The train to Kuakarau - Waiheke

**The train to Kuakarau - Waiheke
**By James Littlewood

On Friday, I knocked off early, changed into some cycling gear and put myself, my bike and my little backpack onto a train at Glen Eden station. The kids would be ok till about mid-day, I reckoned. With a bit of a boys’ gathering lined up at Omiha (aka Whakanewha -Rocky Bay) on Waiheke Island, I thought: why not train, ride and ferry my way there and back? As it turned out, I hardly had to ride much at all.

From Britomart Station it was no sweat getting to the ferry building. You can ride the few short metres to Quay Street, but it’s best to dismount at the busy intersection so as not to wipe out any pedestrians; you’re about to get on a ferry anyway so there’s no need to be a dick about it.

What you do need is a fully primed HOP card, ready for the $20 hit each way. I counted a total of 13 bikes on that run, and one e-scooter. There are hooks to hang your bike up from its wheel, but nobody uses them and when I asked a keen looking middle-aged man in lycra (or MAMIL as they’re known) he sneered emphatically. Nup: bugger your wheel up in no time on that thing.

No worries: lean the bike on the railing, take a seat and settle into a book. But I didn’t read much because - happily - I bumped into an old friend. Catching up was good, and so was the offer of a lift as far as Ostend: well past halfway from the Matiatia ferry terminal to Rocky Bay. The bus overtook me somewhere around the Waiheke Dirt Track Club, which looks like a fun place, if you like that kind of thing. Actually, I hate that kind of thing, and it still looks like a fun place.

I made it to Rocky Bay in about 10 minutes from Ostend. Dinner. Drinks. So on. Then on Saturday we put on some hats.

Omiha - Whakanewha - Rocky Bay itself is basically lovely. Although it was too windy and low-tidey to bother with swimming, they assured me it’s a good spot for a high tide dip, being sheltered, shallow and therefore warm. There’s a thoroughly decent little cafe in an historic memorial hall, popular with both locals and visitors. And the rather fantastically quaint Mary Wilson Reserve is nearby, too.

At Kuakarau, round the corner, there’s a sculpture by Graham Bennett - Fixing Positions - which is intrinsically awesome. It’s big and steel and shiny. Public art activates a place. It says somebody cared, so there you go. In fact, Waiheke turns out to be fairly littered with sculptures. The annual Sculpture on the Gulf exhibition tends to generate quite a bit of work, some of which — like Bennett’s — gets picked up and donated by benefactors and collectors.

The Weed Free Waiheke crew were doing great work. A half dozen intrepid souls, they faced down the growing heat and lugged bucket-loads of invasive nasties about, giving the local varieties a decent run. Nona and her team were real champs.

However, back at the ferry terminal, the foot scrub station (part of the kauri diebackcampaign) was universally ignored by the entire ferry load. Someone really needs to shove it in the middle of the concourse, so that people would then have to deliberately go out of their way to avoid it. I’d also suggest on big tourist summer days, some Auckland Council ambassadors talking people through dieback on the ferry. Short story: the dieback spores are spread by human feet (among other things). So if you’re going anywhere near a kauri (any kauri), you need to know the soles of your feet are phytophthora-free. You don’t need to know what it means: just spray and scrub or stay out of the bush.

That said, I’ve no idea where any of the kauri reside on Waiheke. Presumably there are some, otherwise the scrub station would not be there in the middle of the wharf.

Down the road and round the corner kind of thing there’s an old tennis court. Being in a fun-loving frame of mind, we thought we’d check it out. Eric found the first tennis ball, and we were just launching into a game of racquetless tennis when one of the Weed Free Waiheke team tossed us another. Racquetless tennis is surprisingly good. It’s just like tennis, except you throw the ball and the other guy catches it and then gets to throw it back from more or less the same place. We scored the same as in tennis, except we kept losing count and then just wandered off altogether, home for a beer.

After a short snooze it was well and truly home time, for me at least. I accepted Theo’s offer to drive my 4 kg backpack back to Auckland on the car ferry, as it made the 11 km ride into a 20 knot headwind vastly more pleasant. Most of the road undulates around the bays and there are several semi-protected bike lanes and shared paths. However, many of these are not much more than a bit of road shoulder with perhaps a slightly raised barrier, and many are quite gravelly. There was one bit where think I winced slightly before the front wheel gained full traction. But there was plenty of other cycle company and most drivers seemed bike-aware.

The worst part of the ride home was boredom: giving up my pack had meant giving up my book. Next time: take a bum bag to travel light but prepared. So with a hangover that was mild enough to evaporate with gentle exertion, but which could also precipitate rapidly when there was nothing to focus on (my phone was also running low by this time), things were getting grim.

Getting onto the western line train I noticed a huge number of AT train dudes - six - snooping for fare evaders. Eventually I caught the eye of one and struck up a chat. Why so many? I asked. Oh, he said, “our research shows that when there’s more of us, we’re less likely to get assaulted.” Well that seemed like a bloody good reason. Fare evasion cops a $150 fine.

I don’t really know how long any of it took. I suppose I glanced at my watch occasionally but everything seemed to connect well enough so I didn’t sweat it. The train from Glen Eden takes maybe forty minutes to reach Britomart. The ferry is a bit less, say half an hour. I never waited more than five minutes for a train, one of the ferries took 20 and the other was just there waiting. By comparison, if I’d taken the car, I’d have had to park in the downtown ferry building, and then schlep whatever stuff I had with me through that (rather ghastly) building and then across Quay Street: all told, probably not much slower than if I’d taken the train.

Image Credits: James Littlewood