Sheep World on the way. And then it was familiar roads for a while - busy roads and steep hills and sunshine and logging trucks. On the hills I went into a low gear and slogged away, slowly but steadily. I pictured myself as a bubble, rising naturally - inevitably, even - through water. I'd rise, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, but I'd keep rising, floating to the surface. I found this reassuring, and it kept me going.

Soon I was heading back south along the horrifically hilly coastal road through Orewa and then Silverdale, Albany and then seemingly endless suburbs and industrial estates into Devonport. Eventually, I saw the Sky Tower and I smiled. There were cheers and excitement from a playing field by the road - a modest crowd were supporting some rugby players.

Devonport seemed like an old friend. The cinema was still being refurbished. More people this time, with it being a Saturday - sat out on the grass, eating ice-creams, sat outside cafes, riding in horse-drawn open carriages.

John was in at 'Shipherd's Ave'. I chatted with him a little, and felt exhausted.