Feb 2
Our time in ‘the north’ was up. We needed to start making our way back home, though plenty of meandering to soften the blow was planned. The first was a minor detour that got added to the itinerary in an instant the night before – such is the pulling power for me of the words ‘closed psychiatric hospital’. Read more
I live away from my main base of family and friends so my trip away at Christmas provided an obvious opportunity to address the risk of ‘out of sight, out of mind’. Read more
A century ago this was a treasured hub for social functions, meetings, church services and acquiring library books. Today the old hall sits quietly at the top of the rise, a structure you’re vaguely aware of as you fly through the blink-and-you-miss-it settlement of Woodhill on State Highway 16.
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My dicky toe had scuttled plans of getting out and about on foot properly. In any case, the weather wasn’t exactly conducive to lengthy walks with a camera. To satisfy the itch to get out and get snapping it was clear I’d need to rely on my car a lot more.
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Without question there are far more beautiful rivers in NZ. Up here there are no glaciers to feed the waterways. Don’t be put off by the colour though – the perpetually muddy Kaipara River has its own beauty and character.
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‘Twas after lunch on Christmas Day afternoon and we were out in the wop-wops near where I grew up. I wanted to ‘go take photos’ so with Dad as chauffeur, Gran riding shotgun and me wedged in the back seat we headed out the narrow metal road to the end of South Head.
I awoke early, not from the excitement of a probable visit from Santa – he couldn’t possibly have known where I was – but from an alarm sometime after 5am in the motel unit next to mine. Delighted, I was.
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Like many other gleeful people, I’ve finished work for the year and have a two week break before cranking into 2014.
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The other weekend I went for a walk, the only real objective being to find some hills – not a difficult task around these parts.
I took myself up to Maupuia, a suburb on the hills above Miramar, along the Maupuia Walkway (which I’ve belatedly found out follows what was the old Prison Road) and further on up the hill to Mt Crawford.
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Noooo! The last day had arrived. As well as a general reluctance to end our travel adventures, there was final packing to deal with (cue anxious moments with bag scales) not to mention the wretched journey home.
Our packing joy was interrupted by the sunrise which begged to be enjoyed from down on the beach.
tall tales 