By PHIL JARRATT
Auckland shines, even when the sun doesn’t.
Last weekend was spent discovering Auckland. Not before time, I guess, having dropped into the airport at least a dozen times previously (usually on the way to somewhere imagined to be more exotic) without setting foot in New Zealand’s biggest city.
Before leaving for Kiwiland, we dropped in on old mate Murray Mexted, holidaying on the Gold Coast, eager to elicit some tips on where to go and how to behave in the land of the long, black raincloud. Being a Wellington man, the former All Blacks skipper was none too impressed with our plan to make Auckland our city stop rather than his own more cultured habitat. Nevertheless, over dinner and some good NZ rose and pinot gris, he gave us some key pronunciations and told us the towns where we shouldn’t stop. And that was pretty much all we needed to know, Muzza said.
Auckland didn’t start that well, with a scrap over the transmission of the rental car I’d ordered, a hotel that couldn’t be found because its signage and street number were obscured by construction works, and the fact that its parking was at the other end of the city. Despite that, we found we kind of liked the fading grandeur of the Grand Windsor, just a couple of blocks back off the port and its myriad brew bars and chowder houses.
We liked the city’s European alleyways even more, and uncovered a cosy delight in the Occidental’s Belgian Cafe, where the moules frites was as good as most I’ve had in French seaports, the wine crisp and tasty, and the service efficient and friendly. On this chilly spring Friday night, the city seemed vibrant and full of fun.
We spent the first of Saturday on the harbour, doing the touristy things, and ended up in Devonport, from which point the arresting Auckland skyline is revealed in all its re-invented glory from across the water. Devonport hasn’t been re-invented yet, although the gentrification is underway. Its welcoming cafes were crowded and noisy and full of life and wonderful local seafood choices.
But the biggest surprise in Devonport was its multitude of antiquarian bookshops. It seems like a lifetime ago that Berkelouws existed only in this form, and Sydney’s Paddington, Balmain and Glebe were full of such treasure troves. In Australia, harsh economic realities have seen to most of these, but what a pleasant surprise to find them flourishing in Devonport. I lost myself for hours in the cramped spaces between overflowing shelves of red and brown-spined classics, eventually succumbing to a 1910 pocket edition of Dickens’ American Notes.
Later in Auckland’s long daylight saving afternoon, we caught up with former Noosa surf chick Jane Purtell for drinks at a chic waterfront bar, then segued on to a fabulous dinner at a place called Monsoon Poon, where southern and eastern Asiatic influences ruled both decor and the kitchen, while Auckland’s noisy fun vibe ruled the crowded tables.
The weather pretty much sucked, but I loved Auckland. I don’t know why it’s been off our radar all these years, but it’s not anymore.
Tonight, I write from the old goldmining town of Thames, in a backpacker joint, sitting at a kitchen bench across from a young Frenchman who keeps asking me questions about Noosa. Just come, I tell him, and now, if you don’t mind, I have a very important column to write for a major metropolitan newspaper. I’d go to my room to finish it, but you can’t swing a cat in there and my wife is sobbing on the bed about the shared bathroom situation, so I guess I’ll soldier on.
The reason we are in Thames, at the foot of the Coromandel Peninsula, is that for the next couple of days we’ll cycle the Hauraki Rail Trail, which interests me greatly, not only because I like mining history but also because it’s basically flat, which is where cycling is at for me these days. More on that next week.
Dale’s last ride
My old scribe mate from the 1970s halcyon years of surf journalism, Drew Kampion, long-retired on Whidbey Island in Washington State, alerts me to the fact that an era has ended. Last week Dale Webster retired from daily surfing, so he could undergo mandatory surgery, after 14,641 consecutive days of surfing at least three waves a day. Don’t worry about the calculator – that’s every day since 1975.
I’ve been aware of Dale’s mad mission for a great many years, and always thought of how much in life he must have forsaken in order to achieve it. Work, weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, landmark birthday parties, all these things can take you away from the beach for a day or more. But Dale Webster simply would not go. Rain, hail, shine, snow, sleet, pollution warnings or hangovers be damned, every day Dale had to go catch his three waves. Until now, when it’s surgery or die.You have to dip your trucker cap to the guy, don’t you? Forty years of surfing every day, he’s gone where no man (or woman) has gone before him. I just hope he didn’t miss anything really important. As old mate Paul Neilsen used to say, having surfed his brains out, turn your back on the ocean and the world is in front of you.
