TUESDAY 17th JANUARY - STAR DOZING
Having a longer break in Waipu than I had planned I dragged myself up for a worm catching sunrise start to the day. It’s so easy to lay roots when one stops and I had to wrench mine from the inviting earth at Waipu Wanderers backpackers. After an hour on the road I turned off to connect with a bush track marked on my map. Reaching the DOC sign I got chatting to an English guy who was mowing the grass around his water tank. He lived up there and was almost totally self sufficient, getting his water from the stream as well as generating his power from it with a small hydro turbine. After showing me his set up we went in for a cupper that after hours of wholesome chat turned into a stir-fry lunch. It was definitely another crossing of similar souls as we chatted at length about each of our ideas of spirituality. I also found out that Geoff Chapple, the guy with whom I had planned my route, had stopped by a few years before while on his trail blazing tramp. It could well turn into a regular rest spot for other pilgrims following the same trail in the future.

I hit the bush track shortly after leaving and having missed the bulk of a rain shower I only has a light mist to contend with. It had been forecast to rain today but I hoped the Mat office would as on the nail about the days of sun to follow. It was actually a nice change to the beating sun and I was soon drenched from pushing my way through the saturated undergrowth. After a while the track forked and keeping in trend with previous navigational decisions I took the wrong fork. It wasn’t too bad an error in the end as both tracks emerged on the road within meters of each other but I was still stuck with a main road stretch to get to Mangapai Heads where I could join the coast again.

The road section looked quite long and trough recent experience I expected it to be longer than it looked as the terrain here doesn’t allow for crow flying routes. A simple A to B always manages to incorporate a scrabble selection of the alphabet. On this occasion, however, I was just getting into my stride when Mangawai Heads held out its hand in greeting. Greatly relieved, as I was growing to detest main roads, I sat down for a rest in a little shopping arcade and filled my water bottles. Outside one of the shops was a chalkboard with the Irish saying, “There are no strangers here, only friends you have yet to meet.” It was a very fitting saying to New Zealand as it seemed to me the longer I have been here the nicer the people have become. It certainly puts the stuffy English to shame as striking up a conversation with a stranger in England usually sounds weirdo alarms. Is it such an alien act talking to each other? The more one gets into random chatting over here the more one realizes how natural it is to converse however mundane the topic. Lets face it, more talking in the world could solve many problems through the curing of ignorance and the bridging of barriers erected through petty xenophobia’s.

Rehydrated I hit the river and got a lift across with a passing speedboat. Crossing the shell adorned sands I was reunited with the beach and after spending half the day on the tar I let the curling waves and bleating Oyster catchers nurse me back to health. Oyster catchers have got more frequent as I have struck south and along this particular beach there were many comical pairs keeping me amused. They have a cartoon like appearance with long thin orange beaks and legs protruding from chubby black-feathered bodies. They nest on top of the sand and are very protective, hopping around in a maniacal dance and bleating their high pitched sqwarks at any passer by. Apparently if you get too close to their nests they play the injured bird routine, dragging a leg or wing in the sand to attract attention away from their young. Quite clever really but surely it would be more intelligent to just start nesting in more secluded spots. I guess evolution doesn’t move so quickly.

I had got further than expected today so after about 5km I found a sheltered spot in the dunes to stop for the night. I decided to sleep under the stars and did away with the tent in favor of my yellow pack liner. It wasn’t quite long enough so I ended up half in and half out, molding the sand into a comfy bed. Once snuggled up I was asleep even before it got dark so the romance of stargazing while listening the seas rhythmical murmurs was only realized during my brief wakings in the night. It was lovely to wake in the fresh dawn air and I definitely share my mum’s love of sleeping outdoors. She usually has her yurt shielding her from the harsh English elements but in my case my child-sized bivvy did the trick apart from my sleeping bag getting a bit damp. I will just sleep on top of it next time. I will master this tramp thing eventually; in fact I gained a few wrungs recently after purchasing a nice green wide brimmed hat to keep the sun off. Looking the part is half the act after all.

WEDNESDAY 18th JANUARY - WHO ATE ALL THE PIES?
My usual sunrise start was followed by a whole morning of peaceful beach walking. There was a bit of cloud but I always had the crystal waters to cool me down to tramping temperature again. Just as I was clambering over some rocks I heard the rare sound of my phone ringing and answered to hear the voice of my dearest friend Weenie. We had a long chat and I attempted incoherently to describe the wonders of my last few weeks. It?s always great to get a call (hint, hint!).

Reaching the end of the beach I had to turn inland to join a track going up over the peak of a huge bush covered hill called Tamahunga. I found the start just outside Pakiri with no problem but exceeding all precedents I managed to turn the wrong way less than a meter from the stile. After following erroneous orange markers over streams and fences and thinking that some over zealous farmer had deliberately obstructed the track in a fit of stubbornness, I rang Geoff for directions.

I was soon heaving my way through thick grass up a steep ridgeline. Each step was a struggle despite my having gained what I thought was a reasonable level of fitness. I pushed myself onwards and upwards until collapsing into my lunch break. The heat radiating from my body almost melted the cheese on top of my crackers as I wolfed them down hungrily. Shortly after getting going again I stopped and chatted to a farmer and his son who kindly refilled my empty water bottles. Its lucky they did or I would have really struggled getting over Tamahunga's jungle heights. She was only 439m but I did start at sea level. From the top the farmer said I would be able to see Auckland to the SE and Whangerai to the NW but upon getting there I couldn?t see anything through the tree-covered summit. I got the odd glimpse of a view through the bush but just reaching the top was reward enough.

Finishing the track I shed my pack by the main road and nodded off a while slumped on the soft grass. I woke a little groggy and had to force myself up onto my feet. After a few lorries had thundered past only ft away I was torn from my shell-shocked state. I only had 6km to Matakana but it dragged on, the tarmac unfurling itself in its monotonous grey parabolas. Getting there eventually I sunk into a soft chair in front of the TV in the local backpackers. I was happy to have covered so far in one day but my body was definitely emptied of all worth. I just about managed to get down to the local garage to grab myself a pie and to my luck the woman behind the counter gave me two free as they would have been binned otherwise.

I added myself to The Simpson's audience and stuffed all three pies down in quick succession. It wasn't even an effort to fit them all in and as the food brought me to I realized I was surrounded by huge Pink Panthers. The whole hostel was a Pink Panther shrine and I hadn't even noticed. Maybe they weren't there before and I was just hallucinating from exhaustion. It was all too much so I took myself to bed and was dribbling on my pillow before my head hit.

THURSDAY 19th JANAURY - ROAD ART
The Pink Panthers were still there when I got up and they waved me off on my merry way south. It was main road all the way to Warkworth and it seemed as if the driving standard was deteriorating the closer I got to Auckland. Everyone not from the city forever complains about city drivers polluting their quiet roads with their bad driving habits and I think there is some truth to it. Maybe there was just more cars further South and thus more bad drivers. Either way, the inconsiderate passing was getting on my nerves and I had to get the old fingers out on more than one occasion. The line painters were also out and I noticed a small dead bird with a line over it.

On arriving in Warkworth my phone rang again and I had the pleasure of chatting to another dear friend. Two calls in two days! I was beginning to feel like Mr. Popular. On my way out of town I had to give in and submit to Highway 1 for about 500m but it was enough for me to know that every extra km to avoid it was worth walking. I was heading inland on a curved route back to the coast and although still on sealed roads there weren?t many cars to spoil the pasture filled afternoon. About 5km out of Warkworth I came across some very amusing road line art. The road painters had painted a line right over a freshly squashed possum! I got a few evidence shots before heading on, my mind wandering. I had seen lots of dead possums and they were definitely part of the road here but I had yet to see such literal evidence.

A bit further on and I reached my turn off. I stopped to ask a guy in his garage and he confirmed I could get through on forestry tracks to a road further south. Half way up the hill onto the ridge I had to stop and wait for the day to cool a little. It was after 5pm and the sun was still packing the heat. I dosed off next to my drying T-shirt and once the sun had dipped to a cooler angle I carried on up through the scarred hills. Recent logging had left whole hillsides bare and desolate and the views were spoilt by the destruction. I followed the track to Moir hill where it joined the road but I was trying to get to a road further south still and there was no obvious route through. I saw a roof through the trees and decided to ask but on discovering a huge Doberman on the lawn and no cars in the drive I soon changed my mind.

Carrying on down the road I found a semi overgrown but walkable track heading roughly south so I followed it out into more logged hillsides. After a few dead ends I eventually wormed my way through to the road. It was getting dark and I didn?t have enough energy to get the last 9km to Puhoi so I decided to find somewhere to pitch up. The road followed a ridge skirting a pine forest on one side and a steep drop on the other so there wasn?t much flat ground. About a km down I saw a drive with some flattish ground next to it so I followed the drive up to the house to ask permission. It's always best to ask. It beats a shotgun in the face at the crack of dawn and few would say no anyway.

After scarring the living daylights out of the couple when they turned to see a strange figure through their glass door they invited me in for a cup of tea. Marg, a South African, and Paul, a Brit, had lived there with their three sons for about six years. We chatted over tea until after dark and they ended up offering me supped and a bed for the night. I humble accepted and eventually hit the hay after a lovely dinner of organic treats. I couldn't have predicted this when getting up this morning.

FRIDAY 20th JANUARY - PUB CULTURE
After a gorgeous breakfast and a long chat with Paul about music and the likes I set out towards Puhoi. Before leaving I had shown Paul and Marg my possum photo and they gave me the idea of sending it to a newspaper with a little article. As I made my way through the pines the words were beginning to form as my trains of thought wound themselves into a coherent whole. Half way to Puhoi I passed the Bohemian cheese factory and decided to stop as Marg had recommended it the night before. Buying some Bohemian Blue and crackers I sat down under a parasol and began to write. My inspiration from earlier translated itself into a jumbled mess so I put my pen down and feeling civilized ordered a glass of red. Surrounded by tourists and summer sun I sat and ate a cheese and wine lunch feeling very cultured and sophisticated.

Once I came back to earth I plodded to last 3km to Puhoi. I had been really looking forward to getting here as about a month earlier an Ozzie trucker I had hitched with brought me to the pub here on the way up north. It was the closest thing to an English pub (it's hard to find a good pub out here) and it was packed full of fascinating pub paraphernalia. Since then I had heard lots about Puhoi and its famous pub and I was desperate for a good nose around. Before getting my horn rimmed specs out I booked a Kayak for the following morning. I was going to paddle down the river back to the coast and walk from there and as high tide was at about 6am it was going to be a 7am start. It was going to be a painful start.

That organized I aimed for the museum to piece together the stories I had heard about this pretty, white washed town. It?s so picturesque, in fact, that it has been the scene of a whole list of movies including Stephen King?s ?The Tommyknockers?. Bohemian settlers founded Puhoi back in 1863. For those that don?t know because I didn?t, Bohemia was part of the Ottoman Empire and now forms part the Czech Republic. The settlers wouldn?t have survived here if it wasn?t for the local Maori tribe, with whom they became good friends, bringing them fresh fruit and vegetables and showing them how to build palm frond shelters but there was little mention of this in the one room museum. I had heard previously that the settlers had scratched a living selling rare mushrooms to the Chinese who considered them a great delicacy but they dropped in my elevations when I found out their main income was derived from Kauri logging. I also learnt of the authentic instruments they brought with them and the traditional music they kept alive so far from their homeland. The most interesting instrument is called a dudelsac and it looked like a cross between the bagpipes and a bellows. The barman of the pub later told me that it?s a little painful to listen to, not holding a candle to the bagpipes. It was this music that held the community together and they used to have huge dances that could go on for up to three days. Their reputation was salvaged somewhat when learning this but it could suffer once more if I even get to hear a dudelsac!

After my history lesson it was pub time. I only had time for a few as I had put my name down to help with a community building project putting up a wooden shelter to house an old cart that had been donated to the village. Pint in hand I wandered around the pub fascinated by all the photos, bank notes, silly poems and other paraphernalia. It was better than the museum; far more entertaining anyway. There was an Iraqi banknote adorned with Saddam next to an Iranian one with the Ayattoyah; there was a possum hat complete with tail; an adaptation of the Lord?s Prayer aptly titled Beer?s Prayer and adding the icing was a barman called Amego. There were constant chants ringing from the beer pumps of, ?Cheers Amego? and I felt compelled to order another to have my turn.

The pub was now run by the daughter of the previous landlord, ?Old Seymour,? who sadly passed away about 5 years previously. Old Seymour was a legend and it had been his philosophy to abuse everyone who passed the hearth. Holding true to his convictions, Old Seymour had managed to clock up 43 convictions of various creeds while behind the bar. He apparently got sued by an American woman for calling her a ?fat bitch? and then pulling out a knife sheathed in his cane. When the police came he got a slap on the wrist and they glued his cane together to prevent further incidents. I guess that is what living in a pub too long does to you. One of the dangers of the job. I only wish I could have seen Old Seymour in action.

5pm was looming so I chipped off to my handyman appointment yelling a last ?Cheers Amego? as I left. I was helping two locals put the finishing touches to the structure before the shingles went up the following day. I got chatting to one of the guys about my walk and it turned out that a section of Te Ararore was going to be going through his land. It would certainly help future pilgrims avoid having to pick their way over old logging tracks but looking back, the tricky parts always gave me a good sense of achievement even if the correct track was normally the last to be chosen.

After a quick veggie burger at the local sports club I tented up on the edge of the rugby pitch and headed back to the pub. My business there wasn?t concluded yet as more local brew was destined to pass my lips. I only paid for one pint that night and the rest my dear Amego insisted were on the house. I promised to bring back a framed print of my possum photo for the wall if a spare inch could be found to hang it. Stumbling back to my tent I amazingly managed to undress before cocooning myself in beer sleep.

My New Hat		Possum Art
Puhio Pub		Could have Been a Nice View

The Story Continues... click for the next page!