A New Home and a New Friend

After my breakfast in the doorway of my tent, I set off to explore and see for myself the two properties that Mr Fox spoke of. I had to push my way through much dense undergrowth, stopping here and there to examine some magnificent trees or shrubs, many of which had flowers with a deep fragrance. And then there were the birds—so many I had not seen before. Up in the leafy trees they are all colours and sizes, but it is their song that is so wonderful.

A very beautiful but fragile tree is a shrub-like one about fifteen feet tall and it seems to be shedding a thin tan-coloured papery bark, while there are masses of small flowers almost identical to the garden fuchsia, except they are very small and dark purplish in colour. The trunks of these trees don’t appear able to stand up to wind and storm. Many have fallen or half-fallen but go on growing and flowering.

Next I found a vine twining round and round one of the giant trees and, looking up, saw bunches of beautiful scarlet flowers. As I pushed on, I picked up a very sweet delicate scent. This turned out to be from a starry little white flower growing in masses on another vine.

After that I returned to my tent to sort out provisions and make things comfortable. I had not been in more than half an hour when I heard a deep throaty voice calling—and there was one of the Māori companions from the canoe. It was Koro. He was coming along the track that led to the river. He had a flax basket—the sort that Māori women weave—and in it about twenty pounds of freshly dug potatoes.

He came in, stood at my feet and looked about for an exchange. He evidently didn’t see what he wanted so indicated he wanted a pipe and tobacco. He was very disappointed when he found out I did not have any, and very surprised that I did not smoke. Next, he noticed the sewing kit you had packed for me, Mama. It was at the top of my open bag and he said he would like something out of it, so I gave him—much to his delight—a reel of cotton and three large needles. The potatoes will be such a treat.

Koro stayed and helped me set up a better camp. If only you could see it now, you would be pleased too. He warned me about the birds that were in my tent at daybreak and says they are called ‘Weka’. They are terrible thieves.

Suddenly he walked off and around the clearing, here and there poking about the trees and looking in the low bushes. Then he looked in a bunchy Toi-Toi bush, and as he raked about he let out an exclamation. Bending over, he came up again with five brown speckled eggs the size of a bantam’s egg. Passing them to me, he said they were good to eat.

By the way, Koro calls me Paki—he says ‘Pākehā’ means white man.

Koro set off through the undergrowth, so I followed. He did not ask me to, but without even looking round he pushed his way through. I am sure he knew I was following, although he neither spoke nor looked round for some time. Then, standing perfectly still, he pointed to a small green bird not very high up. As it sat on the leafy bush, it burst into song with such lovely clear notes. We remained still until it finished and flew off.

I was glad to have Koro’s company because it would be easy to get lost here, and also he was a good teacher. He can tell me the name of any tree or bird. At times we can hardly see the sky at all.

I have learned that the vine up the large tree which has the beautiful scarlet flowers is ‘Rātā’, and it finally takes possession of the tree, killing it and then growing into a tree of eighty to one hundred feet high with a large trunk of reddish wood.

Next, along a swampy area, were masses of trees about fifteen feet in height with rough bark and growths at the top like a few cabbages. Koro says the hearts of these are good to eat, so I call them ‘Cabbage Trees’.

Many of the names which Koro tells me are difficult to either pronounce or remember, so I have used names relating to growth or use as he tells me.

We had tramped and pushed our way along for about an hour when we came out upon a clearing. We stood there on a little rise and looked down into a deep ravine and beyond to some very rugged country. According to my chart, this is where the next farm begins. We stood quite a while looking down on large areas so beautiful and so lonely because of the denseness of trees. There was no sign that anybody had ever been there. At the bottom of the ravine there was running water, but it could only be heard. At no time were there more than a few minutes without birdsong. It would burst forth as if to break the silence.

Koro moves very quietly, so I do too. He does not wish to disturb anything. He stood quite still with an ear upwards listening, before I heard a soft cooing noise. For a while I could not see anything, but when I did, it was a fairly large pigeon. It had lovely golden green and glossy blue on the head and back with a broad white breast. Koro says the Māori like to eat them.

Back at the tent once more, Koro arranged a stone fireplace and set about making tea. There is nothing I can offer him that he likes more than tea, and it seems he has chosen to be my ‘manservant’. He says he lives near the river, but has no wife and no children. If he does not expect too much payment, I shall be pleased to have him.

Not far from my tent is a lovely stream. The water is so clear and runs over clean-looking stones. Nearby are some beautifully coloured water birds, strutting around. Koro calls them ‘Pūkeko’.

Just at that moment, I looked up and through the break in the treetops saw something that will remain with me always. I just stared and stared—for there they were, the three hills of Brandon. I don’t mind telling you now, I wondered for a bit if my mind had cracked after all that had been crammed into it over the last six months—but no, I knew what I saw was real.

The one tall hill ending in a large overhanging rock. Then another to the right, rounded and covered with shrubbery growth, while the smaller one to the left with one tree—tall and slim—standing sentinel over all were identical with the hills of the home farm in England. These hills though seem to be taller and the middle one runs more to a peak, but the resemblance is right there. As soon as it is possible, I shall climb till I can see clearly just what it is that these hills could mean. There is no longer any doubt. This is to be our farm and ‘Brandon’ its name.