F rom my window I saw two early morning fishermen in an aluminium dinghy heading out just as dawn arrived, the magnificence of the rugged East Cape guaranteeing a great day. They'd driven their very old tractor down to the beach from where ever they'd come, no doubt no more than a few hundred metres away, lifted the dinghy off the trailer and away, no fuss, Te Kaha style.
The smell of frying bacon was a treat, the chef popping out from time to reassure us that the 8am breakfast call would be a few minutes early. Most were up, packed and bikes loaded earlier than a late night may have indicated, but any sore needs were kept quiet, and a hearty breakfast enjoyed before the obligatory pre departure photo signalled time to start the bikes - Mickey had decided to head home, so we bade home safe travels and were off. The roads we'd enjoyed the afternoon before we're just a precursor to what was to come, the rugged beaches strewn with driftwood and seaweed, the smell of the sea a million miles from the trappings of Auckland, almost a time warp. The number of churches is quite staggering, many old and abandoned, others close to it, although many pristine, well loved, well tended, the white paint fresh and glossy. Likewise the local schools, abandoned buildings indicating where there had once been a thriving community. Our pace was slower than yesterday, although only slightly, Just enough to take in the fabulous scenery, the small villages a mixture of kemp and unkempt, I suppose more a of reflection of values than an indication of the poverty that appears endemic. It is apparent by the number of white horses by the road side watching the world go by, some in paddocks, others tethered, that there was once a very prominent and favoured stallion, his offspring spread far and wide. Stock on or beside the road are a constant hazard right around the coast, wayward and unpredictable sheep, cattle that are as solid as a brick out house, goats with horns long enough to impale the unwary, hawks slow to rise after a meal of fresh road kill, each presenting their own challenges. We had a lot of ground to cover so stops were limited, usually regulated around the demands of an active bladder, and being mindful of our two smokers. The smaller gas tanks were on fumes as we passed several service stations either closed or with "No Gas" signs, eventually arriving at the infamous Ruatoria. Another enigma, churches on most street corners, the few shops either abandoned or close to it, those still trading almost in lock down. The lady at the small gas station told us she was not brave enough to stock cigarettes having been robbed so frequently. Having said that, we inevitably drew attention wherever we went and the locals were always friendly and interested, even the smallest child knowing what a Harley was. We were invited to come down to watch the local rugby team play, and used the excuse of a tight schedule to avoid what could only have been great training opportunity for the local St. John's ambulance volunteers. Gassed up many of us bought Lotto tickets from the only store in town that was open, second in importance only to the local WINZ office, promising the ladies serving that we'd "remember the little people of Ruatoria" in the event of a win - I have yet to check my tickets but suspect she has no fear of new found wealth troubling her any time soon. The wharf at Tologa Bay is always worth a look, and Butch who has seen more summers than most of us was pleased to tick that box on his bucket list. Both Butch and Mel belie their (in excess of) 3 score years and ten, both fabulous riders, fast, smooth and safe, both great guys, inspirational and stalwarts of our Harley community. Somebody put a hex on us by mentioning that we'd been lucky with roadworks so far... the next 50km saw us add layers of muck as we passed through one work site after another. My trip meter edged ever closer to 465kms indicating that we'd nearly completed another big day, eventually arriving at our beach side motel in dribs and drabs, Mike C quite rightly mentioning that our corner marking skills needed honing. An hour for a coffee and a shower, then we headed in the direction of local bars, the deck of The Gin Trap getting the first few rounds, The Thirsty Whale a few more, before settling into Paddy's Irish Bar. The Gin Trap will be remembered by us all. Mel, ever gregarious and friendly introduced himself to a young lady who had everything she had on offer, a big girl hardly restrained or fettered by undergarments she was certainly out there. We met Helen, and I fear that unless she addresses what is the worst BO I have ever come across, she'll remain forever single, but as some small consolation, she has entered Rusty Nut folklore and the story will be retold often in years to come. We very sensibly wandered back to a restaurant adjacent to our motel, enjoyed a great meal and a few Pinot's before a decision needed to be made. There the sensibility ended for some of us, whilst the still sensible turned left and went to bed - others walked back to Paddy's and stayed far too long, eventually realising that there was considerably less time before our 8am departure than we'd started with. The trip home will follow tomorrow. Comments are closed.
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Don MalcolmA perfect day involves being on my Harley with a long ride ahead.
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