Saturday morning, and I should be waking up and getting ready for the Tongariro Crossing, but the weather put an end to those plans. I still have a hire car booked, so I'm going to visit the Wairarapa region. I have a cooked breakfast in the hotel, and walk across the city to pick up the car. It's a scorching day, and I drink nearly a litre of water just in 40 minutes of walking. But the paperwork is straightforward, and 15 minutes later I'm driving back to the hotel to pack all my bags into the car. It's hot work, so the windows are wound right down as I get on my way. I get on Highway 2, driving alongside the bay and out past Lower Hutt, Upper Hutt, and on into the mountains 30 minutes north of Wellington. Highway 2 twists and turns up the steep sides of the Rimutaka mountain range, and down the other side, into the broad plains of the Wairarapa, and wine country.
I have a rough idea that I want to head to some of the small towns on the Pacific coast, but that's as far as my plan goes. As usual, I'm on a flying visit to get a feel for the place, so I don't stop for long in any of the towns along the way. I pass through Featherston, detour to Martinborough, then back to Greytown (which looks like a nice place), Carterton and Masterton, the biggest city in the Wairarapa region. I drive on.
I'm heading for two places on my map - Castlepoint and Riversdale. As I leave Masterton, I take a right turn off Highway 2 (which just looks like a normal UK urban A road) and drive towards Tauweru. The roads become smaller and more rural and, although it takes a long time, it's a nice drive. I come to a junction showing left to Castlepoint and right to Riversdale. I turn left to Castlepoint, for no particular reason. Half an hour later, I'm there. It's a small, small place. There's just one small road into Castlepoint, and Castlepoint is where it ends. On the right are some small houses sprinkled up the hill, and a small shop looking out to sea. On the left, is a small car park and then, down a few steps, is the beach.
The sky is light grey but the sea is lighter, the strong onshore wind and the tumbling waves churning the water into a foam. I park on the small car park overlooking the beach, and walk along the sand - hard and damp from the spray coming off the ocean. It's still warm in spite of the wind, but today is not a day for paddling. Standing and staring at the sea, it looks angry and unforgiving - roaring and pounding the shore like a boxer pummelling a punch bag. If Neptune is in the area, he's oblivious to me standing there. He's in a bad mood and he's taking it out on the beach.
Away and to my right, there's Castlepoint Lighthouse. It's a local landmark and attraction and I want to walk up to see it. But first I want to decide whether to stay here tonight. I'm not feeling any immediate affinity for Castlepoint. I leave the beach, climb a few steps back to the car park, and cross the road to the shop. It's sparse inside. Right ahead of me, behind a small counter, is a small kitchen. To the left is a small seated cafe area. To the right, various shelves stocking essentials for the local community. I walk to the counter and ask the lady for some local knowledge. I want somewhere to have a couple of beers and maybe some banter, and then somewhere to stay nearby. I'm out of luck. The nearest bar is at the Whakataki Hotel - a large wooden pub with bedrooms. It's about 4 km away, on the road that brought me in and, although it caught my eye, it didn't fire my imagination. I walk back to the car and check the route to Riversdale. It's not far.
It takes about 30 minutes to get there. As I drive in, the first thing I notice is the number of for sale signs. Then a small hut, set up as a mini estate agent. Its wall is filled with adverts for plots of land for sale. What's wrong with Riversdale?
As I drive through, it looks like a nice place. In fact, it looks very nice. It's bigger than Castlepoint, but it's still small, with just two roads passing through to the far end of the village. I arrive at a small parking area overlooking the sea. The waves are still noisy, but much less angry than in Castlepoint. On the beach, the surf lifesavers are packing away their flags and safety equipment. Swimmers are emerging from the sea. It's early evening, and daytime activities are coming to an end.
There's a small shop - a bit bigger than Castlepoint but with much more character. The kitchen is bigger and there are delicious smells wafting out. There's a steady trickle of people in and out, and it feels much more like a little community. I walk in and ask the same questions as before - I'm looking for somewhere to have some beers and somewhere to sleep. The young man and young lady are both helpful but not hopeful. There's a large wedding on the edge of town (I could see the marquee from the beach car park), and it means that much of the village is there. It also means that most of the rental accommodation is taken.
But, after some head-scratching, I'm in luck with the beers - at the far end of town (not very far) is a golf club that has no particular dress code and opens its doors to everyone. Then, suddenly, I might even be in luck for somewhere to sleep. One of the customers in the shop rings her husband and asks him to show me around the holiday accommodation that they have empty. It's a stroke of luck. Five minutes later, I'm being shown round "The Orange Scruff" as the house is affectionately called. The outside walls are as orange as orange can be, but it's not particularly scruffy inside. No frills, but no scruffiness either. But it's a holiday house with two bedrooms and it's more than I need. At $140 dollars for one night, I decline. I'll sleep in the car. So I go back to the car park overlooking the beach, get changed out of my shorts and flip-flops, into my jeans and skate shoes, and walk back to the golf club.
There's quite a crowd of people in there, drinking, chatting and watching the New Zealand vs England cricket. In less than five minutes I'm invited to join a group of people, and they're my friends for the evening. Onslow, Sharon (Onslow's wife), and Sharon (someone else's wife, but he's sitting at the next table, with somebody talking him to death) are friendly, happily drunk, and laughing freely. Another guy (Mick) joins us with his wife, and I spend several hours drinking and chatting and having a good time, until I decide it's time for me to go back to the car. I leave the warmth and light and noise of the clubhouse, walk out of the car park gates, turn right and walk down a short unlit road toward the beach. It's midnight, the village is silent, and by the time I reach the T-junction and turn left along Blue Pacific Parade, I realise I've emerged into a rare and special night.
I'm walking along a small residential road, lined on both sides by widely spaced houses, bushes and palm trees. Behind the houses on my left, running parallel with this road, is the only other road through the village. Behind the houses on my right is the Pacific ocean. I can hear it still churning against the beach, but it sounds different now. Quieter. Calmer. The wind is strong but still warm. Small gusts flick and ruffle my clothes and whistle softly in my ears. There are no streetlights anywhere but, above the ocean, the full moon is bright enough to cast clear shadows across the road. The rustling trees, the swaying palms, the telegraph poles are silhouetted against the sky. What a night! I walk slowly, taking in the dark but clear surroundings. In the reduced light, I relish the sound of the Pacific, the occasional smell of flowers, the feeling of the wind on my face. Too soon, I find myself approaching the car park, and the hire car - my bed for the night. But I can't shut out the night yet. I sit on the picnic bench in front of the car, and look out at the mighty ocean for a while, until finally I have to sleep. I leave the windows slightly open, recline the seat, and drift off to sleep with the fresh sea air rippling softly through the car.
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