24hrs in the Wairarapa - the next 12

7am Him Outdoors is keen to mitigate some of the effects of last night’s alcohol so he gets up early and goes for a run. The minute he steps off the porch, it starts raining. I snuggle back down under the duvet with my book and wait for him to return and bring me a cup of tea. Spoilt? Me?

9am He’s back, I’m up and we have breakfast. The cottage is thoughtfully stocked with fresh bread, home-made biscuits, butter and jams – this reminds me a story a friend told me of when she and her husband were in France.

In the morning she asked for ‘preservatif’, but the owner of the pension looked at her aghast and refused to supply her with any. She and her husband were frowned at throughout their stay and only after they left did they realise that they had not been requesting preserves at all, but rather condoms to accompany their coffee and croissants.

11am We drive out to the Cape Palliser lighthouse. I have a bit of a thing about lighthouses. I believe in the blend of beauty and practicality, and many engineering feats embody this. I also love the romanticism of living in a circular building in a remote location and saving ships from rough seas and wreckers. I thrilled to Daphne du Maurier novels as a kid and was always happy to wander the steep cobbled streets of Cornish towns imagining the smugglers – the hearty tea of scones with jam and cream was also a significant plus I seem to recall.

At Cape Palliser there are no winding streets or handy cafes, but there is a lighthouse with an imposing view over the surrounding coastal scenery; the southern-most tip of the North Island. We march briskly up the 250 steps to admire the lighthouse. As we descend the wooden staircase, a couple with their small child look up, a little daunted. ‘Is it worth it?’ they ask. ‘Oh, yes’ we both answer simultaneously.

11.30am I get out of the car to take a photo of the lighthouse back on the rocks and nearly step on a fur seal. There is an entire colony of them lying about right next to the gravel road. I can’t believe I didn’t notice them before, but now that one of the rocks has moved, I see there are loads of them. Apparently, this is the largest breeding colony of fur seals in the North Island. We stop for a while and watch them snooze and scratch and shuffle.

We examine and photograph a colourful fence studded with buoys at Ngawhi. As we get back into the car, a bloke comes towards us with a dog straining on a chain. He asks if we are lost, but not in a manner which suggests he would be willing to help. We hastily retreat and he stands and watches us leave without a welcome to return any time soon.

The tractors/diggers/graders (I don’t know the correct terminology – it’s boy stuff) are lined up on the beach ready to drag the boats in and out of the waves. We wander amongst them with their grey backdrop and imagine them working hard. Some people want to anthropomorphise them and several have names such as Tana and Tinky Winky.

2pm Before we head back over the hill into civilisation we stop at Featherston. According to the Encyclopaedia of New Zealand, it was ‘until recently… the ugly duckling of south Wairarapa’s towns.’ There is no information as to why the ‘until recently’ bit is included. The town died when the railway closed. The line still dissects the main street, but nothing is happening here. The weather has turned cold and overcast, and the place isn’t exactly inviting.

Nevertheless, we stop for lunch at the Cornucopia Food Store & Café. I think it is the only thing open on this grey afternoon. The soup and bread is very tasty and heartening. We are fortified enough to return to Wellington where I head off to rehearsal.

For more pictures of the weekend - check out my week in pictures

24hrs in the Wairarapa - the first 12

10.30am We pull into Martinborough after driving over the hill and head to the nearest café for breakfast. Reading the Sunday papers, sipping our cappuccinos and tucking into a plate of Mexican style eggs in Café Medici seems a fabulous way to fortify ourselves for a big day.

11.30am We stroll around Martinborough, which sits on the site of New Zealand’s first sheep station. Established by Irish immigrant John Martin in the nineteenth century, the streets are curiously laid out in a grid along the lines of a Union flag. The park in the centre where they meet features a small but poignant cenotaph.

We discover a couple of those home ware shops that sell candles, kitchen utensils and notepaper. At Peonies I buy a handful of cards while Him Outdoors rolls his eyes. The wallpaper is gorgeous and the people are pleasant.

12.30pm We drive to Haythornthwaite cottage and it is not yet ready for us. This doesn’t bother us at all as we park the car, dump our bags and set off on our own wine trail.

12.35pm The friendly and persuasive chap at Tirohana Estate pours a glass of pinot noir for Him Outdoors and a chardonnay for me, and books us in for a five course dinner later that night. It is only a short stumble from the cottage where we are staying, so we reckon it will be a good plan.

We sit out on the patio which is clear but chilly. Bob the dog accompanies us, but he has lots of fur. A party arrive and look at the menus, but they soon adjourn indoors telling us that they are not used to it – ‘We’re not from England’ they say, having noticed our accents. They are obviously not from Wellington either.

1.30pm The bloke from Schubert is keen to talk to someone – he is meant to be filling in his tax return. He has lived in England so we talk about football and cats and eating baby octopus – I’m not sure what those last two have to do with England, but I get the impression he will chat about anything rather that contemplate the complexities of the IRD.

The Tribianco they sell here is deliciously unpretentious and we buy a bottle to take back to the cottage. It is a wonderfully drinkable blend of chardonnay, pinot gris and muller-thurgau, with all the benefits of the tasty trio. We also pick up a Marion’s vineyard pinot noir and a sweet Dolce both of which we plan to ‘cellar’, or at least get home in the car.

2.30pm We clink off to Margrain where the lady serving the tastings is more reticent as she has many groups to serve, and probably no forms to fill in. The tasting notes more than make up for the experience, however with their blend of information and ridicule. For example, the chardonnay ‘brings an air of expectation as it works its way over eager taste buds with all the subtlety of a stealth bomber’.

Margrain also do a Methode Traditionnelle which they have named La Michelle after the lucky, lucky girl ‘who has recently returned from a decade of study and travel to join the family business’. Some people have all the luck – my mum is a teacher and my dad works with computers, and they both drink down the pub. Oh well, we bought a bottle of the bubbles which are, ‘Clean and tingling, it shows good manners while introducing itself then wags its tail in sheer delight like an overzealous Labrador puppy’.

Him Outdoors, as always, favours the pinot noir – ‘The nose is eager and brimming with warmth and generosity as it rises fragrantly from the glass, presenting juicy prune fruit combined with spicy tamarillo and plum chutney aromas. Grilled prosciutto on warm rye sprinkled with cracked black pepper tantalises while a hint of hedge-pig nest ensures that the wine is at once fruity and complex, like a teenage love affair.’ Should I be worried?

3.30pm There is still a tiny space left in our rucksack and half an hour of wine tasting time left, so we weave our way through sheep-studded vines to Martinborough Vineyard. Here a very friendly young woman raves about Toast Martinborough with us and we convince her to attend the Beervana event in Wellington at the end of August. Once we explain that there are lots of different tasty beers and hardly any fat men in lederhosen, she is more than amenable.

Meanwhile we try a fine range of wines, along with a load of other people who are picking and choosing (somewhat more selectively than us, it must be said). We decide to take home a beautifully balanced chardonnay and a gorgeously sexy Te Tera pinot noir. Guess who selects which?

4.30pm Back at the cottage we sit out on the deck to catch the last of the rays of sunshine as they filter over the vines. It is quiet and still out here and we have plenty of bottles to choose from as we sip at the fruits of somebody else’s labours. Mark comes round to light the fire and by the time we move back inside the cottage it is roasty toasty.

There is a selection of videos we can get out for free so we sit curled up on the sofa by the roaring log burner and watch Miss Potter and Kinky Boots. Both are pretty terrible – particularly the former but then I can’t stand Renee Zellweger and should have known better than to watch an American try to play a British icon – but we are comfortable and happy.

7.30pm We almost don’t want to leave, but we have dinner waiting for us across the road so we walk out into the chill night air. We are welcomed back to Tirohana with a glass of Sauvignon Squeeze and seated at a table by the fire. The ambience is fantastic and the service is exemplary throughout the night.

And the food is certainly something to write home about. For starters I have salmon fishcakes with a dill aioli on greens while Him Outdoors goes for the signature Kingsmeade Blue and broccoli soup served with fresh homemade bread. Main course is Moroccan crusted rack of lamb on a jewelled couscous served with a fruit tagine for me and fillet of beef, dauphinoisse potatoes, seasonal vegetables and wine jus for Him, although he mutters profanities about the word 'jus'.

All of it is so delicious that each mouthful is a delight. We are caught between wanting more because it’s so good but knowing we have eaten sufficient. We both have the Warm Apple strudel with a vanilla bean ice cream for dessert and then we finish up with fresh filter coffee and petit fours. I love the language of food – there is an art to making those menus sound as good as they taste.

10pm After Him Outdoors has waffled on to the guys at the restaurant about Burnley’s promotion (it’s a topic that they obviously find intriguing) we stumble back to our accommodation. With all that wine sitting around it would be rude not to have a nightcap, so we stir up the fire and sink a pinot before bed.

Honeycomb Rocks

We head off down the coast in the opposite direction to Castlepoint. The countryside is just beautiful with gentle rolling hills and riotous colours under crisp autumn skies. Place names such as Kummerstein and Bismarck Road hint at German ancestry. The early pioneers to this region came from Sweden, England, Norway and Germany – they planted orchards and vineyards and made beer, like all good pioneers should!

We get to the end of the road and the start of our walk to the Honeycomb Rocks. We pick our way along the beach strewn with crayfish and paua shells and glistening strands of popping seaweed pearls. There’s plenty to feast on here, and birds chirp, screech, tweet and flutter all around. Flashes of brilliance indicate kingfishers and startled swoops from the long grass suggest a linnet-type bird (although my ornithology is rusty).

The path wends its way through weeds, reeds and long spiky grasses next to the beach, sometimes popping out onto the sand. It’s actually pretty energy-sapping in the legs.

Him Outdoors smells the telltale odour of seal. There’s a colony of them basking on the rocks, blinking their big brown eyes and languidly waving their flippers. I take a few pictures, using the telephoto lens and trying not to startle them, which is harder than you would imagine when some of them take to hiding in the grass!

We reach the Honeycomb Rocks which are really pretty impressive, eroded through wind and rain into strange porous formations. There are caves that look as though they could have housed hobbits, and a rock that both Him Outdoors and I instantly name Stegosaurus Rox – we can’t both be wrong, can we?




There is a rusting wreck in the sand – obviously the salvage job was too big to be considered. We throw smooth ovoid pebbles at it, like children delighting in the clanging sound when they reach their mark.


Walking back along the 4WD track is much quicker – it reroutes around the farm buildings but there isn’t as much hiking through tussock, bog and repetitive ravines. I am tired and weaving between the cabbage trees. I begin to hallucinate about the perfect beer to drink after a walk like this – such thoughts probably don’t help as they make me thirsty and we have run out of water – very ill-prepared.

When we get back to the car we drive back over the gravel roads to the bach. Him Outdoors says it feels like ages since we’ve been on a gravel road. He loves exploring new bits of the country, and now the car is covered in dust, it probably feels as though it too has been on an excursion.

After quick showers we get to the golf club earlier tonight and have our choice of meals – scallops for me and pork steak for Him Outdoors. The salads are all full up and not yet picked at. Once again Him Outdoors gets chatting to a bloke at the bar.

Jim is captain of the South cricket team. As an annual Easter event, people from the south play a team from the north, captained by Rosy. The division is made at the golf club and only people who own or are directly related to someone who owns a bach in Riversdale can compete – absolutely no ring-ins are allowed. They play for pride, bragging rights, and an old cricket bat trophy. What fun!

Easter Sunday

As it is Easter Sunday, I go to the little church in Riversdale – it is gorgeous. The vicar is a farmer, a youngish bloke who has the Tinui district as his diocese. He has no little (or large) helpers to assist with the Eucharist and does it all himself.

The service is very interactive; there aren’t enough prayer books or hymn books to go round and there is neither an order of service nor an organ or piano. People just nominate an appropriate hymn that they like and everybody sings it. A volunteer is asked to do the reading, another passes round the collection and people are encouraged to call out the names of those they would like to be remembered in the prayers.

Tania from Camp Anderson tells me there are 62 permanent residents at Riversdale Beach and the congregation swells during the holidays. The simple wooden church is packed to the rafters with worshippers and wasps – there’s a nest here apparently.

Tania and her husband run programmes at the adjacent camp for boys and girls during the holidays. Usually they are mixed, but this week they are running one just for girls with lots of art and craft activities.

Tania says she is struck by how many girls don’t know that they are beautiful and she finds this very sad. It leads to abused and broken women and she wants to help them develop their strength and their self-esteem and to know that their beauty has nothing to do with their looks. What wonderfully positive and noble sentiments.

The sermon likewise, is that we should all just be good to each and share the love – we don’t need to become priests and spread the word – simply listening to someone’s sorrows or baking a banana cake for the person down the road is enough to support those in our community.

I receive the blessing – I love the beautiful words, and I feel at peace. The congregation disperses to their family commitments and I drive back to our bach to Him Outdoors and bacon butties.

Cruising at Castlepoint

Having been lulled by moreporks in the night, we awake to the sound of birdsong in the morning. I potter around the beautiful trees in the garden encircling the bach. They were planted by the owner’s wife. The leaves of the beeches, birches, oaks and sycamores rustle in the breeze and blaze with colour.

Him Outdoors goes to fetch some coffee from the Riversdale café. He says people are pouring in for their morning fix of caffeine before heading to the beach on their quad bikes. There is a fishing competition on this weekend with categories from boat or shore, and a prize of $2,000.

We drive over the hill to Castlepoint. It’s quite different; more touristy and gentrified, and dominated by the picture perfect lighthouse on a promontory of rock.

We walk across the broad sweep of sand and up the steps, wandering around the magnificent cast iron structure. The wind whips in from the ocean, spraying the crests of the waves as they tumble into shore.

People stand atop the sea cliffs, casting rods into the foam below. A sign warns to beware; these rocks are dangerous. We pick our way over the jagged rocks, comprised of shells and limestone formations.

At the local shop we buy sausage rolls and ice creams, and scribble postcards to our parents, expressing the same sentiments in slightly different semantics.

Another walk takes us around the headland. In the pine forest a bloke supervises his children as they hurtle down a pine-needle carpeted slope between the trunks. Him Outdoors asks whether he’s managed to send them careening into the trees. The bloke grins back, ‘Not yet!’

We carry on across a col covered in toi toi and up to a vantage point where in either direction we can see endless beaches thrashed by the Pacific Ocean. We snuggle into a peaceful alcove out of the wind and just sit and admire the view, then walk back bathing our ankles in the water – it’s soothing on strained Achilles tendons and insect bites.

Windswept and sunburned, we return to the bach, stopping to admire the countryside. It’s reminiscent of Central Otago with a confusion of colour, pristine churches and curious cows. Back ‘home’ after a pasta meal, a couple of glasses of red wine and a failed attempt at the Dominion Post crossword, it’s time for an early night.

Relaxing in Riversdale

For our Easter break we decide to head over the hills and far away – well, not that far away actually, just to Riversdale on the Wairarapa Coast. We had hoped to stay in a bach but we found out the day before that the owners are using it, so we thought we’d just turn up and see if there are any vacancy signs or if anything is available.

It isn’t, but we have a pleasant walk on the beach watching people motoring up and down the sand on quad-bikes and ATVs (I’m such a petrol head, I don’t even know if there’s a difference or not) and families fishing in the surf.

As we are leaving town we see a corrugated iron shack with Bayleys and rental written on it. We peer in the windows but it is all real estate to sell as rentals. A bloke pruning trees with a chainsaw and dressed in scruffy jeans introduces himself as the real estate agent and says we can use his bach for $80 a night.

We follow him down a dirt track 2.5km from the township to a little place surrounded by oak trees. We say we’ll take it for a night and decide later if we want it for all three, but apparently we can’t call him as there’s no Vodafone reception. It’s a bit damp, there’s no TV and you can’t stroll down to the beach, but it’s sufficient and Him Outdoors seems happy enough.

We have lunch back at the township at the dairy/café (a burger and wedges) then Him Outdoors goes running while I take a photographic walk along the beach. Apparently the waves are 2m plus and ‘messy’. We are told this is very unusual by a couple who describe the horizon as ‘bumpy’.

Our bach seems a little cosier once we put the lights and the heater on, and I stop worrying about our new temporary landlord being a chainsaw murderer – there’s a headstone for his brother in the garden although he assures us he’s not buried there. It’s the sort of thing that you imagine in horror films – well, I do anyway. Him Outdoors says I’m being daft – I know I am, but I’m still a bit jumpy.

We walk into town along the moonlit road. Once we emerge from the trees we can see incredibly clearly by the full moon. The local police officer cruises past, reversing to get a good look at us before turning off into a driveway where a party is in full swing.

We have been advised that the golf club is the best (i.e. only) place in town for meals so we head there. A stressed couple (she is called Pam; I don’t catch his name) bang about in the kitchen providing meals that consist of ‘fish’ or ‘steak’ and come with chips. There is no creativity in the descriptions – ‘nestling on a bed of’s and ‘drizzled with’s are noticeably absent. They aren’t taking orders at the moment as they are way too busy, but we can wait.

The beer on offer is Speights, Tui or Export – I go for a glass of wine. It’s $5.50 for an enormous vase full of cheap chardonnay. You’d not be able to drive after two of those glasses. Him Outdoors talks to strangers at the bar – within minutes he has met a bloke who usually drinks at the Malthouse, reconnected with a chap he’d talked to after his run, and received two offers of a lift home – one of them from the barmaid.

There are cluster of school-assembly-hard chairs around Formica tables, most of which are supporting quart bottles or jugs of beer. There’s rugby on the television (it’s the Hurricanes all the way in these parts) and drunken surfer dudes falling over themselves. One guy is celebrating his birthday – he’s been out at Castlepoint today because you can’t get out ‘through the corridor’. See what you can pick up?

Eventually we order and receive our meals. As well as chips, they come with an array of homemade salads. These are spread out on a table and I see one woman, who claims to be ‘starving’ help herself without ordering a meal. ‘Not with your fingers, please’ admonishes our friend Pam.

When we set off on our homeward walk, our way is once again lit by the night-time constellations and we get to sing about our moon shadows. There is no traffic on the road, although one car passes us and then backs up and offers to take us home. It’s the bloke from the pub. We hop in and he shoots straight past our bach until Him Outdoors points it out. The bloke thought we were somewhere else but he stops and lets us out.

Him Outdoors says, ‘I bet that scared you?’ Actually, not until you mentioned it, no, although now I think about it, it could be considered sinister enough to fuel my horror story phobia – Him Oudoors: ‘We’re just up here’; Axe-murderer: ‘Oh no, you’re a long way away yet, mwah-hah-hah.’