Winter over and with the excellent previous leg of Andrew’s attempt to ride from Napier to Wellington as close to the coast as possible in mind, I selfishly encouraged organisation of the next, and final, leg – wanting to ride it before leaving Hawke’s Bay. In an achievement I’m somewhat in awe of, Andrew convinced twelve different farmers to generously allow us access through their land (including offers of accommodation and meals), arranged transport to and from each end, rustled up catering, and organised nine riders.
Just a short leg, that which we didn’t quite ride last time, to start on Friday afternoon – down the beach a bit, some gravel, a couple of hilly farms before dropping back to the coast and some more gravel. Three hours, plenty of stops and thirty-odd kilometres was a good little intro to the weekend.
Andrew leading us south from Riversdale beach.
I’ll take this for a Friday afternoon.
A little bit of dune riding and pushing when the coast became impassable.
With the tide ebbing, the sand was mostly firm enough to ride – but not always.
Leaving the coast at Uruti Point, we struck inland ever so slightly.
A brief pause to regroup and determine how far to the first farm entrance.
The farmer met us on the road and made sure we were going the right way. Introductions and chat all around, in which Andrew realised he may have oversold our farming credentials – apart from him (formerly), not a farmer amongst us.
Into the first farm; thanks to Andrew’s hard work we could guiltlessly ignore variations of signs like these all down the coast.
Our escort just before leaving us – the route through to the next farm having just been explained.
A fast drop to the Kaiwhata River blew some cobwebs out before a little valley floor riding and a good steep climb to the boundary gate.
Soggy! Very fortunate with the weather as most of the week had been wet and cold; for the most part, things had dried out nicely and peanut butter mud had gone.
Another stiff climb was rutted in places and did still have some boggy patches, a little bit of walking amongst the grunt to the top. Views up and down the coast as we skirted the end of the airstrip, topped out for the last time that day and bombed back down to sea level.
Exiting at the farm at the buildings, all manner of machinery had to be negotiated – this about the smallest of it.
Pausing to meet the farmer and his workers, they were chatty as were having Friday afternoon beers around a quad bike.
Somehow we came away with a bag of lambs’ tails (whether that’s good or poor timing with docking…) for the townies’ culinary education.
Twenty minutes down the coast to the shearers’ quarters and our digs for the night.
Soon, an old bed frame was found, a fire roaring and the lambs’ tails set to cook.
Loo with a view.
This didn’t get fired up.
While Fergus cooked up a storm inside, the tails disappeared. Having mostly removed the charred exterior, I’m not sold – slimy, yet boney and crunchy. Sharing a large meal on the old door of a table and forms, reflecting on the introduction to the weekend’s riding and speculating as to what was to come was far more convivial.