Lawrence Patchett

NĪKAU VALLEY

Down the road from the Paraparaumu shops, there’s a kind of cathedral. Not the sort of cathedral you see in European cities. It isn’t made of stone and stained glass; it’s made of trees. It’s a remnant stand of ancient nīkau palms, wedged into a patch of bush beside the old highway. We go there for runs and walks, and pop in for a quick green break from stress.

At the carpark, there’s a sign explaining this patch of bush. We call it Nīkau Valley, but officially it’s named after the farmer and politician who donated it. In the photo, he’s standing with a shepherd’s crook, looking over cleared paddocks. It’s the sort of picture that sparks lots of questions about the history of such places, and how they came to be in the hands of settlers, or locked up in conservation covenants like this. But it’s also a great photo of his two farm dogs, exhausted at his feet.

Going in, you never quite get away from the noise of dogs barking and the grumbling traffic. There’s a bit of litter here and there, and some tagging carved into the trunks. But there’s also a strange magic. In one place, the nīkau palms have out-competed other trees. Nīkau have an odd effect when they stand together like this. Their trunks are completely bare, so your eye is drawn up towards the spreading canopy of palms. Kererū sit fatly in random places, their vast tummies full of fruit. Fallen fronds from years before cover the forest floor, suppressing undergrowth. This creates a hushed and filtered light.

Standing there in the almost quiet, you feel as if you’ve stepped into some columned church. Certainly, it’s as close to going to church as I ever get, pausing on my run through this pillared place, looking up.