Ibis Budget Auckland to Whangapoua private car — Eleanor's holiday

The autumn weather was holding up nicely on Monday, a proper autumn day without too much of that cheeky spring wind trying to sneak in. The sky had that crisp, clear look to it, and the air had a bit of a bite, the kind that makes you appreciate a good coat. I was parked outside the Ibis Budget in Auckland, ready for my first pickup of the day. It was a visitor from the UK, a chap named Arthur P. He looked like he’d stepped right out of a postcard, all tweed and sensible shoes, the sort of fellow who’s clearly done his research on places before he arrives.

Arthur needed a trip out to Whangapoua, a bit of a trek up the Coromandel Peninsula. He explained he was on a bit of a personal pilgrimage, looking to retrace some steps from a holiday he’d taken here decades ago, when he was much younger. He had some vague memories of this particular beach, and he’d decided this trip back to New Zealand was the time to see if those memories held up. He carried a small, well-worn book of local history, dog-eared in places, which he consulted occasionally, pointing out little landmarks on a map he’d printed out.

We set off south-east, heading towards the Southern Motorway. Even on a Monday morning, the city traffic was, well, Auckland traffic. It’s always a bit of a dance getting out of there, a constant negotiation of lanes and brake lights. Arthur didn’t seem to mind. He was content to watch the cityscape dissolve as we drove, the grey waters of the Manukau Harbour visible in the distance. He mentioned that the scale of Auckland was quite different from what he remembered from his last visit, and the new buildings had certainly changed the skyline.

Once we were clear of the city’s embrace, the road opened up. We headed south on State Highway 1, then turned onto State Highway 2 towards the Coromandel. The landscape began to shift from urban sprawl to rolling farmland. Cows grazed peacefully in paddies, and sheep dotted the hillsides like scattered cotton wool. Arthur pointed out a particular breed of cattle, asking if they were Friesians, and I confirmed they were still a common sight. He reminisced about the agricultural heritage of the UK and how it reminded him of that, albeit on a grander, wilder scale.

We passed through the Hauraki Plains, then turned off onto State Highway 25, starting the real journey up the peninsula. The road began to narrow and wind, snaking its way through progressively denser bush. The air grew cleaner, carrying the scent of damp earth and native ferns. Sunlight dappled through the canopy, creating a shifting mosaic on the tarmac. Arthur mentioned how he’d always found the sheer lushness of New Zealand’s native bush quite remarkable, a stark contrast to the managed woodlands he was more accustomed to back home. He said he’d read about the kauri trees and hoped we might catch a glimpse of some of the older giants.

As we climbed higher, the views started to open up again, glimpses of the Hauraki Gulf through breaks in the trees. The sea sparkled, a vast expanse of blue dotted with islands. We paused briefly at a lookout point, and Arthur took a few photos with a classic-looking camera. He commented on the clarity of the light and how it made the colours so vibrant.

Following Arthur's directions, we navigated the winding roads, each twist and turn revealing a new vista. The vegetation became more coastal, with pohutukawa trees starting to appear, their distinctive red blossoms not yet in full bloom but hints of them showing. We passed through small, sleepy settlements, places that seemed to exist in their own time bubble. Arthur noted how quiet and unhurried life appeared in these coastal communities.

Finally, we arrived at Whangapoua. The road descended towards the bay, and the turquoise water of the sea came into full view. It was breathtaking. The beach stretched out, fringed with trees, and a handful of houses were scattered along the coastline. Arthur took a deep breath, a different kind of sigh this time, one of satisfaction and recognition. He said that it was indeed the place he remembered, perhaps even more beautiful than his memory allowed. He explained that he’d spent a week here with his parents when he was a young man, building sandcastles and exploring the rock pools. He’d lost a favourite toy boat in the surf here, a memory that had stuck with him all these years. I could see the sense of peace on his face as he looked out at the water, the years melting away.

I parked the car in a suitable spot overlooking the beach, and Arthur spent some time just sitting, absorbing the view. He didn’t need me to drive him anywhere else; his mission was accomplished. He spent a good hour just walking along the sand, the tweed jacket looking a little out of place against the wild beauty but his presence perfectly fitting the quiet contemplative mood of the place. He collected a few shells, examined driftwood, and simply stood by the water's edge, letting the waves wash over his feet. He told me he felt a profound connection to this spot, a sense of returning home in a way he hadn't anticipated.

As the afternoon sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the sand, I knew it was time to head back. Arthur thanked me, a genuine, heartfelt thank you. He said the journey itself had been a significant part of the rediscovery, and he appreciated the quiet companionship and the smooth ride. He mentioned that the ease of getting around New Zealand with a car service had made this trip possible, something he wouldn’t have managed so easily if he’d had to rely on public transport for the latter part of the journey.

We made our way back towards Auckland, the Coromandel Peninsula receding in our rearview mirror. The sunset painted the sky in hues of orange, pink, and purple as we drove south. Arthur sat quietly for much of the return journey, no doubt lost in his thoughts and memories. He must have felt a mix of melancholy and joy, revisiting a cherished past while appreciating the present. It’s trips like these that remind me why I love being a driver. It’s not just about getting people from A to B; it’s about being a small part of their stories, facilitating their journeys of remembrance and discovery. Seeing Arthur P. find his Whangapoua again, that was a good day’s work.