Author: Christopher Preston

Making Connections

People here are asking me if I miss London, imagining, I suppose that the quietude of Waiheke must be incomparably dull compared with the bustle of a great world city.  I’m always at a bit of a loss how to answer this question and the clue to my dilemma is that they are indeed incomparable.  As much as I adore London and could never give it up entirely, I find I’m curiously at peace here in the semi solitude of Rocky Bay which has a community and an identity distinct from the general relaxed Waihekian modus operandi, i.e. laid back and relaxed – except for the dash to catch the ferry.

My new view across the valley

There are memories of Phillip, who died here.  They are good ones and I realise that they need to be revisited.  Let me give you an example.  Three years ago I stubbornly refused his request to trim a tree blocking the view from our balcony across the valley. My reason then was that the birds came up close in those branches, which also provided food for them.  Now I can see his point. There are plenty of trees around for the birds and I can now see houses nestled in the bush on the other side of our valley, providing at least a visual connection. The Island is now wearing its Christmas decorations.  The Kanuka Trees (a relative of the Manuka which flowered earlier and famed for Honey) are coming into bloom.

The effect on the hillsides around is of a light dusting of sugar or snow on the tops of the trees.  Pohutukawa trees, known as the New Zealand Christmas tree, are early this year and their large bright red blooms contrast with the small white Kanuka flowers.

Pohutokawa in flower

I’ve always had a passion for the New Zealand native bush and animals; the later being almost entirely birds. Here in Rocky Bay, I am surrounded by bush and it’s great to re-connect.  Throughout the year each species of native plant has its moment to get maximum attention from pollinating insects and birds. Later in the season there are seeds and fruit for them to eat. Just at the moment the Tui, a black bird with emerald green markings on their wings and a white ball of feathers at their throat, are enjoying the nectar from the flax flowers (Phormium Tenax).  They are aggressive and territorial birds making a noisy whirring sound with their wings in flight.  They are unconcerned by my presence, whizzing past my ear en route to a more important target.  This is often a Blackbird or Mynah bird (immigrants) perching on one of their trees.

The huge and cumbersome native Pigeon (Kereru) also comes in for flack as do individual Tuis trying to muscle in.  Tui make the most extraordinary and varied sounds; melodious bell like calls punctuated by clicks and glottal calls.  They are great imitators, so you can never be sure what you are listening to. Mum was a great fan of the Tui and often when on the phone from the UK, I would hear the Tui in the background.

I’ve made friends with the local blackbirds, who in years of separation from their European cousins, look significantly different, particularly the young adults who have rusty red heads.  In my daily quest to rid the forest floor of Jasmine and Tradescantia, the Blackbirds gather expectantly to take advantage of any insects, worms and other invertebrates disturbed by my grubbing of the soil.  They too have their hierarchies with the males (black with yellow beak) chase of the youngsters.   As Tuis don’t feed on the ground the blackbirds here have found a niche on the forest floor, once exploited by the now rare Kiwi.

There are human connections to be made and with a permanent population of around eight thousand (burgeoning to 30 thousand in the summer) most people here know each other, or at least recognise fellow islanders. I note in The Gulf News (the local weekly paper) that there’s a book launch on at the new library.  Six women writers on the Island have got together and published an anthology of their work. Sentries of the Heart has been printed on the island and contains poems, short stories and excerpts from longer works.  I’m impressed by the library, a stunning example of contemporary New Zealand architecture.  It’s the first amazing thing you see coming up the hill from the ferry at Matiatia.

There’s a good turnout but the only person I know is my friend Warwick who in a few short years on the Island has managed celebrity status.  There is a huge spread of food to be eaten and a complimentary glass of wine or two, all of which, in this airy building, makes the readings go down well.  There’s a musician, who with a collection of instruments comments on and introduces each new reading.  I get talking to a blond woman who then seems to cross my path coincidentally for the rest of the weekend.  Richard is coming over and after a chilly and short swim at the school pool; I collect him from the ferry and  we meet up with Warwick for lunch.  I’ve had an invitation to the Waiheke Island Rainbow Coalition to join in a dinner party at The Shed – a restaurant at Te Motu vineyard.  It’s described as a ‘soft pink’ event and Richard & I meet more of the gay and lesbian community over good wine and fantastic food.  Worth a return visit I think.

I’ve never been to any of those ‘Live performances’ from the National Theatre in London or the Met Opera in New York.  The Waiheke Cinema has Skylight by David Hare showing for only $25 so I go.  It’s a great evening of lovely acting from all three of the cast and cleverly filmed to give the impression of being there, even though we are sitting on comfortable sofas and one woman on the side has moved to the floor.

It’s Friday night and I’ve got a dinner engagement with old friends in Herne Bay, Auckland.  This means I shall have to forgo the Happy Hour this month at the Rocky Bay Hall.  I guess there will be many more happy hours to come and besides, this is a job for the Brompton which I fold up and carry onto the ferry.  I vaguely hear people making comments, but not close enough to acknowledge.  The ride is easy except for the hill up to Herne Bay and the ride back after a lovely dinner and conversation is even quicker.  This system of putting the bike in the back of the car is going to work.

There’s no need to take it over to the launch of the launch of the Pan Asia Pacific Out Games 2016 which is held at the Viaduct Event Centre as this is just a short walk along the docks on over a bridge, which happens to be raising up as I arrive, to let a yacht through to the inner moorings.  My new team mates from TAMS are already there and Coach Cynthia has brought me a club tee shirt to wear at competitions.  I’ve actually worn my 2013 ‘Keep GLLAM and Swim’ tee shirt which is much admired.  The local Iwi (tribe) begin with a welcome and speeches (all in Maori) supporting the Gay Games.  There is no translation and I realise that most people here know what is being said.  There are lots more speeches, including one from an MP who is a lesbian and Maori.  Apparently the local Iwi has been supporting gay rights for many years – well ahead of other tribes.  Although there is a pay bar, the food is free and we get some tasty canapés. I’m already looking forward to getting involved in the games organisation, particularly as TAMS will be responsible for the swimming.

It’s the Swimming Club Christmas party on Sunday afternoon and another task for the Brompton, cycling to Westmere, some Km west of Herne Bay.  By contrast with the Out to Swim Christmas parties, held in West End clubs, this affair is at the home of the coach and partner.  The theme is frocks, fascinators and frills, forcing the lesbians to forego trousers and allowing one of the chaps to wear a gold lame frock.  Head wear is everywhere but I’ve gone for my 2014 GLLAM tee shirt (blue & pink) with blue Samoan lava lava; a boa of silver tinsel hung with tree decorations – silver and pink triangles around drums, completes the outfit.  I have to change into it all when I get there as it’s not possible to cycle wearing all this.

People have made an amazing range of salads to go with a gigantic ham which has to be glazed.  We bring our own drinks except for an initial glass of bubbles and quite a few vodka jelly shots which are delicious but difficult to get out of the glasses with your tongue. Pudding is of course that ubiquitous Kiwi dish the Pavlova and there’s also a home made cheesecake. It’s a chance to get to know people a bit more and helped by a tail wind, the cycle ride back to the ferry takes no time at all in spite of the quantity of food and vodka jelly consumed.

This is the weekend of the Rocky Bay art exhibition and the only change to catch it is on Sunday morning.  There’s also a new initiative from some local women, who are opening a weekend café in the hall for the summer, giving walkers and visitors to Rocky Bay somewhere to get coffee and cake.  The scones with cream and jam are excellent and the coffee recommended – worth a trip to Rocky Bay.

This all sounds busy and action packed, but I’ve been reading about the Greek Philosopher Epicurus and his quest to live life well, particularly in old age.  The Author Daniel Klein, has, like me travelled to an Island, and although he’s ten years older than me, I am making the connection between age and enjoyment.  Slowing down is definitely part of my life now, doing an hour of weed clearance a day is sufficient and great progress has been made.  London winds me up, discouraging the frequent reflective periods I enjoy on Waiheke.  I pause in my work to watch the birds and to enjoy the trees.  Whilst I don’t go as far as Epicurus in savouring a dish of lentils, I eat well.  Lettuces and radishes are now ready for picking and there is plenty of parsley.  The vegetables grow daily and I’ve planted for a winter supply.  The Epicureans who indulge in orgiastic fine dining have missed the point entirely and somewhere in between these two extremes is a good place to be at this time.

 

 

 

 

 

Getting into a Waiheke routine

When people asked me ‘What are you going to do there?’ My answer would be, ‘Write, garden and see friends and relatives.’  So far I’ve settled down to writing in the mornings, producing two and now three substantial posts on my blog site and almost completed chapter 19 of Gay Dads.   I realise that I can write every morning, not just the previously allocated Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The garden, however is pressing as spring is rapidly turning into summer and things need to be planted.  I’ve always been worried about screening between me and the neighbours and in the past I’ve brought up native pittosporums from my brother’s farm in Hawke’s Bay, but only two of those have survived and aren’t doing that well.  So I leap into the car, drive off to the hardware store and buy four established specimens.  I now have to clear a whole tangle of creeper, some of it a left over bignonia from a different age.  It has escaped and along with something else I can’t identify has rampaged though a few straggly coprosmas and a small palm tree.  The creepers have to be extricated from their hosts and dug out.  The following day the remains require disposal by carting bundles down-hill to a pile of decomposing branches and foliage near the bottom of the section.  While I’m doing this the neighbours are clearing out all the junk left under their house by the previous tenants and carrying it in the opposite direction, up the hill for the ‘inorganic’ rubbish collection in a few weeks time.  Their ex tenants, an extended family of Tongans have moved two houses up the road and have set themselves up in the scrap metal business.  They have a small truck with high sides and can be seen cruising up and down the island picking up metal, old cookers and appliances left out on the road side for the collection.  Everyone is at it because one person’s rubbish is another’s treasure.  There’s still plenty left for the Council to collect.  The laugh is that the Tongans collect metal from my neighbour’s pile, stuff they must have left behind eighteen months ago.

I get everything planted plus lettuce seedlings (the seeds I’d stored 3 years ago refused to germinate) and an Aubergine (Egg plant here) purchased from Dave at the Thursday sale in the Community Hall.  At the end of the day I’m still looking at the two Kauri trees patiently waiting for attention.

Over the weekend, I clear a huge swathe of spring flowering jasmine which has escaped from a garden and woven a great mat of runners and roots over the bush floor, clambering up the trees and smothering them. This part of the bush garden is mosquito country and I’m kitted up in jeans a long sleeved top and a sun hat. My tools are gloves for pulling long runners up; a sharp hoe to grub up the roots and a pair of old hedge clippers to hack through the stems.

Nestled amongst this entanglement is another hated weed here, the asparagus fern, which has a tenacious root system enabling the top to clamber over everything inhibiting native seedlings.  I’ve also got my eye on a plant by the name of Tradescantia otherwise known variously by its racist name, Wandering Jew Plant or Wandering Willy- possibly a reference to its promiscuity.  In the UK it is deemed a house plant, being not frost hardy, and there are websites advising on the care of this plant, which in New Zealand has become a garden thug.  It’s OK in semi shade and manages to rampage over everything else commandeering the sunlight.  For a change, on Sunday, I switch my attention to this pest.

It’s survival mechanisms are cunning; being fragile and easily broken, pieces of the succulent stems can break off and quickly re-root.  Gentle handling is required to lift as much of it as possible into a bucket and pieces can fall out as if having an escape instinct.

The other problem is that it’ doesn’t wilt easily so can’t be put straight into a compost heap where it would re-group and thrive.  I reflect that Tradescantia is named after gardeners to Charles I called Tradescant.  They collected plants from all over the world and were influential in the development of taxonomy.  Perhaps not the legacy they dreamed of. Each afternoon or early evening, I work away eradicating these foreign weeds from my bush garden.  Sometimes I feel like an early settler clearing the land by hand.  In reality, I’m restoring the forest floor so that native seedlings can germinate.

Swimming this week at the school baths is a more respectable 22 degrees and I manage forty-five minutes.  It gets a bit frustrating at times with some in the lane swimming breastroke with their heads above the water.  I’ve been concentrating on backstroke, but my attention wanders with the result that I keep banging my head on the end of the pool.  There are no flags warning of the approaching wall.  I swap to breaststroke with resignation.  It needs some work and I can at least see where I’m going and there’s no danger of going too fast.  A Saturday routine has quickly become established, with a call into the market.  There’s a different person on the vegetable stall this week and he’s got celery seedlings and an acid free tomato plant. Next up is the Latte in the Hall café then off to the supermarket just down the hill.

Part of the plan is the purchase and transportation of a Brompton fold-up bicycle.  It arrived before me and waited patiently for customs clearance. Although mainly transported by UPS, in the end the Post Office on the Island attempts to deliver it.  Slightly intrigued by the post office card in the letterbox saying they had a parcel waiting for me, I go in, only to find that indeed it is the bicycle.  Unfortunately the carrier has been squashed against the back wheel and it takes me some time to work that out.  In the end I use brute force and straightened a strut.  I go out on the road for a test drive and there’s an elderly woman walking past.  We say hello and she stops to look at the bike.  I demonstrate the folding up procedure and offer to let her feel the weight, but she has recently had abdominal surgery and declines.  Down the hill I go and back up without incident and the gears are all working.  It sits in the store room for a week until I decide how I’m really going to make this bike work here.  It’s a Friday and I’m running short of milk.  Shopping is designated for Saturday so it would be a profligate use of petrol to drive to the supermarket.  This is a perfect test mission for the blue Brompton.  Off I set with my pink cycle helmet (mandatory in this country – the helmet not the pink) and my old high visibility yellow jacket.  Going down the hills is pretty scary and fast and then there’s always an up-hill to follow but I get to Ostend without getting off to push.  At the supermarket I fold up the bike and put it in a shopping trolley and to make it worthwhile using a credit card I buy some decent chocolate (Lindt) and a battery for my smoke alarm. All manner of eccentric behaviour is tolerated on this island, so no one raises an eyebrow except one man at the check-out who casually remarks looking into my trolley, ‘Oh look a Brompton bike.’ The return journey is more difficult as my house is half way up a hill and the supermarket is near sea-level.  There’s a long incline past the racing track which goes on forever.  Still no getting off to walk and the whole operation takes forty-five minutes.

 

The next outing for the Brompton is to Palm Beach late on Sunday afternoon.  This might be a tough one as there is a steep hill to cross.  The journey takes forty minutes and I still don’t have to get off and push.  There’s a group of Pacific Island women sitting on the grass playing guitars and ukuleles.  They are singing an old New Zealand cheesy favourite ‘Ten Guitars’

‘Beneath the stars my ten guitars will play a song for you

And if you’re with the one you love this is what you’ll do.’

(Replacing ‘dance’, they sing)

‘Hula, Hula, Hula to my ten guitars …’

This and the ukuleles are clues that they are Islanders.

The Brompton is quite heavy to carry along the beach and around the rocks to the naturist section and I nestle it by a bush disguising it by and hanging my clothes and towel over the frame.  The sea is still too cold to stay in for any length of time but it’s good to sit and dry out in the warm late afternoon sunshine without getting sunburnt.  I go for another swim but a crowd of little pink jellyfish have come into the shallows and it’s still cold so after drying off again, it’s time to cycle home.  It’s another forty minutes, but quite a tough one – good aerobic exercise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Week two – settling in.

Saturday

Rocky Bay is a quiet secluded place and we make our own entertainment here, all centred around the community hall.

I still need to make wider connections and I’ve noticed in the Gulf News that there is lane swimming at one of the Primary Schools which has the only swimming pool on the island.  Vicky is the person to contact, which seems a good omen.  She replies to my email that there are sessions Sat & Sun from 9-10 as well as a couple of evenings during the week.  I have to text her if I’m coming as they need 6 swimmers to open the pool.  I discover that the pool is outdoors and there is no one around.  Soon a woman arrives, and then Vicky turns up.

‘Is the pool heated?’ I ask.

‘Solar.’ is the reply.  Apparently on warm days it heats up to 28 degrees, but today as it’s been cold, its 18 degrees.  My mind goes back to Chris C from Out to Swim trying to get me down to the Brockwell Lido in London for water of 13 degrees.  I decide to give it a go.  There aren’t six people but Vicky opens up anyway and asks if I would like a lane put in.  After the initial shock of getting in, the water is OK and I swim fast to keep warm.  There are no pool markings and it’s difficult to see the end so no tumble turn practice.  After 30 minutes my extremities are cold and I think it wise to get out.  Vicky says she has a white board and would I like her to put a set up for me next time.

‘Yes please,’ I say between chattering teeth.  I’ll go again as it saves a ferry ride to town.

By now I’m really in need of warming up and drive off to the Ostend  Saturday Market for a coffee from the Hall.   There’s a stall with celery seedlings for sale ($1 each) and also Broad Beans and Silver Beet – payment by donation (koha). In the excitement of seeing the Broad Beans, I leave the celery seedlings behind.  Maybe they will have more next week.

It’s the start of the Walking Festival and I’ve signed up for the Friends of Dorothy Walk.  I don’t actually know anyone called Dorothy and have never been a Judy Garland Fan, but I’m expecting to meet some gay people from the Island.  We meet outside one of the eatery/bars which proliferate in Oneroa although no one is actually talking much to start with.  Locals obviously know each other and so do their dogs, who have come for the walk as well.  We all have to get our shoes scrubbed and sprayed with disinfectant to prevent Kauri die-back.  This disease, which attacks the magnificent native Kauri trees on the mainland has so far, not made it to the Island and we want to keep it that way.  Once we get underway, it’s clear that most of the walkers are lesbians with only half a dozen gay men.

We’re walking around the headlands on the West end of the Island past Fossil and Owhanake bays then back to our start point through the Vale of Tranquillity.  Gradually I get talking to people.  They look startled when I say I come from Rocky Bay as they haven’t seen me around.  One of the volunteers has a partner who writes film scripts.  It turns out that I know of her and we know all the same people who worked in theatre back in the late 70’s.  The next thing I know is that I’m invited to Pink Drinks which, coincidentally are happening tonight.  Last time I was here, I had no luck at all finding out where or when the Pink Drinks happened; now I’m all signed up.

The walk is great, with spectacular views of the rocky coastline.  There’s a happy hour priced half pint in the bar at the end of the walk and I go home for a nap as it’s been a long day so far and I seem to have driven backwards and forth on the Island all day.  The Pink Drinks are at Surfdale heights in a very posh house overlooking the whole bay.  It’s packed with gay men who haven’t been walking and quite a few of the women from the walk have turned up.  The host coaches the Auckland Gay Rugby team so they’ve all turned up as well.  We bring our own booze but the hosts have catered.  Plates of finger food are being passed around and there is a singer crooning away in the background. I find myself next to a good looking man in his thirties who turns out to be Canadian and a carpenter.  I get his phone number as I’m going to need a wardrobe made.  (Yes I really do need carpentry done – on the house). It’s raining on and off but there’s a gazebo on the decking and I look out over Surfdale and comment that the gentle slope of the sea-bed and sheltered conditions here make it extremely unlikely that any surf ever dumps on the beach.  The chap I’m talking with agrees and thinks more could be made of this along with ‘Blackpool’ and ‘Miami’ two other suburbs of this Island of 8,000 people which don’t relate to their namesakes in any way.  It turns out that this Pink Drinks is the early Christmas party, hence the elaborations.

Monday

It is forecast for rain but the day starts brightly.  There’s an email confirming that the walk will go ahead and I set out from the house along my road to the track down to Whakanewha.  I have to detour around the endangered Dotterel colony nesting here.  They are fairly careless about where they lay eggs and there are signs purporting to be from the Dotterels themselves saying they need our help.  Their territory has been fenced off and dogs are prohibited from the area.  There’s quite a crowd gathered as there’s a photography walk happening at the same time.  Just as we set out on the coast to coast trail, it starts to rain seriously.  Just as well I’ve worn my bright yellow raincoat.  We are partly sheltered by the bush as we pass through stands of Nikau Palms and tree ferns.  It’s a gently climb up to ‘The Cascades’ – a series of pools and rocky falls through which the stream flows.  Last time I was here in the height of summer, it was little more than a trickle.  We stop to admire a few of the giant trees but it’s too wet to do much standing about looking up.  After an hour and a half we are early at the Peacock Sky Vineyard for lunch.  The owner welcomes us into the clear plastic sided atrium which has a gas fire burning.  We can take our boots and waterproofs off before padding through to the counter and paying for our pre-ordered lunch which includes a glass of their wine.  We’re all a bit cold and while we wait for our wraps filled with either smoked chicken, cheese or vegetables to arrive the rain drives against the atrium sides in torrential waves.  I’m sitting with a retired couple from the mainland and a young German guy from Saxony.  When asked why he’s come to New Zealand, he makes us laugh with.

‘To escape the European winter.’

He’s just arrived in the country, bought a bicycle and will tour around until March.  There’s a discussion about abandoning the second part of the walk as the driver of a local bus, who will take us back to our starting point, has anticipated that some people may want to opt out at this point.  Just as its decision time, the rain eases off so the bus driver has only a few passengers and we set off, this time in open terrain heading for a reserve boasting a stand of precious Kauri trees.  There’s a platform and we estimate that the huge ones are around 500 years old. There’s a sign saying ‘If you are lost, keep going downhill and you will come to Onetangi beach.’  We do this and walk along the rain drenched sand to Charlie Farley’s Bar for a coffee. We pay the bus driver $5 to get back to Whakanewha and I wend my weary way along the beach and up the hill to home.

Tuesday

There is no mains water on the Island so we have to manage with what we collect from our roofs.  I notice that the agents have installed a meter on the tank and with all the rain, it’s full.  This does not excuse being complaisant as during the dry months it is essential to manage water.  There’re a few litres in the pipes before the hot water from the boiler gets through. Water from washing vegetables and rinsing out the teapot can also be reused watering pots or the garden.  To avoid blocking up the soak pipes down in the garden, crumbs and other solids are thrown on the garden for ants or other creatures and grease and fat, soaked up with paper towels and put in the rubbish.  There’s reasonable mixed recycling here and I have a compost heap.  The urgency now is to get rid of the foreign weeds choking the bush trees and do some planting before the summer hits in.

I have to guess how long it will take to get to my next walk at Orapiu further along the Island.  There’s road-works going on, which are much needed, particularly now that Waiheke is such a huge tourist destination.  I’m there in plenty of time, but I’ve got it wrong.  The walk is tomorrow and I’ve put it in the wrong day in my diary.  Just as well I’ve got a fancy phone with 3G and can check these things out.  It’s back to the garden for the afternoon before trying out the alternative ferry service to swimming training on the mainland.  I have fifteen minutes to shower, get changed and then run for the 8.15 return service.  I make it.

Wednesday

It’s going to be one of those driving backwards and forth days.  I need petrol and stamps so have to go to Oneroa where I can also spend some time with the amazing Eileen at Waiheke First – my letting agency.  I have some improvements to run past her and she has time to chat. My lettuce seedlings have failed to germinate, so need to buy some plants and then it’s on to the Native Plant nursery where I buy Kauri trees and several other plants, including a Kowhai.  This has a pendulous yellow flower much loved by the nectar eating Tui.

Kowhai can these days be spotted in London gardens along with Pittosporums, Cordyines and Phormiums (flax) – all native to New Zealand.

I’ve had an email from the Walking Festival with instructions of where to meet – it’s all highly organised – and when I get to Orapiu, there are a couple of volunteers already there.  By contrast, the day is beautifully sunny but we have to wait for a bus to arrive with participants who have come from the ferry plus some who have done a morning walk at Man 0’War Bay all of which is complicated by the road works and the fact that the bus can’t do the Island loop road and has to go back and through the road works twice.  It’s all OK and we are only 30 minutes late starting.

This is Waiheke, it’s a lovely day and no one is in a hurry.  Our leader, one of the conservation officers has a loud voice ideal for outdoors and we follow him up the road and over private land (by arrangement) down to Pearl Bay.

Access to this beautiful secluded bay is supposed to be by boat, but there is an unofficial track over private land at the bottom of which is a collection of 4WD vehicles.  Some of the batches are very old and derelict; others are modern, pristine and grey.  The whole bay is a reserve and is home to an oyster farm.

We walk along a paper road (put on a map in planning stages years ago but the terrain made it impossible to build) to the beautiful Otakawhe Bay.

Here the locals have been weeding the bush and planting Pohutukawa trees which have bright red flowers at Christmas.

We see examples of before and after weeding.  The ubiquitous Agapanthus, which UK gardeners struggle to nurture, self seed here rampantly taking over the countryside.  Contrary to popular belief, they don’t stabilise banks and here they have been removed.  We end our walk back at Orapiu where we started.