Friday, 6 October
Greta Valley to Iron Ridge Quarry, 50 km
Packing to set off today seems to take forever. Things seem slightly out of kilter, I put something away then can’t seem to find it again, I feel slightly impatient but with what I can’t say. Perhaps it was an excess of beer or the atmosphere of the room I’ve rented; either way, something is out of balance.
Somehow I get away not long after 8:30. An achievement in itself. I’m on State Highway 1 and the traffic isn’t slow to let me know. Not that any car is a problem and the truck drivers are unfailingly conscientious is giving me space, where they can. But it seems busy.
The act of moving on does seem to ease something, however, and before too long the pedalling starts to falls into a rhythm. Neither fast nor slow, adjusting to the feel of the road. The next town, of sorts, is Waipara – which I keep wanting to call wai-PA ra altho’ I hear others saying WAI-pa-ra. Anyway, the main street of Waipara is insulated from SH1 and I turn in there with vague hopes of coffee. Those hopes are dashed. I do stop for a short while at a kind of cottage gift shop that exists almost despite the scarcity of supporting businesses, and come away having only promised to tell others about it.
Back on the road I understand where the momentum arises; there is a distinct tailwind that pushes me irresistibly south. Accepting this, I allow the bike to roll on past the most obvious turnoff to today’s destination and continue as the road wills it, all the way to Amberley.
Here there really is a caffeine opportunity, which I fold into gratefully and sit myself down to work out a bit of a plan for the day after the day after tomorrow. Perhaps this uncertainty has been nagging my subconscious?
Decisions made, I can then turn northwest again, angling towards the Sculpture Park at Iron Ridge Quarry. A broad arch of cloud is growing above the mountains that lie ahead and this usually portends a stiff northwesterly wind, yet today it holds its breath while I navigate first one long, straight road, then another, before beginning to wind into the foothills on a sinuous but surprisingly forgiving narrow road. The atmosphere is eerily peaceful; one car passes, then the silence returns. I pause to simply take it in.
When the entrance to Iron Ridge Quarry appears, I have the strength to pedal up the first 100 m of gravel drive, then push the final 50 m, to find a little world that exists parallel to everywhere else. A high, benched cliff of limestone curves around to create something like a vertical amphitheatre. At the focus of the curve is a large, weather-worn yet solid-looking building that is an iron monger’s workshop adjacent to a spacious guest foyer, and wrapped around these the occupants’ home. Between the cliff and its focus, nestled in the curve, is a simply landscaped space of grass and native plants, notably kowhai in flower, cabbage trees and tussocky grasses. This is the sculpture park and it is captivating.
What one man can do with iron and steel is inspiring. From playful, interactive devices to installations that move naturally in tune with the wind. Others are static but still evoke, for me, a sense of flow.
In fact, after a while I realise the created space achieves a synthesis with the landscape, and as the light changes and the wind rises in the transition from day to evening, the sculptures respond and the shadows lengthen in harmony.
Heidi and Raymond exude the same sort of empathy that his iron creations have with the landscape, and I spend a long while talking with each of them, enjoying the ease with which they welcome me. Later, as I prepare to sleep, I wonder if these are the kind of kinfolk I’ve been seeking for so long.