I headed off to Westport again recently, to spend a few days with my sister who lives there. Westport is on the West Coast of the South Island, a little further north than where I live on the east coast. The differences between the two places are somewhat more than a little, though, with the West Coast being more rugged, wetter, and greener. Plus, my sister’s dwelling is considerably larger and less conventional than mine. And that’s all I’ll say about that – except maybe she should open it up for freedom-rambling tours – lol! Which is never going to happen, but I’d still better get in some practise at ducking whatever she might throw at me for suggesting it 😊

It’s a four-hour direct drive from Christchurch to Westport through the Lewis Pass in the mountains, if there are no stops or hold-ups. That almost never happens, so at least 4.5 hours in reality. Because I don’t go there frequently – a bit over 2.5 years since my last trip – I’m always awed by the scenery. If mist or low cloud is draping over the bush-clad peaks, I can conjure up quite imaginative short mythological stories about them. I say “short”, because I’m no fiction writer, who can visualise a story playing out in their head like a movie. I’d like to be that kind of writer, but I’m not.

On this visit to Westport, sis and I took a day trip south to the spectacular Hokitika Gorge, which is a bit over 2.5 hours’ direct drive away. We stopped briefly along the way so I could take a gander at the old Fox River bridge, where I encountered an Aussie bloke doing the same thing, but wielding a massive camera and most likely getting more impressive pictures. We soon challenged each to say the word ‘six’. Naturally, he pronounced it like ‘sex’, and he – completely erroneously, of course – reckoned I said ‘sux’.

Continuing southwards, we discovered that a quilt shop had sprung up between Runanga and Greymouth in place of the quad-bike experience that had once been there. Of all the things we might have guessed would take over that location, a quilt shop wouldn’t haven’t been amongst them. To add to our beguilement with the ‘oddity’ of it, the Antarctic Hägglund vehicles parked outside gave us a minute or two of more amusement, as we invented nonsense scenarios to account for their presence.

It was the first time either sis or I had gone to Hokitika Gorge. However, neither of us did any homework beforehand to learn about it, because it wasn’t like we were going to a different country, or anything, even if the West Coast can seem a bit like that at times to visitors. When we got there, though, we found there was no road alongside the gorge, as we thought there might be. If there had been, the plan was to meander along it, annoying anyone behind us who wanted to drive faster, and then stop somewhere to make a picnic spot. However, the road to the gorge ended at a 100-vehicle (at a guess) paved carpark in a grass and bush area.

So, we grabbed a spot in the carpark near some of that grass and bush instead, and had our lunch there.

Besides a carpark, the only other facilities at Hokitika Gorge are toilets. All food and drink need to be brought with you, and you take away all your rubbish.

From what we could make out, there were two open walkways at the gorge, with a third one currently closed off. All the walkways are up and down hill, but one of the open walkways to a lookout was very short, so we did that one before lunch and saved the longer one for afterwards.

The longer walkway took us through thick bush, where we took a couple of pics of us being slightly silly buggers for no other reason than the bush seemed to invite it, then across the swing bridge over the gorge. And yes, the bridge noticeably swung and bounced as we crossed it. We walked to a point where we could clamber over some rocks right down to the Hokitika River. The walkway continued on from there, but we chose to make the return trip back to the carpark, where after some further hydrating and (needed) lounging around in the brilliant day we eventually set off for home.

After an intentionally non-strenuous morning the next day, we drove out the opposite way to the gorge, to the almost ‘blink-and-you-miss-it’ small settlement of Waimangaroa. The last time I passed through this tiny town with sis four years ago, we picked the best place for lunch as being on the steps of the fire station.

Since then, Waimangaroa’s gone upmarket. Now, there’s an outdoor café behind the local craft/collectibles/second-hand shop, which is enjoying appreciable success.

Much to my surprise, they even had a vege pie on offer – pumpkin and chickpea – which I partook of. I confess it wasn’t the best I’ve tasted, but that didn’t stop me from scarfing it down, because it was still exciting to get a non-meat pie in a small West Coast town. I know, small thrills.

In contrast to the average-tasting pie, the outdoor space of the café was amazing. Rather than being one big space, it was a series of inter-connecting smaller spaces with various features. Most of the tables and seats were picnic-style, with one having crocheted covers on its seats. Another was a relic from a different time, with a pottery drinking jug displayed on it – which you’ll see sis (pretend) swigging out of, just because she couldn’t resist the photo-op. There was an old canoe, which looked like it could have been pre-European, but although that was debatable it still looked like it had a story to tell. Māori carvings in tree trunks could be seen from a small footbridge built over a pond, whilst the footbridge across the nearby creek was simply a plank. Bits of junk were dotted here and there around the perimeter of the café’s ‘demesne’, with the back of the building which housed the craft/collectibles/second-hand shop decidedly less spruce than the front of it. All in all, a fascinating wee jaunt.

My visit to the West Coast ended the next day, but – to cite a famous one-liner in a movie – I’ll be back 😊