Mainland Heart Island

I don't know what it is about islands that sends me into the deepest contented daydream. Not the Fiji/Raro/Samoa most dream of, or the 'bloody Ibiza' some may dream of being, but the rugged, desolate yet proudly independent gems that encircle this country.

While I have been out to White Island, my backyard Whale Island remains a mystery to me, and I envy those who have just recently been able to partake in a joint venture between local bodies and visit. Secret bays, brand new perspectives of the land you have just sailed from, landscapes which may only define that one island.

Walking to the top of Mt.Manganui gives you the ability to see out to Mayor, down Matakana and up to Slipper. .

New Plymouth even gets little Sugar Loaf as a cherry on top of its land jut sundae.

I spend the final minutes of most flights orientating myself, picking the settled pockets of farmland from the island reserves, or convincing myself that I have never seen that particular island on a map before. Hauraki Gulf especially renders me clueless, even when studying a map of the area. It was exciting to note that Rotoroa Island (owners The Sallies ran a rehab centre, initially under the "Inebriates and Drunkards Act 1906", this drew to a close in 2005, where similar work was then carried out under a more 'bridging' type program so as not to isolate recoverers)has just become open to the public for visiting after the signing of a 99 year lease by society benefactors Neal and Annette Plowman. While I roll my eyes at the thought that there will be 5 or 6 small lifestyle blocks available, it does look like a worthwhile cause...although see my future post on why I think multi coloured umbrella "the arts" is being taken for a ride...anyway! The Coromandel.

When in Kuaotunu, I found myself bowing to Great Barrier, before visiting Coromandel for the first time and catching a glimpse of Waiheke. Great Merc and Red Merc seemed like parts of the mainland from Buffalo Beach, and Mahurangi from the Cathedral Cove walk carpark was tantalisingly close. .

Now that I'm back in the Hawke's Bay, I find myself remembering how in awe I am of the Mahia Peninsula; from here, it takes roughly 3.5 hours to get to the start of the metal. When it ends 45 minutes later, you're barely halfway. I'd love to go to Portland one day, and land some sweet, sweet fish for the table (I may bake loaves, who knows).

Last year the trip over the hill to Waimarama brought me to tears. Bare Island is so beautiful, particularly when seen for the first time by one sensitive redhead at a her favourite driving time: dusk. .

The Chathams. Well for goodness sake. They have their own timezone, and the trees are Tim Burtonesque if ever I've seen a Tim Burton tree.

When I reach Stewart Island, I will be ear to earring, knowing I've conquered Foveaux and summited Allen, done the Raikura track and skipped over to Ulva (does anyone else giggle just a little?). If I could swing an oyster and a yarn with Marcus Lush, then perhaps I'd consider stopping in Bluff, but we'll play that one by ear. .

Stupidly missing the fact that daily sailings to Great Barrier cease at the end of the extended holiday period in February, my Plan A for recent annual leave was relegated to the shredder. Oh how I would have loved to have scrambled atop Mt.Hobson, landed some sweet, sweet fish (again) for my beloveds and their mealplates, meandered on foot, or on the island's bus company which boast's the motto "We Get Everywhere...Eventually". But, the trip must wait, and instead I was treated to an absolutely brilliant week in the Coromandel, ending with a drive up through the Seabird Coast (thankfully NOT true to its name as we drove through) with a stop at Tapakananga and peering into the Ashby Homestead, finishing with a quick trip to Waiheke, to which I had not been before. .

Waiheke. I'm going to be honest. .

It was a bit weird. .

A suburb of Auckland, without the admission of being so. It didn't feel novel, or particuarly special, though I dare say it holds many hearts, just as benign places to some hold a piece of mine.

It felt like it used to be like Great Barrier, but proximity to the port of Auckland has worn it down. Parts of it were genuinely like a New Zealand film; non-era specific but erring on the side of nostalgia. I don't know, the beauty of an island in the eye of the beholder really, but I yearned for a few dinky baches here and there, and really what I got was something not too dissimilar to what Raglan is fast becoming: slightly lacklustre in the genuine department.

Give me the roadless Kawau any day (funny that Marcus Lush's island episode of North has just screened, I've been thinking of islands all week and nowhere near a television. No I'm not trying to be creepy.) .

When I was younger I read in a National Geographic the story of a man...Mark? who was bitten/chomped/near damn killed by a Great White near Campbell Island. Now, that place is barren. And yet, to land on it, have a quick walk, flop on the sponge scrub, chuck out a rod and take some not very professional photos with DOC signage as proof of my landing would be amazing. .

Am I secretly an Island Box Ticker? Maybe, but I'd rather that than be bloody Ibiza. .

Until next time!
L. .

Photo sources: www.whaleislandtours.com www.matakanaislandnz.org www.teara.govt.nz

It's that time again...

To take the mick out of people. It's such a delight to do so. But there is a line. Sometimes when I have crossed that line unintentionally, I have this immense sense of shame fill my stomach and I lose sleep for an indefinite amount of time. It's when I have not thought through my fun poke, and upon vocal delivery realise that I just sound mean. Now, spite in taking the mick out of people is not my intention. What my intention is usually is to not so diplomatically (yet if the subject refuses to take themselves lightly it is merely a faux interest in themselves in which I have taken) encourage people/dickheads/lovely people having a self indulgent moment to take themselves less seriously, get off their self elevated golden throne, and have a laugh at themselves. I have them, and I sincerely appreciate people doing the same for me. It keeps one grounded. And mindful of others.

Who am I referring to at this very moment? No one I know personally. My 'victim' is currently selling some sweet Witchery and Country Road items on Trademe. Neither stores exist in Hawkes Bay or in Bay of Plenty, and though it's always better to try things on in store, I do like to daydream whilst perusing for sweet tea cups, outdoor chairs and leather pants (damn it, I still cannot find the right pair!).

Anyway. At the risk of being caught out myself by a fellow mick taker, I'm wagering more heavily on the angle that this girl is dead serious. It makes my point feasible. The following sentence was this girl's catalyst for selling her wardrobe.

Welcome to my auction. I am selling all of fab belongings. Turning into material- free Yogi/ Musician.

(the following free space is silence to absorb the above)





YOU NEVER. NEVER. NEVER SAY SHIT LIKE THAT. People who, for decades, or without making a song and dance about the above lifestyle have just gone ahead and done it, would NEVER SAY SHIT LIKE THAT. People like misguided trade me girl make a mockery whether they like it or not of people who genuinely live and breathe material free lifestyles, or musicians who cannot afford possessions because they would rather write and perform music. It's not always a choice if you are a pursuing something you want so badly, it's not glamourous, or a 'trend' to adhere to briefly, these lifestyle choices can sometimes go so far as to define a person. It's like choosing to become a nun, or bankrupt yourself going organic farming because you 100% believe it is right, not because it is cool or fun to become bankrupt or give up sex for life.

Where have all the genuine cowboys gone? The same place one hit wonder Paula Cole went is my guess.

Until next time!
L.

All Black #1109?

Last night I had a dream. It wasn't about living in a nation where my four future children were judged by the content of their character, but it was relevant to the state of this nation's sporting missus, rugby.

The contents at their most vivid are now hazy, but let me enlighten those who want a touch of bemusement this Friday.

Graham Henry had named me on the bench in this weekend's test against Scotland...being played at Wembley Stadium.

I cannot tell you how pumped I was. My dad was proud, I'd made history by being the first female to be named in the mighty team, people, people were talking. I somehow became shy and started seeking advice from Ian Jones. He told me to call him Kamo. That part was weird.

How did I get named? Turns out I'm big enough to play at international level in the second five spot, despite retaining my 59kg, 5'4" stats in dream world. Nonu had popped his achilles, and when confronted by the media (on a school rugby field no less), Henry was quoted as saying "Nonu is out, Williams is having a baby, and I certainly can't take the field- chortle chortle- Morris has been playing outstandingly lately, and we feel that she is the best person to take the bench despite being a female." I would have thought this type of approach to winning might fly in the current state of cricket, but to have my conscience whip it out for code? Crikey.

But oh how the media loved it everyone! The NZ Herald was knocking on my door, stuff.co.nz had it splashed across the homepage, One News all of a sudden had recruited Summerfield and he was backing me 100% despite substantial doubt across the rugby world.

.

I was the new Stephen Donald you might say.

Cut to the changing rooms. Everyone was present apart from McCaw. We were all sitting around. All of a sudden I was (and I can't lie here, I have to be honest) checking out the All Blacks. Now, admittedly I am someone who has picked her Fantasy Rugby team based on looks. But that was when I was stupid and wanted to be controversial when I worked in a warehouse with 8 males, and was interested in rugby for superficial reasons. Nowadays Kieran Read and Tony Woodcock have as much respect from this little ginger neck of the woods as former France fullback Xavier Garbajosa. Does anyone remember him? He played in the 1999 World Cup. Oh, that's right, that year is banished from ever New Zealander's life. Never happened. You can't even get a tax return from that financial year.

You may as well be calling your peer a cotton headed ninny muggins when you bring up '99. Or 'nam, as an aside.

Anyway, the dream. All of a sudden management walks in to the changing rooms. I get excited, we're about to be given our jerseys! We're taking the field soon! I start thinking that I don't even care if I take the field or not (my size and real world a) lack of rugby experience and b) anatomical differences are catching up with me fast). I plan on donating my jersey to a helicopter rescue place (non-descript in the dream). Richie McCaw starts giving the tactical plan for the game. I sit comfortably in my boyfriend's blue jersey knowing that any minute it's getting ditched for a shiny new black clima-cool number.

Then ol' cappie names the team again. As if we didn't know. I almost tune out since we've ben told who makes up the haka pod. This ritual is obviously just another chance to pat yourself on the back for being ruddy amazing, almost deifying yourself for donning the jersey. I then realise everyone's looking at me.

I've been dropped from the bench. Nonu's back. I slip out quietly to have a cry in the stalls. Henry can't look at me in the eye. I'm no deity today.

Graham then finds me and starts justifying my dropping. I can't quite recall the details, but I do remember him saying something about me being able to join the Black Ferns.

Ah, no thanks G. Tempting, but I will pass. I'd get absoutely dominated in that arena. I might be an amazing rugby player that transcends gender, but I'm not after a death sentence.

Until next time!

L.