The Bach

I've promised to spend a day at Te Oka Bay helping Nicki do some work at her family bach, an old wooden farm cottage with a big garden. Blue skies and sun, a perfect Sunday drive. The road winds up through trees from Little River to the crest of the volcanic crater. It's a big drop over the side and Nicki recounts stories of drivers who didn't make it back. I trust her knowledge of the road and the captivating view overrides crash images. We stop to saw off a Christmas tree for the bach and to admire the ocean stretching south. At the bach Nicki shows me framed pictures, water colours painted by her mother and grandmother, a testament to the family art gene. A perfect family display for a family holiday refuge. In the garden, there are black currents to pick, weeds to pull out, and thirsty plants to water. It's been a dry summer so far and the veges are wilting, those the possums have left. The grounds are well set out with a pool, tennis court and outdoor eating area but I'd rather go for a dip in the sea. There's a seal gambolling in the distance and a dead animal washed up and rotting on the rocks.
As we leave I don't feel I've done a lot of work but it's been companionable. I've lent a hand to a generous friend who has offered so much help with the rebuild, an area she has considerable expertise in. Over the years she has also opened the Te Oka bach to her friends. No cell coverage but all the mod cons and the sheep don't complain about the music volume or the laser lights.
When I get back, I drive to feed Pierre. While I'm there I dig, shovel and water till dusk. I'm rewarded by a rasping meow. I haven't seen Pierre for at least a week but he forgives my absence. We call a truce over cat biscuits.

Road to Te Oka

Nicki's proud of her blue front door