Ponsonby address to Coromandel Town private car — Eleanor's holiday

The sky was just beginning to lighten its greys over Ponsonby when I pulled up. March mornings in Auckland still hold a hint of that autumn chill, even if the sun promises to warm things up later. I’d been given plenty of street parking instructions the day before, so finding the house was easy enough. A neat villa with a colourful garden, the kind that looks like it’s loved. My passenger, Eleanor, was right on time, stepping out with a small suitcase and a bright, eager smile. She had that look of someone about to escape the city's hum for a few days, a holiday vibe already clinging to her.

She told me she was heading to Coromandel Town for a long weekend. Just her, her camera, and a vague plan to explore. That's the best way to do it sometimes, I reckon. No rigid itinerary, just letting the road and the place lead you. We set off, merging into the Saturday morning traffic heading south, the familiar bottleneck of Khyber Pass and the motorway stretching ahead. Eleanor had her window down slightly, letting the city air mix with the fresh pre-dawn breeze. I could see her taking in familiar sights but with a new appreciation, as if preparing to leave them behind.

Once we cleared the urban sprawl and hit the open road, heading towards the Hauraki Plains, conversation flowed easily, though mostly in one direction: hers. She was a graphic designer, she told me, and lately, the digital world had been feeling a bit flat. She craved colour, texture, and things she could touch and feel. Coromandel Town, with its history and artisan feel, seemed like the perfect antidote. She spoke about the old buildings, the quirky shops, and the possibility of finding some local art that would spark her own creativity. I nodded along, enjoying the scenery shift from suburban sprawl to rolling farmland. We passed through the familiar towns along State Highway 2, the landscape opening up as we left the city behind.

As we turned off the main highway towards the Coromandel Peninsula, the landscape began its dramatic transformation. The road narrowed, winding its way through lush green hills that were rapidly giving way to the deep blue of the Firth of Thames. Trees, once lining the roadside, soon became dense native bush, the air growing saltier. Eleanor had her camera out now, snapping photos of the coastline, the glimpses of water, the sheer ruggedness of the terrain. She pointed out a cluster of old baches clinging to a hillside, imagining the lives lived there decades ago. Her appreciation for the visual, the aesthetic, was clear. She saw stories in everything – the way the light hit a particular patch of bush, the weathered look of a fence post, the hardy resilience of ferns clinging to rock faces.

We stopped for coffee and a quick bite at a small café in Thames, the gateway to the peninsula. It was bustling with weekenders, a mix of locals and visitors, all sharing that same sense of anticipation for the coast. Eleanor was already consulting a folded map, tracing potential routes with her finger, the spark of discovery in her eyes. She bought a small, locally made ceramic mug, something to hold her tea while she sketched later, she said. Back in the car, the final stretch to Coromandel Town unfurled. The road hugged the coastline more closely now, offering breathtaking views with every bend. We passed through forests that felt ancient, where sunlight dappled through the canopy, and then emerged again to spectacular coastal vistas. It felt like travelling through a postcard, a place where time had softened its edges.

Arriving in Coromandel Town was like stepping back into a gentler era. The historic buildings stood proudly, their verandas sheltering charming shops and galleries. The air was clean, carrying the faint scent of sea spray and woodsmoke. Eleanor thanked me, her smile a little wider, a little more settled now. She mentioned she planned to visit the Driving Creek Railway tomorrow, and perhaps walk some of the coastal tracks. As I pulled away, leaving her to begin her exploration, I remembered her words about needing something tangible, something real. Looking at the quiet, historic streets, the sparkling harbour, and the wild green hills surrounding the town, I felt she’d come to exactly the right place. The journey there had been more than just a drive; it was a transition, a physical and mental shift from the bustle of the city to the quiet heart of the peninsula. I headed back towards the city, the setting sun casting long shadows across the Hauraki Gulf, feeling that familiar, quiet satisfaction of a journey well made.