You know a fellow live aboard friend recently said to us “As cruising people we are second class citizens,” and when we languish in our hotel room with its king size bed, vast TV, spa bath, mains water, room service, plumbing and electricity and ultra-fast Wi-Fi I begin to agree with him. Despite Rob’s resistance the doctor was right to send us into this oasis of calm luxury for Rob’s recovery. He is doing well bless him, walking a little further each day and tucking into a full English breakfast with the wonderful knowledge he needs to put back on some weight.
I tried the spa bath the other evening and made an unsurprising discovery. It is over a year since I have had a bath. Disgusting you might well think and I can tell you my heart leaped when I spied the hollow white fellow lying in the corner of the bathroom. I gently squeezed about half of the little courtesy tube of Bath Gel into the tumbling hot water and slowly laid myself down, relishing every millimetre of warm soapy liquid.
After a few minutes of familiar soaking I pressed the soft ‘on’ switch and waited. Suddenly a loud sub-terranian gurgling started and water shot out from under the eight little nozzles in the bath walls, pummelling my extremities. It was nice. I relaxed and let my eyelids fall. A few minutes of this liquid massage later I opened my eyes to find a cloud of creamy white bubbles about to cascade over the side and onto the floor. Wow, a little bath gel goes a long way with this game. Is this what it feels like on the top of cloud 9?
The next morning was a bit of a shock. My lovely cloud having dried away to nothing left a black residue which stared up at me from the bottom of the bath. Rob suggested it may be from the tubes within the shell of the bath if it hasn’t been used for a while. But yesterday I decided to test his theory by having another flight on cloud 9 only to find the same scary residue in the bath which had apparently come from me!
I’ve just ordered two books; an anthology if Pacifica writing and art and ‘The Shipwreck Hunter’ which involves modern day research into written evidence, meteorology and ocean currents and then state of the art sonar equipment and photos to locate the wrecks. Maybe more importantly the stories of the ships themselves and in some cases the emotional tales of the families who have waited patiently for a long time to learn where on the vast ocean floor their relative laid down to rest.
There’s a lot of rugby on the TV tonight so we are ordering room service for the first time. The food is fine although evening meals vary a little depending on the chef on duty I guess. One chef’s Rogan Josh or grilled Halloumi salad is not necessarily the same as another chef’s version.
Nor do we eat in every night. It has been great to be back with our friends and last weekend we tried some Asian Fusion food with two couples at the restaurant near the marina that used to host the cruisers Happy Hour on Tuesdays. The food was very tasty but the idea was to order lots of dishes that everyone could dip into. Ordering led to quite a bit of ‘confusion’ never mind ‘fusion’ until we let the waitress guide us.
Rob has now walked the 4.5km around the Hatea Loop on two separate occasions and his breathing is getting deeper and his stride faster all the time. He sits on a little plastic step on the pontoon while I go onto Zoonie to collect or deposit something. It must feel very odd not being able to climb aboard. But a week has gone quickly and in two weeks’ time we will hopefully be allowed back on board. The space may be small but she’s ‘home.’
Auckland City Hospital’s Eligibility Department finally decided Rob was indeed ordinarily resident in the UK for the purposes of the Reciprocal Health Agreement after we sent them evidence of his rented home and Tax Account. Whangarei Hospital never questioned it, perhaps because they are nearer to our way of life, being walking distance from the marina and many of them having sailing connections. Circumnavigators are not necessarily homeless or without a homeland.
The ducklings have started arriving, a pair near Zoonie are nursing 12 tiny balls of mottled brown fluff. It all starts again, in the time honoured way and that is reassuring in our presently dangerous world. I’m off to put the kettle on for a nice cuppa, speak soon.
Beyond the Itch.
We are back aboard our floating magic carpet, Zoonie and things are getting back to normal. Rob is on his hands and knees masking the varnished floor ready to prepare the wooden cabin surround, from the floor to the seat cushions, for sanding and varnishing. The flood water has taken its toll on the thin layer of varnish that is left on the surfaces, which is probably around 28 years old, so the time has come to re-varnish.
Still not allowed to hold more than one and a half kilos in each hand the final sanding with our newly acquired flat sander will be down to me and then we can both tackle a side each for the fun part.
Our team work has developed over the years, letting eachother do what we know we each do best and sharing the tasks we both enjoy. The pleasure we take in eachother’s company is not to be taken for granted, instead we value it and celebrated the fact last Monday with an 8th Anniversary meal I mentioned in my last blog. Marriage is a bit like an oyster and the gritty bits can be covered with tolerance and understanding to make pearls of wisdom and in our case, humour, mostly anyway. The itch has become a mutual tickle and through Rob’s illness we have learned even more about eachother.
I really admire the way Rob has sensibly pushed himself, following all medical advice, back to being his normal self. I didn’t need to do much beyond the odd suggestion about light activities. He was an easy, smiling patient for the medical staff which helped them to be very open with us on what was going on. Their policy of short hospital stays appealed to us both pragmatically and philosophically as Rob knew he would heal better out of hospital and he was better and more quickly able to return to his pre-op level of fitness the sooner he exercised in the fresh air and let his body rest when it asked.
This is from Rob, “You were positive like me, and your caring nature towards me reminded me of how you used to look after your mum. You were stoical, if that’s the right word, and the way you are reinforces how we are good as a pair.” As an afterthought “and you always remember to ask the questions I forget, with your enquiring mind.”
I have attached a couple of photos to show the repair work that was done on the mitral valve of Rob’s heart. The two bacterial vegetations were big, one measured 2cm x 6-8mm with long filaments floating in and out of the valve and the other was only slightly smaller. We have no idea how or when Rob contracted them, I asked a junior surgeon if there was any way they could tell the age of the vegetations but he was unsure. We have an appointment with the Infectious Diseases consultant tomorrow and I will ask him.
We will also ask why Rob still gets the occasional dizzy spell and sensation around his mouth, rather than worry in silence.
It is quite possible the heart bacteria caused the cellulitis, or maybe the opposite is true. However the cellulitis became evident recently whereas the bacterial growths may have grown over a longer period of time.
One photo shows a support band has been stitched permanently around the valve to help it function properly and we discovered it is made of dacron, the same fabric as Zoonie’s mainsail! A material link.
Naturally Rob has had many blood tests taken since the op and they are ongoing. Cutting bone (his sternum) releases all sorts of chemicals into the blood system including Potassium, so these have to be monitored. Also as he is on Warfarin he has a test every three days to decide how many tablets to take. One of these tests showed a disturbed liver function so on the 8th Sept we both came off alcohol. Today Rob has been advised his liver function is normal again, amazingly how quickly it recovers eh.
We had to really think yesterday on making another batch of home brew as having alcohol on board is just a temptation, jury’s out on that one! Another policy would be to just drink when we are entertaining, so Sue at Whangarei Marine Services says “You’ll be doing a lot of entertaining then!”
A Little about Luca.
In my last blog ‘Beyond the Itch’ I included some photos of Luca, a cat with a difference and then forgot to write about him. He belongs to Andrea and Mark, with whom I stayed while in Auckland. I am not generally a ‘cat’ person being put off by their self-sufficiency and independence but Luca is different.
First he had the sense to choose Andrea and Mark as his life companions over the not very intelligent and indifferent couple he previously lived with just up the road.
Secondly he welcomes and remembers people he likes. Just like my brothers ginger tom cat ‘Max’, who decades ago would remember me when I visited Robin’s farm in Devon even though I might have been away for over a year. As I climbed out of the car and he would slink towards me and wrap himself around my legs for a cuddle.
Thirdly Luca knows when a person is not quite right, which was a characteristic of my golden Labrador, Odin. Odin’s orange eyes would look into mine with understanding and care as he leaned against me while I nursed a broken heart, yet again.
Luca stayed around me when I was alone in the house and would talk to me as soon as I returned from the hospital, “Hi Luca, how are you?” “Miaow, miaow?” cool, “I’m fine thanks.” He could have gone up to his den and snoozed towards Andrea and Marks’ return, but he chose to stay with me. I like Luca, he is my kind of cat.
We’re on the road again.
Last Friday I pulled back the curtains for the last time in our hotel room after a lovely three week stay which saw Rob back on the road to good health.
I still hold the car keys so I suggested while we still own the car we should have a look at the north-west coast, the giant Kauris in Waipoua Forest and Hokianga Harbour and as usual we encountered a lot more than we expected.
Still a stronghold of Maori homesteads who run the tourism around the Kai Iwi Lakes (Iwi is the generic term for Maori tribes) and in the Waipoua Forest we looked forward to exploring.
I wanted to stay in an old building, preferably a restored boarding house to get the feel of the past and Anne was pleased to oblige by booking us a room in her Commercial Hotel in Dargaville. More than one person had told us there is not a lot to do at Dargaville and the value of a visit there is more historical than contemporary.
We were mindful of the present fuel situation in New Zealand but with Vicky’s tank being filled up before the present issue we were happy we would have enough, I enjoy driving economically anyway, off gas downhill, early light braking etc. A couple of weeks ago the main fuel pipeline from Marsden Refinery to Auckland, including the airport, was ruptured causing an initial shortage of fuel with many flight cancellations.
Next the fuel was transported by road and sea to Auckland and now the pipeline is repaired and working to 80% capacity while the authorities are trying to track down the owner of the land on which the pipeline broke. It seems he may be unaware of all this as his is a lifestyle property and he lives elsewhere. Apparently a digger damaged the pipeline a while ago while uprooting bog kauri (possibly illegally) and corrosion set in over time to cause the final break.
Anyway we arrived after a drive through fine country at Baylys Beach for a look at the Tasman as we weren’t expected at the Hotel until 3.00pm. As in many other places we saw bachs dating back decades to when a handful of folk decided to build their own seaside retreats. Modest wooden cabins with verandas and a nice little view, clinging to the sides of a small ravine up which the wind whistled off the sea.
After a stroll along the beach was shortened by the high tide we embarked on a steep climb to the top of the cliff through a natural garden of spring flowering bushes. A threatening grey squall was heading towards us over the sea so we skedaddled back to Vicky’s shelter. “Look under your mat Rob” I said and we found no coolant on the newspaper lying on the carpet beneath the passenger mat, so that problem was solved at last.
It was lunch time so we took the road to the top of the ravine only to find sections marked out for sale and the construction of luxury second homes. The sections alone cost $750,000. The road was too narrow to stop on for our snack and all the turning spots had their views blocked by the new builds so we drove away with a pang of regret that the modest atmosphere of the place was under threat.
We found a view at the car park to the Dargaville Museum, built behind an ancient Maori marae on a promontory overlooking the great Wairoa River as it winds its way upside down, muddy bottom side up, into Kaipara Harbour.
Poignantly the masts of the Greenpeace ship Rainbow Warrior, tamed in concrete, look out over the river, separated from her hull which lies in the deep water off The Bay of Islands providing a challenging location for scuba divers.
Other masts, those of the square riggers that carried timber and gum among other cargoes from these shores in the first phase of colonial times, are now gone as well but their story is preserved and told in the maritime museum which is full of surprises.
Spades outlive the muscular grubby hands that wielded them to extract lumps of kauri gum from mud and sand. The tough diggers came from Dalmatia and Croatia and their lives are recorded in brief respect. The gum they gathered had to be washed in big tubs and the paddles were driven, in one instance, by the Blackstone Engine, manufactured in Stamford, Lincs.
Another surprise was a super model of Croydon Aerodrome complete with circus in full swing, there was no explanation for why it was here, on the other side of the world.
The Askoy II is a ketch with a chequered career. She was built in 1960 in Belgium, was impounded for drug smuggling in Fiji, once owned by Jacques Brel, the colourful Belgium singer who died young before he could fulfil his dream of restoring her and is buried near Gauguin in Hiva Oa, (Rob and I had our lunch next to his grave if you remember). She foundered on the notorious lee shore of Ripiro beach south of Baylys Beach, was exhumed recently and is now back home having a refit in the Belgium Maritime Museum financed by a country that has truly taken her to its heart. Some doors of hers have been kept as souvenirs by the museum. Maybe one day she will once again grace New Zealand waters.
In contrast what is left of the oldest pre-colonial waka war canoe is preserved for all to see.
The museum filled the time nicely before we parked in the car park of our hotel and met Anne.
A Taste of Post-Colonial Dargaville.
Anne’s husband is in Auckland, still indecisive about whether to give up his specialist diesel engineer career for the challenge of a veteran hotel on the west side of the north island. He has visited of course and left behind a ripped apart main bar in urgent need of restoration to prepare it for the new season, the first for Anne in her ambitious project.
The previous owners of The Commercial Hotel have spent much time and money re-decorating in fresh light paint, sadly at the expense of most of the beautiful honey coloured kauri wood. The beautiful floors are a tantalising window on how the rest of the wood might have looked before the paint brush loomed.
Remembering the years I ran my B & B in Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight I had many hints I could give Anne, a teacher of great diversity in a previous life, but ‘no’ I thought, let her have the fun and satisfaction of working it out for herself like I did. One thing I really did hope, and would have asked had we embarked on the next level of getting to know eachother, was did she look at the ‘books’ of the previous owner to see what kind of return she might expect and to act as a starting point for her advertising efforts.
We stood on the front veranda of her 1880’s dream come true and Anne pointed to the wooden jetty that still steps out into the water. “It’s rotten now and I’m not quite sure who owns it, I think it might be me. Passenger ships from Sydney used to stop there regularly and the passengers would stay here for the night before moving on to Auckland.
Now with the advent of the motor car and air travel the lost visitors travel straight through or fly over Dargaville taking the breath away from local businesses. The town struggles on after the boom of the logging years and the loss of visitors, but there is hope.
The mass exodus of city dwellers in Auckland out to the nearby towns to exploit the rising prices and upsize their lifestyles and homes, or just escape the high prices of city life has brought some folk back to Dargaville. They now occupy the homes they had previously rented out, causing problems for their tenants and a homelessness the town has not seen before.
Also the west coast 10 km from here and only two and a half hours from Auckland, is becoming more popular for holidays and watersports suggesting the constant flow of people may bring fresh life to the town. I hope so for Anne’s sake.
You may have guessed we were the only visitors. We carried our bags down the tall ceilinged corridor to our room, overlooking the Wairoa River towards dairy flats on the other shore and the Tangihua Forest far away. The room needed airing so we opened one of the sash windows and wheeled the little portable radiator into the bedroom, turned it on and didn’t turn it off until we left the next morning.
The balcony stretches right along the front of the building but to access it we needed to walk to the little door at the far end of the corridor. It was nice to look out of the window and imagine sitting at our little table with a drink on a warm summer’s evening.
During the night tiny pinpricks of light showed where the farmsteads lay across the river. Rain hammered on the crinkly tin roof and a street light shed a golden colour on the wet road, which was empty until just before dawn.
A Day with Giants.
We were quite excited about visiting the Waipoua Forest and comparing the famous kauri trees with the many we have already seen, but first we detoured again towards the coast to see the Maori beloved Kai Iwi Lakes. Deserted at the moment these safe, clean rainwater fed lakes are a popular holiday destination in the summer. We explored a closed club building where the banner promoting a pentathlon last February was the only evidence of human activity. They are beautiful gems and credit to the Maori managers for keeping them clean when so many other wild waterways are now spoiled.
The Lord of The Forest, Tane Mahuta, and the Father of The Forest, Te Matua Ngahere are not the only impressive neck cricking trees, the Four Sisters raise the question, How can four Kauris grow high and healthy so close to eachother? I wondered if the only limiting factor to their height was the power of their inbuilt pump to get the water upwards. In fact the ‘wow’ factor was more in the girth and trunk height of the Lord and Father than in the overall height. Spot Rob standing at the bottom of the picture arms outstretched, see what I mean?
Walking carefully back along the wet and slippery boardwalk we thoroughly cleaned our walking shoes once more with the hope that we were contributing to the survival of these greats, now under threat of Kauri die back disease. With their delicate roots and susceptibility to disease these beautiful creatures have an almost animal quality. There is hope they will not die out. Other trees with similar diseases are responding to having their roots vaccinated and numerous nurseries are nurturing thousands of brand new kauri seedlings.
Just a short distance further north along the State Highway 12 the road wanders round to the east and enters the lovely Hokianga Harbour at Omapere. Another mile and we were in the I-Site between Omapere and Opononi having a lively chat with another globe-trotting granny, Yvonne.
A Nursery Beach in the Safe Waters behind Hokianga Harbour Bar
I would like us to meet Yvonne again, under the shade of a benevolent tree, maybe in a sunbathed stone courtyard where we have time to sit and chat about our past lives and travels and what we have gleaned from them. To part briefly for a night’s sleep to re-kindle our chat over breakfast in a small, artisan café overlooking a small harbour the next morning with no time pressures.
Yvonne is one of those people who thrive on independence and yet are great company and is, I imagine, full of kindly advice for younger folk. We hit common ground when I asked her of her global hiking exploits “And Machu Picchu?” Oh yes and a spell in England looking after someone in their own home who fortunately for Yvonne had a lovely dog. Nearer to home she has run several backpackers lodges in NZ and so it was with logical insight that as soon as she walked into the I-Site and asked how to find a job locally the staff had her fully employed behind the desk within a possum’s blink.
There were places to stay nearby and places to definitely not stay and Yvonne guided us to The Copthorne Hotel, built in the early 1800’s as a boarding house. She phoned and made a booking for us while we looked around the shop and inhaled delicious food smells from the café next door. “Yvonne, how can you work with such delicious smells around you all day?”
“They do mouth-watering breakfasts too, you should try one. (We did, as you can see) So what are your plans?” We said we had nothing specific in mind and she suggested a walk from the hotel up the hill to the signal station, down onto the beach and back along the shore. We would get a really good view of the bar from the top.
More than once I read in brochures the hills around the Hokianga Harbour described as ‘haunting’ and since the overall clouds on our visit cast dark blue shadows on the tree clad contours of the land the description was fitting.
On our trek up the road we read the information boards that told the story of the first Maori, Kupe who travelled down the Waihou River that flows through the harbour to the sea on his way home to Hawaiiki, (Hawaii perhaps? No-the generic term for the homes of their ancestors) leaving behind his descendants to settle the area in what he named Hokianga or ‘returning place’.
The river and harbour once saw much in the way of trade and travel which has given way to leisure activities of locals and visitors alike.
There was very little left of the Signal Station as Rob is showing you, just the concrete base to the flag staff and some wood transformed into a bench, but the innovative signalling system invariably contributed to the safe passage of hundreds of ships over the dangerous sand bar with the loss of only 23 in nearly 150 years. Rob and I agreed that we would keep to the right of the entrance and enter on a high tide with light winds over where there was little white water and later a picture of a square rigger entering on the right side of the estuary confirmed Zoonie would probably have survived the ordeal.
From our high vantage point we scrambled down the hillside onto the beach and found a nursery of young sealife in their shells. A honeycombed rock with a little life in each pod, water smoothed rocks covered with millions of tiny juvenile mussels with much growing to do and baby soft shelled chitons, some walking around looking at the big watery world through elevated eyes on antennae.
A Maori Party
Our single storey hotel looks out over the water towards us from under its pale yellow roof. The interior has been sensitively modernised preserving much of the natural grain of the totara and kauri wood. Rooms have been added outside the main building in the form of chalets, some detached and others linked like ours.
“I’m sorry there is no harbour view in your room but we are very busy this evening with a birthday party so we’re pretty booked up.” In fact our room had an angled veranda as did the others on the row so that we all had a nice view of the harbour entrance.
We were well happy and decided to celebrate by having an evening meal in the beautiful conservatory restaurant that looked out over the garden, swimming pool and decking area.
Granny had reached her 80th Birthday and 184 members of her family, at least half of them children, had taken over the place and were thoroughly enjoying themselves playing in the grass garden above the beach until well after dark. A few elders were keeping an eye on them and they added a healthy atmosphere of youthful vigour to the place. The little girls didn’t let their beautiful dresses get in the way of their games, and young boys pitted themselves against their peers, there weren’t even tears before bedtime, for some there was no bedtime as I will tell later.
I imagined this old Maori lady, born just before the Second World War, had seen hard times of sacrifice and loss, joy and sorrow, changing domestic circumstances and perhaps a career. There was a very posh Bentley style limo parked just outside our room and I liked to think it was hers although her idea of success might well be something much less materialistic, her family for example.
From our windowside table we watched all the outside goings on as the light drained from the sky. (featured image) The party was taking place in a function room next door and occasionally children would over flow into the dining area in pursuit of eachother and were hastily shoed back next door by a smartly suited elder just before they started their haka, chanting loud and long in honour of their deserving matriarch. Wow this really was a Maori night to remember.
The food was delicious, Rob had lamb that needed only a spoon to cut it and I had tasty plump prawns in a butter and herb sauce, followed by a shared dessert of lemon sponge and rhubarb and ginger crumble with vanilla ice-cream. We were ready for it after our walks to Kauri nobles and a nursery beach, lots of lovely fresh air….
All we needed now was a good night’s sleep. Well you know what ‘they’ (whoever they are) say about laughter being the best medicine, so we overdosed that night on what we heard and you know we really didn’t mind. Rob had fortunately brought along some ear plugs and they reduced to a minimum our arousals when our adjoining neighbours returned in high spirits and with clinking bottles to continue their revelries in more intimate rooms.
It was all good natured and the next morning a man and older woman asked how we were and apologised for the noise. They didn’t need to, the sound of people enjoying themselves in harmony is good to hear.
Clendon House, Rawene
Home of James, born in Deal in Kent and Irish/Maori Jane Clendon from 1861 until James death in 1872 and where Jane raised her family and eventually died in 1919.
First of all the couple and their four young children lived in the kitchen, referred to by James as “a rookery, neither wind nor water tight” and outhouses because James was not convinced of his title to the property. He had been sorely duped once before when his four bedroomed, stabled and multi roomed home in Okiato was heisted from him for a pittance and a useless 10,000 acres of sopping marshland near Auckland by two shadowy Governors to make it the first Government House.
James spent all of his life working hard to pay off debts he owed largely through no fault of his own. He was a talented man, a master mariner, merchant, trader, Magistrate and Commissioner of Customs in Russell, builder and father of 14 children, six to his first wife Sarah after an onboard romance on his first voyage to Australia and New Zealand and eight to Jane whom he married five months after Sarah’s death in 1855.
It seemed James’ eye for potential and opportunity exceeded the earning potential of his exploits and early government jobs were far from lucrative. It is testament to their skills that between them and with local help they created a beautiful home in those days considered to be substantial which has been restored and lovingly cared for to the present day since 1972 when the widow of Jane’s grandson Trevor sold it to the New Zealand Historic Places Trust.
Rob and I sat at the scrubbed kitchen table opposite Ahanne and were engrossed in a discussion about the recent General Election. My mind drifted over the contents of the room; a small butter maker fixed to the table, the hearth where Jane would have cooked using big cast iron pots and cauldrons and re-usable bottles and jars stacked on the shelves. Jane might have welcomed the addition of cupboards and an Orion stove in the 1920’s just after her demise.
I was fully expecting Jane to burst in carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and vegetables from her garden, muddy and bedraggled children hopping about waiting for a drink of lemonade, their morning chores completed. Amazing how the restoration also re-instated the homely, lived in atmosphere.
Ahanne gave us a well-informed and affectionate chat about history of the home and family before releasing us for our self-guided tour, the perfect combination for me. Rob and I are not alone in tending to slip around gathered groups listening to guides preferring to do our own thing at our own pace. A typical attitude of cruisers.
The main bedroom was downstairs and was my dream bedroom because it has French doors opening onto a veranda overlooking the harbour. Imagine a warm summer evening, sitting opposite eachother, sipping cool wine and watching whatever activity there might be out there on the water, bliss. The very young oak trees James and Jane planted together way back then were too short to block the view and the date palm, a gift planted by visiting Governor George Grey, (remember him from Kawau Island?) today old and bent and covered in elk ear fern, had yet to bear fruit. (It is on the right hand side of the outside photo)
The downstairs of their home was a showpiece, a place for visitors to relax and admire James and Jane’s successes, but upstairs was the realm of the children, 3 or 4 to a bed with walls covered with newspaper and any educational pictures that could be found. World maps, the alphabet and nursery stories and pictures of our young royal family which must have been glued in place by the fingers of Jane’s grandson and family.
So highly did Jane value a good education that part of the cramped attic was a dedicated schoolroom and all of her surviving children did well as a result.
The photo taken half way up the stairs shows the contrast between the refinement of the ground floor décor and the crude nature of the children’s domain. I know where I would have busied myself during the day, teaching the little ones with the help of the older siblings and then spending time mending their clothes and making new ones for the oldest, to be repaired and handed down as they grew, using one of their worn Singer sewing machines just a few years older than mine.
Either George Grey genuinely liked this hard working intelligent couple or he wanted to make some recompense for the shoddy way James was being treated by the fledgling government or both because he gifted them two small oil paintings, just the right size for their house, that must have been worth a nice sum at the time. Despite their lack of funds and maybe in mutual admiration they did not sell them.
Another picture which hangs above the fireplace in their bedroom told a story that must have broken Jane’s heart in 1885. The picture is a self-portrait painted by their second son, William Frederick Ngaropo Clendon who gained a reputation as a talented Maori orator and waka oarsman before dying in his early twenties. A credit to her but a tragic loss.
On the subject of pictures I wondered whether the lack of photos or pictures of his first family in Clendon House was James and Jane’s choice or their ‘time’ being pre-photography or the lack was the choice of the dedicated restorers.
The rich red of mahogany dominates the dining room with a cleverly designed table that when dismantled stacks into a portable unit ideal for shipping, a reminder to James of his earlier seafaring life. The unpainted chairs are blackened where hands pulled them back in anticipation of supper and family get-togethers and of course Queen Victoria presides over all.
James died in 1872 leaving Jane, 38 years his junior, with their eight children, the youngest of whom was only a few months old. She inherited his debts and by negotiating with the creditors in Auckland numerous times for extensions she eventually cleared the debts.
She traded in gum, bark, firewood, garden produce and bartered for the continued education of the children and she won. The family entered adulthood from Clendon House and Jane passed away there in 1919 at the deserved old age of 81.