The joys of windy Welly… and beyond

First time in Wellington after 20+ years in New Zealand and the city unexpectedly dazzles.

Welly is far more sophisticated and trendy than I imagine, pulsing with a verve that could easily rival San Francisco, Melbourne, even New York. Almost every building along the corporate street The Terrace has elevators to descend at least 5 levels to get down to the next street – a hustling and bustling Lambton Quay full of cosmopolitan people hitting its pavements of red brick and barrelling through the wind with nonchalance. For a city renown for its earthquake risks, I am not sure about all the scrapers piling up one on top of the other. Nevertheless, this compact city has such an unbeatable suave and vibe, frankly, I think I am in Europe.

Wind speeds double or triple the second night into my stay in Wellington. And while my airbnb in the Chaffers Dock apartments is in the enviable part of town by Oriental Bay boasting a stunning view, due to high winds, the large wooden doors in the apartment shake and rattle liked a train speeding down the tracks all the night long. At one point, I am not sure if the building is shaking from an earthquake. Sometime in the middle of the night, I finally get up and stuff a towel underneath the door. Earlier that night, a 5 minute walk to the Coene’s Bar & Eatery for dinner is such a battle against gales, a real danger to life and limb, that stumbling dishevelled into the restaurant feels like being a storm tossed ship finally finding the safety of port. The next morning, I spring for a brisk walk in the bluster down Oriental Parade, around Oriental Bay until reaching the bend about 1.5 km later, where Mt Victoria drapes above the hills. On the way back, I duck into a side street cutting into the range, and meander up Oriental Terrace, a narrow steep alley reminiscent of San Francisco. I trudge up bends and staircases that lead past many old and worn wooden cottages ensconced in the hills, fit for ghost hauntings, all stacked on top of one another like pancakes. Many of these houses have quirky little side gates – one with an arched door/gate in cobalt blue with a porthole cut into the top half of the door.

Flanking and winding up the walkway is an abundance of vegetation including Geraniums, Periwinkles, Teucriums (Silver Box / Silver Germander), Chilean Rhubarbs, giant leafy shrubs you could pick and slap someone with, Nasturtiums with huge round leaves, Coprosmas, Griselinias, a purple Hebe, Renga Rengas, and some sort of white Lilies either Calla, Arum, or Canna? Apparently, Periwinkle, the Arum Lily, and the Rhubarb are invasive weeds in NZ.

Morning coffee by Oriental Bay

Sometime during the morning trek, I even come across what looks like the “Genie” cultivar of Magnolia featured in this month’s NZ Gardener, with its scented cup and saucer deep red blooms. The delightful red compact blooms dangle off the bare tree limbs with aplomb and I vow to grow them soon. The narrow path weaves underneath then emerges behind St Gerard’s monastery, which sits grandly in the hills, right on the edge of a lush green escarpment, majestic from afar, but up close from the back of the building, appears shabby and abandoned. Green moss covers the roof shingles and white pillars, and the terracotta and beige facade need a good repaint, much of it stained yellow.

I follow the alleyway dipping down alongside the grand old monastery, plop out onto the narrow street below directly atop the cliff face, and brace myself from the howling wind. The plants don’t seem to mind. Next on the list, Te Papa. Aside from the Robin White exhibition, a riveting animation of Maui’s exploration depicted on a giant semi-circular concave canvas, a satisfying alcoholic apple cider in the cafe, and the rocks hundreds of millions of years old - schists, marbles, granites, limestones, dolomites, serpentines, greywackes – I can’t absorb the rest of Te Papa, overwhelming due to sheer size.

An impromptu train trip to Upper Hutt makes an indelible impression. The train traverses through two hilly ranges on either side, passing by rows of old bungalows and cottages along the tracks – it is all decidedly otherworldly, a mix of new world and rustic lost-in-time sort of vibe. Like you could be anywhere in the world, perhaps even another dimension. Uncomfortably intrigued, I keep thinking I am in Australia. Or Kentucky. When I get off the train and walk out onto Main Street, a blackbird is singing with so much gusto, its tones resounding with a vibrance it could be mistaken for a tui.

Upper Hutt is such a peculiar and remote town I am surprised to see people going about their everyday business, conversing like any other kiwi, students being quirky and loud on the train after school just like every other school kid in Auckland. The spirit of the place is unlike anything I have encountered, and there is a permanent “huh?” in my psyche which compels me to keep walking further on so I can somehow “solve” the mystery. I want more than anything to get into a car and drive further on to see what it is all about. Alas, forty minutes later I am catching the train back to Wellington where things make sense, leaving solving the Upper Hutt puzzle to a later date.