Sorry for the Group Email

We were on our way to Russell, north of Auckland, to look at a flagpole when we impulsively turned off the highway in search of a tearoom. The thing about travelling in Australia and New Zealand, particularly in comparison to driving in Indonesia, say, is that everything is signposted. So we followed little teacup signs a few miles down the road until we climbed out of our Nissan Sunny in Puhoi. We wandered into a deserted tearoom and idly regarded the menu for a few minutes when a voice half-sang down the hallway:

“Hello?”

A small man in his mid-fifties wearing spectacles appeared. He clasped his hands in front of his chest and looked delighted to see us, as if we were guests he’d been waiting for for some time.

“Now,” he beamed. “Let me give you a quick history lesson.”

The Puhoi Cottage Tearooms, apparently, had their hundredth birthday in 2007, and claim to be the oldest tearoom in New Zealand still serving Devonshire cream tea. It would have been rude to have ordered anything else.

“I call it Devonshire tea, New Zealand style, with a Puhoi twist,” he said, vanishing into the back before re-emerging a short time later with a plate laden with tea, jam, cream and a pair of scones each the size of two large fists. “Yes,” I thought. We’d found our first Hobbit.

Puhoi turned out to be quite a find. We wandered about for half an hour, marvelling at the size of its library (about the size of a small caravan) and beautiful church. It was as if someone had looked at a painting of a clichéd British country town and transplanted it into New Zealand, carefully preserving details as they went. The first Puhoians were from what’s now the Czech Republic. They spent nearly four months at sea and spent the first few years of their lives in New Zealand close to starvation, before learning farming techniques from local Maoris. Puhoi has a museum and if you ever find yourself in the area you should really go. If nothing else it’ll give you a chance to digest your tea and scones.

We were headed north to the Kauri Museum, a place recommended by our tin-foil-wearing friend the night before. The Kauri is a tree indigenous to New Zealand, notable for its age, extraordinary size, and the even more astonishing enthusiasm with which it was chopped down for its timber and gum. It was gratifying, however, to see that Joni Mitchell’s prediction about tree museums in Big Yellow Taxi were coming true.

Except the Kauri museum wasn’t a dollar and a half, it was NZ$15 each. That’s about what it costs to get in to the Louvre. Running short of time, we contented ourselves with pottering gently around the outside buildings, before heading back to the car.

On our way, we were stopped by a woman in a museum shirt, clutching half a sandwich.

“Just passing through?” she asked, worriedly.

“Think so,” we replied, checking our watches.

There was a pause. “Oh, you really should go in,” she said earnestly. “It’s not just the trees – it’s much bigger than it looks.” She looked from Mendy to me and back again.

“Seriously, it’ll probably be the best thing you’ve ever seen.”

She delivered this last line with the mad stare of a lunatic. We hesitated, then reached for our wallets and headed back.

Now, I don’t wish to suggest that the woman had led a rather sheltered existence, but all I’m saying is that if the Kauri museum was the best thing she’d ever seen, she may have been a lifelong resident.

Not that it wasn’t interesting, you understand. Logging was of huge importance to early Kiwi settlers, and Kauri trees were particularly valuable. The trunks in the museum were around ten feet in diameter, and some of the trees were thousands of years old. The trees were exported around the world, notably to Scotland, where they were turned into linoleum and opportunistically imported back to New Zealand. The rest of the museum was a diverting, if mannequin-heavy, few hours. There is, of course, “the world’s best Kauri Gum display” downstairs, which, if you like amber, will induce a headache of joy.

We left, avoiding the manic gaze of the woman who had enticed us in.

From the Kauri museum we drove a few hours to the other side of the island. After Australia, driving in New Zealand was a very real pleasure. Not only is the weather better suited to being encapsulated in a plastic and aluminium and glass capsule for a few hours, but the roads and views are rarely less than breathtaking. Think of the best scenery you’ve ever seen (this doesn’t work if you’ve been to New Zealand already, mind). Now make the hills higher and the valleys deeper. Make the grass greener and, every now and then, pop a tractor or two on a distant hill. Populate the fields with a million sheep and, finally, roll a perfectly smooth road through the middle of it, winding its way through the countryside in sympathy with the hills. Add a few cars every ten miles and prepare to stop every time you crest a hill to take pictures. It’s a strange thing to drive somewhere where the view improves with every mile, but there you go.

At length we arrived in Russell, a small town with a selection of good walks and New Zealand’s oldest church, established in 1836. It also includes an important piece of Maori history, in its flagstaff, which was cut down no fewer than four times before the settlers and local Maoris came to an agreement. Namely, of course, that the British would stop killing Maoris if the Maoris left the flag pole alone.

Dave thought about including a potted history of New Zealand’s Maori, then got distracted by a bumblebee. Instead, try these links:

www.culture.co.nz

www.maori.info

www.maori.org.nz

And try the North Island Flickr set, which you can reach by clicking here.