Strong in the memory store is our discovery of the Middle Earth Rivendell like Arboretum at Eastwood hill. It is easy to picture ourselves walking through a Hobbit scene, with Mr Frodo just up the trail a little. 
Colored trails traverse many hills, and we get directions from the staff. Who adds to our store of NZers moving around the country by telling us, she is originally from elsewhere. We decide to opt for the purple trail that climbs up to a view point but is not the longest possible. I seem more worried about Rod/s trail walking ability than him. Cows wander towards Rod as he strikes up a moo-ed conversation with them. At the lookout point heat is radiated off the stainless steel plaque that identifies landmarks.
While these gardens were a discovery we never expected they had been there since after WW1 when Douglas Cook was inspired by English gardens he encountered while recuperating after being injured in the Great War. Since it has become the National Arboretum of New Zealand. Like the leaflet says, ‘majestic oaks of North America to the prehistoric trees of Gondwanaland…’ we are suitably impressed by at least one specimen that has fallen and is now being dissected by gardeners
And the water feature/sculpture keeps Rod busy for a surprising length of time. I have an opportunity to engage my inner hippy and hug more than a few trees. There are facilities to stay in the Arboretum, and even though it would mean bringing all your supplies (no shop) we agree worthwhile future consideration.
We encounter touring cyclists on the road back into town and agree that today is definitely a ‘smiley face’ day for the group. They have flat roads, limited traffic and sunny weather. Produce is all around with corn featuring heavily, gapes and pumpkins are recognizable as well as the Gisborne citrus we have heard so much about. We buy a huge bag of Tangelos for $2 encountering our first locked honour box payment method.
Back in town we take a chance to restock at the huge Pack N Save. Finding it not only intimidating because of the height to which stocked shelves extend, but also the crowds compared to the two other people we had to endure at the gardens.
This was the day we had to change rooms too, after spending a night in a rather dark room that faced a garden wall, even if it did have some lovely roses, we are offered a much brighter, roomer version. After looking at the type of cabins in the large nearby caravan park Rod beings to utter what will become another mantra, ‘don’t let me book cabins over the ‘net, without seeing them first…’ Being school holiday much of the low cost options are full to capacity, and we pat ourselves on the back for having made a booking, even if it turns out to have been a bit of a fiasco. Summary: booked on line, given wrong room type, no kitchen, price paid wasn’t right, nothing else reasonable available until tomorrow.
Nearby the motel is young Nick’s statue, the ship’s boy who was the first to sight land. I see the additional information that “when Cook met with the chief the Englishman mistook a greeting which resulted in Maoris being killed”. So he had it worse than us.
I find the swimming pool and have a couple of sessions. It is one of those big-top domes kept up with air pressure. Because a road construction crew has cut water supply pipes, compounding drought time water restrictions the hours or operation had been shortened. Plus the duration of showers shortened, but I did not bring coins do can only dry off and change. Unfortunately I leave “bluey” water bottle behind, returning later to see him standing forlornly, unloved and alone where I left him. A sad sight comparable to the brown, sun bleached hills that we never thought a trip in NZ would reveal.
Watching, indeed being awe struck by the port workings, much later I find a reference in Steve Lang’s An Accidental Terrorist which reminds of the giant tractors working with pine logs like they are pick-up-sticks…a D9 pulling logs up to the dump and a Volvo snigger, one of those four wheeled machines with an articulated wait and a great pair of horizontally opposed tongs on the front, a thing like an enormous demented yellow ant… great that someone can write what those things look like. Gisborne and Napier did seem to be their home towns.
Our conclusions about Gisborne are that it is a strange mis-matched town. The pretty and quaint alongside the industrial. Train lines cutting through streets without logic, even a train line through the airport runway. Factories in suburbs, warehouses alongside paved riverside promenades. A great farmer’s market alongside fish, chips and fried eggs meals.
karenlethlean2014 