Epsom address to Whakatane private car — Liam's family visit

The sky over Auckland was that bruised grey you get in mid-winter, the kind that promises sleet but usually just delivers a persistent, damp chill. August. Always a strange month, caught between the depths of winter and the first tentative hints of spring. I pulled up to the Epsom address, a stately old villa with a neatly trimmed garden that looked a bit too precise for the weather. My passenger, Liam O., was already waiting on the doorstep, a sensible black suitcase at his feet and a quiet air about him. He looked to be in his late twenties, with that sandy-blond hair and slightly weathered look you often see on young Australians. He’d flown in from Perth a couple of days earlier, he explained, and this was his first time heading out towards the Eastern Bay of Plenty.

He’d booked the trip to visit his mother, who lived near Whakatane. It sounded like a long-planned visit, one that had been postponed a few times. He told me he’d been working in construction over in Western Australia for the past five years, a demanding job that didn’t leave much room for extended trips back home. This visit was a chance to reconnect, and perhaps, I gathered, to sort out a few things for his mum. The villa gave me the impression of a settled, comfortable life, but he spoke of his mother with a gentle urgency, a desire to be there, present.

We navigated the familiar crawl out of the city, past the bottleneck of the Southern Motorway, through the industrial sprawl surrounding Manukau. Liam was quiet for the first hour, content to watch the landscape blur by. The grey persisted, clinging to the hills around the Bombay Hills. I pointed out the Waikato River as we passed Ngaruawahia, a wide, slate-coloured ribbon under the brooding sky. He nodded, seeming to appreciate the small landmarks, the way they anchor the journey. He mentioned he’d heard the Coromandel Peninsula could be stunning, even in winter, but his focus was firmly east.

Around Huntly, he asked if I knew a good spot for lunch. I suggested we hold off until we passed through Paeroa, where there was a decent café with hearty pies. It was a good call. The wind had picked up, and a light dusting of rain had begun, making the warm interior and a hot steak and cheese pie a welcome respite. Liam ate with a quiet appreciation, mentioning how much he missed proper Aussie meat pies, though he admitted he was starting to develop a taste for Kiwi versions. We chatted briefly about his work, the challenges of FIFO (fly-in, fly-out), and how you can sometimes feel disconnected when you’re living and working so far from home.

Back on the road, the landscape began to change as we headed towards the Bay of Plenty. The rolling farmland gave way to more undulating terrain, pockets of pine forest appearing alongside the native bush. Liam pointed out a hawk circling high above, a stark silhouette against the pewter clouds. He told me about his mum, how she’d always loved the natural beauty of the Bay of Plenty, its coastline and the geothermal wonders further inland. He was looking forward to spending time with her, maybe taking her for a drive along the coast if the weather improved.

The final leg towards Whakatane offered glimpses of distant hills shrouded in mist. The rain had eased to a drizzle. He said it was good to be heading somewhere where the pace of life felt slower, more connected to nature. He’d spent his childhood summers exploring beaches, and he hoped to recapture a little of that feeling with his mum. There was a wistfulness in his tone, a recognition of time passing and the importance of these moments. He mentioned that his mum had been asking about him non-stop, so he was keen to get settled.

As we approached Whakatane, the drizzle finally stopped, and a sliver of pale sunlight managed to break through the clouds, illuminating the Ohiwa Harbour in the distance. The air felt cleaner, carrying the faint scent of the sea. I dropped him off at a neat, low-set house on a quiet street, the kind that looks like it’s been lived in for generations. He thanked me, his grip firm as he shook my hand. There was a sense of relief and quiet anticipation about him as he wheeled his suitcase towards the door. I drove away, thinking about those connections, the journeys we make to bridge distances, both physical and emotional, and the quiet strength many people carry with them, heading towards family, towards home, even if it's just for a little while.