October 12, 2023
Well, here we are, at the pointy end of the electoral cycle. The debates include boot camps, penalising beneficiaries for their reluctance to work, and claims that poverty will be solved by tax relief for the squeezed middle. In addition, at least one political party is advocating reform of gun laws that would allow good gun owners to own weapons that would have changed the course of the first world war. Guns that are the assault weapon of choice by many mass murderers. Another party claims that given the Treasury benches they will turn off the money hose. Another promises the elimination of GST on fruit and vegies.
Jesus wept doesn’t cut it.
But … contrary to the last hundred or so words complaining about the state of this small part of the world, I am enjoying myself. Today has been epic. Finally, I got to Wharariki Beach. This is the West Coast beach with the arches in the rocks, the ones that feature in the Google photos — and on the cover of my mother’s memoir.
As we walked the 20 minutes or so from the carpark to the beach, the wind faired hummed in from the west. It blew J’s sunglasses off her nose and over the edge. There they remain (over the edge, that is). Once we were on the beach, the sand burnished our legs (J says it was better than an expensive exfoliation treatment); the rain swept in from the Tasman; and we felt the power of whomsoever is in charge. Once this entity sees the sense of carbon credits, everything will be alright.
Wharariki was everything and more than I expected. I now know why my mother talked in mystical terms about the power of this beach and its arches.
Off Highway One 