10 Weekenders

As the months eek by, mention is made of the Port Waikato weekend. Rose never fully commits. In some moods she likes the idea of a weekend escape in winter to the wild beach beaten by the Tasman Sea. Other moments, she’s not fussed.

Alas, the Friday arrives for our Port Waikato adventure.

“What are you doing?” Rose asks that morning from the dining room table, as I stand at the kitchen bench kneading furiously,

“Making pizza dough,”

For a moment she looks quizzical, “You do like this, you’re very good at this planning thing” she says. And she is right. I do like sorting a weekend away, down to the menu. She happens to be on the phone with her daughter Summer, explaining to Summer she needs me to plan a weekend away for her, food included. I temper my excitement because I’m not sure if the duo on the phone are serious.

As planned the parents arrive midafternoon. Turns out the (self-named) Planner omitted in her various pre-trip briefings to notify the parents that the dogs are joining us. The dogs didn’t hesitate in their RSVP when asked if they would like to spend the last weekend of winter at a wild west coast beach. Try telling a dog that a place that has crashing waves, a beach as far as the eye can see, a river, and sticks has “nothing there.” Rose, on the other hand, has opted for joining us Saturday afternoon.

And so, the two dogs, two parents and Planner set off west through the Waikato township of Tuakau and over the, apparently famous, Tuakau bridge. There is something with its cascading arches, transporting us across the mighty Waikato River, although I’m with mum, the arches could do with a bit of a scrub.

As we curl along New Zealand’s longest river, swamp lands one side, farmland the other, there is a beauty as the sun drops further into the horizon. There are rustic shacks and sheds out over the water’s edge, some quirky homes with equally quirky yards of treasure or junk, for the eye of the beholder to decide. After less than an hour we hit the sleepy village of Port Waikato. I’m surprised, given the description from the wife and brother at its size. There are a lot more houses than expected. In my pre-reading, I know it has a dairy beside the wharf. A place called Sundays for coffee at the surf club. And apparently the campground is now open for take aways. Not that it is an important fact because eating out takes joy away from the Planner. Instead, the pizza dough continues to rest and rise in the in the stainless bowl beneath the tea towel. And the chilly bin has the wine.

We arrive at the Airbnb, with a sleep out my accommodation and the dogs. The main house has one bedroom, with a small lounge, good size galley kitchen and a bathroom off the lounge. The dining space a long bench table, where you sit side by side like you might at a funky café.

Quickly the car is unpacked. Of course, saying to a mother they don’t need to bring anything is like saying to the Labrador don’t get in the water. However, the bottle of Moet is a lovely surprise. Apparently, it was given to the parents and needs drinking. Who am I to disobey my mother? She also brought some broccoli. Needs eating too.

While mum opts for a quiet cup of tea to catch her breath, dad and I use the last of the daylight to take the dogs the few blocks to the beach. We pass the sign for dogs off leash, but to be kept under control. Let’s just say our dogs didn’t see the fine print. By the time dad and I scale the large sand dune the dogs are long gone. Out of sight, but not earshot. The little guy has himself in trouble with a local mutt. They seem to sort themselves out by the time we catch up, our two dogs now happily in the water. Nothing like a couple of smiling dogs on a long, windswept black sand beach to finish the working week on a high.

Dad and I opt for an easier route home, noticing an opening in the dunes a little further down the beach. Despite the vastness of the beach and black sand, there is something about the dunes that remind me of the Omaha I remember. As we head through the dunes, long forgotten memories come rushing back of our childhood beach where our grandparents lived. This is what each end of Omaha was once like, especially the northern end. Bracken, low growing scrub, yellow beach daisies, smattering of Norfolk pines and weaving sandy tracks. The most wonderful place for hide and seek and adventuring with siblings and cousins. The dogs, like us as children, scampering off amongst the wildness of the place. If we could, it’s the sort of area to drop the dogs in the afternoon and hours later they would find their way home, exhausted and happy. Like once upon a time, we headed off from Grandma and Grandad’s to the northern end of the Omaha on our BMX’s and Raleigh 10 speed, only coming home at near on dark to a waiting dinner and rice pudding.

Tonight though, as the sun dropped lower, there was no waiting dinner. That responsibility on me, and gladly so. The dogs, brushed and dried down, fed, settle into their makeshift blanket while I set to getting dinner ready

“The Lindauer’s open, must be drunk first” says mum.

 We sit at the bench table, side by side with the main of homemade pizza and salad, both going down well with hungry travellers and the now freshly opened bottle of Prosecco. Mum and I both diligent in bringing a bottle stop for bubbles. Let’s just say, the idea of the bottle stops are ambitious.

Dessert is mum’s Christmas cake. Not quite the right time of year, but the cake needed to be used following an aborted work afternoon tea. An afternoon tea intended to share a little story telling about our heritage. This cake, a family recipe that originated from a lady on Kawau Island who my grandfather delivered groceries to in the 1950s. Family history seems to be the flavour of the evening’s conversation (in amongst long term personal economic goals) as I share some Google Gemini findings about mum’s great grandfather who arrived from Ireland as a 15 year old. Assuming no hallucinations, he went via the Waikato to Thames, before eventually settling on Khyber Pass as a tailor and longer-term settlement at Symonds Street.

Sleep is a little unsettled, perhaps rich cake and bubbles at fault. Alas, the dogs wait for no one, so I open the door and take a few more moments to soak in the comforts of bed and listen to the bird song and the sound of the thundering ocean. Again, I’m taken back to Omaha and waking in Grandma’s bedroom to the sound of the waves. The morning cobwebs quickly blown away by a walk to the beach with the dogs in the dunes. This place, in its sleepy mood, and awash with nostalgia is a place I could see Rose and I enjoying together, by now the daydreams are of our holiday home. Port Waikato may not be the place for Young Rose, but I’m convinced it suits Middle Aged Rose.

Following a hearty bacon and egg breakfast at the funky bench table, we rug up for our walk. The decision is made to explore the sand dunes and mouth of the river rather than the beach. Soon we happen across low rolling dunes like you see in the movies, waiting for some Mad Max to come crashing over in his sand buggy. Despite tracks suggesting some people may have earlier had fun on dirt bikes, we are on your own, the dogs sprinting off and returning with a smile, just to check we are nearby before heading off again. After having lost sight of them for a while, it’s the crashing below that alerts us to their whereabouts. Surely enough, they are both galloping up and down the water’s edge with a strong flow across this wide river mouth. It was only in my final research a few days before I realised this is where the Waikato River meets the Tasman Sea. Many a trip has had the Waikato River weaving its way beside me on the train, in the car or beneath the plane. New Zealand’s longest river, important for hyrdo power production, starting at the mountains in the centre of the Island, and culminating at Port Waikato. Bringing with it iron sand, a natural material turned into iron to adorn my roof amongst other uses. We continue to adventure, weaving in and out of openings to the river, the dogs always the first to explore any little offshoot. After adventuring a little further the question is asked if we know where we are. We come to another dune, and dad scales it with pace alongside the dogs. At the top his expletive suggests that perhaps the ocean is not down the other side. In fact, he can’t even see the ocean. With this discovery, we decide against playing James Cook and play it safe. When dad suggests anything other than “she’ll be right” you know it’s best to retrace your steps. So, we do until we find the path from last night and head back home.

After a quick breather we head down to the surf club and Sundays. Not sure you call it a café. It’s more a coffee hut beside the beach, minimal seating inside and out. Something is prefect about it, including its décor. A photo of the green walls is sent to Portugal where the sister is renovating. We find a couple of little stools, and dad returns from ordering our coffees.

“There’s only brownie left, needs to be eaten.”

Very good brownie too. We sit outside, barely protected by the awning, watching the surfers bob in the waves, seeing them ride the murky brown waters of the West Coast, wash from the Mighty Waikato and the black sand. While the bracken and smattering of pine trees and tracks remind of Omaha of yester-year, the ocean colour is certainly very west coast. We do a little tiki tour to explore. Despite the many houses, it’s fair to say the summation of the wife and brother is fair. There’s not a lot in Port Waikato. And I like it.

By home time and showers, the three of us fall into snooze mode, only to be wakened by Rose arriving. With her boundless energy, she is greeted by freshly woken Nevill’s from a nap. Rose isn’t particularly fond of this version of me. It’s this version of me by three. Soon though, with the pop of the must be drunk Moet, we get livelier. To help enliven the spirits further before dinner, Rose and I head to the beach with the dogs for one final outing for the day. Rose is shocked at how small the dunes are now and how many of them at the southern end have eroded.

“I used to bring the boys out here a lot” she explains. Now my queue to suggest this is the place for us and our dreams of a seaside holiday home. Let’s just say Middle Aged Rose’s views of Port Waikato haven’t changed from Young Rose. I’m a little shocked I called it so wrong and disappointed. Although I do understand her preference for Waihi Beach. Perhaps once an east coaster (both of us are), always an east coaster.

Sunday wakes with round two of bacon and eggs and off to the beach for a walk and coffee. We drive to the beach only to find the tide in and right up to the dunes. Today no surfers are taking on the rough seas. We are all happy with the idea of one more visit to Sundays. With the rain beating in, we manage to snuggle into a corner obliging fellow coffee goers shuffling further into their corner. Our corner comes with an ominous looking bean bag, but I take it knowing as the youngest in my party of three, I really have no choice. Following coffee and scone, as expected, the bean bag exit is not pretty. But needs must. And so, with great difficulty and muted groans I huff and puff my way back to my feet.

With the beach walk a no go, it’s agreed we’d get in our daily steps with a bush walk on the way back home. While I do enjoy the ocean, my favourite is still the calm and green of the country and bush. Walk done, a quick drive around Onewhero (which really is the worthy recipient of the title “nothing there”) we arrive home.  

Port Waikato fits the brief of Ten Weekenders perfectly. Peaceful, laid back, perhaps rough around the edges, but the rustic is charming. It’s a place one can’t help but relax and let the senses take you to a place a million miles from reality.

En-route home we buy a roast (the parents staying the night), perfect for Sunday but opt against more wine. Before long, the roast is on, the bags unpacked and what remains in the chilly bin, the fire crackles away as does the layering on the pork. Rose messages about to head home from her outing,

“Need anything?” she asks

“Bottle of wine be nice.”