Monday 10th January: on the road to nowhere. Wellington, New Zealand.

Our plan was to head south-east  from central Rotorua, ambulating through the rolling vineyards and lush olive groves of the charming Napier Valley. We would arrive late evening in Wellington, prepared for our ferry crossing to the South Island early the following morning.

 

After a late wake up, a full English breakfast and a spot of playground activity, we set the compass due west for a quick nip to nearby Aratiatia Dam. Man-made floodgates held back the river rapids, until two or three times a day, its jaws opened wide, releasing pressure in the  brimming lake above.

Patiently, we sat waiting on the craggy edges of the viewing platform, securing our premium vantage point for the noontime release. We passed the time by spotting shapes and figurines in the rock formations opposite. My three young children tendered an array of boobies, bums and winkies, however I maturely prided myself in imagining Winnie the Pooh and a penguin. 

In true underwhelming under-appreciation of their New Zealand touristic wealth, only three other people turned up for the big reveal.

Warning sirens trumpeted the grand opening, and we poised, camcorder in hand, ready for our synthetic tsunami. Water oozed through the gap in a slow dribble onto the bone-dry river creek bed. Seriously, we had taken a good hour out of our day to watch this anti-climax!

But, Nature worked her wonders, and the trickles united, flourishing into a white water flood, tearing down the pathway below. A standing ovation ensued, to go and get the last of yesterday’s honeycomb, tastily mopped up with some fresh brown bread for lunch.

Now we really must get on the highway to Wellington – a colossal 590 kilometres away.

A kilometre or two further westwards, we slammed into reverse, enticed by the billboard for a gallery staging a live glass-blowing demonstration.

Artistry in motion, we gawped at the craftsman twisting and manipulating his chewy caramel glass into a miniature red fairy toadstool, shimmering with white crystal flecks.

Our entrance fee had included a $5 money-off voucher for any factory purchases. I plumped not for the obvious red toadstool, but a $10 hand-crafted aqua starfish paperweight, much to the sneering contempt of the assistant manager. No $100 purchase commission from me, thank you very much.

I must come out of the parking lot and turn left, back to Rotorua. Unless you spot, from the very corner of your eye, a signpost for Shawn the Prawn’s World-Famous fishing farm just 10 minutes drive further west. Ignore it. Turn right. No left. No right.  In another Dorothy moment of indecisiveness, we tossed a coin to decide our fate. Heads it is, or hopefully tails.

I don’t actually like prawns, nor do the kids, but this was a rare moment to show my love and concern for my kind, considerate husband.

Basically, we paid an extortionate entrance fee for the privilege of catching our own prawns, which would be cooked before our very eyes for lunch. Of course, if we wanted even more prawns for lunch, we could buy extra at the restaurant. We didn’t hear alarm bell number one, but surely, if their prawn farm was in plentiful stock, we wouldn’t need to purchase extras from the conveniently-located on-site restaurant, would we?

These same bells did peal minutes later as 1) they advised it was a bit of a patient game – code for you’ll be lucky to catch a bite, sunshine, and 2) they handed my large family a teeny sandcastle-sized bucket for our efforts.

Lots of bamboo cane thrashing in the murky waters and we achieved nothing more than feeding the crafty sparrows some tasty morsels of fresh tuna from our bait box. Notching that one up to experience, we returned our empty bucket to the hut and walked out. 

 A smidge 300 metres west and we nipped into the honey farm for a quick snack, to replace the prawns we never ate. It was honey bee heaven: every display stall sticky with free samples of meade, or fudge, mustards or simply the pure stuff.  I thought the ginger honey was smashing.

The ice-cream lovers tucked into hokey pokey (Crunchie) ice cream, and I went Old School with the liquorice fudge. Fantastic.

A fully-functional bee hive buzzed away inside the farm, as it was connected to the floral gardens outside via a clear plastic tube. Tony loved the idea of the drone’s (male bee’s) job until the pamphlet explained that once spent, he would be slain, for the crime of simply having nothing more to offer society. Ring any bells, ladies?

Ready to return to Rotorua (not an easy sentence if, like me, you can’t say your “r”s pwoperly), we had to make a decision.

Approaching sunset, there was no sense now in exploring the rich Napier Valley landscape. So we pointed Navman southbound towards Lake Taupo and Lord of the Rings country.

Lake Taupo was stunning, one of those places that grabs you by the nape of your neck and goosebumps you all over. It was like the relaxed little sister of Lake Como in Italy, or perhaps Lake Windermere in the sunshine.

I drove and peeked, and drove and peeked some more, for a good hour around the lakeside, and we finally slunk away to Middle Earth and the evil mountain peaks of Mount Doom.

In my lifetime, I have tried to read some classics: War and Peace beat me, so did Don Quixote (I cheated and watched the film, but I still didn’t understand). However, I am proud to declare myself one of the chosen few who has actually read the Lord of the Rings trilogy – way before talk of any Hollywood epic blockbuster.

I felt very privileged to be just minutes away from Peter Jackson’s masterpiece film set. Mount Ngauruhoe’s stage persona, Mount Doom, loomed ahead in the distance.  Actually,  there were two mountains, and I didn’t recognise either of them from Tolkein’s description. So I took photos of both, just to be sure. A mountain’s a mountain, as far as I can tell. A gander in Bilbo’s hobbit-hole is more my style, really.

It did remind me of a customer I had served whilst working in WHSmiths at Stansted Airport several years ago. (I took the job for the convenient early Saturday morning shift and glamour airport setting, not for the minimum wages, surprisingly).

Is it just me who has a soft spot for Orlando?

Anyway, I explained to this mid-50’s sleek-bobbed, Chanel-toting Ryanair passenger, who was probably off to Zurich rather than Alicante, that I loved JRR Tolkien. Clocking me as nothing more than a humble shelf-stacker, she assumed that I was referring to the children’s classic The Hobbit. When I explained that I meant the LOTR books, she gasped in genuine astonishment. No! A shop assistant who could actually read a book of some substance. Well, look at me now with my own blog, lady!

 

Feeling hungry, I woke my sleepy passengers (now they were simple Hobbit creatures if ever I saw one) and we succumbed to a pizza dinner at a roadside café. Tony ordered an Americano Pizza – get this, a pizza topped with just tomato sauce, mozzarella and chips. Scrumptious.

Well after midnight, we pulled up at the Bluebridge ferry terminal and checked out the other passengers lounging about in their cars.

We set up camp for the night, satisfied that we were not alone (i.e. we didn’t mind getting a fine for illegal overnight parking, as long as we weren’t the only ones getting a ticket.) Holly and Daniel slept in the boot, I kipped on a boogie board, Joe curled up in the passenger seat and Tony catnapped with a steering wheel digging into his ribs.

Not the best sleep in the world (again!) but we saved money on a hotel room and we would be first in line for boarding our ferryboat tomorrow.