Ocean Diaries

OCEAN DIARIES

M A N G AW H A I H E A D S A N D M U R I WA I , N E W Z E A L A N D APRIL 1 TO NOVEMBER 6 2020 A N K VA N E N G E L E N

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Part 1

MANGAWHAI

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Introduction We moved to Tara road Mangawhai in mid-March of this year. Here I conceived the idea to write a diary describing my experiences, walks, and thoughts. I feel writing helps me gauge a place, so this impulse feels very natural, besides it might help me contrast and compare the Pacific Ocean to the Tasman Sea where I will enjoy an artist-in-residence position at Muriwai beach during August.

The first encounter with the coast here, at Mangawhai Heads, inspired me. Looking out to sea, are some rocky islands which have captured my heart. I have since photographed them hundreds of times and intend to edit them at a later stage.

Things didn’t go as planned. Due to the spread of the Covid-19 virus, New Zealand went into a full lockdown on the 26th of March. We were to stay home but still permitted to shop at our local supermarket (with 1.5 meters of social distancing and the further in-store restrictions). Pharmacies, doctors and hospitals continued, of course, and we were not allowed to visit anyone but, walks and exercise were okay, so long as they were close to your home.

Since arriving in New Zealand on the 25th of February, the world had turned upside down due to the spread of Covid-19, and we followed the world news with grave concern. The joy and relaxation experienced in the first weeks of our stay in New Zealand now had to make space for fear about our home front far away. The few times I visited the beach in this period, a short stroll from the supermarket, I let the salty sea breeze wash over me, and I tried to clear my head, but worry had crept under my skin.

I imagined this clammy cold hand of worry enfolding my heart must have been the same for many. The distance between Europe and New Zealand suddenly seemed so permanent and our loved ones, so very far away. I found it comforting to notice how our children were staying in touch with each other, being supportive and encouraging. We heard many similar stories, and I wondered whether our society might get something good out of this crisis? But, as much as I tried to rationalize my care for our children, the fear was too primal. My restless mother’s mood pushed a glass wall between me and the enticing, beautiful landscape. Herman mirrored my feelings and thoughts. He also worried, despite the distraction of his general practice work, which had now taken a different form. This poem is about how we coped.

We sleep, Our bodies sunk deeply within themselves, A hand stirs the outside.

While we sink, As if in a rock, That will protect us from the day.

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I took long daily walks on the quiet roads throughout the five weeks of our level four lockdown.

On the weekends Herman joined me, and together we discovered the stunning countryside, expansive views, and the brilliant light.

As we entered lockdown level three, on the 27th of April, our freedom increased, although I was still not allowed to walk along the shore or hike the cliff. No matter, I had become fond of the long solitary strolls near our home.

I wrote on the 28th of April:

A late afternoon walk, Streaks of golden sunlight caress the fields and hills.

Leaves turn one more time before they let go and swirl to the ground, I breathe deeply, slowing my stride now and then to take in the colours and surroundings, Everything breathes peace.

Cows slowly turn their heads my way, Warm light frames their bodies.

The light is bright and warm, unlike the soft early morning glow, I’m pleased I put my boots on, and enjoyed another long walk.

These are precious hours.

In the second week of May, the lockdowns eased, and I could drive to the beach whenever I wanted. I no longer need an excuse to explore this place! Each week I will try to write something contemplative and observant about my experiences. You will find these musings in the following pages. I hope you’ll walk with me!

05 T U E S D AY T H E 1 2 T H O F M AY

Clouds and sun For the last two months, about once a week, I have been walking home from Mangawhai Heads, which is around nine kilometres. Herman drops me off early in the morning on his way to work. I walk the last few kilometres to the seaside, roam around like a sandpiper for a few hours and then walk back to Mangawhai.

I am out all morning and sometimes even till the early afternoon. Along this entire stretch of beach and back to Tara road, there is a footpath (unusual in New Zealand) meaning; fortunately, I don’t have to walk on the road.

Walking on the roads around Tara road hasn’t been as pleasant since lockdown ended and the traffic has increased. It means I have to move onto the verge more often and pay attention to traffic; walking is no longer contemplative. My legs (actually my whole body) needs to move; in fact, I’ve become addicted to the rhythm of long walks again in the last few months. That steady, rather monotonous pace, one foot in front of the other, is good for my body and allows my mind to wander.

Today it’s almost high tide when I arrive. The tide shifts here by an hour every day, and I can’t estimate whether the water is retreating or has yet to get to its highest point. No matter, I just walk further up the shoreline. I discover rocks that I hadn’t noticed before, grey monoliths full of hollowed-out holes and sharp, straight lines. They lie there like ancient sea creatures once alive, and now petrified and doomed to be slowly worn away by the water.

The sky is spectacular. Dark grey clouds play tag with the sunlight. My beloved rock-island is one moment illuminated, the next obscured by rain or lifted entirely off the water by the glowing horizon — all changing by the minute, even by the second.

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I love this lighting and the raw elements of this part of the ocean. I direct my attention to the horizon, to that line between air and water, and hold this gaze for minutes. At times, I feel the urge to walk into the water, clothes ‘n all, ‘Let this cold green water cleanse me, the seafoam gently caress my body and engulf me in this performance of light, colour and movement.’ Once again, we're allowed to go swimming. I have only done it once though, as the walk itself takes time and energy and I am consumed by the views, scouring around the rocks for shell rings and whatnot. Even though its high tide, I still find myself whiling away the time at this favourite place, admiring the rocks, shells and shellfish in all their abundance, diversity, colours and structures.

I return, tracing my footsteps through the dunes. The tracks I left a few hours before are still there, wet and sandy. The wind whisks around my head as I climb up, but as soon as I arrive inland, it drops, and I feel the warmth of the sun penetrate my soggy sweater, reaching my skin. I know my damp clothes will dry and be comfortable again in no time. The tentative warmth of the sparse sunshine comforts me.

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The formidable smoky aroma of burning fires greets me as I stroll back into Mangawhai. After months of drought, the local community has been busy preparing their gardens for winter, leaving piles of trimmings and garden waste to be burnt. It smells divine and makes me long for our wood burner at home. Sadly, our cottage here has no fireplace and I wonder what the winter will be like here. I guess we shall soon find out.

I’m in love with a rock-island.

I find shell rings to marry him, In endless quantities on the shore.

He shall lie there, motionless, anchored, Withdrawn, waiting.

Till I’ve gathered enough courage to swim to him, Only to return, Disillusioned.

08 W E D N E S D AY T H E 2 0 T H O F M AY

Sea of glass

The sea changes appearance as often as the tide, wind, and time of day does. One moment the surface is an azure mirror, colours expose depths and shallows, the next, silver mercury, impermeable as it breaks the sunlight into shimmering fragments. Then once again, surging, smashing, depositing foam onto the sandbanks and rocks, while the wind chases little sandstorms over the wet sand.

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Today the sea is wild, despite the calm, dreamy weather. I already hear the surf roaring as I walk down the hill passing the golf course. The morning mist evaporates from the freshly mown grass, the earth is fragrant, and the morning sunshine titillates my face. When I reach the ocean, I see it’s high tide, but the waves resist giving up their space on the shore. Above the tall foaming breakers, a protesting mist repeatedly arises as it tries to keep them elevated, inevitably failing.

As always, once I step onto the sand, my mind and breathing quieten. A nasty pain in my back has been bothering me, so my walk is a bit shorter than usual but long enough, and I stop more often to watch the waves hurl themselves onto the beach. They appear transparent, like glass, despite the turbulence. A fascinating spectacle, I could watch it endlessly. The moment the water surges, the sunlight passes through it before gravity and sand drag it down. It is sublime. It is hard to capture the glassiness and alternating blue and green colours with the camera. Nevertheless, I shoot dozens of frames; moreover, I take the time to be enchanted.

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I spend less time clambering over the rocks, but can’t resist walking a long way toward the waves to get a better view. Once the water recedes, and rock pools have formed, I crouch down for a while. When you look long enough, you see how much movement and life there really is in these pools. I see ten hermit crabs scuffling around with their sequestered shells. They climb all over each other, picking between the weeds and surfaces as they forage. I feel like a little boy as I sit by the rock pools; give me a scoop net, and I’ll be happy as Larry. I decided against filling my backpack with shells even though squatting has been good for my back. I guess my primal instinct knows what’s right for me.

I find a dead starfish, only its structure left behind. It evokes the same admiration in me as do the volumes of whelk shell-rings. What’s fascinating about their architecture, is how the sturdiest part of the shell remains long after the rest has gone. I place some on my finger and notice them becoming a new spin-like form, a backbone, a sea skeleton. I set myself the task to make a small ‘tidal installation’. My beach walks will provide me with plenty of material.

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Sea skeleton

A pool of shells and hermit crabs

Starfish remains

But not today. I bent down to collect a lovely pearly shell fragment, and somehow, I manage to stand in a rock pool, soaking my socks and shoes. I take them off and lay them out to dry in the sunshine. I don’t fancy walking home with wet feet, or worse, blisters! The sun is warm, and the sea still seems restless, with waves hurling, collapsing and shattering on the rocks. I watch the surfers in the distance, feel the sunlight on my face and enjoy the peace as I silently encourage my socks and shoes to, ‘dry, dry, dry!’

On my walk today, I allow myself a few breaks and stop at the Mangawhai Museum. It has just reopened, and a sandwich board advertises coffee. It seems like a good idea to know more about the history of our village, and so I enter the museum (privately funded) and have a good look around. It is well documented and modern; my entrance fee and coffee are well worth it.

12 W E D N E S D AY 2 7 T H A N D T H U R S D AY T H E 2 8 T H O F M AY

A living organism

It’s a cloudy, rainy day, but that doesn’t deter me. Rain often conjures exciting landscapes, and the wind is always there. I drive to Mangawhai Heads as I don’t dare to walk the distance back to Tara road as my back is playing up, occasionally ‘locking” and making me tired. But I need the sea; the beach walks are healing.

Over time, I have come to see the ocean more and more as a living organism; an organism that reacts and agitates. One to which I feel connected like it’s a person I want to get to know better. Each time I am there, I am surprised at the expansive views and the washed-up elements she leaves behind. Today, there are countless small, blue, partly transparent, flat organisms with a protruding little ‘sail’ washed up onto the shore. Maybe they’re a type of jellyfish? A little later, I see another curious creature. It too looks like a jellyfish. I bend down to examine one and see a worm-like, translucent blue shape tilting up and moving in different directions. A delightful sight! It looks like it is exploring the surroundings. Looking around, I see more and more of them.

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By-the-wind-sailor

Bluebottle

A chance encounter with another beachgoer, tells me that it’s called a Bluebottle and they have a nasty sting. Just to be safe, I rinse my hands a bit later, as I had picked up some, what I think were, baby jellyfish. I’m curious about these creatures. When I am back home, I look them up. I find that the Bluebottle is not a jellyfish but a siphonophore. These are creatures made of multiple organisms living symbiotically. I also learn, it is related to the Portuguese Man o’War but is termed the Indo-Pacific Man o’ War, plus its tail can grow up to 10 meters long!

I become immersed in the fascinating world of sea creatures and discover that while I have been exploring life on the rocky shore, there is so much more beyond here, below the surface, in the vast Pacific Ocean.

Side note: The day before, I happened to be listening to a podcast about the scientist and writer James Lovelock. The Dutch NRC podcasts ‘Hairless Apes’ is a source of joy for me. I can easily spend an hour or more in the fascinating world of science while drawing, doing household chores or whatever. James Lovelock presents the earth as a self-regulating system, in which rocks, atmosphere and all life forms are a system that balances life on earth. In Gemma Venhuizen’s interview with this centenarian man (still active as a writer!) they discuss many issues, which moved me and strengthened my sense of belonging to nature, especially the ocean.

14 T H U R S D AY T H E 2 8 T H O F M AY

Sand frescos

The sun pops in and out from behind the clouds as I walk along the shore. I marvel at the ever-changing sandscapes. After each tide shift, the sea reveals some hidden gems; today, it spat out thick, black, viscous sand. Of late, I seem to find more algae and seaweed violently tossed onto the shore; clumps of roots with shells and rocks entangled in the branches. The interplay of the waves, stones, and seaweed carves exquisite black patterns in the sand, which resemble old frescos that lie in wait till the tide washes them away. The various tracks formed by freshwater streams create fascinating relief designs in the sand.

Frescos of algae, sand and pebbles

Coastal stream relief designs

Sand, water and stone patterns

Washed up bluebottles are scattered on the sand, like small half-flaccid penises swaying in the breeze. Are they waiting for some kind of prey, their death, or the water to take them back below the surface? I know that in a few days when the winds change direction, I will not see them anymore, and I wonder what will appear next.

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Ancient spirits The weather is forecast to be warm and sunny. As my back seems to be recovering, I decide to go for a longer walk. It’s still low tide when I arrive early in the morning, and the shore is wide and generous. There are some surfers, joggers and walkers, but as soon as I pass the first rock formations, I am on my own again.

A few seashells lie scattered on the sand along the tideline and part of the beach is covered by a thin layer of black sand. The tide has carved dark grooves in the sand, but the imagery made by the algae and the waves has gone, erased. I do still find sketches and relief patterns in the channels created by the receding tide, but the fine feathery sand frescos have vanished.

Tide lines on the beach

Grooves made from some coastal building sites

I want to walk to the halfway point of the Mangawhai cliff walkway and return the same way, which means clambering over quite a few rock and boulder formations. I figure I have enough time and sturdy shoes. But, when I get to this point my back hurts so I decide to stay on the path; I don’t want to navigate the rocks.

The ‘arch’ that fills with swirling seawater at high tide

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I rest for an hour in the bay at the bottom of the steps. I am alone here, except for a couple of colourful shags diving in and out of the water. I watch them surface, gracefully twisting their necks as they shake off the water. I enjoy gazing at the sparkling droplets on the water and listening to the sound of the breakers.

I feel privileged to be here, enjoying the peacefulness and the views.

At times, I feel spiritual conflict. I sense a deep primal connection to place and a desire to roam, find things and make tools. My shell-room is evidence of this ancient feeling of belonging. But my wanderlust feels different; I want to explore, head towards the horizon till I am somewhere new.

It feels entirely instinctive to write about my experiences and adventures in nature. In a way, it helps me get to know the landscape. I seem to be able to re-live these experiences better through re-reading my stories, rather than images alone. They help connect me to the places I’ve been; they keep the memories alive. I do still take many photographs, however, hoping to capture what I see and feel, but when I look at them later, as pleasing as they are, they don’t quite relay my emotional experience. It seems my writing is more capable of this.

17 W E D N E S D AY T H E 1 0 T H O F J U N E

A short walk

The sea is always changing, never stopping. When I visit today, just after high tide, the sand is soaking wet and mirrors a cloudy sky. Fascinated, I just stand there and observe. The sun conjures up the same mother-of-pearl glow in the sand I find in the shells fragments that I collect.

Does the sunlight sustain the shells? Is this why I like to take them home?

The sea too creates; manifesting dynamic shapes and forms, layering the sand, black on white, using algae, seashells and water as tools. Today, the tides have forged geometric patterns. Shells lying in the white sand have traced zig-zag formations with the thin black layer of sand, and the ebb and flow of water have woven herringbone motifs. The tidal streams on the sand spawn more organic forms, and here too, I find recurring patterns.

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I stand barefoot at the tide line, gazing out to sea. The sand under my feet is being caressed and sucked away. It's a pleasant sensation. Soon I'm up to my knees in the water and almost lose my balance. Just for a moment, I was distracted, and it seems the sea declared, 'I decide what happens!'

My sense of connection to this stretch of the shore has been here from the beginning. The spaciousness in my mind shrinks as I walk home through the countryside and my thoughts, once unshackled, start to thicken.

19 T U E S D AY T H E 2 3 R D O F J U N E

Limpets

I decide to do the cliff walk at the beginning of the afternoon, so I can walk the beach at low tide and reach the turning point before high tide. The sea seems turbulent despite the low tide.

I haven't seen bluebottles for a while now. Just the odd one or two turn up along with salps and a few stray unfamiliar jellyfish that remind me of the pink, wobbly, jelly puddings from my childhood.

I come across some superb sea sponges and marvel at the nifty flower shape. In a few places in the wet sand, I see curly tracks and wonder who or what made them. They resemble the limpet tracks (primitive gastropods/ sea snail species) I once saw in a Frans Beerens' art photograph. But those tracks were carved into stone by their sharp tongues in search of algae. I have found the shells of this species (wonderful bowl-shaped shells with mother-of-pearl inside) but can't quite fathom why they are looking for their food in the sand. Maybe it's a different sea snail, of which there are many to be found. In any case, their sand patterns are lovely to behold.

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On my solitary walks, I use my eyes to observe both large and small details, my nose to inhale the salty sea air, my skin to feel the wind, moisture and sand, and my legs to carry me forth. At times, my senses seem to enter into an almost organic connection with the environment, as if it flows through me while I bear witness. These are lovely moments that occasionally happen when I'm tired of walking. As if nature only really makes itself felt when my resistance decreases.

As I rest in the bay after clambering over rocks, my thoughts wander to maritime paintings I have seen in museums; historical battles, storms, and so on. I've often wondered how true to life the colours, foaming crests, lighting, spectacular skies and the ferocity and violence of the seas were. Did the artist, back in the studio, exaggerate these elements? Looking out to sea, observing the changing light and breakers, I think, perhaps not. No landscape seems as changeable as the seascape. No terrain transforms daily like a beach.

I try to chronicle the changes with my camera yet worry about how I am going to process them.

At least I am writing.

21 M O N D AY T H E 2 9 T H O F J U N E

Entirely here

Sometimes, the sea and the shore feel like a giant playground. Hardly a day goes by I don't count myself lucky we get to live in such a tranquil environment close to the ocean, for nine months. In just a short ten minutes, I am at the beach and walk for as long as I like. There are other people here, and occasionally I stop to have a chat with one or another. Still, mostly I walk so far that I leave them behind and only encounter the odd lone wanderer, such as myself. This solitude feels spacious, peaceful, and gives me time to explore and wonder. I chose not to use social media for the entirety of this New Zealand trip, and I find it's peaceful not having to think about posting updates and responding to comments. I am entirely here, mind and body.

22 T U E S D AY T H E 3 0 T H O F J U N E

Reflections and memories Since New Zealand has been at lockdown level two, I have walked the Mangawhai Cliff Walkway several times. When the tide is right, I walk via the beach and back over the cliff. The more I do this walk, the shorter it becomes. At first, it took me three to three and a half hours to walk, but now as I walk it more often, I can do it in two and a half hours, including a stop in the bay. Plus, it feels shorter. I have found with long walks I repeat, that they shorten physically and mentally. Funny how that happens. I guess I stop less to take photos, but even so, the distance seems shorter. My memory knows, its’ ‘seen this before’ and needs less space. To my mind, the walk shortens.

The weather is gentle and springlike as I drive to Mangawhai Heads today. It rained heavily last night; the wet green hills glisten in the morning sun. I arrive at the car park to see some travellers basking in the warm sun, enjoying breakfast in their campervan. They are not the only ones. The settled weather is inviting, and some people seem to be taking advantage of it. I suppose they’re not foreigners as the borders are still closed.

Looking out, I see large clouds, in the clear blue sky, hovering above my rock.

The sea reflects the rising sun, The sand is soft, I notice the footprints of the morning hikers.

23 On my way to the rocky outcrop, where I forage for shells, it appears the sea seized the chance last night to form some little shelly beaches.

New shell beaches

Old shell beach

In some spots, the sand has a soft pink shade. I'm curious and wonder whether the endless smashing of the shells against the rocks leached this colour pink into the sand. But I'm looking for whole specimens today, and they're best found, at low tide, in the rock pools.

On my walks, I find most of the seaweed on rocks and stones. It brings back memories of my artist-inresident time in Vadsø, a remote town on the coast of the Barents Sea in northern Norway. There too, I spent time marvelling at reflections on the water and watching the water wash over smooth stones.

20,000 kilometres away from the Barents Sea, but sometimes the light seems the same

24 Although Vadsø is some 20,000 kilometres away from here, on the coast of a different ocean, I find many similarities; the crystal-clear water, the smells, the brilliant light, the tranquillity and expanse of the wilderness/ countryside/ landscape. The solitude I crave is also similar. But then as now, I was not alone.

In Vadsø, I spent time with my Finnish colleague Kaija Kiuru who was photographing kelp for her Laminaria project while I collected cod vertebra. We spent many hours walking in silence on our long walks over the vast Arctic tundra in much the same way Herman and I walk here. Just observing, letting the landscape quietly envelop us.

I wrote a blog about my time in Vadsø. It will remain online for a while, as I haven’t the heart to delete it.

I hope one day to draw a connection between there and here - north and south. At the moment, though, that’s just me dreaming.

Although differing in shape and colour, algae and kelp are as plentiful here as in Vadsø. I haven’t encountered the deep red iodine-containing kelp I saw there, but there are many others. Sometimes I find big sloppy piles of them, wound together like strings of pearls, other times I find delicate fernlike ones with their roots still attached. Occasionally I saw long, fat strips that look sturdy, hard-wearing.

Almost at the turning point of my walk, an anchovy and a shag lie washed up on the sand. Both prey and predator met the same end. At the rocks in the bay where I usually take a break, there is usually a flock of cormorants (shags). Maybe the dead bird was one of this group. This bay with the arch and high rocks seems an ideal place for them to fish and perch. While I rest here, I share their spot, taking in the sights and smells and feeling the warm sun on my face. As always, I struggle to leave this serene place and its proximity to the sea.

25 As I continue, however, I enjoy the expansive views. The hiking track is well maintained and easy to navigate, and I don't need to worry about slipping on falling over rocks or stones. Fantails dart in and out of the vegetation and two follow me today. They're a beloved native bird in New Zealand, cheering on solitary hikers, urging them on 'Are you coming?'

View from the cliff

View from the cliff

The Fantail, a curious little bird

26 T U E S D AY T H E 1 4 T H O F J U LY

Grey morning, spring mood The weather is mild; spring is in the air. Around our house, birds are chirping their mating melodies. The sun is getting warmer by the day. Wildflowers and daffodils are popping up on the roadside and in our garden. I have already filled a vase with them! Despite the sun hiding behind the early cloud this morning, it’s pleasant at the beach. The sky is pale yet clear, the ocean grey, and the green-tinted waves gently lap the shore. Today is a good day for fishing as the shags and anglers alike are out in their numbers.

I imagine this quiet sea reflects inevitable exhaustion, in a way, like the Dutch winter always seems to get to a turning point. Tired of winter, it changes direction and starts up springtime. This mid-winter period in New Zealand might be about mid-January back home. I know I can't make such a comparison; the seasons here are so different from the ones familiar to me, and I am aware, the ocean doesn't have seasons but reacts to currents and winds.

The large stones and rocks that lie dry at low tide are increasingly overgrown with barnacles, small mussels and oyster shells. I find small anemones in the rockpools and wonder what it's like at high tide for the fish when the sea has re-immersed this place.

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With each walk, each hike along the foreshore, I am astounded how many new forms of life I encounter.

The landscape reveals new facets each time, and depending on my mood, I see them or not. It seems the mind has limited capacity to absorb an entire landscape at once, preferring to take it in, little by little.

Fortunately, I rarely find plastic or other human waste washed up on shore here. It’s so much cleaner than the beaches in Vadsø. I met a local photographer there, who was documenting the washup by creating collages of all the different types and colours of plastic she found, daily. I do find the odd piece of glass, edges worn down, regurgitated, organically recycled and repurposed.

I started photographing rocks, stones and outcrops that struck me as intriguing because of differences in colour, textures, structure, oddness. I have ended up, however, with an entire file on 'nature ready-mades'.

At times, I see the sculptures of Henry Moore, Barbara Hepworth, or Eugène Dodeigne, other times I see the untamed/rough work of Armando or Giacometti on this rocky foreshore. Mostly though, I see unique pieces in all variety of shapes, forms and textures, elegantly displayed in this marvellous environment.

Every stone or rock I pass is unique. Each has a beauty that changes throughout the day, by the light, by the water, by the tides. Funny, I only just noticed this.

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Rock sculptures

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I continue walking along the pebbled shore, watching my footing, and with refreshed attention, notice the incredible diversity. Just before heading back inland, I see hundreds of tiny whelks in a rock cavity. I guess the holes and undulations in the stone form a protective nursery. Further away, closer to the water, the black snails bunch together on the smooth wet rocks.

'Bare-belly-stone"

Whelk nursery

A bunch of sea snails

I still haven’t figured out which sea snail makes that circular pattern in the sand. I am sure, however, that it’s not a limpet as I have watched them move on the rocks and their trails are distinctly different, they’re broader and straighter. I learn from Wikipedia that limpets have a mighty muscular foot. I decided to take some pictures of it and send it to my friend Frans - together with photos of the empty Limpet-shells I found. Maybe he can identify the tracks.

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Mystery tracks

Limpet with barnacles, wall-proof

The Limpet tracks

I will leave here soon to spend August in Muriwai at an artist-in-residence location. Our neighbour Tony tells us the tide, weather and sea there are rather wild in comparison. I’m curious! I intend to walk, explore and document the western foreshore as I have done here. In any case, I don't have to say goodbye to this coastline just yet. I'll soon be back.

31 Variegated cormorants/shags and a strange mist for 'my' rock-island

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Part 2

MURIWAI

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M O N D AY T H E 3 R D O F A U G U S T

Earthskin

I’ve been at the Earthskin Creative Residence in Muriwai, for two days now. From this holistic ‘artist-inresidence’ I plan to survey and study this stretch of North Island, West Coast, which I gather is rougher and more dangerous than the Pacific coastline.

Directly behind Earthskin’s garden, there’s a path I can take, which cuts through a nikau palm grove (an endemic palm species) leading to the ocean in a short fifteen minutes. I did this walk first yesterday, returning via the main road which took me about an hour.

When I signed up for the artist-in-residence, I expected to be here on my own; this is what had attracted me: solitude, surrounded by nature. But here, too, COVID-19 threw a spanner in the works. Veronique, Earthskin’s manager, co-founder and native Belgian, is usually in Belgium during this time of the year. But due to the pandemic, she could not leave and is here with me. There is plenty of space though, especially as I sleep in the yurt rather than in the house. The communal living room with a kitchen is spacious. It is roomy and it offers a place for good conversation in front of the wood burner in the evenings.

I have the use of an adequate studio where I can work to my heart’s content processing the various material I brought from Mangawhai. The living room, and other spaces, display artworks from previous residents, some of whom have visited more than once. I, too, am expected to leave a piece of art behind.

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35 M O N D AY T H E 3 R D O F A U G U S T ( C O N T I N U E D )

Muriwai surf beach The ocean seems to have been incredibly calm recently. I believe this is mainly due to an easterly wind blowing over the mainland. The weather is mild at present: partly cloudy with occasional sun. I’m rather happy about this as I’m sleeping in the yurt, and this place, built in a hillside gully is prone to dampness and soggy grounds. No doubt there will be plenty of rain and wet weather coming; it is August, after all, a particularly rainy month. I’m glad I was prudent and took the advice to bring gumboots and plenty of warm clothes.

Muriwai is known to be popular with surfers. When I first visit, I understand why. The black sandy coastline stretches far into the distance. When I look north, I see no rocks, just surf and sand.

I miss the rock and stone formations at Mangawhai Heads. The rocks, the many different species and configurations made the beach walks so interesting. It's hard to suppress a slight feeling of disappointment as I walk along this vast stretch of black sand, sparsely dotted with luminous white shells. Oh well, I know that a little to the south the coast is more rugged, where high cliffs lean precipitously over the seashore and I look forward to discovering it.

The first large rock I see when I get to the beach is home to a well-known gannet colony (Jan van-genten in Dutch). I amuse myself pondering about that name. Jan has nothing to do with birds, and perhaps 'gent' was derived from gannet?

36

The gannet colony

Here, as at Mangawhai, is a rocky island off the coast named Oaia Island. It's just a bump of an island, confiscated by seabirds. I think longingly of my beloved rock-island at Mangawhai Heads.

Oaia Island off the coast of Muriwai

37

My route from Earthskin's garden to the surf beach

Nikau palm bush, past a large pond and over the hill Muriwai itself is barely more than a built-up area with houses, a neighbourhood of sorts where the homes are mostly on the main road but also strewn in the hills and valleys. There is a ‘community nursery’ for the cultivation of native plants (maybe to promote community spirit a little bit?), surfing facilities, a golf course, a rugby field, a tennis court and a cross bike area. But not one single shop or restaurant. There is, however, lunchroom ‘Sand Dunz’, which is open all year round. They have a ‘library cabinet’ and an announcement board, but that’s all; Muriwai isn’t a village-village, it’s more a remote West Coast beachsuburb for Aucklanders.

I hope that my somewhat indeterminate feeling of displacement will disappear once I explore and get to know this place a bit better. As in Mangawhai, I plan to focus on my experiences of the seashore and ocean, writing and photographing as I go. ‘Best get to work then,’ I think, as I enter the musty yurt that night. I make a mental note to light the wood-burner tomorrow and also diffuse some lavender oil to freshen the stale air. Maybe this will help me feel at home.

38 T U E S D AY T H E 4 T H O F A U G U S T

‘Te Henga’ walkway It’s a quiet morning as I head out to hike the Te Henga Walkway, a part of the now-closed Hillary Trail.

Te Henga is a one-way trail of three and a half hours. Being unfamiliar with the path I decide to go only partway; six to seven hours feels a bit daunting. The easterly wind and the mild weather are perfect conditions for this walk as the ocean is decidedly calm, or so I’ve been told. Indeed, as I head out, I can see the Tasman ocean sprawling like a big blue mirror.

The sun shines on the back of my neck as I slowly descend some long, steep steps. The air is freshly scented, full of bird song, and the vista is bush and hills.

Briefly, this reminds me of our hikes in Nepal. I don't know why. Perhaps because of the lingering wet and steamy early morning air or the faint smell of wood fires? Or maybe, because I look down into the valleys at the start of the walk? It's a compelling sensation, and I wonder if sleeping in the yurt brought it on.

The conversation, I had this morning, with the Earthskin manager occupies my mind. My desire for aloneness, to contemplate, reflect and create, somewhat resembles a solitary character. Yet, I don't think of myself as being one. I enjoy sharing, telling and publishing stories too much, for this to be true. Not least, because I spend my life with a partner, children and grandchildren, I can doff my coat of chosen solitude with relative ease. So, when I encounter a familiar solitariness in others, I naturally become curious, I wonder, ‘Am I like that?’. Fodder for psychologists I muse, not something to worry about for the moment.

When I've walked a long way over the cliff, I rest on a welcoming bench. I eat an apple, have a drink from my thermos and hope that I'm halfway already. My pace is slower than usual, there is plenty to see, the view is spectacular, but also, the trail is tricky in some places. Large flat muddy puddles crisscross the path, and the rain has left deep gouges in the red clay, which I had to straddle! I suspect it is quite dangerous when it's raining.

39

I want to do the whole hike, weather permitting, with Herman. We are good tramping mates on these types of walks – pacing ourselves, needing few words. I miss sharing the incredible vistas, pointing things out and enjoying the views with him. If I want to do the entire hike by myself, I will have to prepare for it. I meet a couple of trampers further along who wholeheartedly confirm this. We exchange tramping experiences, and they give me some tips for other tracks on the North Island. Also, they tell me I have only done a third of the entire route. No matter, I decide it’s enough for today. In my mind, the steep descent from the start looms ahead as a steep incline. “I have to walk that!”. I carry on, happy with my wise choice.

40 W E D N E S D AY T H E 5 T H O F A U G U S T

Maukatia, encounter I take the cliff-top path, passing the gannet colony on my way to Maukatia (once called Maori bay), a quiet and somewhat private bay. Viewed from above, it appeals more to me than the surf beach on the other side. Cliffs and boulders enclose it, and I’m curious about the rocks and stones that blanket the shore.

From afar, a palpable damp haze shrouds this coastline. Muriwai is muggy compared to Mangawhai. I suspect this comes from the wild breakers of this tempestuous ocean. Here as well, the sand is pitch black. So black that in places it marks my footprints with a blueish glow. Casting my eyes up, I notice the outgoing tide has raked blue lines in the sand.

On the handy info boards along the path to the gannet colony, I read how the black sand came into being. It's a magnetic iron-containing mineral; titanomagnetite formed two and a half million years ago by North Island volcanic activity, carried here by the Waikato River, and finally deposited on the coastline by the Tasman Sea. Back home in the Netherlands, in my studio, I often work with steel and magnets; this substance of magnetic iron is evoking my desire to experiment!

As I head towards the rock-face on the northern side of the bay, where I want to see a hole in the rockface up close, a strange sensation overcomes me while crossing a stretch of pitch black, wet sand. It feels spongy. Looking down, I see tiny blue dots, sparkling in the dark sand-like stars in the night sky, and I feel like I'm walking through it. Fabulous and fascinating!

41

'Floating' overnight air

A deep cave system

Small sparkling blue dots

From time to time, the sea thrusts water through the side of the cliff to where I’m standing. It sounds like someone’s hitting a giant barrel. I now realize I can hear this pummelling sea when I’m lying quietly in my yurt at night. Far away, maybe, but it certainly is this pounding and roaring of the ocean. The sea surely has more turbulence than in Mangawhai; the blowholes bear witness to that. The hole in the rock-face I walked to, turns out to be part of a cave system. When I look into the first hole, I see several chambers behind it in which the seawater sloshes and smashes. I think I’ll have a closer look at that when it’s low tide.

The rock formations and boulders that lie here at high tide are dark, almost black and mostly round, some look like piles of giant horse poop!

But, when I get up close with some of the giant boulders, I find their surface porous; made of thousands of tiny perforations. Some are empty, nothing but air, others have some kind of blue residue stuck in them. Is this titanomagnetite, the same stuff I found in my footprints? I have also found this 'blue' on the inside of broken stones. It's curious.

42

I slump down, my back leaning on the rocks on the south side of this bay. From this vantage point, I can see the rock-island, home to a gannet colony. It’s like looking through a beautiful gateway. With cliffedges rising from the sea, some parts are separated from the mainland making it a safe place for these (protected) seabirds to nest.

Interestingly, I notice gannet footprints by the stream. I guess the freshwater attracts them. This colony has grown from tens to thousands of birds, painting the rocks white with their excrement and fouling the air too! It reminds me of my visit to a kittiwake-colony in Vadsø. It reeked so bad there that I had to find an observation spot, far away enough, so I could breathe. It’s not an issue here though; they’re roosting high up on their rock so I can sit down and let the stench blow up and away.

I think of the gannet as a bird crossed between a cormorant (or shag as they say here) and a large gull. But somewhat more elegant, gracious. It’s beautiful how they embrace their honey-coloured heads, entwining their long necks around each other. These sociable, blue-eyed birds seem entirely at their leisure.

43 The wet black sand quintessentially reflects the cliffs and rocks. I am starting to suspect that this place may become meaningful, just as the rock island off the coast of Mangawhai did. I feel this place, where I am right now, will anchor me.

I've been taking quite a few pictures over the last few days taking care to observe the surroundings as thoroughly as I can. The details I see during my walks are starting points that give me a sense of place.

They help me gain an understanding of the landscape. The small parts slowly reveal the bigger picture.

44 T H U R S D AY T H E 6 T H O F A U G U S T

Maukatia, again I left early this morning for Maukatia again; striding happily down the garden path from the rear of the house. Oddly, for the second time, I have these strong recollections of Nepal as I exit the grove and walk over the hill to the beach. It must be the smell in the yurt triggering these memories. I can’t pass the gannet colony today as the walkway is closed; tape drapes over the entrance signalling ‘danger’. It’s not a problem; I follow a beautiful bush path, a little further from the ocean, which also leads to Maukatia. There are lots of surfers today, not only at Muriwai, which is the official surf-beach but also here in Maukatia. I imagine they are experienced and want to take advantage of the last day of the right conditions.

Today I observe more oxidation and iron traces in the stones than I did yesterday. I find some nice ones and even a particularly big stone, dented and cavernous. They all end up in my backpack! I settle for a while at my spot near the southern boulder. I watch the surfers, the rock-gate and while away the time in the sun, daydreaming. Anchoring has tentatively started.

45 THE WEEKEND OF THE 8TH AND 9TH AUGUST

Herman comes to visit me for the weekend, and together we hike a part of the Te Henga Walkway.

Despite the perfect weather, we decide to start our walk at Bethells beach and walk a bit more than halfway. As I’ve already done the other half, I now feel as if I have walked the whole trail! The path from this side of the track is easygoing. After a short steep climb, it mainly follows the high cliffs, and we take our time enjoying the stunning views along the way. Tired and happy, we drive home for dinner and an evening in front of the fire. A contented couple!

It’s a full moon when we walk to the yurt for the night. Herman’s not keen on sleeping in the yurt proclaiming, ‘It smells like an old army tent.’ Still, the bed induces intimacy. As we gaze at the stars through the crown of the yurt, romance engulfs us.

The moon illuminates our bed, My foot folds around your ankle.

The sea roars in the distance.

On top of the rock, high above the breakers, Gannets entwine their necks.

46 T U E S D AY T H E 1 1 T H O F A U G U S T

After the rain

The weather forecast was right; it has been raining thick soggy, wet drops all day long with an occasional downpour. That meant a day working in the studio, looking out occasionally, through the large windows, at the flooded garden. Just before sundown, the rain cleared, and the sun came out leaving just enough time to go for a beach walk; stretch my legs. It smells fresh outside; the air contains a potpourri of forest scents.

Each time I walk through this palm grove, I notice other trees. As it’s so wet, the trees with smooth bark stand out. I stop, look up to admire a kahikatea tree (at least I think that’s what it is). Its crown is so high that I realize it’s taller than all the nikau palms and I can’t even really see it. This place, with tall native trees and the lower layer of nikau palms, fallen fronds paving the path, feels magical.

I’ve found two large põhutukawa trees here. They look relatively old, and their bottom branches protrude into the forest floor. New Zealanders call them ‘Christmas tree’, as they blossom lovely red flowers in December. As I carry on, I wonder if I’ll find any trees flowering in this light deprived bush. It has rained so much today the large pond, has overflowed into this bush; the wet ferns glow green, and the palm leaves drop the last of the rain, slowly, drip by drip, onto the ground.

The palm fronds carpet the forest floor

The kahikatea (endemic to NZ)

The grand old pohutukawa tree

47

Exiting the grove, passing Woodhill forest, droplets on the brush and grass reflect the setting sun, while the distant sea lies cloaked in a soft-pink haze.

I'm happy I choose to go to the beach today. It seems expansive with waves fanning their frothy crests across the sand. Low tide is imminent, but there's no hurry for this tired ocean, it reminds me as it unexpectantly rises over my boots. Filming has distracted me; my feet are wet.

I have to go home, walking through the palm grove, at sunset. There is just enough light for me to navigate the open spaces, yet I still manage to trip over a tree stump and lose my way. Fortunately, I'd grabbed my headlamp when I was leaving earlier, and now, sagely, put it on my head. It might be just a small forest, but I don't fancy wandering around in the dark. The weather forecast for the coming days looks promising, and I plan to go back to Maukatia to continue exploring.

48 THE L AST NIGHT

An unexpected turn of events Just as I’ve snuggled up in bed with a hot water bottle and a cup of tea, I hear Veronique at my door, loudly saying something about COVID and levels and I think, “Hmm, that sounds ominous,”. When I see her worried face in the doorway, I know, “Damn, bad news.” Herman is on the phone. He’s watched the news after getting a COVID alert on his phone (the same one Veronique just received, but I haven’t seen anything). Several cases of Covid-19 have surfaced in Auckland. The entire region (including Muriwai) will return to Lockdown level 3 from noon tomorrow. This means travelling in and out of Auckland will be restricted, everyone must stay in his or her ‘bubble’ and shops, restaurants etc. will close again (except supermarkets etc.).

Here in Muriwai, I consider myself already in a kind of ‘bubble’. I walk, work in the studio, write or sit by the fire with Veronique and only see a few other people. But I wonder, what if the closure of the region is going to be for a long time? Herman can’t get to me nor I to him. The Kaipara region, where Mangawhai is, and the rest of New Zealand must go into Lockdown level 2. There’s more freedom of movement at this level.

There’s much uncertainty. The cause and the source of the outbreak are not (yet) known, what will happen if restrictions are extended, or if infections rise? New Zealand does not take half measures. I decide to talk to Herman and Veronique. I don’t want to leave Earthskin, just as I’m starting to feel settled and content with my rhythm and work ethic. But, the thought of Herman in Mangawhai, and me ‘stuck’ in Muriwai for who knows how long, makes me anxious. I decide to go back to Mangawhai before the Auckland region closes and to wait and see how the infections and the government decisions develop. Hopefully, at the next press conference, we will get more clarity.

W E D N E S D AY T H E 1 2 T H O F A U G U S T

I pack up most of my stuff and drive back to Mangawhai. I hope to come back to Earthskin soon. It’s hard saying goodbye; I wanted to be able to work there all month. The roads are busy, and people are on the move; it’s nearly noon.

49 F R I D AY T H E 1 4 T H O F A U G U S T

Beyond the Kaipara border Home again, Mangawhai.

I thought and hoped I could go back to Muriwai soon, but after talking with Billy this afternoon, I realize that’s not going to happen. The government response is severe and strict. There are checkpoints and roadblocks all around Auckland. Roads in and out of Northland, where Mangawhai is, are monitored.

Wellsford, where Herman sometimes works, is in the Auckland region. He was stopped on his way there, but after showing his stethoscope, was allowed to continue. He has now been issued with a permit so he can travel easily through the checkpoint.

This map shows how large the region is and where we are.

The Kaipara region that includes Mangawhai is part of the Northland district, and the border is precisely between Wellsford and Mangawhai Anyway, all I can do is wait and see and know that I have much more to learn from the West Coast; I have to go back! Meanwhile, of course, I have already been down to the beach; last night for a short sunset walk, and today a longer one.

I can't help but compare the two coastlines and two oceans as I stroll along. The Tasman and the Pacific meet at Cape Reinga, the most northern point of New Zealand, swirling and churning as their bodies of water merge, yet remain separate. While this place is my playground, a place to rummage, scout the sand, find wonderful treasures, Muriwai is more a place of reverence. Pounding waves on the large black boulders, extended lengths of sudsy, salty white caps are awe-inspiring. I could hear the ocean, from my yurt, night by night relentlessly throwing massive breakers onto the back sand.

50

I miss the fierce ocean of the Westcoast T U E S D AY T H E 1 8 T H O F A U G U S T

Sea bile

It’s a rainy, windy day and I head out. Just yesterday Herman and I walked here in tee-shirts, the sun warming our cheeks. Today, the blustery wind tugs at my jacket, the surf reaches up high, pausing before smashing down. Angry, tempestuous, the ocean tosses up bile-like, smelly brown algae and leaves it messily along the tideline. I must navigate the newly formed dunes. It’s only mid-tide, yet it’s already high, and I find myself thinking how Muriwai is often wild, like this.

The metamorphosis of this shore-scape amazes me over and over again. The wind and the water have marbled a small dry strip of sand. It’s beautiful.

Marbled sand

51 F R I D AY T H E 2 8 T H O F A U G U S T

The silver sea I continue visiting this seashore while waiting until I can return to Muriwai. I’ve lost count of how many times I have walked the Mangawhai cliff walk, but today promises sunny warm weather, and I’m heading out to hike it once more. The sea glistens silver, fanning out veils of mercury on the dry sand. The bright light levitates the rock island, separating it from the sea.

I'm not alone here today, people are out walking their dogs, but I soon leave them behind. The tide is low as I pass the rough dark lava rocks drying out in the sun, only the odd puddle remains. They look like mother earth vomited them up and they feel ominous, apocalyptic even.

52 With each tide, the water washes the rocks, and the sand changes their appearances. The high marauding waves last week reclaimed the sand in between the highest rocks, carving out grooves and exposing more stones.

The sheer number and diversity of rocks are fascinating. Throughout my time here, I have wanted to categorize them, failing as they merged, jumbled and dispersed in my thoughts. There are just so many differences in structures, density, colours, textures, shapes and sizes! But now, considering I have become familiar with the diversity, I think I could make a coherent photobook showcasing these ‘nature readymades’. And so, the seashore remains a large playground for me, a place to find new themes, contemplate ideas, photograph and marvel.

The weather is still lovely as I head back over the cliff. From this high vantage point, you can see the rocks stretching out like fingers into the receding tide.

View from the cliff

'Rock-fingers’

53 M O N D AY T H E 3 1 S T O F A U G U S T

Return to Muriwai I leave early in the morning to drive back to Muriwai for a few days. I take the touristic Highway 16, a beautiful stretch of coastal road with sweeping views over rolling fields, and multiple ocean views. There’s hardly any traffic, so I enjoy the drive. Spring is slowly taking hold; the tops of birch trees glow expectantly red in the morning light, the pale, bare poplars in the valleys shine a ghostly white in the verdant fields.

I stop, along the way to admire, from afar, Gibbs Farm, one of the world’s largest private art collections.

This sprawling estate was bought in 1991 by the successful businessman Alan Gibbs, who has given his impressive collection (the largest in NZ) of outdoor sculptures a befitting, expansive and evolving place. There are massive works by Richard Serra, Andy Goldsworthy, Anish Kapoor, Sol LeWitt, Richard Thompson, Marijke de Goey and many other internationally famous artists. I’ve been on their website a few times, to see when I could visit but it seems that’s only possible a few times a year, and so far, I’ve missed out. Enviously, I shoot some photos from the roadside and leave, hoping to visit one day.

The sun has disappeared behind grey clouds, and it's drizzling when I arrive. I don't fuss about the weather much these days, so long as it's not pouring I can nearly always do what I plan. Quickly, I dump my gear at the yurt, say hi to Veronique and head down to the shore.

54

It’s low tide and practically devoid of people and, shells! This wild ocean seems a thriving place for mussels and barnacles. I choose to head out to the gannet colony and study the birds for a change.

They’re so ornate if not somewhat comical with ice-blue rims around their eyes, black lines outlining their bills and soft yellow heads.

They seem to have chosen to roost here as the wind revolves around the freestanding cliff, making it easy for them to take off and land. Its breeding season and I can see many gannets pulling straws and blades of grass out of the surrounding vegetation, returning and carefully poking this material in their nests.

I see a gannet sneakily pull a straw out of her neighbour’s nest; the nests are so close together, I imagine fights break out. Gannets are monogamous, sometimes staying together for up to twenty years, basically their whole life. In winter they spend most of their time alone, but when it’s nesting time (for only one chick, by the way), they revisit each other with grand displays of affection. I bear witness to enthusiastic ‘necking’, bills tapping noisily, biting and mating.

55 I carry on walking to Maukatia. I have brought a magnet and a plastic bag with me to collect some titanomagnetite. I’ve also done this in Mangawhai, collecting black sand and discovering, later, it contained titanomagnetite. Although the ocean has spread it around the northern beaches, it can be found here abundantly, and inland too. I found some on the path behind Earthskin’s garden. On the shore, however, substantial star-shaped amounts attach to my magnet!

It's almost low tide, meaning I can walk a long way along the bottom of the northern cliffs. I can see the light at the other side of the cavern, and I want to go through it, but halfway through, the water reaches up too high, and I turn back. An adventurous boy, perhaps about five, has had the same idea. His pregnant mother and younger sister watch from the cave entrance as he clambers over the rocks. I sense his satisfaction and feel good that they let him happily explore.

You can never trust the sea. I am focused on shooting a considerable star-shaped relief in the rock-face, well above the high-tide line, when suddenly I hear hissing and fizzing water heading in my direction. I quickly get as high up as I can! This isn't the first time this has happened to me of course, but with all that algae in the water today, I would really, rather not have it wrap around my legs.

The Maukatia cliffs appear more robust than the ones in Mangawhai. The rocks and stone formations on this shoreline are less varied in colour and shape but are no less impressive. The forms here seem similar to their original constitution; less polished, less eroded. Like they were only recently tossed out of the earth's crust or chucked off the edge.

56

Some boulders lie like giant dark crystals on the beach Along the robust southern rock-face, I discover a creek that flows along the edge to the shore where the dry rocks are visibly teeming with glossy young, tiny mussels and barnacles. I spot a young family gathering mussels. Green mussels are a popular delicacy here, but gathering them is monitored; you may only collect a limited number of large, adult specimens.

The rocks I sat on last time are dry and light grey. Here, as on the Eastern coast, the tide has many guises.

I resolve to visit Maukatia at different tide times over the next few days and also undertake to examine the northern part more closely. I've heard, a few kilometres north of the surf-beach, you can walk inland along the banks of a river, and plan to go there tomorrow.

57 T U E S D AY T H E 1 S T O F S E P T E M B E R

Heading inland I take my time to go through the nikau bush behind Earthskin’s garden today as I want to capture some of the enchantment of this grove, with my camera. The light has to find its way through thick undergrowth, interwoven palm leaves and aging pohutukawa branches stretching ten meters out. It’s hard to catch!

As planned, I head north to Okiritoto stream. Veronique has told me that if I follow the stream inland, the landscape will be decidedly different. It's hard going in the wet sand, its spongy and I leave quite a trail of footprints. It seems this iron sand makes a crusty surface above a soggy interior. There are black-sand dunes along the way. You could mistake it for a mining quarry if it weren't for the tufts of grass on the dunes.

Today, like yesterday, I find small a smattering of blue specks on the beach. At first, I think they're broken pieces of shell, but as I kneel to take a closer look, I see that they're tiny jellyfish larvae. Looking around, I see dead bluebottles, and these must be their offspring; a new generation.

Dunes that remind me of mining

All tiny seedlings

58

The outflow of the Okiritoto River

An oasis of calm behind the dunes

The ocean shows traces of its power in the washed-up driftwood. The frothy algae paint the surf yellow, contrasting it starkly with the white caps and a dark teal and violet-blue tint the sky. I notice this renewed focus on colour since I recently started painting again.

I walk along the Okiritoto stream inland and enter an oasis of calm. I can hear birds singing, water lapping and the scent of spring flowers wafts past me. It is the two extremes of Muriwai: the sound of the sea pounding on the dark, flat rocks at Maukatia and here, just behind the first dune, a serene quiet. I enjoy it immensely. Just down the road at the edge of the Woodhill forest, I take a break to sit in the sun and enjoy the calm.

Woodhill, a coniferous forest, stretches for kilometres directly alongside the coast. I want to investigate when I return to Earthskin, but for now, I just walk through it as I head back to my studio to work. On the way, I pass a horse-trailer in a designated parking lot; suggesting horse riding is common in this area, but so far, I’ve only seen one rider. Taking your car onto the beach too is popular. But, again, I haven’t seen any, just some tire marks in the sand.

59 W E D N E S D AY T H E 2 N D O F S E P T E M B E R

Evening stroll

Late in the afternoon, after working nearly all day in the studio, I headed out to spend the rest of the day walking. The joy of wandering, seeing new things over and over again and continuing to study the area step by step, resurfaces as I walk around. My back is a bit stiff and sore at times, especially when I make unusual movements. I’m a bit worried about this as in a few weeks we have a holiday planned with activities like mountain biking and hiking to a hut. I must do those back exercises! Anyway, this doesn’t dampen my youthful, explorative mood, and I head on over the hill, down a narrow and possibly illegal path, into Woodhill. The swaying, crackling treetops, and the sprinkling of light on the forest floor invites adventure, but not today. I’m off to the beach.

The sun highlights the little gem-like black mussels carpeting the dry rocks at low tide. There must be millions! I look around, lucky gannets, I muse, ‘What a place!’

Tiny mussels carpet the dry rocks Today, the sea is clean; the algae has gone. I walk along the tide line at Maukatia. The star-shaped relief in the rock-face look like the remnants of a large explosion. It’s like a massive projectile flew into it! I stop and watch a paraglider take off from the cliff edge and gracefully float and glide in semi-circles. A gannet flies alongside for a while. It must feel wonderful to drift on the breeze like this.

60 T H U R S D AY T H E 3 R D O F S E P T E M B E R

A stormy day

It’s stormy when I leave early in the morning for my daily excursion to Maukatia. I put my head down, lean into the wind and see how it has sawed beautiful reliefs in the sand. The heavy iron-based sand is harder for the breeze to uplift than the lighter sand, creating remarkable patterns.

On the flat rocks at the south end, the waves roar and crash and over the edges. So as not to get sprayed, and soaking wet, I have to be careful and wait for the right moment to cross.

The gannets also are lying low. Snug on their nests, their heads tucked under their wings while they wait for the high winds to ease.

61

Again, the beach is deserted bar a lone horse rider and two adventurous kite surfers sailing at high speed.

I’m in awe of it!

Today is my last day in Muriwai for the time being. I look forward to returning for the first half of November to complete my Earthskin artist-in-residence and experiencing this ocean in a different season.

62 W E D N E S D AY T H E 4 T H O F N O V E M B E R

Return to Muriwai It’s overcast as I drive back to Muriwai along coastal highway 16. The views are tinted pale grey but still magnificent. The sky stretches wide over the Tasman sea, filling it to the edges with thick, heavy, oppressive clouds. My mood feels similar, gloomy and grey as I think about our time here coming to an end and what we may encounter when we get back home. The Covid-19 news reports from The Netherlands are profoundly concerning.

Working at Earthskin for a while should prove beneficial for me. This place is so peaceful and contemplative it allows for my work to flow naturally, worries can wait. It doesn’t feel as familiar as my studio back home, but it’s a nice place to work. The artists’ aroma of turpentine welcomes me on arrival, and my fingers itch to get started, but first, I plan to walk down the path to the beach and greet the ocean.

An array of wildflowers has sprung up during my absence. I find some spiky red ones on the ground and think they must have come from the old pohutukawa. The old giant blossomed? But as I look up and scan the branches, I don’t see any flowers and wonder how they got here. Further along, soft yellow-hued, wild lupins border the Woodhill forest track while garden nasturtium creeps over grass patches flowering a cheerful mix of orange and yellow. They brighten the day.

The forecast is wet weather for the coming weeks, so I don’t plan to go on any long walks, nor will I continue to write this Ocean Diary. I will spend the remainder of my time here working and taking a daily walk down to the beach, just to break the day. There are some new places to explore along the way to the seashore, and I know I will remain amused, engaged and connected to this beautiful place. And so, this is the end of my Ocean Diary. I hope you have enjoyed walking with me.

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Afterword This Ocean Diary was cultivated from my solitary walks in Mangawhai and Muriwai but also derived inspiration from the many long north island tracks my beloved and I have walked. As we walk, side by side, we are never alone, the land is always with us. We are together, but each of us is an individual, at one with nature. Perhaps I can best explain this synchronism of experience in the following poem about four days hiking the Waikaremoana trail.

EARTH VOICE

From deep within, I hear a voice, without ego, without airs.

Nourished by tree roots, the rain and the wind, it grows strong, loud and clear.

A voice, of is, of here and now, of was, once and once again, of modesty and courage.

As the earth and the land, breathe in and out, the water whispers and stirs.

This, is the sound of that voice, as my feet carry me forth.

This diary aims to honour the beauty of the Mangawhai and Muriwai coasts, the oceans and the profound connection I felt to this environment. I have sealed this time in my heart and hope this journal has done it justice. — Ank, the 6th of November, 2020

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Acknowledgments Thank you, Joanna, for your excellent English translation that made this diary so much more beautiful.

And also, for giving me the courage to go one step further by putting the layout in the competent hands of Simon and his company White Rabbit. Through the process of this translation, the magic of words and language became clear to me once more. It has reminded me of the value of storytelling and writing. Your enthusiasm is infectious.

Herman, my beloved, thank you and your profession as a general practitioner, which made it possible to spend such a long period in New Zealand. The tranquillity of our home at Tara road and our walks are unforgettable. The hospitality of Harry, Billy and Tony in their slice of paradise has been incredible and heartwarming, so thank you for making us feel so at home.

And a warm thank you to the artist-in-residence Earthskin and Veronique for allowing me to find the contemplation I need as an artist.

Ank van Engelen Muriwai, New Zealand

Credits English translation:

Joanna Rusher

joannarusher.co.nz Photos and text:

Ank van Engelen

ankvanengelen.nl Graphic Design:

White Rabbit

whiterabbit.nz

Copyright Š 2020 Ank van Engelen. All rights reserved.

OCEAN DIARIES M A N G AW H A I H E A D S A N D M U R I WA I , N E W Z E A L A N D APRIL 1 TO NOVEMBER 6 2020 A N K VA N E N G E L E N