Farewell Wellington

Over two decades ago we moved across the world and settled in New Zealand. More specifically, we settled in Wellington, the nation’s capital. We’d already spent a week in Auckland, wondering a lot of that time what the hell we’d done, was it a huge mistake, were we going to have to retrace our steps and return to England?

The drive down to Wellington had been challenging. Whilst we’d done research and knew there were no motorways, even few dual carriageways, we hadn’t anticipated having to drive right through the centre of any form of conurbation, taking over an hour to get through Hamilton. The same in Taupo.

The second issue was lack of options for refreshment. We didn’t realise that cafes and such would all be closed by mid-afternoon at the latest, and we’d then be unable to get anything in the way of a drink that wasn’t cold, bottled and fizzy. It was 7.30pm before we arrived in Wellington, tired, desperate for a cup of tea, and a little frazzled. The first thing we did was get lost.

Wellington, like many cities, has a fondness for one-way streets in its centre. Directions to our accommodation had told us to expect this; they also told us to leave the highway at the wrong exit, meaning we ended up stuck in a one-way system with nothing but these unreliable instructions to guide us. It would have been helpful if we could see street names but, again like many cities, Wellington tends to hide these in places difficult to see from a moving vehicle.

Eventually, by sheer happenstance, we found the university accommodation block we were booked into. It being summer, we’d struggled to find somewhere to stay; it being summer, no students were around, so learning establishments rented rooms cheaply to travellers. Result, we thought. Not so much. The room was spartan, the provided linen threadbare, leaving us thankful for our sleeping bags. We’d left a lovely farmstay with generous and friendly hosts and this was as far away from that as we could imagine. To add to the disappointment, there was nothing in the cupboards but space. No crockery, no cutlery, no means of holding the water we could boil in the provided kettle to add a teabag. I fought back tears; Neil randomly opened cupboards again and again, maybe hoping he would somehow slip into a parallel universe where the crockery we had been told to expect when we booked was actually there.

A call to ‘reception’ proved useless, the person there at this time being ‘just a guard’ (his own words). Maybe so, but minutes later he turned up at our door with two mugs, a teabag in each, a teaspoon in one, mumbling: I’m sorry but I can’t find any milk or sugar. He got the shock of his life when a bedraggled and travel-weary Englishwoman threw her arms around his neck as she sobbed: Thank you! Thank you! You’ve just saved my life. Okay, maybe an exaggeration.

All the above is to prove the point that our arrival in Wellington was less than auspicious. The next morning, unable to use the breakfast provisions we’d shopped for on our way into the city, we went out to find food and a map. The Information Centre provided the latter, a café beside it the former, and our mood improved as we sat in the window munching toast. I noticed the lack of traffic and that children were sitting on the kerb: it was the day of the Christmas parade. There were fewer marching bands and horses, but memory dragged me back a few decades and to the other side of the world, to Sheffield and The Wicker as the Lord Mayor’s Parade passed. I was one of those excited children.

The man in red waved from the last float and we grabbed our stuff and wandered outside, me looking from map to reality. I’m a sucker for a sea view so the City to Sea Bridge beckoned. We watched an Interislander ferry, possibly the one we would be on in a week’s time, slide across the water, and wondered where the harbour entrance was – all we could see was water bouncing in a huge bowl of harbour, no open sea. We climbed the steps with a light wind pulling at my hair, wafting a vague sea smell into my nostrils. Neil’s arm snaked around me and I felt at home. I could live here, I said. He nodded. We’d been in Wellington less than twenty-four hours.

We’ve never regretted our choice. Auckland is too big; Christchurch too flat. Wellington, like the city I left behind, has hills and a lot of green around it, with the added bonus of the sea. It has character and doesn’t feel like a faceless city; it feels like a large village. Like anywhere it has its downsides: you don’t live in Wellington for the weather (and I think that’s a shallow reason for choosing to live anywhere, unless you have health issues that demand such) but there are a multitude of other reasons to do so. Great food? Absolutely. Good theatre? Tick. Bush or beach walks? Get your walking shoes on. Fancy some watersports? Take your pick (just watch out for those ferries). And the people? We’ve made friends for life in this city.

The saying is: you can’t beat Wellington on a good day. It’s true, but even the bad days have their charm, when the wind howls and sideways rain chases white horses across the harbour. Wellington residents are hardy – I’ve never seen so many cyclists in heavy rain and gale force winds as I have in this city. Think the weekend market will be empty on such days? Think again as you join others in heavy raincoats ducking under flapping awnings, pushing dripping veg into soggy jute bags.

Let’s address the big grey pachyderm lurking in the corner. Yes, Wellington is windy. There are few still days in this city, although it isn’t always blowing a gale, often more a gentle movement of the air, a freshening. Fair enough, a picnic on the beach might include literal sand blown into your sandwiches, but you’ll never think the air is stale, and you’ll never have trouble getting your washing dry. And, frankly, there are plenty of other places around the country where the wind gives the capital a run for its money. New Zealand is a windy country, full stop.

Last week, after twenty-three years of calling Wellington home, we finalised the sale on our house and shifted our belongings from it to Ohakune, the small town (village by any other country’s standards) we will now call home. We’ll miss Wellington a lot; we’ll miss our friends who still live there. If you have to live in a city for work there are fewer that are better. But life, as it does, moves on and so are we, creeping towards the stage where we don’t need to work, and therefore live, in a city. New adventures beckon without the daily grind of the nine-to-five.

I’ve had the good fortune to live in two of the greatest cities in the world. As Sheffield will always hold a piece of my heart, so will Wellington. I still consider myself a Sheffield Lass; I’ll always be a Wellingtonian.

Wellington – it’s been a blast.