Along The Flats and Up The Down

The Carrot Bus Shelter, Weston super Mare

Having put on half a stone in weight over the winter the time has come for a few early summer walks along the Somerset coast.  Perfect timing - just before the schools break up and the onslaught of holiday makers begins.  The weather has also picked up so there is nothing to stop me.  All I have to do is set my mind to getting out and about rather than sitting and researching at my computer.

Yesterday's outing started at The Carrot Bus Shelter in Weston super Mare where I caught the No. 20 bus to Brean Village Hall.  The half hour bus route meanders its way through the twisty narrow lanes of Lympsham passing delightful old farm houses on the way.  What a relaxing way to start the day.

A couple of months ago I was fortunate enough to acquire a couple of old photograph albums on eBay.  All that was known about them was that they captured scenes of farm life somewhere in Somerset towards the end of the First World War.  After much research I narrowed the locations down to Lympsham and Brent Knoll.  How wonderful to now be travelling along the same lanes and be looking out over the same fields as shown in those old photographs.

 
Alighting from the bus as Brean Village Hall I set off along Warren Road in search of a footpath which will take me up and over the sand dunes onto Berrow Flats.  I find a track at the back of a car park and make my way up.  The soft sand makes the going very difficult and my right ankle (still recovering from injury) complains bitterly at being strained with every step.

 
But it is well worth the effort.  When I reach the top and slide down the dunes on the other side I am greeted with the wondrous sight of an almost deserted beach.  On the right a couple of miles up to Brean Down and The National Trust Cafe.  On the left 6 miles up to Burnham. 

The only people I can see are a couple of elderly ladies walking their dogs and a friendly beach warden engaged in picking up other people's rubbish.

Being a loner this deserted beach looks like heaven on earth to me and I set off at a brisk pace towards Brean Down.  My ankle thanks me for making for the wet sand which provides a modicum of support whilst cushioning the impact of footfall.  Pounding for miles along concrete pavements does little to improve an injury.  As I walk along the clouds began to melt away leaving the sun to sparkle on the receding sea. 

Peaking out from behind the sand dunes I can see the tops of caravans and holiday chalets.  What a wonderful location - bet it costs the earth to own one of those!  40 minutes later I reach the end of the beach and treat myself to a pot of tea from the cafe.

Sitting on the beach side deck I relax whilst watching a young man collect seaweed from the beach.  At first I think it might be winkles that he is after but the photos show that he has seaweed in his hand.  These days this natural product is much in demand by chefs.  I wonder whether it will be sent to one of the prestigious London restaurants - or stay here in Somerset.

The elderly lady at the next table strikes up a conversation with me. She lives in Wincanton with her husband and they have been on a short break with their daughter.  Unfortunately the past few days have been far too windy for them to enjoy the coastal views so they are making the most of this morning before travelling back home.  I ask whether she knows Horsington where my father's family originate - of course she does.  In fact one of her daughters had her reception in The Half Moon Inn which is almost opposite Lower Lodge where my Gran spent so many years of her life.

Lower Lodge, Horsington - October 1969

Rested and watered it is now time to set off for the very steep climb up the side of Brean Down.  But the sun is shining brilliantly and I realise that, stupidly, I have left my sunhat at home.  A quick visit to the National Trust Shop sorts me out with suitable headgear. 

That leaves just one more mission before setting off on the climb - a trip to the loo.   The cafe complex, of course, comes provided with a purpose built toilet block.  Thank goodness.  It is also FREE to use!

No putting it off any longer - those 150+ steps just have to be tackled.

Thankfully resting places are provided at several points on the way up so it does not have to be negotiated in one go.  Perfect places to catch my breath and take some photos of the view down to the beach.

Here is the sight as I approach the top of the world.  I hope the world IS round otherwise I could topple off when I reach the last step.

From a previous walk two years ago I know that the most picturesque route to The Fort is along the grassy footpath which climbs and falls over the ridges of various hills. 

With a dodgy ankle I decide that I had better be sensible and make for the old military cinder track instead.

 
Glorious views back over the bay towards Weston certainly make the climb well worth the effort.

Wow, I really do feel as if I am on top of a mountain.  Look - up on the ridge are a herd of goats enjoying a siesta.

At the end of The Down lies the old military fort.

The remains that we see here are of buildings built in the 1860s.  It was one of a chain of fortifications known as Palmerston's Forts designed to protect us from the French - but its history actually dates way back to the Iron Age.  On top of the furthest point can be seen the old Searchlight Tower.

Sitting atop one of the outer walls of The Fort proves the perfect place for my picnic lunch - a homemade eggy sarnie washed down with a bottle of water.  Then its time to set off back along the cinder track - taking the route all the way down to the bottom as I know my ankle will not cope with descending those steep steps.  On the final stage of the track I pass this very pretty gate with very ugly padlock.  I wonder what those steps lead up to?

The cafe beckons once again and I stop for another pot of tea before heading back up the beach to Brean Village Hall.  The tide has taken the sea way way out and suddenly I notice something very strange.  There on the beach is a HUGE lump of jelly.  I try to work out whether it is some sort of transparent Frisby but come to the conclusion that it must be a dead jelly fish.  Cripes, how pleased am I that I am not a swimmer!

Finding the footpath exit off the beach proves far more difficult than I had imagined as one sand dune looks just like the next.  In the end I take a narrow path that proves to be a few metres along from that where I had entered.  I arrive at the bus stop in good time for the next bus and am delighted to find some Public Conveniences in a little building behind the bus shelter.   Perhaps not so well appointed as those in the National Trust complex but still FREE and when you have to go you have to go.

When I return home and look at my FitBit pedometer it tells me that I have walked over 9 miles during the course of the day.  Surely that will have taken a couple of pounds off my weight!

South Island Idyll - Wellington to St. Arnaud

The sky was grey and the wind was blowing up a gale as Kaitaki, the Interislander ferry, glided out of Wellington bound for Picton on the South Island.  Most passengers huddled up cosily in the café for the 3 hour journey but there was no way I could stay inside.  For the majority of the crossing I could be found out in the fresh air on the Observation Deck right at the top of the ship.  You could say I looked a bit like the Michelin Man of days gone by!

As we entered the Marlborough Sounds the weather improved dramatically and by the time we docked at Picton the sun was shining brightly.  There was enough time for a quick look around the pretty harbour and craft market before heading off up into the mountains.   

Picton Harbour

The loos were easy to spot with their bold yellow symbols on black wooden fencing.  If you glance to the lower edge of the photo you will notice that there are a couple of ladies already in the queue!  Being a collector of dolls I would dearly loved to have purchased one of these but, alas, my tightly packed suitcase would not accommodate anything so delicate.

These loos were of the electronic variety but came with the added feature of automatic flushing once the hand basin was used i.e. wave your hands about in the sink to generate a flow of water and that in turn triggered the loo to flush. If a patron did not wash their hands then the loo would flush automatically once the door opened. Great except automatic gadgets such as this never, ever seem to recognise me as a human being.  I waved my hands under the water spout – nothing.  I clapped my hands under the water spout – nothing.  For 3 or 4 minutes I stood there trying to get water to spray onto my hands – nothing.  I knew there was going to be a queue outside – was I going to have to open the door to get the loo to flush and let them all know that I was a person who did not wash my hands?  Oh the disgrace of that!  Suddenly, for no reason whatsoever the water spouted into the hand basin, the loo flushed and I was saved from disgrace.  The only looks I got from those in the queue were ones of “Why had I taken so long”!!

The 80 mile drive from Picton to St. Arnaud was on Route 63 which runs alongside the Wairau River and through the Marlborough vineyards.   A long straight road with views of mountain peaks in the distance. 

Marlborough Vineyards

Several settlements are marked on the map as being on this road but for most of them not even one house could be seen from the highway. Imagine my surprise when, in the middle of nowhere, I spotted the familiar Public Convenience sign – STOP screeched the navigator (me).  Fortunately, there had not been a sign of another car on the road for the last half hour so this somewhat unexpected pit stop caused no danger to anyone.

The sign pointed across the road to a little church – The Wairau Valley Anglican Church.  This came complete with large carpark to the front and small rural cemetery to the rear.  The toilet was situated in a small room to the back of the building and to the utter disbelief of my companion came equipped with large clean fluffy towel with which to dry ones hands. Well done to the Wairau Valley residents for keeping this loo in such an immaculate condition. 

Wairau Valley Anglican Church

  

Readers of this blog will know how much I enjoy walking around old cemeteries so I spent a pleasant half hour browsing the headstones before making use of “the facilities”. The only sound which could be heard was the birds singing in the tree tops – we could have been a hundred miles from the nearest civilisation.  There was no need to hurry so I took my time.  Imagine my surprise when I unlocked the door to find a queue of Japanese tourists waiting to get in!!!! 

And so onward to St. Arnaud – an alpine village situated on the edge of Lake Rotoiti.  The village boasts a café/shop/petrol station all rolled into one together with several chalets and motels offering accommodation.  

By this time the clouds had descended and it was raining quite heavily.  A short stop was made for a hot cup of tea in the café before heading off in search of our accommodation at St. Arnaud House.

http://www.st-arnaudhouse.co.nz/

The alpine chalet which is St. Arnaud House is set in the midst of the forest with the Tui Room having views out over the treetops to the mountain peaks. It is just a short walk down to Lake Rotoiti.  

The hosts, Russell and Margery Chilton, ensure the comfort of their guests by providing a roaring fire and interesting conversation.  Anyone staying here would be well advised to pay a little extra and take Margery up on her offer of dinner – an absolutely delicious meal will be provided.

I awoke the next morning to the sound of the Tui singing in the trees – and the sight of snow on the peaks.  

  

On learning that the theme of one of my Blogs is “Toilets” Russell directed me to an unoccupied batch (holiday home) opposite the end of their driveway.  Before we left I crept over to take a look.

Now this really is a typical rural Long Drop

(and I assure you it is NOT the toilet you will be expected to use when staying at St. Arnaud House!)

Kiwi Rural Retreats - Pongaroa to Akitio

My journey today continues northwards to Akitio via the small rural community of Pongaroa formed in 1895. 

The town initially supported a timber mill but later, once the bush was cleared, the land became sheep and beef cattle country.  Pongaroa was the birth place of Maurice Hugh Frederick Wilkins (1916-2004) who won a Nobel Prize in 1962 for his contribution to the discovery of the structure of DNA. (http://www.nzhistory.net.nz/keyword/pongaroa)    At one time it was thought that the Masterton-Napier Railway would run through the town, however, eventually it was decided that the line should run through Pahiatua, west of Pongaroa. 

 

In the centre of the community stands the Pongaroa Hotel, formerly the BNZ Bank building built in 1911.   Pop inside and sample country hospitality at its best.

http://www.pongaroahotel.co.nz/webapps/i/97128/288273/420238

And – in the Ladies – read about “What not to say to your boyfriend”

A little further along the street The Pongaroa Post & Telegraph building can be seen forlorn and disintegrating.  Back in December 1922 it was reported that the Pongaroa Post Office, including the telephone bureau, had been destroyed by fire.  The fire started next door in Gamby’s butchery shop and that was destroyed along with Kerr’s bakery.  The Bank of New Zealand building had a very narrow escape.  There was a heavy gale blowing at the time but a bucket brigade was formed and this helped to save the day.  The postmaster, Mr. R.E. Williams who was living on the premises with his family lost most of his possessions and over 130 telephone subscribers were disconnected for some hours.

Other buildings in the main road are decorated with colourful murals

and yes, there is a public convenience!

"Pongaroa the way to go"

Akitio is a one hour’s drive from Pongaroa - much of it along the banks of the Waione River.  A traveller arriving in 1936 describes the scene:

Seen in the failing light the scene was one of desolate grandeur.  Red clouds were massed above the hill and brooded over the sea; a cold wind was combing the land.  To the norward, at the bottom of the descent, lay the cottages of Akitio straggled along the beach.  The township – if you could call it such, for it does not boast a single store – stretched from the wool sheds and the landing stage on the point below the road to the pine-planted hill.   ……………… The high white shape of Cape Turnagain completely dominated the landscape.

Akitio with Cape Turnagain in the distance

As we drove down the hill we though we had never seen a beach so thickly strewn with driftwood.  All the flotsam of the Pacific, bleached white as bones, seemed to have drifted to rest here.  Huge, fat, sullen logs were piled like crates of furniture along the sides of the road.

Surprisingly, some 78 years later, this is practically the same scene which I saw as we approached the coast.  

Akitio is beautiful but it is a mournful beauty.  The place broods as it were upon “old forgotten far-off things” and wears an air of essential tragedy.  Such sombre and melancholy beauty is not to everyone’s taste but if you do like it the place exercises a strange fascination over you and you will want to return, and when you are there will be content to do nothing except be there.

I was certainly more than content with just being there.  All I did was to record the scene with my camera.  I wanted to remember this.

If you ever have the good fortune to see this “mournful beauty” for yourself then rest assured that Rest Rooms are available.  They are in front of the Fire Station, right on the edge of the beach and are decorated in a tasteful, minimalist marine style.  

Inside you will find more marine motifs - together with ample room to change.

Our traveller goes on to tell us:

Wool bales from as far inland as Branscombe were piled up in the sheds at the Akitio Landing and on New Year’s Day everything was ready and everyone in a state of expectation, awaiting the steamer that was to round Cape Turnagain to take the bales to England.  The wool is loaded from the bullock teams – which go up to their necks in the surf – to surfboats and from them to the little steamer.

These days all that is left of that landing stage is two posts jutting up from the sea.