Holiday Inn Auckland to Taupō private car — Rhys's business trip

The smell of polished brass and old money still clung faintly to the lobby of the Holiday Inn Auckland when I met Rhys J. He was standing near the concierge desk, a little lost, clutching a slim, dark briefcase. Tall, with a shock of prematurely grey hair and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once, he looked like he was more comfortable on a golf course than navigating the checkout queue. He’d flown in from Cardiff the day before, with a brief stopover in Singapore. His Welsh accent was thick, a rich, rolling sound that put me in mind of ancient hills and rugby matches. He needed to get to Taupō for a long weekend of meetings, and then back to Auckland the following Monday. A solid few days ahead.

We loaded his briefcase into the boot, and he settled into the back seat. For the first hour, he was quiet, his gaze fixed on the passing blur of the Southern Motorway. The usual Auckland crawl through the Bombay Hills was in full effect, a slow, serpentine procession of cars. I could feel him just observing, absorbing. He asked a few questions about the route, about the drive down, and I answered them, pointing out the dairy farms and the rolling green pastures that South Auckland gives way to. He seemed satisfied by facts and figures, not particularly given to small talk.

As we cleared the Hamilton bypass and hit the open road towards Cambridge, the landscape began to shift. The dense green of the Waikato mellowed, giving way to more expansive views, copses of trees, and wide, slow-moving rivers. Rhys finally leaned forward a bit, his eyes tracking the change. He mentioned how different it was from the scenery in Wales, which he described as 'stubbornly hilly' and 'damp'. He was a civil engineer, it turned out, specializing in bridge construction. He’d been flown over by a New Zealand firm that was considering some large-scale infrastructure projects in the region.

We stopped for a coffee at a small service station near Tirau. While I stretched my legs and grabbed a flat white, Rhys bought a packet of Tim Tams, a gesture of faith in the local confectionery, I supposed. Back on the road, he began to open up a little more. He spoke about the challenges of his work, the constant pressure to balance efficiency with environmental concerns. He’d worked on a major project in Qatar recently, overseeing the construction of a pedestrian bridge to a new stadium. He described the heat, the relentless sun, the sheer scale of the undertaking. It was clear he was deeply proud of his profession, the tangible legacy of steel and concrete he left behind.

As we continued south, the landscape opened up further, hinting at the volcanic plateau ahead. Rhys, normally so composed, seemed momentarily intrigued by the change in scenery, sniffing the air as if expecting something. I explained we were getting closer to the geothermal areas, though we wouldn't be going directly through Rotorua today. He then shared with me that his daughter, studying marine biology, was due to spend a few months in the Hauraki Gulf, researching local seal populations. He spoke of her with a quiet, paternal pride, a world away from the hard-edged professional he’d presented earlier. He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of her, smiling, standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking a grey, choppy sea. It was a moment of unexpected tenderness, a small crack in the polished veneer.

The final stretch to Taupō unfolded under a sky that was beginning to bruise with evening colours. The lake itself, when it finally came into view, was a vast expanse of steely blue, reflecting the deepening purples and oranges of the sunset. Rhys was quiet again, but this time it felt like a comfortable silence, a settled contemplation. He watched the lights of Taupō twinkle on the shore as we rolled into town. I dropped him at his accommodation, a tidy motel overlooking the lake. He thanked me, his handshake firm and professional once more, but before he closed the car door, he paused. “It’s a beautiful country,” he said, his Welsh accent softer now, almost a murmur. “Different. But beautiful.” I watched him walk away, a solitary figure with his briefcase, a man bridging the distance between Wales and the wild heart of the North Island, leaving me to head north as the stars began to prick the darkening sky.