Islands of the Gulf Read online

  It was one of those quiet grey mornings which often turn warm and bright by noon; sea and sky were like pewter and, as we came abreast of the inner islands, passengers, most of them regulars, had settled down to write letters, knit, read or catnap, having nothing fresh to discover from the familiar journey.

  Rangitoto, Brown’s, Motutapu and Motuihe Islands have had very little reason to alter, as all have been administered either by the Crown or the Hauraki Maritime Park Board long enough for their basic pattern to be well defined. Rangitoto, however, places more emphasis these days on its role as a sanctuary of New Zealand flora and fauna and the dense mantle of bush has further extended its dominion, notably about the crater area, though seedling pines are as prevalent as before. No private householder lives permanently on Rangitoto now and it is policy to decline the renewal of leases or forbid them to be bequeathed or transferred, so eventually, when the last bach owner leaves or dies, the human population, apart from rangers or storekeeper, will be nil. Over a hundred cottages were scattered about the foreshore when we were working on the films and book; now there are only about a third that number and, as each falls empty, it is either demolished or removed. The extent of walking tracks has increased, a metal road not only encircles most of the island but continues within 65 metres of the top and a compact little bus is available for those who prefer an armchair ascent of Auckland’s most conspicuous landmark. The summit commands a superb panorama of the whole isthmus and its surrounding island-dotted ocean.

  Public water transport operates between the city waterfront and Rangitoto, the timetable varying with the season, and in recent summers the Blue Boats have offered evening trips with sufficient time ashore for a barbecue. Rangitoto’s only other industry, as such, is a colony of bees on land leased to a commercial beekeeper, who produces from them the dark-hued and delicious Rangitoto honey.

  Motutapu, long a Lands and Survey sheep and cattle farm, has, unlike Rangitoto, more than doubled its tally of human inhabitants. In 1965 there were five families, now there are twelve and the little schoolhouse at Home Bay, which once claimed the smallest roll in New Zealand, has been replaced by a larger one on another part of the island. In the years I have known Motutapu, it has always appeared to be rather short on trees, apart from a few lone Norfolks on the tops of hills and groves of karaka and pohutukawa along the shore, but latterly there has been considerable planting of native varieties in hopes of coaxing birds to live here in greater numbers. Not many now would remember the colony of ostriches established here a hundred years ago, but another immigrant, the small Australian wallaby, is still well represented. Unchanged too are the concrete bunkers and gun emplacements from World War II, much favoured these days by swallows for their nesting places and which make as ironic a contrast as ever with the fine pre-European pa sites on adjacent clifftops.

  Archeological investigations of ancient Moa Hunter campsites are still energetically pursued and landing is freely permitted. In keeping with the Maritime Park’s policy of encouraging visitors to enjoy island environments, walking tracks have been made over a wide area and a system of stiles set up, so there is no longer any need to master the bewildering range of gate-fastenings, which was my own well-remembered Motutapu chore.

  Motuihe is as favoured an anchorage as ever for pleasure boats and, through the summer months, those good old harbour ferries still in service continue to steam down the harbour laden with picnic parties. It is some time since the naval buildings, used during both world wars, were pulled down. Even the pleasantly proportioned Albert Barracks, a relic of the Waikato conflict of the 1860s, was not thought worth preserving, so the water tower is about all that remains of HMS Motuihe. The olive groves and ranks of Norfolk pines thrive, though, and the routine of farm life follows its accustomed seasonal round much as it did when Don and I depicted it.

  At Brown’s Island, or Motukorea, Sir Ernest Davis’s gift to his fellow citizens, a wharf has yet to be built, so very few sightseers come ashore on what briefly was Logan Campbell’s first Auckland home. No change to report here, then.

  Nor could much have altered at the Noises, where shags and seabirds of various kinds compete for territory and the tides roar in and out of the numberless caves that pock the cliffs. A new tenant has not been found for the late Captain Wainhouse’s cottage on Otata, the largest of the group, but at night you can still see the light flash on Maria Rock, which by day looks more like a tortoise than an island.

  Plans at Rakino for an offshore Utopia were not realised and much of its acreage has been haphazardly subdivided for holiday homes, though the Maritime Park secured a portion of this delightful island as public reserve. Ferries visit at times during the summer.

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  As Waiheke’s drought-bleached hills drew nearer, the passengers grouped themselves for assault on the gangways. A variety of fishing boats and pleasure craft were anchored in Matiatia Bay, black Angus cattle browsed the rough grass edging the shingle beach, the piecart backed up against the cliff was ready for trade, a line of weathered buses awaited their fares and everything seemed almost exactly as I remembered. One sign of the times, though, was a notice nailed to the cargo shed advising visitors that the island has been officially declared a nuclear free zone. This was Waiheke true to form, with debate and controversy the breath of local life. Island politics have always generated a high degree of heat, with upsets in council and contentious election campaigns marked features of local administrative affairs, while Waiheke’s weekly newspaper, The Resident, continues to provide a comprehensive cover of most that goes on.

  The island’s present-day increased and diversified population means that there are more to take sides and more points of view than in the sixties, when the balance favoured an older age group. Waiheke was known as a great place to retire, services were reasonable if limited, land and living costs were on a modest scale and many, who had started coming as holidaymakers, often since childhood, converted a weekend bach to a permanent home. But, in the last decade or so, a wave of younger settlers have brought with them new ideas and less conventional ways. “Hippies” or “drop-outs” are epithets some resort to, depending on the degree of prejudice felt against what others more politely define as “alternative lifestylers”. Their various methods of sustaining themselves include goats, organic horticulture, beekeeping and crafts of all kinds, but these are only some of the pursuits you can name in a trend similar to that which others can be seen following on the mainland. Several noted professional artists have also established homes for themselves here.

  The “alternatives” are by no means the only new groups on Waiheke. It has also become a favoured retreat for the wealthy and, while many have expressed concern that more and more choice island real estate is passing into fewer and fewer hands, you can detect a hint of local pride that a relatively small chunk of New Zealand can point to a sizable muster of resident millionaries, a few of whom are foreign. In this category, several thousand acres are owned by a member of the Rothschild family. In 1982 heated argument was waged in the community at large, as well as in Parliament, over the question of allowing an extremely rich New Zealand landowner to acquire a further block of land known as Stony Batter. Hitherto vested as Crown reserve, it contains gunsites and a network of tunnels built during the last war and is highly regarded as a local beauty spot. Waiheke is included in the electorate of Auckland Central and their sitting member faced parliamentary censure over the points at issue. Waiheke and national opinion were the victors and the sale did not go through.

  Inevitably, some of my older Waiheke friends have died, but the considerable number still very much alive look so remarkably unchanged that they give convincing testimony to the healthful climate here. Traffic has increased somewhat, along with the population, but the exhilarating salt-laden air is plainly better for human bodies than motors — a rust-removing specialist would face a vain struggle and millionaires removing to Waiheke would be wise to leave their Rolls Royces behind. Those he
re already have.

  As you might expect on New Zealand’s third most populous island, there is plenty to do and activities are various enough to oblige less energetic folk to retreat periodically to the mainland to have a rest. For the older group, social life focuses on such places as the large, cheerfully furnished Red Cross Centre at Oneroa, which used to be the picture theatre. At the Catherine Mitchell Cultural Centre at Ostend, an enthusiastic group of men and women, of widely differing age, pot, paint, spin, weave, write, make music or just enjoy each other’s company. They also have an active concert party which they call the Geriatrix! Their headquarters, a random collection of pre-fabs, look across to a typical Waiheke prospect — herons plod about between the boats pulled up on the little beach and a small-scale barquentine, the work of another local resident, rides at anchor up a mangrove inlet.

  Years ago I remember a long-term resident and a most persuasive advocate for Waiheke telling me proudly you could stand the entire population of Auckland on Oneroa Beach and still have plenty of room left over. On a more recent afternoon when I walked down to that lovely expanse of spotless sand and limpid surf, there was no one there but a tremulous crowd of terns, one solitary sandcastle builder and a girl on a pony cantering along at the water’s edge. Summer and autumn were changing places and the high season, when Waiheke bulges with 20,000 or more holidaymakers, was well past. Oneroa itself regrettably follows the example of many similar-sized townships in New Zealand and straggles along a single street, realising too late what it has been blocking off with indiscriminate shops and undistinguished building. In Oneroa’s case, it is a view of the Pacific horizon unbroken by so much as a rock until you come to Chile. Signs of the times are items of food and drink available; mint tea and dandelion coffee now appear on one cafe’s menu. But a notice outside the bank informing customers they open twice weekly — if weather does not prevent the amphibians from flying — is an eloquent reminder that you are indeed on an island.

  A theatre company is another facet of life provided by the younger, newer section of the community. Amateur, but with an ambitious policy, they were rehearsing Royal Hunt of the Sun and a New Wave Australian play at the time of my visits. The local committee of the Regional Arts Council is also very active and arranges concerts by visiting chamber groups and classical soloists of various kinds. One of the theatre company told us about a recital by poet Sam Hunt, with wine and cheese for afters, which was a huge success but so convivial that all the profits were entirely consumed.

  The Waiheke Historical Society has amassed a fine collection of early photographs and various archival material; a long-worked-for museum will soon be a reality.

  The most vital evidence of Waiheke’s rate of growth is to be found at the area school, which starts in the primers and goes right through to seventh form level. It was one of the first of its kind in New Zealand and close on 600 children were variously at work when I called. A wind group practised on a headland at the end of the playing fields, an outdoor lesson in practical mathematics was in progress on the tennis courts and, after lunch, the entire school, both staff and pupils, were packed into their fine new hall, in which most island functions of note now take place, to present a concert of drama excerpts and music. A television crew is, I suppose, sufficient excuse for a less prosaic timetable than usual, but we were not the only distraction that day. We were barely packing up when a RNZAF helicopter came clattering down from the sky to suggest to pupils that a career in the Air Force might be one to consider.

  All these Waiheke children have the extra dimension of distance from the mainland to add to the difficult business of choosing a career. Opportunities are inevitably limited and, in time, they must all decide between taking what home can offer or leaving the island, perhaps for good. Such problems were probably not to the forefront of many minds when the bell went to signal school was out and classrooms emptied with well organised speed. Many children live close enough to walk or bike home and for the others a big convoy of buses was waiting at the gates, some having a twice daily trip of twenty kilometres or more. Travelling furthest of all are the three Logan boys of Ponui Island, who begin and finish their journey to school in their father’s boat.

  We followed their bus to Orapiu, leaving behind the suburban network of streets and houses for the pastoral easterly limits of Waiheke. The road favours the higher ridges of the hills and every corner offers fresh glimpses of an infinity of sea and island. At the end of the run, the three boys went running down the long-legged wharf at Orapiu that extends well beyond the limits of the tide, scattering clouds of gulls as they tumbled down the worn steps and into their father’s runabout. Donald Logan is a Chamberlin on his mother’s side and his sons are sixth generation Ponui Islanders, their great-great-great-grandfather Charles having purchased the island from the Crown in 1854.

  Here on Ponui the changes from time passing seemed least of all. The Chamberlins were as welcoming as ever, the air smelled just as sweet-scented and the sea-girt sensation of being on an island was just as strong. It was only a fleeting visit, but sufficient to renew acquaintance with several branches of the family and to enjoy once again the enchanting gardens round the original homestead that came pre-fabricated from England well over a century ago. Old-fashioned roses, scabious, velvety purple salvia and lilies rioted away just as I remembered, while peacocks strutted about the orchard gorging themselves on windfallen fruit.

  Other notable Ponui creatures are the donkeys, introduced in the mid-nineteenth century, and a small troop of them were grazing by the beach when the children came ashore from the boat. The boys played with them briefly, delivered newspapers and bread they had brought from Waiheke on a relative’s doorstep and then, tightly packed on their father’s motorbike, went whizzing up the hill to tell their mother what the long day had held.

  Further up the Gulf, their great-great-great-grandfather had a good friend at Kawau, Sir George Grey. Now that his Mansion House and much of the gardens are restored nearly to their former state, Kawau has very much the feeling that Ponui does, of being its own small kingdom.

  Kawau is one of the Gulf’s more accessible islands, especially since the Mansion House was acquired by the nation and placed in the care of the Hauraki Maritime Park. The Park itself was in existence when I first began trekking about Hauraki, but its domains are much more extensive now, as other islands and considerable coastline areas have been acquired. You meet some Gulf residents who are a little suspicious of the Park’s influence becoming too all embracing, fearful lest they and their surroundings come to resemble exhibits in a museum, but I believe such concerns are cancelled out by the knowledge that at least some of our marine and coastal inheritance is safe now from the fate that has befallen other less wisely developed areas.

  You can even accomplish some of the journey from Auckland to Kawau by road — drive to the Sandspit, a few kilometres from Warkworth, where you will find a gaggle of comfortable launches competing for custom. The journey from the mainland is replete with views of the lovely Mahurangi coast and the numerous smaller islands in the central waters of the Gulf. Watch as you leave the Sandspit for a fine grove of kauri growing uncharacteristically close to the shore. Too slight for the axe sixty years ago, they are of quite commanding stature now. Look, too, for deep scarring on a nearby hill, where huge logs were once sent hurtling down to the water.

  The launch will not take you directly to Mansion House Bay; first it makes a delivery run to islanders in North and Bon Accord Harbours and School House Bay, where pretty houses and gardens are scattered round in little coves and inlets. Many have their own jetties and residents show great versatility in the styles with which they have adapted their dwelling to the surroundings. Some are holiday homes, others permanent, but all present a most contented aspect. A community spirit is strong and the Kookaburra, a magazine originally published on the island before the last war, has been revived, giving very full accounts of strictly local activities and news.

  I
n the 1840s and 1850s, when copper mining was at its height, about 400 miners, mainly Cornishmen, comprised the first considerable group of European settlers. The stone engine house, one of Kawau’s best known reminders of the past, has lately been repaired and no longer looks quite the picturesque ruin, so beloved of photographers, that it did. A few bricks and scars left by foundations give a hint of where some of the workers’ cottages stood, but nothing is left of a chapel they built in Miner’s Bay. I found a copy of an Auckland paper called The New Zealander, dated 22 July 1848, which reports a meeting held in that chapel to inaugurate the Kawau Total Abstinence Society. It was presided over by Captain Ninnis, who “with considerable wit and merriment portrayed the fallacy of the belief of those who consider alcohol stimulants necessary to render men capable of ending fatigue” and ended by declaring that “on this island the flag of total abstinence now flies triumphant.”

  Sad to say, not only was that proud banner torn down years ago, it was quite forgotten during the long period when the Mansion House was the yachtsmen’s favourite watering hole and Mansion House Bay had the dubious distinction of a bottom so solid with empties an anchor would rarely hold. Latterly, sustained effort by staff of the Maritime Park have returned its waters to a much more pristine state.