Day 11 Pipiriki to Whanganui Part 1

Day 11 Pipiriki to Whanganui Part 1

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Up before 6 in the cold grey light, dawn massing in the east her melancholy army (love that line from Wilfred Owen)

Today's Statistics according to the Garmin wristwatch.

70.69 km

Average speed 8.1 km/h

Max speed 45.5 km/h

5 hours moving

Avg heart  93 BPM 

Max 131 BPM

Sweat loss 6911 ml

Average temp 28c

Max temp 33c

I pulled out of Pipiriki intending to go gangbusters for 135 km to Huntersville but on then I started enjoying myself too much. The last time I came through here in the 70's it was all unsealed. Now it's all seal. The poplars an introduced plant which are easy to grow because you can just poke a branch in the ground and they will root, are just starting to turn. In a couple of weeks it will be a golden hue. I stop for some photos. It is perfectly still. No cicadas now just crickets.

I've lost his name but he is from the Philippines and kindly gave me two jars of honey. I then got stung behind the ear. Ah, cancel all that kumbya waffle about bees I hate them. I gave one jar to Marlene for sharing about the lamprey, blind eel harvest and showing me her Kashmir hand operated sewing machine.

Looking back towards Jerusalem. The church is closed. I had intended staying there.

The year I was born

The photos show fellow travellers in no logical order:

Matt from Porirua, the flying Dutchman, Joannes from Plimmerton- at the Matahiei cafe in an old school. Matahiei means lookout. Martin who turns that colour because he drinks too many banana milkshakes which are made with Esther based chemicals and nothing to do with bananas. Someone comments that "knowledge is power", someone stayed on a farmstay near The Aroha where there is a bull called fluffy and the owner puts zinc sunblock on his nose.
Alistair is from Paramatta, Wayne Matamata, Russell from Warkworth. His tracking name is karearea, the NZ Falcon, and he has stuffed a toy one on his bike. He is passionate about breeding them. I tell him I got dive bombed one summer when working in the high country of Marlborough grubbing the noxious nasella tussock. Martin West Haven, Tony Epsom. 

I snap photos and they retaliate by photographing my notes made with a sharpie and bit of cardboard scrounged from the beekeepers.

Oh Lawrence's nickname is back wheel Burton, a reference to a naughty ancestor. I'm catching up now and can throw my notes out.

Kawana Millhouse

Somewhere down the valley I slowed down and decided I was enjoying myself more than I thought possible. Everyone has a funny story or a kind word or a feat of endurance they mention casually as if it is all in a day's work. I decide to stop in Whanganui. I stop everywhere, the undershot Millhouse. Derek Shafer would love it, his father runs one in Canada and presses apple cider. I think of Robert Frost's poem The Vanishing Red about the extinction of the American Indians and the cruel mill owner who pushes the resident native American into the churning mill wheel to kill him, and shudder.

I discuss harvesting eels and inanga which are grown whitebait in traps. I learn it is still done at our feet to an island in the river and along the river up to Pipiriki and probably beyond, and given away to friends and family along the Whanganui river, the trail the lover Mt Taranaki took after fighting over Pihanga? and being banished to Taranaki. I remember the fuss when the name was changed back to the original Taranaki fro Egmont, Cook's name for it, and wonder who can remember or knows who Egmont was, and how far we have become more accepting of each other and it cheers me. The lady in the tea rooms when asked what Matahiei meant was surprised and couldn't remember although she lives there. She went and found out and came out to tell me. It gladdened my heart. Placenames are language and culture and a living link to an event or feature of the past. We should celebrate who we are and what happened in the past and remember and pass this knowledge on. I hope I live to see the day when all road signs and place names carry a description or explanation of them all. From my experience learning Chinese they are a valuable tool to learning language because they constantly reinforce and explain the meanings of words..

I pushed on and saw this carving near the tunnel. I stopped then saw a beautiful little cemetery with a wooden fence and wire mesh around it to keep the animals out.the grass appeared to be recently mown. All 10 graves were surname Marshall. 8 faced west and juxtaposed at each end was a grave facing east. It was a lovely spot you could easily miss. A large tree had been cut low to the ground and a couple of seats rolled to the roadside but hidden by trees and flax from the road. Three flowering cherries were in a row and will be beautiful in a few years. I would have like to have had a pair of boltcutters and got stuck into the vines strangling the tree with the carving.

I've blown the best part of the morning. I move on and pick up the pace. The tar is starting to fester and bubble. I snap a photo then realize I've waffled along and am out of water. It is 32 degrees and I've got to get up gentle Annie, a couple of hundred metres before on the last few kms to Whanganui. I spot three sheep who have broken out onto the road on a blind corner. I pull into the first house. The garden looks beautiful. I knock, no answer. I go round the back and there is a baby sitting in a seat under a huge sun umbrella. I ask if mum is around but he is too young to talk. Mum hears me, I mention the sheep but she sees the empty water bottle and guessing my true intent grabs it and fills it up before rushing off to fill it. She apologises that they have only just moved in. I thank her and clear out and she barely notices me and is as busy as only a young mum can be. Sound familiar Krystal? I attack the climb then the mobile goes off like a pinball machine, I decide not to stop but treat myself to some texts at the top. The road dips so far to the left into cut I'm beginning to think I misread where the top is and we are going left but eventually it swings right again. An orange road cone dangles from a tree metres from the ground. There are no marker posts here, perhaps this doubles as one. I reach the top and answer my texts and call Sam.