Auckland Rose Park Hotel to Russell private car — Annelies's holiday

The morning mist was still clinging to the rose bushes outside the Rose Park Hotel, a gentle dampness that spoke of spring not yet fully committed. April 1st, the calendar said, but there was a crispness to the air that felt more like late autumn. I spotted her small suitcase by the lobby door, the kind you take when you know you’re not going to be collecting souvenirs, just experiences. She was standing by the window, looking out, a faint smile playing on her lips. Annelies V. from the Netherlands, her booking confirmed. Heading north, all the way to Paihia, with Russell as her final destination.

Auckland was still shaking off its slumber as we navigated the usual Saturday morning crawl away from the city centre. The harbour bridge seemed to shed its evening lights one by one, and the familiar grey water below slowly gave way to the deepening green of the Hauraki Plains as we headed up State Highway 1. Annelies was quiet at first, a thoughtful observer. I recognised the type – someone soaking it all in, letting the landscape seep into their consciousness rather than trying to force a narrative onto it. She spoke a little about the Netherlands, the flat plains, the endless skies, and how New Zealand’s rolling hills felt both familiar and utterly foreign. It’s a common sentiment, though each person articulates it in their own way.

We stopped at a small café in Warkworth, the kind that smells of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked scones. While I stretched my legs and grabbed a much-needed flat white, she wandered over to a display of local pottery, running her fingers over the rough glaze of a bowl. I noticed she wasn’t in a rush. This was a holiday, pure and simple. A chance to breathe air that wasn’t tinged with the exhaust fumes of European cities. She mentioned she’d spent a week in Auckland, exploring galleries and trying out different restaurants, but that the real draw for her was the wilder edges of New Zealand. The coast, the bays, the places where the land met the sea in dramatic fashion.

As we continued north, the landscape began to change. The flat plains gave way to more undulating countryside, punctuated by the turquoise of the sea peeking through gaps in the trees. The roads narrowed, becoming more winding. We passed through Wellsford, then the turn-off for Mangawhai, the air growing fresher, carrying the scent of salt. Annelies pointed out a particularly striking vista, a hillside covered in puriri trees, their dark green leaves a stark contrast against the pale blue sky. She told me about her work as a librarian in Utrecht, surrounded by the quiet rustle of pages and the hushed whispers of readers. It seemed a world away from the rugged beauty unfolding outside the car window.

Reaching Whangarei, the gateway to the Northland coastline, the anticipation in the car thickened. We weren’t on the main highway anymore. This was local road territory, where the speed limit felt more like a suggestion than a rule. The road followed the coastline for a stretch, offering tantalising glimpses of secluded beaches and rocky coves. I could see Annelies was captivated. She had her camera out, capturing the way the light hit the water, the distant sailboats, the dense green of the native bush.

Arriving in Paihia felt like stepping into a postcard. The harbour was dotted with small boats, and the air was alive with the cries of seabirds. It was a bustling little town, a hub for travellers heading to the islands. Annelies gathered her small bag, a sense of quiet excitement in her eyes. She spoke about the ferry crossing to Russell, how she was looking forward to exploring the historic town on foot, free from the need for a car. I helped her with her suitcase, the familiar routine of a drop-off. She thanked me, her voice warm and sincere. Her plan was to spend a couple of days in Russell, absorbing the history and the coastal charm, before eventually making her way back down south.

As I drove away from the Paihia waterfront, leaving Annelies to her ferry adventure, I reflected on the journey. It wasn't a dramatic trip, no tales of woe or triumph. It was simply a slice of life, a woman from the Netherlands finding a quiet corner of New Zealand to appreciate. The roads had been good, the weather mild for April, and the conversation, though sparse, had been easy. It’s these journeys, the steady flow of people moving through the country, that make up the fabric of my work. Each one a small story, told in the quiet hum of the engine and the unfolding landscape.