The Thundering Paws of the Poodlepocalypse

Short Version:
Birds, beaches, baches. Running, not riding. Work in the north. Carnage in the south.

Long Version:
Tonight I watched a gull preparing its dinner. It flew from the sand to the sky, released its shellfishy beakload, and followed it sandward to inspect the outcome. Repeat until broken. Eventually, the bivalve gave up its fleshy self to the gull’s gullet, and the full-bellied bird was on the wing, just in time to avoid the thundering paws of the impending poodlepocalypse.

Onetangi beach is in a strange state; serious weather across consecutive weekends first deposited an estimated 2 million horse mussel shells on the mile-long stretch of golden sand; then an unprecedented deluge sent to splintered oblivion the iconic red-roofed bach* that had graced the cliff-face at the east end of the beach for longer than most people can remember. Turns out it had long been a haven for women in need of a haven, which puts its destruction – which is pretty entirely comprehensive - another notch higher on the regrettableness scale. Much debate about the culpability of the people who stripped bare the hillside above the bach in order to build themselves a rather unattractive modern behemoth. Not sure where current public sentiment sits – I’m retrofitting this piece quite some time after the fact, and quite some time after last visit to Waiheke, even though it feels like no more than a week or so since we first laid eyes on it upon our return to NZ, on a rainy, humid Tuesday morning in mid-December. We were mildly hungover; the AirNZ cabin crew response to our wedding anniversary disclosure was to ply us with Business Class wines throughout the sixteen-hour flight. We’d had a hard time saying goodbye to Canada, but the moose- and raccoon-head hats helped, and we’ve now been back in Auckland for a couple of months. Ironic, given we were fairly certain we’d farewelled the city pretty well permanently; the plan was Canada indefinitely, with any eventual return to NZ leading us to places other than the big city in the north.

Topping that list was Otautahi, which many people know as Christchurch.

I say “was” because the big city of the south was well and truly flattened this week by a near-surface magnitude 6.3 earthquake. Death toll sits at 146 as I write, with another 200+ missing, presumed dead. It’s been touted by the not-smiling-now Prime Minister as “NZ’s darkest day,” and has serious implications for the city, the region, and the country, although it’s hard to concentrate on the medium- and long-term ramifications when there are still people – or, as now seems near-certain, their remains - trapped under tons of crumbled masonry and steel.

Makes tales of our activities - basically we’ve been running coastal/bush/volcanic wasteland trails and working – seem ever-so-slightly frivolous, and best left for another day.





* = Bach: noun; Pronounced “Batch.”
The name given in New Zealand to small, often very modest holiday homes or beach houses. An iconic part of New Zealand history and culture. Sometimes defined as: "something you built yourself, on land you don't own, out of materials you borrowed or stole." Ma’s house on Waiheke started life as a bach.