Vignette 2
Living in the Shire
The beauty of Orapiu is hard to convey. The first thing that struck me was how the greens run straight into the blues. Grass grows right up to the edge of the water and the trees frame an expansive opaque blue sky. When I first arrived at the Bottom End, I remarked to my newly introduced neighbor that I had just returned from taking a walk in the forest behind my house. Her face erupted into laughter. Very slowly, as if she was speaking to someone who didn’t understand English, she explained that it is not the forest, it is “the bush.” I smiled back at her and slowly, in a fake southern drawl said, “where ah come frum a bush is a shrub, small and squat, and by mah calculations the trees towerin’ over mah head let very little sunlight in, thus using the word “bush” seems a bit insulting to the tree dontcha thank?” I then became the recipient of the “she’s a Yank after all,” look. This was not the last time that I referred to the bush as the forest, nor was it the last time I heard peals of laughter after my saying it. Six years on however I call it the bush and really mean it.
There are endless walks to take in the bush and the most incredible thing is that you just walk out the door and go. No car needed, and no phone calls a week before to discuss the logistics. A typical plan is not a plan at all but a simple, “hey, meet you up at rabbit corner at 8:30 and we’ll have a wander up to the crossroads.” This is a standing order with several of us and you might walk with five people one day and by yourself the next. Occasionally I pinch myself when I realize that I actually live in the closest thing to Tolkien’s description of the Shire. It is not inconceivable to me that Bilbo Baggins might have a hobbit hole nestled into the base of one of the gnarly Pohutukawa trees that grow on the adjacent grassy slope of the paddock on the edge of the bush.
Our house faces North and East. In the summer, the sun bursts forth due East from behind Ponui Island. In the winter, the sun rises over the northern tip of the u-shaped ridge that frames Orapiu Bay, blasting a laser beam of sunlight over the left side of my mom’s Victorian bed. I must close the bedroom drapes early to save my Mom’s antique furniture from these damaging rays. Right now it is winter and the sunlight spreads out in ever lengthening swaths over the canopy of bush. The birds are hard at it long before the hard light creeps across the natural amphitheater where our house is nestled. National Geographic would have a field day with the amount of bird life in this little slice of paradise. During the winter you can watch the birds for hours, flitting in and out of the bare branched trees. Strangely enough, winter is a hugely colorful time in Orapiu, with saturated hues of red and orange flowers against sprawling electric green fields.
Unfortunately, the pockets of rural isolation here in New Zealand are vanishing. Last week a developer submitted plans to turn our unique, bush clad existence upside down. The proposal outlined five custom homes to be built along the shoreline as well as thirteen narrow holiday homes to be stacked on top each other on what is now lush hillside. I can remember the same thing happening in San Diego in the sixties. Housing developments and strip malls sprung up everywhere, including river beds and natural burn zones. Not a square inch of beachfront was sparred. People complained when their home flooded. “No duh, you bought a condo that was built in the San Diego River.” “What did you expect?” Now I am witnessing the same greed halfway across the world. Why plan for six wonderful homes when you can squish in eighteen? For now I can only be thankful for each day that I look out over the paddock and see piles of nasturtiums growing wildly up and over anything in their path.
Yesterday, a bossy voice inside my head insisted that I put on my gum boots and go on a photo safari inside the bush. Looking out across the paddock from my kitchen window each day I have studied the familiar outlines of these native New Zealand trees. The voice was telling me that I needed to see them from the inside. It was a mucky trip. My boots sunk into what has become a bog after a few heavy rains. As I scrambled up the slope I consciously tried to make myself lighter so that my boots wouldn’t get sucked into the soft mud. I stopped to look back at where I had come from, and was so excited to see my home from this perspective. It was magical to see the flame trees up close, with their long bare angular branches and clusters of vivid orange, red nectar flowers at the ends. It took my breath away to stand next to my favorite Pohutukawa tree’s seductively curving branches. I greeted this tree as I would an old friend. What a magnificent tree it is.
Inside the bush it was dark and quiet, sunlight barely filtering down to where I stood. There are groupings of giant tree ferns and what might have been the remnants of an old Maori cooking pit (pah). The most spectacular sight of the day was the Kauri trees that were standing straight, thick and tall, their bark consisting of irregularly shaped interlocking puzzle pieces. Kauri trees are considered the king tree of New Zealand. They were harvested en masse at the turn of the last century and due to their slow growth have not bounced back. This stand of Kauri trees has gone by unnoticed and makes this experience very special indeed.
Later on as I sat at my computer, pouring over the images taken during my foray into this cathedral, I realize that once again I have been allowed a visit into the Shire. Strangely enough, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see Gandalf materialize from behind one of those Kauri trees with his wand raised in a defensive posture. What would I have said to him? “Don’t shoot; I’m on your side.”
