Road Trip: Taranaki Surf Highway

Gus quickly loses his layer of indifference, captivated by the intricate miniature dioramas showing scenes from local history, hand-made life-size models and a whole wing dedicated to vehicles, machinery and agricultural paraphernalia, aromatic with grease. We’re eventually driven out by hunger, but he could’ve happily spent a whole day here.

We cruise through Hāwera with its wide suburban streets to Okaiawa where creamy collared cows graze the roadside. Ahead, the maunga is truncated by ominous charcoal cloud, but we’ve packed raincoats so we press on. 

On the track to Wilkies Pools, we walk under kamahi trees furry with moss and undergrowth studded with the tiny purple ballerinas of fuchsia flowers.

The pools are forged from gnarly volcanic rock worn smooth by the perpetual flow of the stream. We cup icy water to our lips, tasting the mauri of the mountain and grin at each other with dripping chins. 

Dinner in New Plymouth is at The Hour Glass, sharing plates of prawns and soft tacos, chorizo and chicken.

For breakfast we head to the USA. Deluxe Diner is a well-executed pastiche of 1950s America. Waitresses in collared, cropped dresses with gingham trimmed aprons serve filter coffee (and good espresso, too). We’re surrounded by shiny chrome, neon signs, pumpkin pie, Dr Pepper and root beer floats. “This is cool,” Gus concedes.

The morning sees us drive inland alongside the purple haze of roadside agapanthus. Paddocks are divided by hedgerows rather than fences, some close-cropped, others unruly. The mountain is in there somewhere, hidden behind wind-whipped piles of cumulus.

Like Nigel Ogle, Steve Fabish is man who has brought his passion project to life. Though for Steve it’s Holdens rather than history. The Hillsborough Holden Museum is home to Steve’s collection of 50 cars, dating back to the 1949 FX, the oldest registered Holden in New Zealand. 

While the modern vehicles might only appeal to true aficionados, the collection spans to universally appealing classics from the 50s and 60s. We particularly like the two-tone teal 1958 FC Special, and notice how the tan leather of the 1970s morphs into grey velveteen upholstery by the 80s.

From admiring four wheels to using two, Gus and I hire e-bikes and tackle the Coastal Walkway in New Plymouth. My competitive 15-year-old disappears to a navy dot, weaving over the smooth concrete path, occasionally turning to check I’m still following. We pedal through scents of low tide brine, hot kikuyu grass, wafts of chlorine from the public beachfront pool and freshly ground coffee. Broad flax leaves clatter in the wind and a happy dog streaks in silhouette against the low tide horizon.

That evening, after dining on a collection of shared plates at Social Kitchen, we wander to Pukekura Park to experience the biannual Festival of Lights. It’s full immersion family fun, with multi-sensory experiences incorporating not just colourful lights, but music, AV projections and occasional blasts of dry ice billowing through the bush. We join a joyful throng of humanity, from couples to multigenerational families; kids up well past their bedtime wearing onesies and brandishing light sabres.

The next day we head for the coast, but don’t make it far. Just a few kilometres from New Plymouth we find Okurukuru Winery, the only winery in Taranaki. It’s here I discover a varietal I’d never heard of: plantet. A hybrid red grape grown primarily in the Loire Valley, it’s one of the few varieties to thrive in Taranaki’s unusual volcanic, coastal climate. I limit myself to a few modest sips.

In Ōakura, with its rolling mouthful of vowels, we eat oozing toasties in the wood-panelled church that is now Dawn Café. Customers come for coffee with bare feet dusted in black sand and tangled, salty hair. Inspired, we follow their lead and immerse ourselves in the bracing surf at Ōakura beach.

Further down the coast we detour from the highway to find the SS Gairloch. Or rather what little is left of it. The 164ft ship ran aground here on the Timaru Reef in 1903 where its mummified ribs remain today, resting photogenically on the smooth, low-tide rocks. 

From Ōkato we zig inland, tracing one of the mountain’s narrow bush-clad tentacles to Pukeiti.  We’re obviously some of the first morning visitors, as we break through invisible, clinging strands of cobwebs along the garden paths. In spring, Pukeiti is a blossoming paradise frothing with rhododendron blooms. They’re not in flower today, but I admire hydrangeas in shades from white to cornflower blue and deep burgundy while Gus does pull ups on the exercise trail.

We zag back to the coast. Down a side road from Pungarehu we spot the Cape Egmont Lighthouse sitting like a giant chess bishop, white, gleaming and incongruous in the sun-bleached paddock. Behind us, Mount Taranaki appears to be erupting with a giant tail of cloud streaming to the north.

The lighthouse has a peripatetic past. It was first erected on Mana Island in 1865 but was often confused with the Pencarrow Lighthouse at the entrance to Wellington Harbour, so was moved to its Pungarehu position in 1877.

Wrapping around the coast to Ōpunake we admire the horizon smudged blue against the teal sea. We continue on to close our loop of the mountain at Manaia, “home of bread” – adding flaky pastry crumbs from the famous Yarrows bakery to the accumulation of black sand and sea-soggy towel souvenirs from our Taranaki trip.