Thermal Hotbed Shelter Riders

Riding into Rotorua that morning, Eal’s stomach was empty and mine was running on peanut butter and jam sandwiches again, so the cafe that appeared unannounced along the narrow highway — busy already with morning traffic — felt like a small mercy. I managed a crackling, long-distance call to my dad to wish him happy birthday; ten in the morning here was ten at night back home, so I caught him just before he went to bed.

The second half of the ride took us onto back roads through blueberry wine country, which I let pass without a taste, and then down a long, glorious descent through dense forest that spat us out on the edge of Lake Rotorua, flat riding the rest of the way into town, where we found the backpackers we’d booked. The whole town sits on a thermal hotbed, and the sulphur hangs in the air everywhere you go — it takes some getting used to.

We gave ourselves an extra day here, walking some of the trails around the lake and the thermal ground nearby, and visiting a Maori village — we missed one of the daily performances but the walk around the village was worthwhile regardless. Away from the centre, Rotorua turns into something else entirely: a blooming, colourful place, genuinely beautiful. Back at the backpackers we cooked ourselves big meals in the communal kitchen and fell into a long conversation with a Scottish dentist on his travels, who had plenty of advice for us about the south island.

The lodge had handed each guest a coupon for a dollar glass of wine at a bar in town, so Eal and I went along that evening — a good place, with a live band playing. We had the sense to order the house red before producing our coupons, and I doubt we’d have been poured so generously otherwise. Rotorua turned out to be a good choice — pronounced Ro-taw-ua, with the second r rolled, unlike most other places in the country for reasons nobody could quite explain to me. I also learned that in New Zealand “wh” is spoken as an f, so that Whangarei comes out as Fangarei. Odd, but you get used to that too.

Awesome place.

Leaving town we were handed an unexpected gift: a bike path that kept us off the highway for ten miles, through scenery so good I could barely keep the bike moving, stopping every quarter mile to stand and stare and take another photograph of the hills and fields around us. Bang on our route was Wai O Tapu, the “Thermal Wonderland” — a leaflet I’d picked up in Rotorua showed pools that looked almost Yellowstone-esque, too tempting to skip. Thirty dollars to get in seemed excessive; natural wonders should be free, or close to it, if a small fee helps maintain them. It was a decent three-kilometre loop in the end, though comparing it to Yellowstone is probably closer to comparing Flamingo Land to Disneyland.

We rode on to Reporoa, where I found an ice cream good enough that I went straight back in for a second helping, and the woman behind the counter gave me an extra-generous scoop to see me through. We finished the day at Taupo, camped by the lake at a holiday park that filled fast on a sunny Friday evening with families and barbecues going strong all around us. I felt like somebody’s granddad, climbing into my tent at nine while the local kids were still tearing around full of energy. Sleepyhead, that’s me.

The bike trail was “sweet as,” as they say here.

Round #1

Round #2

Yes Spike, yes.

I woke to rain pattering on the tent and wasn’t at all sure I was ready to get up. We’d hardly had a morning since May where we’d had to pack up in the wet, and this one showed no sign of easing — if anything it was getting heavier. We loaded up quickly, took breakfast in town, and put off the road for as long as we decently could. Within seconds of riding I was soaked through, feeling the squelch in my shoes with every push of the pedals.

If you’ve ever watched a lorry plough through a puddle and drench some unlucky pedestrian standing at the roadside, that was us on Highway 1 that morning, sprayed again and again. About thirty miles in, over a cafe stop, I was already thinking Turangi — roughly the halfway point of what we’d intended for the day — might be sensible. Eal agreed, and thirteen kilometres later we rolled into town and found the information centre, who pointed us toward the A Plus Samurai backpackers.

What a find it turned out to be. Tucked into the back streets of the small town, the place was a scatter of little buildings, each covered inside and out in strange, wonderful artwork. It was family run, the owner Ian very funny company, and I spent the evening in the lounge by the fire with the other guests, warm and sunk deep into a big old armchair.

The forecast the next morning was grim again — “the Big Wet,” the New Zealand news was calling it, with more gale-force wind on the way. I’d asked Ian the night before whether people ever struggled to leave this place, and now I understood what he meant. We decided quickly to stay another day, and Eal was keen to cook up a Sunday dinner. The lodge made for excellent people-watching, the current crowd a mix of Germans, Slovenians, Israelis and Indians.

That evening I found myself flanked by Ian’s two children, Jackson and Sarah, and we laughed and joked the night through. Looking around the room at everyone else, I wondered why they’d singled me out for entertainment, before landing on a happy explanation: years spent growing up with younger brothers close to Will’s age had given me an easy way with kids that they seemed to respond to without effort on my part. I was glad to make them laugh — it was a Sunday, the last day of the long New Zealand school holidays, and Monday would mean back to school for both of them.

Only pictures I was able to take were under shelter.

The walls are filled with the best little drawings.

Wet wet wet.

Shelter from the storm.

Sarah and Jackson