Day 12-16 Akaroa (South Island) to Napier (North Island)


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Oceania » New Zealand » North Island » Napier
March 7th 2018
Published: March 7th 2018
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Pam at Banks Peninsula SummitPam at Banks Peninsula SummitPam at Banks Peninsula Summit

Before we hit the cloud
As everyone knows, riding pillion is an acquired and rare skill. It’s about combining your weight with that of the bike in such a way that the rider simply moves the bike and the pillion makes no difference at all. Pam is a particularly good pillion. Never flaps, weight always neutral, relaxed and confident (rightly or wrongly) in my ability to negotiate whatever the road throws at us. Up to now, the greatest accolade that I would have said that you can give a pillion rider is to say that you don’t even notice they are there. Yet something happened the other day that I believe warrants an even greater complement.



After writing the last blog, Pam and I had decided to take a late afternoon ride along the crest of the hills around the Banks Peninsula, but shortly after fuelling up we ran into cold cloud and we aborted the ride. We got some good pics though. The next day dawned warm and clear again in Akaroa and, for a change, the group stayed together for the ride towards the day’s destination, Dashwood, further north up the east coast of the North Island. Back over the lovely twisty roads we travelled on the way here, into the outskirts of Christchurch, past the airport, hit State Highway 1 and keep going. Somewhere along that track the group stopped for fuel, and with an almost full tank I stayed on my bike and hovered nearby the pumps, daydreaming whilst waiting for the others.



As they were mounting their steeds after paying, I lead the way back out on the road and settled into the road rhythm, checking the sat-nav for directions from time to time, lost in my thoughts of a) selling our boat and b) the bathroom arrangements in the new house that our friends in Sydney had just bought. It was on this latter and perplexing matter that I decided to confer with Pam, since she had seen the floorplans too. As our Bluetooth intercoms had failed the moment we tried to use them on this trip, this involved backing off a little, leaning back, turning my head and lifting my visor so that I could bawl the question at her – “Is there more than one loo on the ground floor?”. It was then that I realised that she wasn’t there at all.



After the initial rush of adrenalin that accompanied the panicked thought that she had fallen off without me noticing, it took around five seconds for me to come to terms with the fact that I must have left her standing on the garage forecourt. She had dismounted, and I couldn’t remember her getting back on. So I stopped the bike, turned it around and headed back toward the garage – I couldn’t have gone more than three miles or so? I was both highly embarrassed and a little amused at my absent mindedness; it was one thing to have left Pam behind and another to have left her standing with my fellow travellers. What would they think?! What would she think?! What would be the repercussions? Along the way I picked up her Air Hawk cushion from the middle of the road, fortunately unscathed. As I made rapid progress back from where I had come, I came across a group of motorcyclists coming towards me, with Pam as pillion on the last one, waving “hello darling!” (or so I imagined). She was on the back of Tom’s bike.



It appeared that after the group, including Pam, had watched me turn out on the highway and take off, it was with growing incredulity that they realised it was not me just testing the bike, nor a joke, but that I had actually, really, genuinely forgotten my wife. Except I hadn’t – I thought she was there all along. In fact I have paid her the best complement of all – not only do I not notice her when she is there, I don’t even notice her when she’s not. Now THAT’S the sign of a great pillion. Ron (more of whom later), kindly explained to Pam and me that the good news was that there was a town not far down the road that had really good jewellery shops.



We continued along SH1, which had recently just re-opened after significant cyclone damage to the repairs only just completed following earthquakes a couple of years before. It was a constant stop go as we hit road works after road works on some of the most rugged and deserted coastlines we have ever seen. We spend a couple of hours at the funky seaside town of Kaikoura, where we eat lobster from a caravan on the beach and look at how the most recent earthquake has lifted the sea bed some one and a half metres. This night in Dashwood would be the last time the remaining group stayed together, Etay and Nilli having already left us at Christchurch. Another eclectic destination, with a slightly stressed landlady. Pam and I were given the bridal suite, although I’m not sure how long the marriage would have lasted had I chosen this location. From now on it would just be me, Pam, John the guide and owner of GoTourNZ…and his mother.



In the morning, Pam and I make our goodbyes and hit the road, headed for Picton and the ferry across the Cook Straight to Wellington. John and his mother (Lilla) meet us at the ferry terminus with seconds to spare – John had had to switch vehicles at the last minute as the battery in his favourite truck was flat. We load the bike onto the empty trailer he is taking up north to save on the additional fare and scramble aboard for the 11:15 departure. The crossing is a picturesque but uneventful three and a quarter hours – more Hector’s dolphins were spotted en route. Arriving in Wellington, we let John do the driving and stay in the truck, towing the bike, and head over to Weta workshops, to pay homage to the special affects people that made the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit films (and many others besides, e.g. Narnia, Avatar, Thunderbirds…). I should have realised that Weta is not a studio and that the tour would not be a big deal, but I was a little disappointed nevertheless. Very clever folks though. After the tour it’s up to Greytown and bed and dinner in the White Swan – a decent place too.



The next day and its destination Napier, but by the back country roads. We leave it late to depart, as something compelled me to watch Crystal Palace throw away a two goal half time advantage over those who must remain nameless. Stupid game. Its gonna be a looong day, probably six and a half hours riding through constant twisties so we get a pie and two salads to eat on route. Pam and I spend the day trying to figure out where it is that the country reminds us of – candidates put forward are Isle Of Man, Scotland’s Borders, South Africa, Cotswolds, The Pennines. As I have said before, its like some of those places some of the time but remains uniquely NZ. We ride for hours along tight, twisty roads in tight twisty valleys, sheep everywhere, hardly getting over 50kph anywhere. Lunch is by the road, where two cars pass by in the thirty minutes that we stop. This is Route 52 and it is on this road that you come across the hill on which Tamatea, the chief of great physical stature and renown, played a lament on his flute to the memory of his brother or Taumatawhakatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoronukupokaiwhenuakitanatahu for short.



By late afternoon, we have made it to Waipawa having decided to take SH2 for the last bit. The massive electrical storm we see moving onshore convinces us to head for the nearest shelter for a coffee break. Forty-five minutes pass, during which time we have many chats with friendly locals about our travels and plans. Eventually the rain slackens, we don our wet weather gear and complete the ride to Napier, arriving around 1830 just as another storm is about to hit. Fortunately, we managed to dodge the worst of both of those bad boys. Checking into The County Hotel, Napier’s finest (allegedly) means we are staying in one of only two buildings that survived the massive earthquake of 1931. The entire town was rebuilt in an art deco style and is uniquely consistent. Unfortunately, our waitress at dinner looked like she had a crystal meth habit which spoilt things a bit.

Today we have wandered around town expecting to be poured on at any minute, but it only started again at 1730. So that means its gin o’clock. The routine is that John buys some lemon, ice, cheeses, humous and crisps, and sets up in our room for G&T and nibbles. We have also booked an Indian restaurant for dinner – another tick in the “must eat a curry in every country I visit” box. This one has some good reviews and looks good from the outside, so we live in hope.

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