The Celestial Sea Read online

  I decide to furnish each bed with a couple of blankets as well as a duvet. I try to unify the blankets with some bed cushions. The Warehouse supplies reasonably priced, wool duvets, {a new concept to me}, and the Opp. Shops have stacks of checked and striped woollen blankets in gorgeous colours——more exciting than plain blankets. Synthetic throws appear more popular in the shops, so there are lots of traditional blankets to choose between on the second-hand shelves. The cost is reasonable too——ten dollars for a double. They are a hallmark of times gone by and I enjoy the old-fashioned labels boasting 100% New Zealand wool; made in Onehunga or Wanganui. I shall collect a colourful quantity while I am here. The thought of them stacked inside a French armoire on a sunny landing appeals to the interior decorator in me.

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  So, Term 3 of the Kiwi School Year has begun. The bigger boys are underway at College while the two smaller ones are happily settled at school. I find myself a glorified taxi driver, with two morning runs followed by domestic chores and then two afternoon runs. After our English village life my daily routine is very different. I am getting to know my way around this large and sprawling town where the need for wheels is more pressing than at home. We will need a second vehicle before long.

  I enjoy my connection with the School’s three Kindergartens. The smell of roasting orange peel and homemade bread wafts over the gardens from wood-burning stoves at the start of each day. Rinky The Minx and I saunter along the paths together every morning, holding hands and lapping up the environment. The air is fresh and the sunshine bright. We brush past a pink camellia shrub and stop to admire a banana tree beside the sandpit. Each Kindergarten has its own generous deck and pretty garden. We hang up hats and coats and pull on woolly slippers. A large basket of hand-knitted slippers for sale sits by the door of Rinky’s room. They are all the same design at a cost of $6/pair. I have noticed both children and adults wearing them. Like many Europeans, Kiwi’s leave shoes at the door. I’ll get some slippers for the Go-Getter tomorrow; he didn’t bring any from the U.K.

  Yesterday, the children in Rinky’s class turned the kindergarten room into a hospital with wooden beds, soft fabric dolls and muslin cloths. The game was so popular that the teacher has left part of it standing and one small girl can’t wait to return this morning. This environment is a slice of Heaven; complete with soft pink walls, veiled windows, natural toys and a lyre playing in the background it provides the ultimate, tranquil atmosphere for children to flourish within their creative play.

  Rinky’s teacher, Kitty, greets us with floury hands every day. She wears an old-fashioned calico apron. A display of crystals and gnomes decorate the main table in her room, taking me right back to my own kindergarten world. Discovering the familiar educational philosophy on the other side of the world is a great blessing.

  I tend to deliver The Go-Getter to his classroom first. He is happy to join his peer group and I always receive a warm greeting from his charming teacher——that arresting smile inviting me inside to view the latest chalkboard drawing. Biblical stories make up the current Main Lesson. Today I am given a run-through of the present story where an impressive Noah’s ark fills the whole board. What a talented artist; I am duly impressed. “Excuse the scruffy, unshaven look,” he says. “We are doing a Moses play later this term and I’m getting into the part.” I smile and tell him it suits him well. “Thank-you for meeting us at school the other day, especially during your precious holiday.” Oh, that was easy,” he replies. “I’ve just broken up with my partner——you saved me from all the packing I was meant to be doing.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, unsure how I should respond. “No need to be,” he answers. “It had to happen.”

  Heading to the school office I bump into one of the school trustees who met The Laird when he visited in February. A local real-estate agent she has offered to help us house-hunt. “Hello Naomi, Can you advise us on a temporary place to stay while we look for a property? We have to move in ten days time.” She points me in the direction of a holiday resort further down the coast. I take the back road and head off straight away.

  * * * * * * *

  What a wonderful trip, exciting and adventurous under blue skies today. The hilly route leads me through pastureland interspersed with kiwi and avocado orchards. This area is famous for its fruit growing and I catch glimpses of local labour and economy through the high, evergreen windbreaks. Apparently all native trees are evergreen; any deciduous tree or shrub is considered an impostor. I am surprised by the widespread attitude that foreign plants should be exchanged for local species only. I sympathize with the importance of preserving the native environment but I can’t help wondering what our British landscape would look like if we adopted the same attitude. Our hundreds of years’ worth of international seed collecting and cultivation would leave us horticulturally bereft if we dug it all up. Luckily the Kiwi’s don’t appear to have the same attitude toward their foreign residents!

  Eventually I arrive at the resort in question and discover they cater for temporary visitors over short or long periods. The rents are cheaper than the holiday prices and in line with the town’s going rate for three-bedroomed accommodation; i.e. $330/week including furniture and bedding. Electricity and telephone are extra, but that’s to be expected. Furnished rentals are practically unheard of, so this is the only option for now. I bring the whole family to the resort later in the day and we choose an apartment on the first floor with a view over the deluxe swimming pool and exotic, {not so native}, tropical gardens. We sign the pieces of paper and give the office our date of arrival before heading home under a darkening sky.

  It takes me a couple of days to clean our present home before we move into the apartment. It is a big house. The Laird sends me shopping to purchase a replacement bottle of the cheap whisky he reluctantly polished off from the drinks cupboard. He has become a whisky connoisseur over recent years and is very snooty about the inferiority of the ‘mixed blend’. The Dutch family arrives home just as I return to the house. I shake hands and hand over the whisky, the house keys and the dog. We have taken a lovely photograph of Sally; it is framed and waiting for them on the kitchen table along with some home baking and a vase of flowers. I hope they approve. They seem very friendly, although jet lagged. I don’t stay long. ”See you at school on Monday,” I wave goodbye.

  We have enjoyed our month in their comfortable home; a pleasant beginning to our antipodean adventure.

  * * * * * * *

  It doesn’t take long to feel settled and comfortable in the new accommodation. Luckily a garage comes with the apartment——perfect for bikes, and the recently acquired boxes of crockery, electrical ware and general domestic necessities. Rinky and The Go-Getter share a bedroom, we have a small double room and the Scowler has his own, internal room with a skylight. The flat is spacious and light. It is easy to manage and keep clean. The main room has two good-sized sofas, a television and well-equipped kitchenette behind a bar. My friend Geoffredo from the Hospice shop found us a desk for the main room, so we are set. A good routine is established, made easier by the purchase of a second vehicle for The Laird——a tank-like Ute.

  My weekday routine begins by waking the family at 7 a.m for a good breakfast followed by sandwich making. The Laird departs with Cedric at 7 forty and the rest of us leave at twenty-past-eight. We enjoy the rural drive and have fun spying the different properties and small farms along the way. Much of the land we pass is Maori owned and we often see groups of people working in amongst the kiwi fruit and avocados. When I asked Geoffredo to find me a large teapot last week he exclaimed; “Oh you won’t find one of those——they are all down in the orchards!”

  I sometimes linger at school first thing, chatting to new friends or staying at Kindergarten with Rinky The Minx. I could easily spend all day on site. I often shop after the school run and then I return to the apartment to wash clothes and prepare supper. By half past two I am back on the road for the two school-runs with a box o
f teatime goodies for each child.

  Once home the rounds of supper, telephone duty and paperwork calls my attention. The resort’s deluxe swimming pool and spa keep us content on sunny evenings, and Rinky has made friends with a resident family and their small children. As the night closes in book reading and craft quietens everyone down, {the children have acquired various bits and pieces and the ‘Scooby-Do’s’ are still going strong}. And then it is bedtime. After the pace I have been used to this is a simple life for me. The Laird likes the uncomplicated home routine but I know it will only suit me for a short while.

  A bi-weekly market on the grassy expanse outside the resort offers added interest on a Sunday morning. Sauntering between the stalls and car-boot sales I add to our household paraphernalia. The children like the cheap Chinese stalls while the antique garden tools and bric-a-brac tables take my eye. Exotic plants grab my attention as well as local wood-workers with tempting items; all displaying their merchandize in the warm sun. A local artist exhibits paintings of Pukeko birds on wooden boards with bright green backgrounds and colourful borders. Next to his stall I notice a display of unusual garden ornaments made of moulded concrete with Paua shell decoration. The Paua shell, {pronounced ‘power’}, is another national favourite. The colours are metallic——Kingfisher blues and shiny greens——iridescent and beautiful. It often replaces enamel in decorative items. I recently discovered that Paua is the same shell as Abalone. There is certainly ‘something for everyone’ at the market and a stroll between the different rows in the spring sunshine makes for an enjoyable weekend outing.

  “Let’s go for a bike-ride, Ma. We can all go together.” The children are enjoying their new bicycles. Pedalling around the residential development at weekends makes for a grand adventure. I always accompany them——Rinky is too young to venture out alone. Modern housing estates creep along this coastline for mile upon mile; newer and wealthier than the rural farms and small-holdings elsewhere. I enjoy floating past the prescribed gardens of this semi-tropical ‘Lego-Land’, as well as discovering the different post-box designs. Like America, post is delivered at your driveway entrance——your choice of post-box saying as much about you as the garden layout surrounding your front door. Most of the houses are low bungalows with ranch-sliders, {French doors}, and generous decking to maximise the pleasures of the sun. Many homes have a Spanish ‘hacienda’ feel while others vie for originality with different brick or wood-panelled exteriors. Some gardens ignore the call for native planting and I spy multiple rows of palm tree and cacti surrounded by purposefully placed pebbles. One particular post-box grabs my attention as we peddle along the near-perfect, wide avenues; it has a nautical theme, complete with a rope and driftwood base.

  We are constantly in touch with home, especially since my Mother has suffered a mild stroke. She is recovering well but is very tired. We worry that our exodus has contributed to her condition and we speak every day. One evening the telephone rings and the Go-Getter’s teacher engages me in a lively discussion, informing me of a parent/teacher meeting in the coming week. I enjoy our animated conversation about a self-awareness course he has just attended. I am interested in the subject and we end up having a long chat. “Who was that?” The Laird asks when I eventually replace the receiver. “You were really stuck in.”

  I decide to make the most of this golden free time and begin the exciting task of house hunting before the year grows any older. We have enough money for a decent deposit, although we need to keep a tight rein on the purchase price. I have already been out a couple of times with Naomi, although none of the three properties she showed me was suitable. The first was in town, close to school and within our budget. However, the garden was too small and the road too busy. Another was a rural, deluxe home with a large garden, but it was expensive and still on a road, albeit a minor one. The third house had a profitable avocado orchard and was particularly close to school, but again, it was over our budget and too near the heavily sprayed orchards.

  Having been told that New Zealand is ‘green’ and ‘environmentally aware’ we are surprised by the use of powerful hormone sprays that bring on the kiwi fruit budding simultaneously, as well as an alarming cocktail of pesticides and weed controlling poisons. The most worrying chemical is ‘Hicane’ and we have been suffering from headaches and strange symptoms while it has been in use. Local advice suggests pets be kept inside and windows firmly shut on spraying days. Having discovered these facts I determine to find a house as far away from the orchards as possible.

  One sunny morning The Go-Getter’s teacher asks if I would be kind and wash the pupils’ drinking glasses; “they’re stacked on that tray over there and you can use the little kitchen through the door on the other side of the deck. Do you mind? I’m running late and could really do with some help.” Of course I am more than happy to oblige; my morning is wonderfully free, the sun is shining and I enjoy the company of this inspiring man. I watch from the kitchen window as he greets other parents and shakes the hands of his eager pupils. What a magic spell he showers over everything. I like watching him. There is a delightful atmosphere in the school. It overflows with vitality and natural energy; greatly enhanced by the Class 3 teacher, I have to say. I watch a group of nine-year-old boys picking the scarlet honeysuckle that is new to me; “we can suck out the sugars from these flowers Mummy;” my enthused children are keen to show me the garden treasures. Another group of boys and girls are playing in amongst the tall flax bushes below the classrooms. They have heard the school bell but are slow to leave their morning game.

  Once the glasses are dry I head for the range of hills that form the backdrop to the school in Waikite Bay. Spring is in the air, although the changing seasons are subtle. I am told that many flowers bloom throughout the year. I drive with my eyes wide open, taking in the beautiful plants and startling colours. Huge lilies, white and obvious, stand simply in roadside hedges and gardens. Pretty blossom trees beginning to flower and orange trees shooting strong colour through orchard gates catch my attention, while road turnings emphasised by rows of red-hot polkas lead me further into the beckoning hills. Leaving Waikite Bay behind me, new housing gives way to open pasture and rural farmland. The change is sudden and dramatic. Contented cattle and sheep graze in large numbers and I can’t help feeling this could be Devon, Wales or Scotland as the road takes me higher and higher into the hills. Every bend reveals more amazing scenery.

  This is lovely; a warm tingle fills me from head to toe as the twists and turns in the road continue to reveal the extraordinary, volcanic landscape. I climb higher and higher on narrow, near-mountainous roads from which the increasing views leave me literally speechless. At one point I pull over and step out of the car. Below me lies the entire town and beautiful coastline with the volcanic hill in the main harbour. The views are astounding and I am excited by the prospect of finding a home up here, away from the orchards but close to town.

  The rich foliage on either side of the road entices me further——a mixture of native fern, bracken, pampas grass and varied tree makes up the roadside ‘Bush’, {‘Bush’ being the name given to native woodland}. And there is a surprising amount of gorse everywhere. The vegetation is bold and lavish; so different from our British gardens and hedgerows with their many-layered intrigue.

  This is where we would like to live; oh yes. Even something relatively high up will only be fifteen minutes drive from both Schools and College——perfect.

  Through many forays into these hillside areas I eventually find our piece of Kiwi paradise; a nine-acre, hilltop site with steep paddocks, two acres of native Bush and a strip of conservation wetland——“way out in the wop-wops”, I am informed by Sammy; a friendly Kindergarten mother. Two wooden cabins provide just enough accommodation and the price is within our budget. In fact, it is the only ‘lifestyle block’ we can afford. One sunny day we climb the steep, private driveway and standing at the top of the hill in front of the cabins we decide that we could certainly live here. T
he estate agents are quick-off-the-mark, taking our positive feedback as a definite offer and we are purchasing the property before we have given it serious consideration. A couple of weeks’ hold-up with money transactions causes a minor delay but on November 12th we take ownership and collect keys to the first home we have ever owned.

  Chapter 4 Unify

  The Hospice Shop van struggles up the sharp incline. The two men look perplexed at the difficult location but duly begin the task of unloading the furniture. Beds, cupboards, shelf units, chairs; the total purchase is hefty, although a fraction of the cost had we not bought second-hand. “There’s no way we’ll get the double bed up the stairs”, they tell me anxiously. “Oh——never mind. We have an upstairs, outside door without a staircase; {we have no idea what it is meant for.} We’ll haul the bed up with ropes when my husband gets home.” I make them both a cup of tea; one is a young chap with learning difficulties while the driver is an older man. I don’t want them struggling with too heavy a load——after all, their time is voluntary. Once they have gone we enjoy a family picnic supper, looking out over the stupendous view from the narrow deck of our new home.

  We have a three-hundred-and-sixty degree outlook from our Mountain eyrie. Rolling pastureland lies in a velvet sweep to the east while to the north the valley with the distant town meets our appreciative gaze. We can’t see the harbour from here but the Kuwharu range of hills on the other side of the valley offers glory a-plenty. The sun is shining, there is hardly a breeze and spaghetti bolognaise on our knees tastes grand. We move in properly at the weekend, installing the white goods and the Vietnamese-made table and benches that we have bought new. An English family from The Laird’s college has sold us a couple of sofa beds and my collection of woollen blankets is already piled on the landing.