Tramps in the Far North/The North
THE NORTH
ITS COMMERCIAL ASPECT
HE four million acres which stretch to the North of Auckland are almost a commercial precis. Land is reasonably cheap, and conditions compare favourably with Taranaki, Canterbury, and other such districts. The character of the land varies, and often the poorest “gum lands” are capable of growing high quality fruit when properly treated. The sandstone country is very successfully worked, and we continually hear of record pastoral achievements.
The limestone country is especially popular for grazing, and the Whangarei, Mahurangi, Hokianga and Kaipara counties, most of which are limestone, carry grass well.
The limestone, of course, has commercial value in itself, and cement is already being manufactured in some places.
It will be many years before the North reaches its limit of production, as the greatest need is for settlement. There are fortunes lying dormant in this great undeveloped tract of country, and it needs only enterprise, efficiency, and knowledge, to make this a great outpouring of wealth.
In railways, the North is poor, but the schemes have been delayed by the War, and it will not be long before the Department meets this need.
Some idea of the vast possibilities of the North, can be gained from the fact that all the following industries and developments are being actively pursued:—Dairy farming, fruit growing, sheep and cattle grazing, timber felling, freezing of stock, potato growing, coal mining, lime and cement working, kauri gum digging, flax cutting, ship building, fishing, fruit canning, and limited quicksilver working.
There is a variety and extent of mineral wealth which will tempt vast capital when the North is known, and there are limestone caves, places of historical interest, mineral springs, rivers, and scenery that will some day lure travellers from all corners of the earth.
WHANGAREI
The pleasure of the steamer trip from Auckland to Whangarei, depends mostly on the mood of the weather; but the healthy traveller survives this introductory aspect and arrives at Onerahi, only to be ushered on to a primitive train which carries him over the last stage of the journey. It was from the windows of an obsolete railway carriage that I first saw the country that surrounds Whangarei. Mangrove swamps, bridges of a past century, and the puffing of an ambitious railway engine, preceded arrival at the town. Experience has made me disbelieve the “first impression” theory, and I still hoped for better things even after the uncomfortable train, and a tea room, which had missed its place in the “Progress” march of the North.
The Whangarei Town Hall
The territory generally is one of possibilities more than achievements, but Whangarei itself is a monument to efficient municipal administration. Streets, drainage, water supply and lighting are equal, if not superior, to those in any similar borough in New Zealand.
The motor car has superseded the gig and sulky, and the large number of automobiles in the streets indicate prosperity. Instead of slow-moving bullock teams and drays, one finds large motor lorries used for conveying produce to the centres. Large consignments of dairy and pasture products are continually arriving there, and the fact that there is a daily steam service between Whangarei and Auckland, will show how important the district is becoming, as a feature in New Zealand’s commercial development.
The importance of the North is not confined to its agricultural enterprises, and we find a mineral wealth which will one day become one of our main assets. Gold, silver, copper, mercury and other minerals have been successfully prospected, and energy and capital will soon create new interests for the speculator.
Whangarei is a good business town, and its commercial men are progressive to an extent which surprised me after my experience of Auckland and Wellington. With their assured positions in the groove of success—for it is a groove—many Auckland business men have lost the keenness which characterises the work of these pioneer developers of North Auckland.
There is no atmosphere of the one-horse-village, about Whangarei, and there is a happy condition of systematic treatment in offices and workshops and in the numerous industrial developments. Whangarei is, of course, the centre of the North, and one gains an impression of the vastness of this great area from the continual activity in the town itself.
Within a short distance of Whangarei are several places of scenic interest, and Mair Park is being formed into a very delightful breathing space. The park
Whangarei Heads
lies in a natural valley within a short distance of the town. The sparkling swimming pool is surrounded by sloping banks of native bush very representative of New Zealand flora. The pool is sufficient in area to allow of punting and boating, and it is the natural bath of Whangarei’s coming generation.
Several waterfalls and beautiful streams are within easy reach of the town, and the long white roads, stretching along beneath arcades of trees, invite one to roam endlessly on to any one of the hundred places which nature has made pleasing to the appreciative eye.
A BEAUTIFUL PLACE
I have travelled so much of late, that views and places have formed themselves into a continuous whole, and there lingers with me, a general impression of a prosperous country, dotted by towns which are the home of an energetic and pleasant-mannered people.
Above all this, I remember one place which is so beautiful, that if I were to give the description it merits, you would perhaps think that I was falling into the ways of the guide-book writer.
Within a few miles of Whangarei there is an estate that reminds me in some way of the Domain of Arnheim of which Poe writes. The late Mr. Holman, who was the genius responsible for this enviable Eden, has chosen a spot to which nature has been most liberal. Through the valley, yielding flowers and fruit, runs a stream; its upper course in placid mood, between willow-lined banks, and over time-smoothed stones.
Masses of pink hydrangea sent their wealth of colour to the water’s edge, and a vista of trees walled in a waterway of exquisite beauty.
Great scarlet cannas stirred, when, frightened by our approach, pheasants sought the undergrowth. Rainbow trout swam in the dark depths of the pool, and a stately peacock flaunted its plumage on the opposite bank.
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A Towering Tree Fern on the late Mr. Holman’s Estate
All this was in contrast to the great force with which the peaceful stream became a thundering waterfall. It suggested power and cruel force, but, coming to the level again, it soon reassumed its peaceful progress, and, like Narcissus, vain hybiscus flowers looked at their painted faces in the water below. A ponderous water-wheel slowly turned; water lilies, like child faces, nestled between moss-covered stones, and the willow trees hung their long green branches down to where the leaves were swept by the passing water.
Kauri trees and rata bloom, tall tree ferns and showers of clematis covered the slopes, and before me was a grove of fruit trees, where prevailing silence was broken only when an apple, tiring of its bough, fell to the grass below.
In the midst of all this, there was a house with shingle roof and a flower-covered porch in which a Persian cat idly dreamed. But there was a practical side to this beautiful place, and down by the stream there were hatcheries in which thousands of tiny rainbow trout were prepared for the pleasure of the angler. Pheasant runs (then almost empty) and a few quail represented another field of activity.
WHANGAREI FALLS
We left the town of Whangarei one morning and motored about four miles out to the Whangarei Falls. Glorious green trees, fern and grass, and a dark face of rock are the setting for the divided stream of water which falls some fifty feet into the pool below. Pausing a moment or two, it rushes on down its course, breaking into small cascades and pools, but ever hurrying, like a picture of eternal motion. Waterfalls are one of the most beautiful aspects of this northern scenery. They make a river or stream interesting, and form a rendezvous for photographers and artists.
WHANGAREI TO RUSSELL
A number of obsolete carriages were drawn into the Whangarei station, and we soon puffed away on the journey to Opua. From there we travelled to Russell by launch. Of the journey I have conflicting impressions, for the train was as discomforting as the scenery was pleasing. We averaged about 15 miles an hour, and halted for long periods each time we happened to gain a few miles on our timetable. Whangarei was not long passed when Kamo station appeared. Near-by are the famous springs which have such remarkable curative value. There were no halt and lame for Kamo, and we were soon puffing past fern-filled valleys and rippling streams, until we drew up in front of Waro, where are the remarkable limestone formations which have a monopoly of the local penny postcards. The naturally-placed blocks of limestone stand one on the other, and with dead trees scattered between them, they assume the shapes of devils, angels and other characters of the next world. Had I not made the train journey, I would certainly have motored out to Waro from Whangarei, for the limestone rocks are unique, both from a scenic and geological point of view. The way of the train led past some very fine scenery, which was mingled with evidences of settlement. An occasional bullock team was seen with its load of timber, and the beasts stared at the puffing train with contempt. Cows—well-kept-looking animals—paused in their feeding to note the passing of the train, and occasional calves scampered with disapproving jumps in no particular direction. Opua was an uninteresting end to a rather tedious journey, but all these discomforts were dispelled by the launch trip to Russell, and the pleasure of seeing the delightful waterway upon which the township is built.
RUSSELL
Russell is one of the few places that are contented to stand aside in the great awakening of the North. The town shows little sign of action, and the settlers are sublimely contented to allow the opportunities of life to pass by. No other place in New Zealand has the historical interest of Russell, and yet its buildings are falling to decay, and very few people seem concerned with these crumbling monuments to the very first of New Zealand’s pioneers. The town, and the Bay of Islands on which it is built, are supremely quiet. Nothing stirs the peace of the bays, and the policeman at Russell is morally unnecessary. Steamers ply between Auckland and Russell, but we had not availed ourselves of this convenience, as we came overland from Whangarei. The Bay of Islands forms a perfect harbour, with shores as beautiful as they are interesting. There are countless bays in which the early Christian missionaries, whalers, and traders sought to break down the adversity
An Old Cannon at Russell
of the natives. Old stone houses and stores stand as relics of these past days, and at Russell practically all the buildings were at one time the homes of early settlers.
Russell is declining in importance, chiefly because it is neglected, and the wooden church and graveyard of the pioneers are crumbling away; although the present church people struggle to preserve the building. In front of the church there is a new graveyard, bright and well tended. To the rear are the resting-places of some of the most admirable early-day settlers; but these graves are overgrown with weeds; the head-stones have fallen, and the writing on them is unreadable.
Nature has made Russell beautiful, and its long beach and stretches of hillside invite one to walk endlessly on; to bays where the air and water are cool, and to headlands which overlook stretches of sea and islands. It is in the evening that one goes forth with the greatest pleasure, for then the heat of the day has departed and there is the silent luxury of sunset. A dozen islands stand out of the sea and are silhouetted against the pastel sky; the gulls shriek; the fishing boats return, and evening comes like a mute to the strings of a violin.
I have walked across the hills of Russell in the quiet of twilight—over to Long Beach, where the waves break on the shore in a semi-circle of white; I have seen the distant slopes ablaze with bush fires. I have tramped the hills in the evening, and stood high up on the cliffs with no company but the shrieking gulls, and the soft murmur of the sea below; I have plunged into the cool water, and after swimming to a small island near-by, have stood on the rocks—dripping wet and happy. It was in these moments that I realised how beautiful Russell is to those who tire of the commercial whirl, and to those who appreciate nature rather than the faulty creations of man.
The “rush tourist” who “does” Russell with a camera and guide-book has a good deal to satisfy his craving for “ruins.” The old church at Russell is honeycombed with bullet holes—silent records of the early native battles, in which so many pioneers were killed. Enterprising launch-owners speed visitors across the water to other places of interest—Waitangi, where the famous treaty was signed; Marsden Cross, and other places which were so important in that early effort at civilisation.
WHANGAROA
We left Russel for Whangaroa, returning by rail as far as Otiria. We crept into the sunshine of the lazy siding, where we were to leave the too tolerant train for a motor, or failing that, a coach of sorts. The gods were unkind, and the motor was not forthcoming. I was tucked in between two good New Zealanders, who knew every inch of their country, and whose only fault was their amazing intelligence. They were mines of information as to geological formations, native trees, and points of interest. After I had conquered my first blushes at my utter ignorance, I was to find them charming and useful companions of route. We rumbled away upon a road after Christina Rosetti’s poem, but, unhappily, we did not find it winding uphill all the way.
We passed a solitary cattleman at times, or now a beaming Maori. But, for the most part, we had the road to ourselves. Again we would run through one of the cool knots of trees that are enigmas of landscape, and often found an old house with its crudities of settlers’ design, blended into wonderful pictures by creepers and wilderness gardens. These old houses strike a strange and pathetic note in this young land. They are so few and widespread—like aged and lonely women on the roadway of youth.
The stock-drover ploughed the dusty road with the innumerable hoofs of his charge; they raised a cloud that for a moment hid the great expanse of undulating country. The coach, laden both with passengers and mail from Otiria, rumbled down the hills and through the fertile valleys that were lost in a haze of blue. We soon pulled up with a flourish and show of importance before the hotel. The bullocks which we had passed on the way, now reappeared, a little more weary of their task, and bending beneath their unenviable load; they added a primitive atmosphere, being driven merely by a stockwhip and a curse.
Ohaeawai is almost surrounded by great ranges of hills.
Whangaroa Township from Across the Harbour
Leaving Otiria for Ohaeawai we had passed through a part of “old” New Zealand. One of the first mission stations was erected here, and other old buildings—now but landmarks—were the architectural triumphs of a past century.
We found in Pakaraka one of the most striking examples of cultivated gum land. I was surprised in noting the remarkable work that has been done with what was at first unpromising country. Pakaraka has been transformed into a veritable oasis of produciton, and the land is rich, black and loamy.
But we had arrived at Ohaeawai, and that meant rest. The most comfortable stage coach is not without its disadvantages, and we welcomed the comforts of a country hotel.
A little to the north, on the road to Whangaroa, we later passed Lake Omapere—a great expanse of water lying like a jewel in a matrix. Its beauty was increased by the excellent cultivation surrounding it. The local natives suppose Omapere to be the home of the Taniwha which, according to their traditions, has claimed many victims.
Ohaeawai has a reputation for its thermal springs, situated at a little distance from the township, and near Ngawha. Ngawha, it may be remarked, means “sulphur.” These springs have accounted for many wonderful cures, probably owing to the fact that they contain mercury in solution, and have been the “medicine man” of the Maoris for centuries. Their curative properties are certainly more effective than ordinary sulphur springs, and, moreover, they bear the distinction of being the only ones of their kind in the world. Mercury is very abundant in the vicinity of the springs, and pure quicksilver can be collected in the hand. Apart from the fact that the area is privately owned, it seems very strange that a property of such undoubted commercial value should lie dormant and untouched. This estate has rightly been referred to as one of the six greatest assets of the North. We left the coach for a motor car and started on the drive to Kaeo. We rose over the crest of many a hill, beating out, as we went, a broader track, to the detriment of the car. Then, as the later afternoon came on, we started the downward journey to Kaeo. I cannot say that I was favourably impressed. It had a dingy, squalid appearance, reminiscent of some American-Mexican town, with the ugliness of the first and the dirt of the other. I was glad to be on the road again, leading through the mangrove flats to Whangaroa.
Whangaroa behaved like a spoiled child to me that day. She has been a hobby of mine since childhood days. My friends were seeing her for the first time, and I sang her praise in my best voice. Yet she showed herself in her unpleasantest garb, with grey light, and a harbour almost destitute of water. But with the incoming sea there came a new mood, and Whangaroa, with the tide dreaming between the Mounts of St. Peter and St. Paul, was unbelievably beautiful.
Whangaroa specialises in early mornings and phosphorescent nights. A wonderful, still, clearness characterises the first, while the second is a-swim with magic. I shall always remember the pale gold of the sunset—the light blue sky and yellow hills, with the harbour untouched by any hint of movement, and St. Paul’s dome celestial in a glow of golden sunset mist.
It is a deserted village—Whangaroa. The foreshore is littered with the remains of what were probably architectural achievements to the early settlers. Dignified old houses can be rented at an almost nominal rate. There is one, overlooking the sea, broad-verandahed and charming, which once belonged to the manager of one of the local timber mills. But the timber is almost worked out now: Totara, across the harbour, monopolises the remains of it. Whangaroa would have no existence whatever, were it not for being the port of busy Kaeo. A few families in the neighbourhood possess milking machines, and supply the local butter factory. There are some grapes grown, and sheep are reared on the near-by hills.
HIKURANGI
On the way back to Whangarei, I spent a short while at Hikurangi, which is the centre for the well-known coalfield which makes the town worthy of a place on the map. I learned from a resident that the population is about seven hundred, and all seem to be very alert and alive to the possibilities of the district. An undrained swamp lies near the town, and when its thirty thousand acres are drained a large and valuable area will be added to the pastoral lands of the district. The singular limestone formations which are found at the several towns near-by are seen also at Hikurangi, where they attract considerable attention from visitors.
BACK TO WHANGAREI
After the rush of our tour from the more distant north, we appreciated a day of lazy restfulness in Whangarei. We re-visited Mair Park, and I had the pleasure of meeting the town Mayor and several councillors. Most of these gentlemen had a sense of humour with their undoubted skill in borough management, and this is a rare quality in such officials.
I enjoyed an hour at the Town Hall, wherein is a good library and a small but
The Wairua Falls
interesting museum. The building is so effectively presented by photography in this book that I refrain from a word description.
WAIRUA FALLS
On the following day we motored out to the Wairua Falls, which are sixteen miles distant from Whangarei. We travelled over a good road via Maunu and Paroti, and arrived at the Falls in time for luncheon beneath the trees. The Wairoa River is here 300ft. wide, and it falls 80ft. over a rock face. The whole of the water of the Wairoa River rushes over the rocks forming these falls, and from here the power is obtained to generate electricity for lighting Whangarei, and for running the Dominion Cement Company Works on the harbour. On a previous occasion I had seen the river in flood, when there was a splendid and beautiful volume of water. Huge kauri logs floated down the river, and went over the falls with a tremendous splash.
TO CLOSE
We returned to Whangarei in the early evening, when the workmen were making their way along the roads, when cows were being driven home by sturdy little boys, and when the twilight was softening the landscape with grey shadows. After our evening meal we walked to the wharves to enjoy the restful twilight. An occasional boat of singing youngsters passed down the water, and with the coming of night, moonlight trickled through the mangroves and on to the surface of the still water, while in the fo’castle of a cargo boat, somebody played a mandolin.
WHANGAREI TO AUCKLAND
We boarded the Manaia on the following day, and I had the opportunity of viewing the coast which we had previously passed at night-time. It was a gloriously calm day, with just enough sunlight and heat to make us lazy. We passed the Whangarei Heads and long sand-covered beaches, which gleamed white between the line of brown hills and the blue sea. Occasional islands sent their tree-covered slopes down to the water's edge, and gulls idly followed in the wake of the steamer. As I sat on the deck I was able to review the past two weeks, and I then fully realised how wonderful are the possibilities of this great northern territory. I envy the men who will make the vast fortunes which the North offers, but I pity those who are blind to the delight which comes in passing through this beautiful country.
PRESS OF
WHITCOMBE & TOMBS LIMITED
AUCKLAND N.Z.