went on through a shady avenue of pines and blue-gums to the Spa, where we left the road and threaded our way through a wilderness of golden gorse and broom taller than ourselves to the banks of a river that flows gently and silently through a mysterious valley, whose woodland hides a witches’ kitchen where uncanny brews of many colours are cooked. Not two feet from the river there is an erection of petrified sticks in the shape of a crow’s nest, and every two or three hours, with marvellous punctuality, a geyser blows high into the air from its depths,—an accommodating geyser that plays three times in succession as an encouragement to the amateur photographers who wait patiently for the performance.
We made the sandy, shelving cove that held it our dining-room, and after luncheon walked along the river bank on a narrow, sloping path that required careful attention lest we slipped into the river below, especially as at every few yards we had to jump over a boiling pool or hurry across a slippery plank to avoid a geyser just on the verge of venting its energy, regardless as to direction, which was regulated by the fickle wind.
After this stimulating constitutional we visited the coloured pools in the witches’ kitchen, and then went on up the cliff again through the scented broom to the Spa Hotel, where we had tea in a carved Maori whare, in the midst of a rose-garden. Then in the cool afternoon came the two-mile walk back to the Terraces, there to dress, dine, persuade Mr. McKinley to tell us some stories of his early life out here before towns were thought about, and finish up the day by a swim in the hot ferruginous spring before turning in.
The next day we spent in a launch on the lake, whose beauties cannot be imagined from the shores. There are said to be forty-two rivers and creeks running into Taupo, but the Waikato is its only outlet, and that runs into the sea about twenty miles to the south of Onehunga.
On Wednesday we drove to Wairakei and explored the geyser valley there. It is more a gorge than a valley, and is simply a succession of boiling pools and geysers on either bank of the river, almost hidden in some places by the wealth of fern and manuka, trees and undergrowth of all kinds.
One geyser that, like Wairoa, will not play without persuasion, required twenty-five minutes to get up steam after the plug that acts as its key had been taken out of the stream that supplies it; it was close to a shallow basin called the Paddle-geyser, and both were in a natural arbour where a seat had been placed. So we lunched there, while waiting for the “Prince of Wales’ Feathers” to grow, and every few minutes the Paddle treated us to an exhibition. There would be a dull rumble, followed by the sound of rushing water, then the unseen paddle-wheels seemed to revolve furiously, the water in the basin was churned up, and away spouted the fountains, one shot after another in quick succession,—then repose again while it prepared for a repetition.
These were only two out of dozens, each with some characteristic specially its own; we spent the whole day in the valley and did not have a dull moment, ending up with the drive back past the glorious Huka Falls.
