“Time for a road trip,” my friend announced. “You, me. Research.”
Oh, the possibilities. North? South? Or did she mean a serious road trip. Not just leaving the ‘hood’ for a bit but leaving the country? The pack for a month, fly to Europe and drive through Italy kind?
“Yes! When? Where?”
“Next week, middle North Island - King country. Overnight.”
Possibilities and excitement collided on their downward plummet and thunked on the hard ground that only moments before had danced beneath my itchy feet.
“Why?”
“Research, like I said, for my writing. Small town New Zealand. Locals. You in?”
“Um, I think I’m washing my hair that night. Either that or I will have a headache.”
She spun a story of quaint stop-offs along the way; hot, home-made scones slathered in butter, tiny cafes painted sky blue with roses trailing over the doorway, curio shops bursting at the shutters with treasures. And all for less than a dollar. If the buttery scones hadn’t quite worked, the treasures did. I cannot ever resist a second-hand shop. There is something almost covert about them. All those dust motes and abandoned items. All those secret stories that go with the curios.
I was born in the King Country and lived there for the first two years of my life. My mother yearned for Auckland and what she saw was a brighter future for her kids. Until I was in my early teens, I holidayed down there on one of my Nana’s farms. Happy times. (DEIRDRE THURSTON)