L’Arté Café and Gallery

At Café L’Arté in Acacia Bay, Taupo, everything is made from mosaics. In the ‘mosaic room’ is an armchair, sofa, fireplace, table and standard lamp in shining stone fragments.

A sign, made out of mosaic pieces itself, announces that the splintered steps are slippery when wet. It’s bright, quirky, colourful and fun.

It’s also a gallery where there are insects, birds and flowers on pottery spikes among natural blooms. Wooden ruru, kerepu and kingfishers perch on benches.

Piles of gaudy individual painted stones are threaded together to form pebble pillars. Clunky jewellery incorporates sparkling mirrored spiders. Bullrushes with leaves of corrugated iron provide a cool contrast to the soft furry buds of the real things.

Inside the café even the counter is decorated with colourful collages. Nothing will go to waste here. I indulge in a hot strong milky cappuccino, which is the best I’ve had in Taupo, and a deliciously rich passion slice. It's so good, I'm in bits.

Lava Glass

Everyone I interview says they are passionate about their job (yes, even the insurance sales representatives) so it is hugely refreshing to find somebody who actually is. Lynden Over’s eyes light up when he describes his enthusiasm for glass. “I’ve always had a fascination with glass – it’s really amazing material.

“Glass has changed our view on the world. Before glass we didn’t have microscopes and we didn’t know that bacteria caused disease. It has led to so much progress and invention in many areas, and I just wanted to work with it.”

He is taking a mini break from his work at his studio in Wairakei near Taupo. He rarely stops for coffee or lunch because the ovens are so expensive to heat to their necessary temperatures that he doesn’t like to waste a second. “I have four gas-fired furnaces and four electric, and my gas bill alone went from $3,000 to $5,000 a month with the latest rise in fuel prices.”

His cheese sandwich rests on a workbench and a bottle of water is constantly at hand. He calls this the hot shop where the furnace is heated to 1060°C. Beside the furnace, there is a ‘glory hole’ and an ‘annealer’ which is used to slowly cool the glass.

“The thickness and the vagaries of the glass depend on how long it takes to cool – we need special cooling areas so that it doesn’t cool down too quickly.” The vase that he is working on will take about two days, but some of the paperweights in his gallery are eight inches thick and took two months to cool properly.

Customers can watch Lynden work his molten magic from a bank of cushioned seats in the studio. “I describe to people what I’m doing and talk to them as I’m working.

"The studio used to be open and part of the gallery but people would come and stand and watch which it made it hard for others to look at the artefacts and buy things. So we separated them into different areas and that works really well – people can get close to the objects in the gallery and have a good look at them now, or they can sit and watch the glassblowing uninterrupted.”

He is a born showman as he explains the process. He puffs air into a molten blob of glass which he gathers at the end of a blowpipe like a honey dipper. Through a series of breaths, he then inflates this to the desired size, and twirls it in the air like an acrobat to control the temperature.

“You have to be ambidextrous. There is only a limited amount of time you can work with the glass before it cools down, and if it cools too fast it can break so you have to be able to make really quick decisions. You work to a rhythm and know what comes next in the process.”

Lynden is able to craft this vase himself, but he says he enjoys making big pieces, such as huge galactic bowls which take three people to make. “You have to be really organised and know what stage you are up to – it’s almost like a dance around each other. It’s a fine line between letting a piece get too hot or too cold and it requires a lot of concentration.”

Backlit by flames like a sorcerer he sculpts and decorates the malleable glass, rolling it in fragments of coloured glass (intriguingly called ‘frit’) that have been transported from Auckland. These chips are laid out in piles on a workbench like the ingredients of some sparkling dish.

He shows me shelves of neatly labelled boxes of many colours – the green hues alone take up several rows: emerald; jade; forest; eel; lime; granny smith; opal; olive… The cold shop is where the grinding and polishing take place. “It’s easy to tell which is which depending on whether or not you need a jersey.”

It seems appropriate for Lynden’s studio to be based in this region and it takes its name, Lava Glass, from the surrounding volcanic activity. He didn’t always intend to be in Taupo, but he came here for a holiday and stayed.

Now he takes his inspiration for designs from the natural world around him. A series inspired by the Huka Falls features shades of blue and white and frothy bubbles. The tectonic teardrops imitate the lava-like molten shapes; “a liquid tear with layers of colour representing the landscape of mountain and rock with hints of the fluid, fiery depth of the earth.”

Lynden’s interest in glass creations ignites his vocabulary and he is also creative in his practical approach. “The equipment is highly specialised and a lot of our tools have to come from England or America. You have to be a bit inventive with making your own equipment. I built the kiln and made this workbench myself because I couldn’t find anything that worked.”

He is no stranger to this type of problem-solving. “My dad was a potter and I helped him build a kiln so I’ve always been used to working with high temperatures and hazardous materials. But I soon realised there was no money to be made in the arts so took engineering courses and became a labourer.”

A diploma of applied arts at Northland Polytechnic at Whangarei majoring in glass and jewellery drew him back to glassblowing – “It’s part of our heritage and history.” When he talks about machine-made glass, the fire flickers and threatens to go out. “Rogernomics killed all the glass studios. They are so expensive to run and you can buy mass-produced items for a fraction of the cost. Some of the most prestigious glassblowing industries, such as Waterford Crystal and Caithness have gone into receivership.”

But the spark is still there and he brightens up again as he explains, “Handmade goblets will be unique while machines can’t put coloured patterns into glass. I suppose for everyday use people can buy their glassware from the Warehouse, but glassblowing is still used for gifts and art. We just need to educate the public about what goes into it.”

The Lava Glass studio is a great place to start learning.

Road trip - Taupo to Wellington

The day after the Taupo bike challenge, we drive from National Park round the back of the stunning mountains. Tongariro broods, Ngarahoe pops out cheekily, and Ruapehu skulks behind the clouds, dribbling snow down her chins and plotting her next eruption. I can hear frogs in the pond for the first time in about ten years.

It is a beautiful day in Ohakune. People sit in a pub watching a replay of last night’s rugby. We drink coffee and read the paper, then ruminate on the giant carrot and a bridge that goes nowhere.

The carrot was unveiled in 1984 to recognise the importance of market gardening to the local economy. It seems they also celebrate new crops, such as strawberry plants and asparagus, alongside the old stalwarts such as parsnips, swedes, Brussels sprouts, cabbage and cauliflowers. There is a carrot carnival in July when people dress up as vegetables. I promise I am not making this up.

We drive through rich volcanic bush and up to Turoa ski field. A bloke walking down has been ice-climbing at sunrise but says now the snow is heating up and getting mushy. Mt Taranaki glows like a pimple in the distance.

I love ski fields in the summer – they have an ethereal charm, as though they are waiting for their time which they know will come. Snow machines stand like creations from the War of the Worlds.

A couple of hardy souls (one in fluorescent overalls; another with bare torso) practice snowboarding jumps in the remaining snow. Utiku is home to a merino possum clothing shop (they must be odd animals!) and a fertiliser company. The houses have bright red corrugated iron roofs which stand out in stark contrast to the surrounding green grass – unless you’re colour-blind I suppose. It looks wonderful and I am bemused to remember the brouhaha over the red birds’ nets in Central Otago and Marlborough.

Mangaweka has a DC3 coated in Cookie Team advertising outside the DC3 tearooms. Further down the road, the Flat Hills café looks popular. The café serving farm-style food is right next to a park where tourists can pat ‘friendly goats’ – not too friendly I hope…

Hunterville is ‘the huntaway capital of the world’ and so, naturally, a statue of a huntaway dog graces its park. The Huntaway is the driving force of New Zealand farming; strong and agile with a kindly expression. Next to the statue is a park which strictly prohibits dogs. I imagine them slinking home with tail between their legs if caught out playing on the plastic slides and climbing frames.

Each year the Hunterville Huntaway Festival features dog barking, sheep shearing, obstacle races and ‘country entertainment’. There is also a Shepherd’s Shemozzle which involves the shepherds and their dogs competing over an obstacle and endurance course. And they eat some pretty horrendous things too. This photo is deemed ‘explicit’.

The Argyle Hotel is pink and black like an art deco liquorice allsort, but not a modern retro version – this one looks little changed from the 1920s. Buttercups line the verges and cotton drifts across the road as a farmer does the hay baling, suffocating his Dougals in swathes of plastic.

Sanson is not exactly a picturesque farming town and there is nothing to take photos of, but the Church Café does an excellent chicken Caesar salad with a poached egg atop and the coffee is heavenly – the sign says so and it is. Him Outdoors says his nachos and strawberry milkshake are also very tasty.

This area of the Manawatu is defined by trailers, mowers, bus and coach sales, contracting supplies and plastic tanks. A rusting rugby stand is forlorn by a mown paddock. Waireka honey claims to sell ‘more than just honey’. There are giant irrigation systems and post boxes in the shape of cows.

Foxton reveals a sign that says it is closed for renovations but open soon. Then we can all race back to the largest 2nd hand store in New Zealand, the ice cream parlours, John Deere tractor outlets, windmill and water towers. The petrol station is boarded up and the coming events board is empty. Foxton’s slogan is ‘Hometown NZ’ – I’m glad it’s not my hometown.

Levin has the usual fast food outlets and supercheap auto shops you would expect in rural NZ, where the word bogan might have been invented. It is a depressing town full of clapped-out clapboard shops and houses. It claims to have a cosmopolitan club but I’m not convinced. It also claims to be a high crash area and I’m not surprised considering the driving.
The fertiliser and farming pays off with a range of roadside fruit and vegetable stalls selling fresh, cheap produce. There are also sacks of pony poo however, so you need to check your purchases carefully.

If discount is your motivation, the Otaki is your destination. It is cheap and charmless full of factory outlets for the likes of Rip Curl, Bendon, Billabong, Pumpkin Patch, Pagani, Kia Kaha and Icebreaker. It should be awarded the wooden spoon for the worst town-planning ever, as a two lane roundabout abruptly merges into one lane and a pedestrian crossing – this is State Highway One remember.

Beware of the emu – lifestylers live here. The region appears to be a haven for catteries, dog breeders and basketmakers, according to the signs. Light aircraft buzz about in the sky and Maori carvings decorate the roadside. Buckets of canna lilies are for sale outside spacious homes, boutique vineyards and farmlets.

There are lots of side roads to intriguingly named beaches such as Peka Peka and Waikanae. About an hour (depending on the traffic) from Wellington, this is a beautiful place to live if you can bear the commute. You would be rewarded with sun, beaches, a rural hippy lifestyle, and less wind than the capital. And who wouldn’t want that?

Road trip - Wellington to Taupo

Driving up to Taupo from Wellington and back, we drive through some quintessential Kiwi-land with iconic scenery and towns. Allow me to share it with you.

The town of Bulls has pictures of the beasts everywhere and a slightly disturbing anatomically correct statue outside a medical clinic. It boasts it is ‘not just a turn-off’. No, it’s more than that; it is the home of terri-bull puns. The real estate agent sells houses for $200,000 that are ‘live-a-bull’ and ‘own-a-bull’ and a shop that sells cheap designer gear is called la-bulls.

Bulls does have a really good shop called Bili Tees which sells great t-shirts featuring koru, rainbows or fun slogans from ‘Taupo – it’ll float your boat’ to ‘NZ – the grass is just greener’ or ‘Shut the Hutt up’ – Him Outdoors reckons that last one could drop the last word and still be effective.

It is, indeed, very green with lots of rolling hills in the distance and flat farmland and appalling impatient driving in the foreground. Acres of pleasant iconographic scenery are marred only by Tui billboards; isn’t it time to put these out to pasture? The ‘Yeah, right’ slogan was vaguely amusing when it emerged five years ago but now it is tired and lazy and a poor excuse for humour that unintelligent letter-writers use to share their unoriginal drivel with the nation, thinking they are oh-so-witty.

Taihape welcomes you with a corrugated iron Wellington boot and a ‘Gumboot café’ (Translation – gumboots are what Kiwis call Wellington boots). The town seems to have built itself entirely around said boot and they even have a festival where they set records for the furthest distance one can throw a boot. This all came about because ‘Taihape Promotions’ wanted to promote their town in the 1980s. Due to the decline of the railways and the removal of government subsidies on agricultural supplies, the town was suffering and population fell from 3,500 in the early 1960s to about 1,800 in 1985.

In an attempt to reverse the economic downturn and attract people to their town, the promotions people came up with the idea of marketing themselves as living in gumboot country. According to the Taihape Information Centre, Gumboot Day was invented to ‘entice travellers to stop and see what Taihape had to offer.’ It’s astounding what passes for entertainment in some places, but they do honest burgers on proper buns that don’t taste processed, so full marks for that.

There are ringing bells and flashing lights but no barriers at a State Highway 1 level crossing just outside Taihape as we wait for a train to pass. How much would barriers cost to install? Surely they’d be worth it. With the scarcity of trains in New Zealand you’d have to be very unlucky to get caught out on a level crossing but the Ministry of Transport figures reveal that between 1998 and 2004 there were 158 accidents at level crossings – 55 of them fatal. That seems like 55 too many deaths to me.

Ruapehu is enveloped in cloud as usual as the pylons march along the desert road. It is dry, windy and barren with nothing but studs of tussock punctuating the swathes of dirt. Caravans and boats crawl across the landscape with snail trails of impatient traffic in their wake.

Passing through Waiouru, warning signs advise us that ‘Army exercises are conducted at any time’ and ‘live firing and explosions’. They suggest we stay on the road for our own safety. Where else are we going to go? The road twists, turns and dips like a rollercoaster in a bizarre lunar theme park.

Long-haired kids in t-shirts and low-rider shorts swing on the gun barrels and stand on the tanks’ turrets at the Army Museum. The Oasis Hotel looks stunningly uninviting. I know it’s the end of the desert road (there’s that ‘humour’ again), but you’d be more tempted to die of thirst.

Straight roads are lined with uniform fir trees and bright bushes of gorse. Sharp-beaked magpies wait for roadkill and the clouds are pushed out to the edge of the horizon like frothy suds around a bottomless blue pool.

Turangi is apparently the trout capital of the world, with an obligatory model of a big trout. The scenery changes to babbling brooks, weeping willows and neat roads fringed with green and pampas grasses. We catch our first sighting of Lake Taupo at Mission Bay where two black swans usher their cygnets jealously away from onlookers.

Lake Taupo Challenge

This is another interruption to the Italy reminisces, because last weekend we went up to Taupo for the Lake Taupo Cycle Challenge. It is a fabulous event and really well organised (there are over 10,000 cyclists in one event!), but the registration area before the race is pretty intimidating. Queues of people shuffle like sheep following arrows to pick up drink bottles and bananas. Hundreds of hyped-up cyclists talk nonsense and we run away as soon as we can. I am doing a relay leg so I have to hand my bike over. It is to be racked on the back of a trailer and guarded by security before being taken to the changeover point. I can only hope I will see it tomorrow.

Meanwhile the maxi-enduro riders are already out on the course. These nutters circumnavigate the lake four times past the signs they will come to despise – ‘hills, glorious hills’; ‘You’re going to love this hill’; ‘New seat next year’. They wear pink helmets to signify their status which are faintly ridiculous, but I guess if they can put up with cycling 640km, they can put up with looking like a prat.

Driving back to National Park where we’re staying for the night, Him Outdoors notes nonchalantly, ‘It’s a big lake’. We follow cars bristling with bikes past signs warning motorists to take a break if they’re sleepy and that there are going to be 1,000s of cyclists ahead so to expect delays.

*****

On the morning of the race we have a very early start. I am not good in the mornings and 5am is not a time I’m familiar with. Even so, the boys nearly miss their start – which is arranged depending on the time in which you expect to complete the race. They abandon the car and ride to the start line leaving me to try and park it somewhere in the packed little town with closed roads and detours.

I clip clop to the bus loading area in my bike shoes – this particular footwear was definitely not made for walking and my feet are soon cramped and pinched. People are chatting and wishing each other luck for their up-coming ride; it's a great atmosphere and everyone is looking forward to their day out.

The bus to Tihoi (the changeover for leg 2 – my leg) turns up and I scramble aboard. Years of elbowing my way to a seat on the school coach have clearly paid off as I get onto the first bus – who says my education was wasted? Unfortunately we don’t leave any earlier and sit breathing in diesel fumes for half an hour - that'll teach me to be so pushy! There is a lot of nervous energy and excitement as people laugh and joke and make new friends.

When we are finally in motion we pass a load of riders struggling up the hills. The girl next to me sees her team-mate and starts to panic that she won’t arrive at the transition area in time. She does.



At the transition I manage to get to the portaloo before the queue stretches around the field. It is hot and there is plenty of water and sun cream on offer. I collect my bike, which thankfully made it in one piece. I just hope the tyres don’t explode in the heat, although everything else seems fine. The crew on racking and un-racking duty do a great job and the bikes are all lined up waiting for their riders. At the end of each leg, the bikes are taken off you and returned to the start/finish as if by magic. It's like having your own personal ostler/valet/whater-the-cycling-equivalent-may-be.

I have no idea when our first leg riders started or how long we expect them to take. I am in one of the relay teams sponsored by Kone, where Him Outdoors works and I only met my fellow riders last night. I am in the originally-named Team Kone 2 and I wait patiently with the person who is doing the same leg for Team Kone 1.

The transition area is merry chaos, with no one knowing where they are meant to be handing over or waiting for their incoming rider. There is no official mount or dismount line and people ride around the paddock calling out the name and number of their team-mate. To their credit, all the crew and waiting riders hlep out and there is a chorus of cycling calls - David Attenborough would have a field day.

The first rider from Team Kone 1 arrives having completed a fabulous leg. Our rider is not far behind – he says he has done no training but he has youth on his side and you can do anything when you’re 18. I set off in hot pursuit.

Once I’m on the bike, I really enjoy the ride. It has been described as undulating but this is a euphemism – I would call it hilly. I’m good on the flat but unfortunately there isn’t any – it’s just straight up and down and Waihaha Hill is far from amusing. I overtake people going up hill and they fly past me on the way down. I descend like a womble and use my brakes far too much, but I’m scared of coming off and my imagination runs riot as to just how much I could injure myself.

I get one little glimpse of the lake, shimmering in the distance – for a round the lake ride, there are very few times when the riders actually see it and it's a welcome sight when they do. There is also a lot of litter on the road for a supposedly eco-friendly event. Some of the drink bottles and energy bar wrappers have been dropped by accident, but some have been tossed away to the roadside by riders deliberately shedding excess ballast.

The road is packed with cyclists of all shapes and sizes in gleaming lycra. There are crap riders on good bikes and vice versa, by which I mean good riders on crap bikes, not good bikes on crap riders. Some riders chat to each other and random strangers. Some like it; some don’t. One girl has ‘talk to me’ written on her calves in felt-tip pen, so I guess she does. It's like a festival on wheels.

I’m surprised the roads aren’t closed. There is some real muppet driving in evidence. One farmer hurtles past in his combine harvester – why does he have to do it today? That’s farmers for you; ‘Get orf my land!’ I see several near misses and a couple of ambulances screech by.

There is some shocking cycling too – some of these people clearly have no idea how to cycle in bunches and have yet to discover on which left they are meant to ride. A bloke riding with aero bars (never a good idea in a crowd) tucks into my kidneys to draft off me – if you’re so skilled at cycle technique; what are you doing back here? It's all generally pedalled in good spirits though.

I am quite pleased with my ride of 1:40 and I come in before the other team. Their leg three rider complains, ‘Damn, I wanted at least a ten minute lead into this leg to have any chance of holding him off.’ I try to look apologetic.

Our rider is on an old dunger of a bicycle which he found in his garage the day before. He has dusted off the cobwebs and raised the seat from a couple of decades ago and it’s almost as good as new. Despite the fact that his pedal falls off three kilometres from the end of his ride, he does a phenomenally fast time and helps us to a Team Kone victory. Our fourth leg rider enjoys his outing alongside the lake and later when we’re all contesting who had the most difficult section, he quietly admits that his was probably the most pleasant.

Back at Taupo I try and hunt for Him Outdoors who has not got his cell phone and will have no idea where I have parked the car. I look for him in the obvious places but he is not in any of the pubs. Neither is he at the finish; where the buses are meant to be dropping off their passengers; or in the food and drink tent.

How on earth did we cope before cell phones – I suppose we made plans in advance and actually stuck to them; how quaint! I find myself humming, ‘What Would Brian Boitano Do?’ as I wince about in pinching shoes and muggy heat for an hour. I go to the place where my bike is meant to be returned. It isn’t there yet, but I bump into Him Outdoors by accident. He has blitzed his previous time by twenty minutes so is pretty pleased with himself.

All is forgiven. The Guinness helps. The black magic is, well, magic and revives us all. The rest of the relay folk go back to National Park for a barbeque but we hang about for the prize-giving; we might win a car as a spot prize! There are so many people and food tents it resembles a mini-music festival, but without the bands.

The ride is advertised as the Round Lake Taupo Challenge and the organisers insist it is not a race. People I speak to disagree; ‘You’ve come to race. Why else would you pull on a number?’ ‘Any rider who trains three times a week has a competitive nature. Events that pretend they are not races try to batter that spirit out of people. This is a depressing state for the future of New Zealand sport.’ Of course it is a challenge - and an achievement for everyone who completes their section, but you are also competing - whether against yourself; the clock; the weather; your peers. Competition does not have to be aggressive and it is not a dirty word.

We meet a bloke covered in supporter stickers – he has done the race several times before but had a heart attack three months ago and was warned against it this year on doctor’s orders. He has taken on the highly important role of support crew instead. Spectators mill about the finish chute, urging on those who are still struggling home. The big sun reflected in the still lake makes a fantastic vista but I doubt they’re looking at it.

Everyone is welcomed home with applause, but the biggest cheers are reserved for tandems, children and enduro riders. One child goes by on a bike with stabilisers. He sprints to the finish line to try and beat his friends. I don’t think they would agree with the non-competitive aspect either.

We don’t win the car – some 15 year old does – but Him Outdoors does get a tin of gloss paint. He actually came 66th in his division and 213th overall (out of 4738). The New Zealand air force put on a show and we all ooh and aah at the loop-the-loops and crossovers. There are a lot of tired but happy people lying about on the grass or moving in slow and slightly odd ways. We spot friends from Wellington – he used clip-in-pedals for the first time and now he can’t move his feet.

Back at base we finish our night with beers and made-up awards – our support crew have organised prizes for the sublime; ‘fastest time’ to the ridiculous; ‘best nuts in lycra’. One of the solo riders has brought his guitar – not only can he play fantastically well; he also has a great line in cover versions from The Sex Pistols, David Bowie, The Ramones and The Who.

Him Outdoors gets stuck into the whisky and coke with another solo rider (‘Don’t tell my clients; I’m a personal trainer’) while I decide now is a good time to wash off the layers of sun cream and sweat and crawl into my sleeping bag.

N.B. Names withheld to protect the clueless