BUCKLANDS BEACH: THE EDGE OF THE EARTH

On Friday, two days after Christmas, I took a break from reading my academic books and opted for the biography of Wallis Simpson, Duchess of Windsor, instead. I borrowed this book from the Botany Branch of the Auckland libraries because I was curious about how she wandered into the path of an English Royal, King Edward VIII, who was forced to abdicate the Crown because she was considered unfit to be Queen. Although I hadn’t advanced far into the book, I understand that she comes from a distant line of Royals, who arrived in New England. It got me thinking about the life trails down which our ancestors’ wander, which oftentimes push their scions off what would have been their normal paths, to venture into a new life over which we have no control. Our histories, indeed.

After several hours of reading about Wallis Simpson, I helped myself to two glasses of pinot gris, a light and airy variety from the Five Flax wine corporation, on sale at Pak N’ Save. Believing that the lightness of the flavor meant it was also light in alcohol content, I was soon proven to be wrong. I became sleepy halfway through the second glass, decided to take a snooze, and woke up with a touchy hangover. A headache that throbbed in the middle of my forehead informed me that I should have probably spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, but I ignored this warning and opted to go on one of my solitary long walks to reach the edge of the earth: Bucklands Beach. I was hung over in the middle of the afternoon, but I couldn’t ignore the sun, which blazed against the blue, blue sky, calling to me through my bedroom window to come out and play. I could hear the riroriro tweeting outside, but I couldn’t avert my eyes from the bright blue sky. I imagined this glorious display was a different scene from New England, where my family is boarded away indoors, safely tucked away from the grey, snowy days of December winter. Friday was the perfect day to walk.

Bucklands Beach is actually not very far from Burswood. It’s only about 9 km, which translates to almost 5 miles in the American metric system. It was the same distance from Sunderland, Massachusetts to Hadley, the next farming town over. On the map, Bucklands is a discreet peninsula that juts out into the ocean and, I soon discovered, is also part of a string of interconnected beaches (Eastern and Half Moon Bay) that can be walked if one stays along the coastline. Bucklands can also be reached by crossing the Bucklands Beach Road.

After walking the same linear road for about half an hour, Bucklands Beach Road eventually trailed gently to the left, where soon-after I came upon a sign for the Bucklands Beach Reserve. Believing this trail would take me directly to my destination, I followed the concrete footpath. Just beyond, I found the long staircase. In the distance, I sighted water. I had arrived, I thought. A short distance further, I was along the esplanade and could see people bobbing in the water or riding their speed boats. It was beautiful and I became even more entranced at the sight of the cascading cliff to the right.

A quick reading of the history of this 8 kilometer place by the ocean on Wikipedia reveals that Bucklands Beach shares a farm history with Sunderland, and was the site for European and Maori contact. The Maoris, the Ngaiti iwi, populated this area as early as the 1400s until 1790, and farmed ferns. Wikipedia also claims that the area bore evidence of hangi, underground ovens used by Maoris for cooking. Eventually, this area was bought by European settlers with a combination of needed goods, crops, and cash.

My visit to Eastern Beaches was prolonged by my usual flat white coffee break at Rattai Thai Restaurant. The dinner meal was entirely too luxurious for me, but the easy conversation with the staff at the restaurant and the ocean side view from the table by the door let me forget that I was on a student budget. I could see the Waiheke Ferry cruising by and I deduced after a brief exploration of the Bucklands Beach coastline that the Half Moon Bay Marina is just yonder, the two places connected by a raised ramp that hugs the side of a high cliff. From my vantage point, I could see the boats and the café, where I had enjoyed a pastry and coffee not too many months ago.

The walk back wasn’t as long, but the sun was slowly descending and the air recovering from the heat infusing the afternoon air only a few hours before had turned into a slight chill. Back in my room, I immediately hopped to it, again, meaning back to the grind and finished off the section of the Jeffrey Riedinger book that I was so desperate to complete. Alas. Success.

The path leading to Eastern Beach; the start of the Bucklands Beach Reserve

A not-so-gentle descent to the east of the Edge of the Earth

Neighborhood just a stone's throw from Eastern Beach

Cliff-side scene of Eastern Beach

Boats moored at Bucklands Beach. Half Moon Bay Marina is just across the water.

Bucklands Beach with an unsightly drainage pipe. What goes through there?

More moored sail boats at the edge of Bucklands Beach.

Beach front property at Bucklands Beach.

Gentle street scene at Eastern Beaches. 

SUMMER IN BURSWOOD

Single-legged birdhouse, a quiet contemplation in still waters,

Hidden by bull rush grasses, visible only to the enquiring pedestrian;

Single-legged birdhouse providing refuge to the riroriro;

Who swoops in from the left, and ascends up high,

Above igneous rocks that yield to carpets of wild Yarrows.

With strings of high-pitched mating calls, announcing her arrival,

Riroriro flirts spontaneously with the tuis and korimakos;

Wings flap furiously, blurred comingling of grey, yellow, and black feathers, 

As they vie for the other’s affection.

Camille Tuason Mata, Manukau, New Zealand 

(c) 2013

Birdhouse in standing water 

Drainage catchment for urban storm water runoff

Run-off catchment 

Household landscaping 

Canal that's part of the urban storm water run-off system 

This water system runs throughout Burswood Subdivision 

Riroriro bird

SECRET GARDEN

A few steps beyond, across gentle undulations of manicured lawn grass,

A sharp precipice overlooks a sonorous symphony of native jungle,

Bursting with revelations of green, brown, orange flora, distinguished by names unfamiliar;

In the armpit of this rapture, a discreet path is cradled,

Scrupulously guarded by the stout lemon tree, its yellow bounties

Pungent after-thoughts in the winsome breeze;

This path, each step guided by lavenders and water lilies,

Descends into the shadows of foliage, winding along the edge of a bog;

This path enters a secret garden, a somnambulistic space undeterred

By place or time, silence broken only by the melodies of bird calls,

And the gentle humming of mosquitoes;

Single, purple ti leaf plant, a punctilious presence in the biomass,

Feijoa tree on its last breath, prefacing the screened canvas of climbing beans,

Threatening to erupt across the vertical wall;

Οver-sized courgettes, discreetly nesting in the soil,

Obscured by the fuzzy leaves of its host, in this secret garden.   

Camille Tuason Mata

Copyright (c) 2013

Manukau, New Zealand

Genteel butterfly clinging on for dear life against the harsh wind

Native plant - I tried finding the species name, but couldn't. Anyone?

Lemon tree standing guard

Bog winding its way through the Burswood subdivision

Metal screen of purple beans threatening to overtake the fence

Beans up close

The wooden bench from where I listen to the musical symphony of birds, insects, and rustling leaves.

"MONTHUS HORRIBILUS"

Queen Elizabeth christened 1992 as her “annus horribilus.” That is what November represented for me, my “monthus horribilus,” the reason I couldn’t blog even when I wanted to. What was appearing to look like a smooth transition into my fieldwork turned out to be, disappointingly, a month of navigating through the red tape, attempting to interpret the language with the aid of an advocate at the international students office in order to answer questions about the required length of the doctoral program and the time I am able to submit my PhD thesis. What appeared to be settled before I even re-applied to transfer turned out to be saturated with question marks. Although the statutes clearly state that the provisional year is allowed flexibility, I presume to take into account the different circumstances of PhD students, I’m discovering somewhat unsettlingly that there’s much that is taken for granted because transparency isn’t always honored here. Or, perhaps it is, and there are individuals who just want to make life difficult for others because they can.

A former classmate once complained to me that he never understands what’s in wait for him in New Zealand, as he is later often told the opposite of what was agreed upon at the time of discussion. I sympathized with him then, as I sympathize with myself now, mainly because I’ve prepared as much as I can for my fieldwork. At this juncture, nothing more needs to be done and nothing more can be written until the data is collected from the field. I use my experience from previous fieldwork expeditions to guide me on the design of my research, the instruments for data collection, and the identification of my participants. Based on the work I’ve produced in this first year of study, I have all the information I need to begin sending out letters informing the relevant people at the research site that I’m coming to do my field research.

Of course, if the administration at Massey University had followed the guidelines and assisted me with another supervisor, who actually possessed the doctorate qualification required to supervise a PhD student, I wouldn’t be spending the last part of October and the entire month of November fighting for the right to graduate within a reasonable amount of time at my current university. I can’t help but feel that the incentive to keep me here longer is driven by the fact that I’m funded entirely by loans, with the exception of some research funds to off-set the cost of study. Personally, I feel that the administrative and academic staff should be more knowledgeable about the regulations so that students worry only about producing the academic standards expected of them to pass the PhD examination.  

In the meantime, I go for walks to release some of this anxiety, paid for four sessions of acupuncture treatment to re-align my chi energy and help me to cope with the bureaucrats, and tend to the garden I’ve created in a small block in the back of the house. After four days of rain, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds on occasion, the vegetables look drunk from all the water. I’ve had to harvest the Chinese vegetables early – they don’t seem to grow well in clay soil – but the tomatoes and silver beets look very healthy. They won’t be ready until late summer.  

THE INTERREGNUM

Dare I Say

How magnificent are your peaks in dusk’s shadow

‘Neath an endless horizon of grey powder, a pregnant interlude

Of anticipation, the promise of a late afternoon shower.

How I heard the musical call of lovebirds, through the window

A symphony of teasing and placating, discernible in the din of silence,

While I, a shadow of concentration, welcomes the distraction.

How grains of red dust, set a swirl by this long, enduring African heat

Came to me while on a morning coffee run; this rabid, elongated cone   

Of a tornado coursed through me, grainy traces of its ravages nesting in my air passages, my hair.

How deeply the cool, Savannah rainy season, in the balmy evening air,

Fills my lungs, a sweet after-taste of earthworms and bluish thunder, 

As I stand below a black canopy of star dust, glowing as far away as the eyes can see.

Dare I Say

How you saved me one evening, with an easy conversation,

During an overnight stay in the outskirts of Lilongwe, like two friends from years past,

Features obscured only by the mosquito net, trading questions about our past, our future.  

Camille Tuason Mata

Manukau, Auckland, New Zealand, © 2013

LITTLE BOY

Does she remember us, dad?

Tiny voice from the left, high pitched, inquiring,

Floats towards me, as I alight from the BART;

The familiarity of it steeps into my pores,

Crawls through my veins,

Settles into my heart - and I pause;

Transfer . . .

ATM machine . . .

Call hostel . . .

Verify reservation . . .

Get directions . . .

Find the map . . .

Check in . . .

A mental check list of

Mundane essentials slough off, like onion layers

As he walks towards me;

And I sit, allowing him to invade me,

To climb into my lap and settle

In the comfortable spot, the way he always did.

                                       

Do you remember me, he asks, into my cheek;

I’ll always remember you, I murmur

Into his hair, the color of charcoal, the curl of cyclamen petals;

The scent of oatmeal brings me home;

Even when we’re planets apart, I say,

I’ll always remember you.

Camille Tuason Mata

Manukau, Auckland, NZ © 2013

A BRIEF DETOUR

            Rarely do I fall for people in narratives. Nor do I ever want to delve deeper into the character of the people in stories read for recreation. But, on a recent detour from the rigid structures of my academic writing, I indulged in a leisurely stroll into the memoir of a dramatic writer, who walked me through her love affair with a man seventeen or eighteen years her senior and did just that. I also discovered something else: that my life was marginally woven into theirs, a serendipitous discovery that filled me with a sense of wonder equivalent to seeing the incandescent blues and purples of the aurora borealis on a winter evening, a shooting star against the black curtain of night, the sensation of walking through fields of molten, oozing lava, and the first inhalation of an early, mid-autumn, dewy morning in the Catskills.    

            Out of her personal accounts in this coming-of-age experience arose more questions regarding the significance of this relationship to the materialization of the memoir. I wanted to know more about him, her lover, namely the parts of their connection that were selectively left out, but would have explained the true reasons behind the demise of the relationship and the reasons he didn’t want to resuscitate it. What was it about him that caused her to give up control of her life and give it to him, to simply relinquish the progress she had initiated towards her future? Why did the outcome of this relationship trigger a revisiting of her past; what was its significance to the emotions she had suppressed in the cellars of her deeper past across the Pacific Ocean? And, more important to the life choices she made, what was it about the indentations of her life in the Louisiana wetlands that caused her to keep distancing herself from her adopted home, despite the obvious caring she received from those with whom she was most familiar? I hoped the reasons were to find her higher self (in the form of Eat, Pray, Love) rather than to be with love so that she could feel she belonged to someone. The selfish, Asian-American feminist side of me wanted her path to be self-chosen for discovering the Self, building her character, and awakening to her true north.     

            As people with questions do, I researched, pausing from my academic books and journal articles to delve further into these two people. The identity of the lover, the letters of his name and the cadence of its pronunciation, were familiar to me. After more digging, I soon learned that a book had been written about the rise of the company he brought to life, a book that simultaneously opened the doorway into the person behind the name in this memoir: his working class history and his restless spirit, which I suspected were the flames beneath his entrepreneurial diligence; that his motivations were the result of this profound responsibility to his family, his ties to his friends, the people who were good to him; that he had taken himself to task more than once to meet his responsibilities and to give generously to those important to him. As a published cookbook later revealed, this connoisseur of a beloved Mediterranean fruit (found in probably every Mediterranean kitchen) was a willing and earnest student of this ingredient. As the co-author of this same cookbook, he showed that he was also a soulful writer, having penned simple, yet meaningful statements, such as “At my table there are old friends . . . He loves to come into the cellar to help me choose my wines, talking the while of all the steps involved in making the day’s dessert. Then everyone gathers at the table to enjoy the Mediterranean cuisine, enriched with the stories and comments of everyone present.”

Surprisingly, I also learned that this lover and I had quite possibly crossed paths several years previously in a Sydney cafe, while I was in between farm work during my summer break. Though the memory is now hazy, the expression on his face in a photo image, angled in a certain way, brought me back to that day by the window, when the sun shining on his face brought to mind the adventurous Huckleberry Finn, a character brought to life by Mark Twain, but the way I imagined the adventurous Huck Finn to be in his early 40s.

As for her, the memoirist, I learned that she had fashioned her life after him. Although now living apart from him, she had nevertheless navigated her life to remain in his shadow – right down to the cookbook she is writing and expecting to publish in 2014. Disappointingly, I discovered that she is a modern day Camille Claudel to her Rodin. In this, I interpreted her actions as having run away from herself all those years. Perhaps she is still.  

So, I allowed myself this daydream into their life stories, completely unrelated to my graduate readings, and discovered that I yearned for quality, platonic companionship and harbored poems in the recesses of my heart. I returned from this detour and finished the research proposal, improved my initial three chapters, reviewed and completed writing the questions of my surveys and interviews, and revised and read for my chapter 5 . . . with my feet firmly planted on the ground.         

THE FOLDS OF BOHEMIA FROM WHENCE YOU CAME

I was led to you through a trail of crumbs

Clues hinting of you, laid bare here and there by

The protagonist of her own life story;

And, from this perspective, I looked for more of you

On the bookshelves of the Botany library

In cyberspace, where your story might be told;

Until I found you, in a narrative, in the only place where Pierre can tale,

Revealing the conundrums of your blood line, the signs of your fate,  

In your native Provence, rooted deeply in the soil aside the lavenders and rosemary;  

Here, I discovered, you toiled endearingly for the right to financial security,  

Without surrendering love and loyalty, those which make it all worthwhile,

Even whispering your vision of the perfect woman to the

Bearer of your dreams, in this enduring quest for security;

The whole of you, untold in the voids left by

These trails of crumbs, but through the prose of Pierre,

We see the all of you, detailed imprints that resonate of you.  

© Mata 2013 (In my room in Burwood Estates, where I boarded)

STUMPED FOR A TITLE

I have been attending doctorate skills workshops religiously since July. The latest, the IT workshop held this recent Monday, gave instructions on creating the table of contents, embedding formats, creating the master document to integrate the different chapters into one, systemizing format and style (good for when the thesis is completed) and essentially revealing the various ways to improve the appearance of my dissertation. I can now say that I am literate on the language and techniques of Microsoft Word stylistics. Although not quite fluently toggling and clicking on tabs that knowingly lead me to required functions, I no longer have to stumble through and guess the way I have always learned with Microsoft Word.

Each of the doctoral skills workshops has been really good in teaching me how to be more expert on using the technology at Auckland Uni. Having this information makes my research and writing life a lot easier.

The remainder of this week and all of last weekend was devoted to constructing my full research proposal, which I anticipate submitting to the Committee at the end of September (this month) after attending yet another workshop on writing the research proposal. Taking the research proposal to task turned out to be a lot smoother than I thought it would, mainly because the three significant chapters have been reworked and rewritten several times over, but not quite to death - hopefully. More life has yet to be breathed into them - hopefully.

Another workshop to which I’m looking forward is the academic writing one on 26 September because I want to inject more soul into the academic style of my dissertation. When I was re-reading my initial chapter drafts, my feelings about my writing ability kept vacillating between being too involved in the subject and being too detached. After making the necessary changes, I would often revert back to my previous feelings. Often, I’ve had to step back from this pendulum in order to look at my scribing with perspective, a lot less obsessively, and a with lot less intensity. I hope to gain more perspective from the academic writing workshop, step back from my writing tendencies, and as I said bring soul into my work.

While I haven’t spent the desired time in Panmure, yet, to write about its history and connection with Maori society, this week I was able to make a beeline for the Auckland Domain, a splendorous 80 hectare expanse of green spaces atop a volcano. There are numerous walking trails through and around the edges of the Domain: lover’s lane, duck pond walk, etc. It is virtually impossible to get lost in this expanse of wild and landscaped terrain of pure beauty. Stepping into this place, after a short walk past the café and the duck pond, is like entering a private space of both sculpted gardens and forests. Cars passing sound far off in the distance, and voices are deep, tonal mumblings carelessly tossed around for anyone to hear. The gentle breeze cruising through the Domain makes one feel even more liberated, almost tempts one, I would say, to walk around naked. (Perhaps I simply feel this way because I want to free myself momentarily of the mechanical and structured method of writing my research).

An outdoor cafe on Grafton Road enroute to the Domain

A distant view of this delectable, literally outdoors, cafe

View of the ponds

Viewing the ponds from another angle

Another angle

Interactive fountain at the duck pond

Lover's Walk

Natural growth of plants along the hillside

Along a winding road, up the volcano and over to the lower part of the Domain, several Maori carvings can be seen decorating the asphalt fringes. While not a staple of urban aesthetics, these carvings sometimes unexpectedly emerge on my occasional leisurely strolls, giving an element of surprise.

Horizontal perspective of Maori carvings

Single totem view

I invested only an hour of exploration, but there’s more to see and to discover of this tranquility. The more common visitor site is the Winter Garden. The green house in this garden is supposed to house the most exotic plants from around New Zealand, but yesterday, I chose not to browse through them. I'll save this outing for another time, and as always, I’ll have my coffee treat, which I’m already planning at the onsite Café . . .  with a book that I won’t be reading for my dissertation, a decision to which I never adhere. My conscious efforts to distract never seem to be strong enough to prevent me from returning to pieces of my dissertation.

In spite of the grey clouds, this afternoon I managed to duck out to the back and spend my break from the research proposal on clearing the plots for more garden edibles. I want to put more aromatic herbs (dill, rosemary, thyme) into the ground so the backyard is fragrant whenever I go out there to weed. I’ve been able to plant the onions, which sprouted while in the plastic bag, next to the scallions my landlord/housemate was already growing from months before. Bunnings Warehouse, New Zealand’s equivalent to Home Depot, sells a variety of seedlings. Being careful to stay within my budget, I’ve purchased oregano, chives, spinach (which was immediately eaten by little mites), and green beans, with future intentions to cover the open spaces of soil with more edibles. By summer, this garden will be rocking!

RAIN, RAIN, GO AWAY

This week has displayed alternating days of sun and rain, with rainy days consuming most of the waking hours. Winter in Auckland, I am discovering and as locals have told me, is not only cold but can also be very wet. Numerous days of wet weather in this temperate climate - such is the travesty of living by the coastline, even in the coldest season of the year in this other land down under.

Being kept indoors has proven to be a strain on my emotional stability. I’ve managed to steal moments from the long hours of reading and rewriting to stretch my muscles and my chakra with carpeted yoga in my room. In these moments of stillness, in which I sit on the floor, facing the window, legs crossed like a pretzel, I allow the deep inhalation and exhalation of my lungs to gently open the channels connected to the recesses of my brain. In this position, and through this stillness, I seek to release the peace and serenity enclosed therein.

I wish I could say that yoga still does it for me. Over the years, since succumbing to pilatés yoga in Madison, Wisconsin 9 years ago, it no longer does for me now what it did then – inner peace and light, and toned arms and abs. After gradually phasing it out of my life, I have since reintegrated exploratory, long walks 3 years ago, and re-discovered the spiritual benefits from meditative thinking while walking. Though not conducted perfectly, and perhaps not in the way Thich Nat Thanh would suggest (I still need the power walks, it seems, sweat dripping down my chin and all), walking tours help me to re-connect with myself. These walks have also done wonders for my thesis, which is finally shaping into a research project.

Though my arms and abs are no longer what they were, I appreciate the gentle release of stress and frustrations my walking steps afford me. But, with the rains that have come almost daily this week, my walks have been abbreviated or curtailed completely.      

I can’t say that my days at Massey University still don’t haunt me. On several occasions this week, I could hear thudding and things being moved around or dropped from somewhere in the house; knowing my landlord/housemate is at work during the day, my ears stand at attention at the suspicion that someone may be trying to break in. Alarms going off in the distance on different occasions imply that break-in attempts, and the corresponding dangers, may be a reality in this neighborhood. My nerves trigger memories of the RAs at Tararua Hall at Massey, giving strangers access to my room, including on days when I was in there studying. To this day, I don’t know that they understood how wrong it was – or how illegal – and I still suspect that someone was instructing them to do it. So, if I hear the occasional noise in the middle of the night or early morning, I still sit up in bed, ready to jump, instantly.  

Moreover, in relation to my suspicion of someone tampering with my thesis chapters, since moving to Manukau where I live a somewhat solitary lifestyle, I was given a research control, something against which to compare my thesis writing experience at Massey University. Here, nothing about my chapters change; no moving paragraphs, no inexplicable flicking of the screen , indicating that someone was hitting the back button - no, my chapters since revising them here in Manukau have been stable. This control allowed me to understand that my suspicions were not based on paranoia.

Hopefully, the sun will show itself and stay out next week so that I can pay Panmure a visit. I still intend to walk the distance to Bucklands Beach, but first I’m curious about the history of Panmure and its meaning.    

SEMESTER TWO

More than a week of Semester 2 has passed and I’m still enjoying the thesis process. Two weeks ago, the University of Auckland held its regular induction programme for doctoral students. It lasted the entire day, replete with workshops informing in-coming doctorate students about academic and ethical standards, and the numerous resources available to students. I was thinking about the difference in content between this and the one held at Massey Uni back in February, when new PhD students there sat for only three hours discussing comparatively superficial items. The academic standards of Massey Uni were not even covered, and I wonder if the difference in quality accounts for the difference in ranking. 

Another tremendous difference between Masesy U and Auckland U is the approach to my committee meetings. Having my topic fed back to me helped me to home in on the missing elements and after much reflection isolate the parts that needed rethinking. After only one meeting with my primary supervisor at Auckland, I managed to flesh out the focus of my thesis and move the purpose of my research towards a direction. (While at Massey U, though other achievements were accomplished, the progress in navigating my thesis necessary was not one of these even after 9 months). As a result, I’ve been able to re-write my introduction in a more significant way. Instead of merely discussing the areas of and around my topic, I was able to understand how these related areas loosely connect. Anyway, I’ve left there and I shall not say anymore about my Massey Uni experience.  

The last two weeks have been devoted to untangling and reconnecting, then doing more rewrites, another meeting, and finally, my almost final rewrite this weekend. All weekend, in fact, chained to the dining table, revisiting and rethinking. 

Last time, I promised to write about Manukau. Not much to write about – it’s a suburb like any American suburb led to by a busy, congested thruway, Ti Rakau Drive, which is engulfed by a series of shopping malls as it snakes its way south from one neighborhood to another. Manukau, it seems, is inhabited by many immigrants, mainly from Asia, and is quite a different scene from Palmerston North, which has a more European settler feel to it. In comparison, Manukau gives a feeling of being rediscovered or reinvented. Although, it’s fair to say that much of what has been discovered so far is the suburban model replicated from mall strips in the United States.

Ti Rakau Drive

More suburban development

Strip Mall in front of bus stop

More strip malls across from bus stop

What really distinguishes the massive Auckland area from Palmerston North is the availability of coastlines, which is visible from anywhere. I noticed this last night Friday evening, when I was still on the long, 16 kilometre trek from my optometry appointment into Manukau. A dog walker showed me to the pedestrian bridge, which led onto a road-under-construction along the coast. Also, taking the bus into the city, I pass through Panmure, where I can see the coast, where moored sailing boats rest in their skips and bob up and down in sync with the heave and sigh of the ocean’s current. From here, the train can be boarded into the city. But, Panmure is a good 40 minute walk from Manukau. So, I settle for the bus on the occasion I need to make an appointment, a workshop, or a meeting.

About 3 weeks ago, I decided to walk back to Manukau from the Half Moon Bay Marina. The distance wasn’t far – only 4 kilometres - but getting turned around, easy to do with this large coastline, makes the length walked farther than necessary. The return trip took more than 3 hours. The visit to Half Moon Bay was worth the trip, though, despite the cold temperature.  The highlight of this coastal town, apart from its top of the mountain views, is the marina, which is very pretty and clean. Coffee shops facing the ocean allow patrons to gaze out into the expanse of tepid, blue water past rows of sailboats, while sipping every variety of the black liquid. The photo images convey the beauty of the area any time of the day, but especially at around 5-ish when the day eases into early evening.

Welcoming visitors to Half Moon Bay

The onset of dusk

View of marina

The ferry that ships people to and from Waiheke Island

Boats in their slips

A closer look at the boats

On another day, I’ll take my standard break from studying and make it to Buckland’s Beach and capture more landscape images to share.