Day 19 – 21 Hobbiton to Aukland

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Well, it's time to wrap the account of this bike trip. It’s now two weeks since it ended, and we're about to head back to the UK after visiting our Australian friends. I wrote this entry whilst sat outside at a street-side café in Mosman, a cute suburb of Sydney, waiting for Pam and Helen to re-appear from a beauty parlour where unmentionable atrocities are being performed by undercover Vietnamese shock troops armed with wax and cuticle knives. Let me explain how I got here from the Green Dragon.

We left Hobbiton (which is near Matamata incidentally) bound for Whitianga. We initially had trouble identifying this place on the map following a verbal briefing from John, since “wh” is approximately pronounced as “f” in the Maori language. It’s a seaside resort on Mercury Bay, halfway up the Coromandel peninsula, on the east coast of the North Island. When we got going, we had a pleasant afternoon ride there and arrived in good time for drinks from John’s cool-box at our bog-standard beachfront motel. The place was also the weekend residence of a group of Harley-Davidson riders, who it transpired were attending “The Gathering”, an annual get together of NZ Harley enthusiasts that this year had selected this very weekend and location for their bash. As evening set in, the reverberations of their agricultural V twin engines were eventually replaced by the sound of a live rock band somewhere in town, belting out a very agreeable noise, as the attendees dismounted and got right at it.

By contrast, our evening promised to be a more high-brow affair. John had explained we were dining without Mum (it was too late for her) at a French restaurant tonight, but that the owners were a little inflexible with their menu; you had to have two or three courses – one course was not permitted. This force-feeding had caused some consternation with guests of previous tours, but John assured us that everyone had concluded it was the best meal of the holiday. One could be forgiven for thinking we were headed to a German establishment, where rules are rules and should be followed, but no, as we arrived the unmistakeable warbling sounds of Edith Piaf were heard coming from the restaurant’s music system. And at an irritating just-a-bit-too-loud level, as if someone was determined that you understood you were in a restaurant that was French with a capital F. Perhaps they’re from Alsace, I mused to myself. Then the lady of the house came over to us and confirmed beyond any doubt at all that she was indeed French, and probably Parisienne.

“Only three? You booked for four. Why did you not ring and tell me?” was the warm reception we received upon entry, a novel and unusually brusque first few words, I thought, to say to customers who had ridden four thousand kilometres for the highlight meal of the tour.

“I could have sold another table!” she continued. The conversation in the room died away, the other diners stared down at their laps, nervously busying themselves with their serviettes and such. John mumbled something about only finding out a couple of minutes ago, a white lie designed to defuse the situation. I had other ideas, however, and decided to chip in with a helpful comment, cheerily delivered at a volume sufficient to carry over Edith’s noodlings, whilst looking directly at Madame.

“Hey John, that’s OK. Let’s not inconvenience this lady any longer – there’s a perfectly good pizza place dying for our business just down the street.”

It doesn’t take much to get my back up these days, especially after a couple of industrial strength G&Ts. Nevertheless, this technique worked splendidly. We were ushered to our table whilst the lady explained that it was, in reality, no problem at all. And so she probably thought that was the end of the matter.

But it wasn’t. You see, the côte de boeuf pour deux we ordered had the texture of cardboard and was devoid of all taste, so I left it after a couple of bites, disappointed but quietly resigned - the oysters had been great after all. Not the chef’s fault, just poor meat. Madame, however, her eagle eyes scanning her domain, pounced the moment she spotted my misdemeanour. After whisking the piece of plasterboard masquerading as a fine cut of beef back to the kitchen (where apparently a full post mortem was conducted) she returned, declaring the meat perfect in her (and the chef’s) opinion.

She stood by the table glaring at me, presumably expecting me to apologise and to eat up my dinner (we had already confirmed that we were happy to pay). I helpfully suggested she find another meat supplier or take it off the menu. After politely passing on the offer of dessert, we left, leaving John in deep conversation with Madame. Turns out he had the item taken off the bill, but since ours was an all-inclusive tour package that was his gain, not ours. By this stage I was eager to go hang out with the Harley guys at the rock venue but realised, after consulting with Pam, that that was a silly idea.

It felt like a line had been crossed. Pam and I felt now that the end of the bike trip couldn’t come soon enough. John and his Mum were perfectly nice, but since the others left we were missing being part of a band of travellers discovering new things together. Time to get off the bus, so to speak.

Just across the Tasman Sea, the next stage of our holiday waited. It just so happened that New Zealand was expecting the fourth cyclone of the year, after not having had a single one in the last eight. We were due to spend two nights in Whitianga but elected instead to make use of the last day of good weather, before Cyclone Hola ploughed into us, to ride to Auckland. We checked with Virgin Australia, moved the flights forward two days, and headed out the next morning.

We rode around and across the peninsula to Coromandel and then took the coast road all the way around the Firth of Thames. Very tight, twisty roads along the shore, which at several places were reduced to single lane gravel tracks. A most enjoyable day’s riding that ended up with us travelling through the outskirts, and then nearing the centre, of Auckland. We had intended to spend another day and night in Auckland originally, but no longer, and regrettably we never got a good look at what is New Zealand’s largest city by far. I may have to remedy that next time we visit. We said goodbye to John’s Mum after dinner as she would not be up to run us to the airport in the morning.

We had learned a huge amount about New Zealand during these last three weeks and had experienced some wonderful moments and seen some incredible sights whilst covering 4342km. For anyone who likes riding on country roads like we have in the UK, New Zealand has them by the ton and much more besides. The New Zealanders we encountered were always friendly and approachable – whenever Pam and I stopped to look at a map, people would always say hello and offer help. The places where we stayed were never stuffy and we were always made to feel welcome. And John was a very pleasant, helpful and knowledgeable guide and everything he was responsible for ran like clockwork. We said goodbye to him as he dropped us at the airport at 0600 for the flight to Sydney.

If I’m in Sydney again, I may well go look at Auckland and the northern parts of the North Island. And maybe the South too, to an up-market eco lodge which I believe they have in spades. As for the next bike trip, Pam and I are thinking of South America in a couple of years. However, I have thoughts of a solo one in North Africa before I get too old to take it on.

Cheers all.

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