Travel Eighty Years Ggo
From Sydney to Nelson

The following is the first instalment of some rough notes of travel, in 1858. These notes are taken from a small, and now very rare, book published in England, by Mr. Robert Scott, in 1860, and submitted to the “N.Z. Railways Magazine” by P. S. Smallfield.

In Sydney, on the morning of the 10th July, 1857, I was awakened by someone shouting “It is past six o'clock,” By the time I had dressed, the morning had come. To make sure I was in time, I had to leave my linen with a washerwoman in Sydney. I do not expect ever to see it again. With the assistance of the “boots” I was standing on the Victoria wharf at the appointed time, and I heard the clock strike seven. We were rowed to the barque Burnell. 137 tons burden, lying in the middle of one of the bays. The sails were unfurled, and we soon passed the flagstaff battery. By twelve o'clock we had passed the Heads. I looked on the spot, just outside the Head, where, in 1857, every soul, except one, perished when within three hours of the end of their journey, in the ill-fated Dunbar. Near this the Anne and other vessels had lately gone to pieces. By two o'clock we were fairly out at sea, bound for Nelson, New Zealand, by way of Wellington.

The sea at this time was delightfully calm and beautiful, the breeze scarcely strong enough to carry us away from the rocky shore before we were wrapped in darkness. Lightning and squally dirty weather came on with the night. The wind rose, and the vessel pitched awfully. She was an Australian-built barque, of “gum-wood,” that sinks like iron when thrown in water. She soon lay on one side and ducked and dipped, and rolled heavily. The stormy weather continuing, the captain was uneasy, and frequently declared that “Some day this vessel will be found like the ill-fated Prince of Wales with its keel upwards.” All hands on board, saving the mate and myself, were some-what helpless through sea-sickness. At 10 p.m. I returned to my bunk, where I lay rolling about till my flesh was quite bruised and painful. Had I been tossed in a blanket all night, I could not have been much more annoyed. At dawn the squally weather abated, and the rolling was a trifle less disagreeable. The three subsequent days the weather was fine, with a good breeze. In the afternoon of the 9th, “land ho!” We now saw the bold snow-capped mountains of New Zealand. On the 20th, while on the poop, we saw astern Terawhiti Cape in a glow of sunshine; and on the opposite side Tory Channel. Right ahead, Port Underwood stood out, with a background of the most dismal dark-purple storm-cloud I ever beheld. The storm advanced, blowing, roaring, tearing and raining furiously. We lay to, “jammed” between two lines of mountain rocks in Cook's Straits. Oh! such bitter cold winds, they soon drove us below for shelter as well as for breakfast. An hour after we visited the poop again, when the weather was perfectly calm; the angry clouds that so lately threatened us bearing away on our stern. With delight we saw the mountain ranges of Cape Campbell, its glittering snowcap soaring high into the sky in the far east. At one o'clock we ran into an infernal windy bay—the Port of Wellington; and, as usual, I was the first to land.

My companions in the cabin had been Mr. B. and Mr. H. They had been to England to see friends near Cheltenam, but became so dull and tired that they were glad to hasten back to the South Seas for ever. They had been to the diggings near Goulbourne in New South Wales, where they had roughed it in common with others, till at last they became disgusted with their abortive attempts. They had been nearly starved several times, and had lost their horses and dogs through want of water and food. Now they were in search of a wilderness away from mankind; their friends in England having promised to join them ere long. But it may be safely predicted that Wellington will not be their place of rest. No horse can with pleasure be ridden over these hills and mountains. An earthquake, some time back, so deranged the springs and deteriorated the water that most of the inhabitants were placed in the hands of doctors. In the valley of the Hutt the floods are rapid and disastrous. On the 18th of January, 1858, houses and bridges, cattle and sheep, two men, four women and seven children were swept away and lost. In September, another flood happened, with destruction to property only.

I accompanied the captain to the valley of the Hutt, he being mounted on a beautiful bay horse, I on a “buck-jumping” iron-grey one. The narrow road from Wellington for nine miles is along the base of a mountain range, and full of ins and outs, which prevented us from seeing more than 400 yards ahead. At the Hutt the hawthorn, originally transferred from England, grows remarkably well. The dwellings are of first-rate character. Commodious wooden bridges stretch over the stream. In passing over one of these long bridges, after we left the valley, we met two bullock drays. The wheels of one rubbed against my horse, which made him run backwards a few paces, when, placing his head between his forelegs, he began kicking, and

(Rly. Publicity photo.)The park-like environs of Taumarunui, North Island, New Zealand.

page 42 page 43 suddenly laid me on the bottom of the bridge, and then jumped over me. But with the assistance of four ladies, two gentlemen and the captain, we soon recovered him. I mounted him again in haste (for we had to escape the tide, and darkness was coming on), but every time we came near to a dray he plunged with me down to the sea, and would remain there till the dray had passed. But when near Wellington, I forced him close to the mountain side, and finding no means of escape he rushed up the side, there to hang by his feet. and then dropped as soon as the dray was gone by.

Wellington is a small, miserable-looking town. The streets look like dirty lanes. Here and there are lumps of earth in round heaps to a considerable altitude. There is a small barracks, and a population of about 6,000. There are eight piers or landing stages. There is no available land nearer than the little bit in the valley of the Hutt. There are almost continually dreadfully heavy winds; or as the inhabitants remark—“all wind or no wind at all.” At the time of my visit the bay contained two steamers, two ships, three brigs, five schooners, and a few little boats.

I believe it was near this place that a converted Maori applied to be married, but the missionary replied that it was not lawful for him to have two wives, and that he must not marry while his present wife was living. He returned home disappointed. A short time after he came again to be married; and on enquiry it was found that he had killed his first wife and eaten her, that there might be no obstacle in the way of a second marriage.

On the 25th I was glad to see the anchor weighed, and to get away from this cold harbour into the open sea. On the 26th we were again in Cook's Straits. The sailors characterise the passage through these straits as being jammed; but it would be more appropriate to describe them as the mariner's pawn-shop; for, once in, it is two to one against getting out. After sailing for about twelve hours we neared Cape Terawhiti. The weather was tantalising; sometimes favourable winds, then a dead calm, then a head wind and fitful squalls. For thirty-six hours we were in “calm and strife,” and made only three miles direct. With the island of Mana at the top, and Cape Terawhiti at the bottom, with mighty upright rocks in the middle, and what are termed “The Two Brothers,” and Wellington Heads with their ugly rocks along the opposite side, with a channel only eight miles wide, we were buffetted about from side to side every hour; and during three days and nights had made only eighteen miles. At last we reached the top of Queen Charlotte's Sound, leaving other ships in the straits behind us. Here we sailed to and fro for twenty-four hours between Koamaru and Cape Jackson, in continual fear of a dangerous sunken wash-rock which lies near to the island of Motuara. Early on the 29th I found we had passed Cape Stephen and Nelson's monument near Port Hardy, and were sailing down Blind Bay. On the 30th we took up Mr. Cross, the Nelson pilot, rounded the boulder bank, like a gutter, glided smoothly into the natural bosom of deep, calm water.

Near this bay is the river Waimea, or “water of many springs.” The entrance to it which lies south-west about one mile from the bay is over the Nelson flats, and navigable only for small craft for two miles.

At Nelson the landing place and pier, a small luggage shed and customs house built with wood is three-quarters of a mile distant from the town. I went dashing, slip-shod through the mud, and put up at the Trafalgar Hotel, Mr. L., the landlord, hired a light cart to fetch my luggage. I paid two shillings to be put on shore, two shillings to pass the customs, and now five shillings for the cart-hire.

(To be continued.)

(Thelma R. Kent, photo.) The Hooker Valley, Mt. Cook, South Island, New Zealand.