Come along for the ride
I’m heading south. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be in travel-writer mode, writing for you from the places where I grew up: O¯ amaru; Timaru; Christchurch. It seems that the advancing years bring on the urge to go back and explore one’s beginnings (assisted, of course, by the current inadvisability of flying the world).
I hope you’ll forgive my starting just a little south of O¯ amaru so I can visit Moeraki and Fleur’s Place, which wasn’t there during my O¯ amaru years.
In fact, the only Oamaru ¯ eating place I can remember from those days was a tearoom.
It was a dark, wood-panelled, probably deco venue but I don’t remember damp muslin over the sandwiches, which was certainly prevalent in the years to follow, so may have been a later development.
I will no doubt recall the horrors of my first day at O¯ amaru North School but I do remember settling down after that first encounter. Then there was Timaru South School and Timaru Boys’ High School before university in Christchurch.
I feel I can count university years as “growing up” too because, on reflection, I wasn’t exactly mature during those tertiary times. In fact, even today, I’m still growing up.
I can’t go back before age 5 (Nelson and Eastbourne) because the memory bank falters despite a couple of recollections which are not really relevant here. Transport will be a little more modern than it used to be. I have a very early memory of flying into O¯ amaru when NAC flew there. It was in a de Havilland Dragon Rapide which boasted the ability to fly six to eight passengers with relative safety.
Its construction was, shall we say, primitive and from memory consisted of a plywood frame with canvas stretched over it in a manner more suited to a recreational canoe.
I remember watching the wall vibrating throughout the flight.
The flying canoe was also low on luxury appointments, the classiest of which might have been vomit bags. Possibly.
Or perhaps you had to bring your own.
Flying in and out of Timaru involved DC3s which, on boarding, required a steep climb if you were allocated one of the front seats. Crampons were recommended. But things morphed into a level playing field after take-off.
But in the DC3 and the Dragon there was one big plus – you didn’t need to wear a face mask.
This time, I won’t have to endure those early NZR Bedford buses, the air conditioning on which involved trying to slide a little window open or shut. And, up front, the gearbox required heavy labour from the driver, leaving him – I can’t remember female drivers in those days – little or no energy to clip your ticket.
Only fair to admit here that the evening service later provided by the Midland Starliner was a few notches up the luxury ladder (I think their buses had suspension).
And, in Timaru, its stop was right outside the Zenith Milk Bar so you could get a cream freeze (though you needed to look out for Teddy Boys and widgies).
And rather than using the railcar or “the boat train” I will drive a modern, air conditioned rental car. I will only be able to reminisce about the seven-minute bun fight at Ashburton station. “Refreshment stop” was surely a misnomer.
In those growing-up days I failed to graduate to car ownership, though I did have two motorcycles. I remain eternally grateful for the fact that I survived both of them.
My return to Christchurch from Moeraki might well be via a circuitous route that could take in Tekapo. Wyn’s whim will decide.
I hope you’ll come along with me and enjoy the road, the ride, the read.