Andrew and Angela
This trip is the third iteration of the ‘weekend tour’. The principle is simply trips that are doable within a weekend on the bike from the gate and back. The intention is to be self-sufficient for accommodation and although the odd café may creep into the itinerary, this pretty much holds for food as well (i.e. I carry enough to be self sufficient but wont pass up a good café).
The tails of excitement from the previous two excursions have clearly captured Angela’s imagination so she is a keen starter. The plan is to catch the Ferry to Picton after work on Friday and bike to a DOC campsite for the night. Saturday would see us climb the ridge to the north and east of Picton over to Port Underwood. We would then head south and see how things go, picking a DOC campsite somewhere along the route for Saturday night. Sunday was pretty much up in the air and would probably involve pottering about the plains around Blenheim before heading north to catch the Ferry home.
I'm running the same bike set up as the previous two weekends with the exception that we now need a two person tent. The Macpac Nautilus rolled up tight bungees to the handlebars neatly and causes no problems at all. In fact the weight is welcome on the steep up hills.
The early sailing is sold out but we figure a late night ride through Picton won't be too bad so the 8pm sailing it is. Angela arrives at the terminal on time and we wait a short time for the boarding call. It's the Kaitiaki and no rail freight; we wander about until we get to where the vehicles are driving on and walk our bikes aboard.
The bike “park” is at the far end of the boat and turns out to be a cheap bike stand in an expansive puddle. We're the only bikes so end up lashing them together either side of the stand. The ferry is not very full and the warning at booking time that services may be limited is accurate. It becomes a bit of a game trying to find someone to serve the limited food that is available. We unwisely snaffle the last two items in the pie warmer; a sausage roll of dubious character for Angela and a kumara and cashew pie for me, God knows how many sailings they have survived. In between abortive forays to the cafe, the rest of the smooth sailing is spent trying to snooze like the rest of the passengers.
In Picton, our possie at the far end of the boat is now the active exit. We gear up for the night ride and are in the van guard off the boat. Picton is very quiet and we have a pleasant ride in the mild evening through to Waikawa Bay and on to the rural road to Whatamango Bay.
The odd possum crashes up a roadside tree but it’s the little blue Penguin in the middle of the road that causes the most consternation. It appears out of the night in front of Angela's front wheel narrowly avoiding an untimely demise as I swerve to miss Angela swerving to miss the penguin.
It turns out to be quite an easy cruise to Whatamango Bay campsite. We bump down the drive, pay our dues and select a spot next to a picnic table and some trees. There's tonnes of space, good grass and a basic but tidy ablution block. The stars are brilliantly clear away from the town lights and with tent pitched and teeth brushed we are all done by 1230.
The morning brings a varied dawn chorus influenced by water birds and the odd cow. A truck starts up the hill and we hear it grinding upwards for some time before the sound fades. It is promising to be a strenuous morning.
By daylight we can see we are in a quiet valley, on a large flat area with clumps of bush with plenty of nooks for camping. There are 5 or 6 other groups of campers but well spread out. A prickle of moisture in the air has us packing the tent quickly but turns to nothing. Pukekos stalk around looking for food and a couple of paradise ducks have a thing or two to say. The hard edged sound of Tui wings flash overhead and plover screech as they head up the Graham valley.
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| Whatamango DOC campsite |
Out of the gate, we turn left and grind uphill for 5K (400 vertical meters) with no stops. Enough said about that. A road cyclist cruises past with a cheerful "nearly there, 1K to go" he must be a regular as it is 1.1K.
At the top we allow ourselves a breather to look east and south into Port Underwood. Oyster Bay is far below and we can see our road disappearing around Willawa point; hmm, it looks like gravel.
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| Port Underwood |
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| Whatamango Bay |
At the bottom we turn right and start our tortuous way along the many spurs and bays. Oyster Bay is first and apart from the large Kuni Kuni pig our enduring memory will be the start of the gravel.
Here, just a few words about gravel roads. The ideal gravel road has a nice compacted wheel groove that a bike can zip along with occasional excursions into the precarious loose stuff when vehicles are about. It gets trickier when the grader has been through; there is no sweet spot so progress is slower and steering can be a bit erratic. If it's the end of the financial year the council may have splashed out on new metal and that's when your time estimates and any chance of traveling in a straight line go out the window.
And one final point; the addition of cloddish drivers with a direct neural connection between their testicles and accelerator foot will reduce the exit from corners and uphill stretches into a corrugated nightmare. The waves they generate in the road surface coincide with pedal strokes in a most disconcerting way and hitting them at speed is akin to sitting on a jackhammer set to granite mode.
As we ascend from Oyster Bay we realise the grader has been through. Still; at least it’s not new metal.
The road winds through bush, dropping and climbing constantly. The dips skirting picturesque bays and patches of farm land, the rises giving glimpses up, down and across Port Underwood. Each bay has its own name and character and many seem to have been associated with whaling. The drop into Tom Cane’s Bay brings the delight of new road metal. Angela watches Andrew slew his way cheerfully down the hill and wisely dials in a more sedate pace. The experience is somewhat disconcerting and she votes for a cuppa tea stop before facing the loose climb out of the bay.
A short drive descends between baches of diverse character but immaculate lawns and drops us at the head of a delightful bay. There’s a short sandy beach, a wee stream and plenty of space for picnicking. The penny stove is soon doing its thing and after the application of Dimp we sit under a tree sipping our tea, nibbling a mallowpuff and watching a couple of Oystercatchers work the tide line around the bay.
The water fades from clear to dark green as it deepens; across the bay a tree full of Cormorants carry on about something or other and the normal suspects chirp and swoop in the bush on the steep hillsides. We allow the setting to divert us for a little longer than planned but there’s no time pressure today so why not; it doesn’t get much better than this.
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| Tom Cane's Bay; firing up a brew |
The road continues through the bays and we mark our progress by the approach of Robertson Point; the end of the spit that separates Port Underwood from the open sea. The rises so far have been below 100m but leaving Ocean Bay, the hill doesn’t stop but continues upwards in a most unrelenting way to about 270m. This gives magnificent views and a thoroughly entertaining downhill but takes its toll on energy reserves and dwindling water supplies.
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| Looking across to Robertson Point |
Putting that unseemly assault on the flow of narrative to one side, let me return to our story.
Robin Hood Bay has a historic cottage and a bit of Maori history (gardening). It’s also the most obviously visited spot with a large sandy beach, boogie boarders enjoying a modest surf break and plenty of space. There is a DOC campsite but it doesn’t have water and it’s a little early to stop for the night so we reluctantly head up the next hill.
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| Robin Hood Bay DOC picnic area (Campsite is at south end), White Bluffs or Cape Campbell on the horizon |
It rapidly becomes clear that a lot of vehicles travel here from Blenheim. The road becomes wider and relatively busy (10 cars an hour) and the previously mentioned corrugations intrude on our enjoyment. The first hill is steep and climbs to a similar height to the last, with (just maybe) a little bit of pushing involved. The top however brings views across Cloudy Bay to White bluffs and beyond to Cape Campbell. Now it’s just the last short haul to the blissfully flat landscape of the Wairau plains.
Dropping into the last bay (White’s Bay) the road turns back to seal and we have the option of dropping down to the DOC site or continuing over the next hill to Rarangi, our intended destination. I reckon we’re at about 60m altitude so we decide that we’ll leave White’s Bay for another day and again change gears for a climb.
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| White’s Bay and the end of the gravel |
We know the steep bits are almost finished and with the going easier on the seal this last hill is not so bad. However, it starts to rain and we hold our breath as it makes up its mind whether to settle in or stop. After a couple of bursts it passes and we proceed to our last view point south along the beach with the Wither hills behind Blenheim in the distance and orderly farms and vineyards in between. Nestled at the bottom of the hill at the start of the beach is Rarangi. The beach edge has a serrated look from this vantage, we find out later that it is growing at a metre a year and that the patterns are part of the wave action involved in the process.
It’s 3.20 when we arrive in Rarangi and pitch the tent before killing a little time ahead of an early dinner and bed. The first order of the day though is drinking water as we have been eking out our last drops. Then we find the least lumpy spot and pitch the tent.
The camp ground is a little odd; it has a new ablution block (with cold shower) and a couple of picnic tables but is basically a small paddock with little grass. The few plantings are too new to look anything more than slightly apologetic and the overall effect is that we are caged curiosities for the locals to peer over the fence at. We are the only curiosities in the camp ground but note that there are a number of vehicles in the car park just outside that look like the occupants are here for the duration.
Pretty much as soon as we have life sorted and the tent up; the rain comes back. We scamper inside and sit eating mallow puffs and milk bottles. It doesn’t appear to have any intention of letting up so the dinner billy is set to boil outside the vestibule for beef hot pot. By the time it is served the rain has passed and by 6pm the clouds are breaking. The horizon to the south over Blenheim and west over the open sea is clear so we poke our noses out for a postprandial walk.
A few steps from our tent site is the end of the beach and a pretty walk around the corner into a tiny bay: Monkey Bay (which I’m sure I’ve seen on a wine bottle label). There’s a seat to look out to sea and options for a longer walk around to White’s Bay, but we turn south and walk along the beach reserve instead. The Community Centre and Fire Station mark a suitable turning point and night has fallen by the time we turn back.
The air is clear after the rain and it is mild. With nothing else to do in Rarangi we are in our sleeping bags by 7 listening to the surf. An itinerant idiot wakes us during the night but fortunately after a modicum of (probably) male driving display, he heads of to irritate another part of Marlborough. Angela is a little surprised that it is midnight and not 4am and consequently has a more fitful rest thereafter.
We rise by 0630 in time to watch the sunrise above the North Island. The clouds are thick about the Wellington hills and thin out eastwards to Cape Palliser on the right. A thin thread of orange fire outlines the uneven top edge of the Wellington cloud bank like a signature, becoming gradually brighter until the first full sunlight spills through. It’s below 10 degrees and the light is a welcome indicator of the warmth to come.
Being of robust constitution we decide that a short ride into Blenheim will be just the thing before breakfast. We are both a bit vague about the geography between here and there so we set out in the cool air, in what we expect is the right direction. There’s little of note apart from an interesting outboard motor letter box and a vineyard worker literally riding shotgun who points us in the right direction.
The sun is at just the right angle to throw the rhinoceros rumples and folds of the Wither hills into relief with a snow capped Tapuae o Uenuku lurking behind.
After 13K we cross the Wairau River and approach what must surely be the outskirts of Blenheim. Wrong. It’s Spring Creek and we have to ride a further 7K on State Highway one.
Blenheim is stirring at 8.20 but nothing seems to be open until Angela spots tables on the footpath in the distance. When we arrive it is indeed an open café. Figaros’ turns out to be an excellent find serving good coffee. Angela’s eggs Bene, and my pancakes with lashings of maple syrup, perfectly cooked banana and good bacon are as good as you will get anywhere. The sun streams through the open door thawing us from finger tips to toes.
We plan our day over the repast and pick up a few maps from the i-site afterwards. Our first destination is the small but thoroughly satisfying farmers market. The day is starting to warm and the place is buzzing. We don’t have space to take the treats on offer with us but happily demolish a tray of fully ripe raspberries.
A busker plays the saxophone and a red cloaked story-teller with a bell rounds up urchins from the crowd. It all has the feel of a well-rehearsed but thoroughly loved community routine.
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| Raspberries at Blenheim Farmers Market |
New Renwick Road takes us through vineyards westwards. A few harvesters are operating and cyclists pass in both directions; it is now comfortably warm. In Renwick we purchase a round of iced coffee and stop at a winery along the road. We are confident that a couple of sweaty cyclists lounging on the sward adjacent to their fish pond will be a welcome boost for their image.
Our route has turned north now and we decide to divide and conquer. Angela turns right into Rapaura Road whilst I continue to cross the cycle unfriendly Wairau Bridge and turn right down the left bank along the Kaituna - Tuamarina Road. This is a little more meandering with a few kilometres of (graded!) gravel in the middle. It wouldn’t be suitable on a road bike but doesn’t have any hills.
My road emerges on State Highway One right next to our rendezvous point; the site of the Wairau affray. I have about 20 minutes to read about the sad affair before Angela texts, she has been at the picnic table on the other side of the tree for 10 minutes. We lie in the grass looking into a cloudless sky munching OSM bars for lunch.
It is about 20 Km to Picton into a firm head wind on a busy road. Neither of us can recall how high the intervening pass is but we have plenty of time. Angela practices slip streaming as we ignore the trucks and traffic whizzing past our elbows. It’s a good shoulder and pretty flat so is not too bad. A little after halfway we stop to lie in the grass again at a memorial to two hunters “killed in tragic circumstances” in Robin Hood bay in 1966.
Just ahead lies the hill. With gritted teeth the first rise is soon behind and we pause to regroup, only to realise: “is that it!?” (in incredulous tones from Angela). Sure enough, it is and we coast down to Picton to be drinking excellent iced coffee and a cold ale at Le Café within minutes. It’s 2.20, the hour when the genteel put away their bikes and turn to more leisurely pursuits so we buckle down to an afternoon browsing before our sailing.
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| Le Café |
A group of old car enthusiasts occupy half the footpath tables apparently enjoying the end of a social road trip. One of their number in a Triumph Herald with the top down pulls in and starts to perform a U turn. The manoeuvre halts with a loud bang and the left front wheel pointing it’s hub towards the heavens in a most inelegant fashion.
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| The coffee lovers iced coffee |
We're dying to know how the hell they will get it on the Ferry (which is catching the last of the sun as it steams into port). However our time is up and we have to leave Dave lying in the road applying 100 mile-an-hour tape and tie downs to invisible regions of the car. As we leave, the sound of an important bit of metal landing on asphalt rings in the evening air.
We are on the 7pm sailing and have to wait for shunting to be complete before we can board. The Ferry is 15 minutes late but we are let into a tiny port-a-com waiting room. The other inhabitant turns out to be an interesting bloke who has been biking the Wakamarina track and is practicing a travel-light philosophy more extreme than my own. The time passes quickly.
Eventually aboard, we lash the bikes in and find a seat in the forward lounge. The crossing is pretty smooth as we adopt various contortions in an attempt to sleep in the chairs. Mike meets us off the Ferry (i.e. texts to say he’s just leaving home) and forces me to put the bike on their rack and accept a lift home. This marks the end of the tour which is declared a resounding success by both participants.
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