“All Change Here…”
Our Railway Junctions.
A Journey Of Discovery.

(By O. N. Gillespie .)

A glimpse of picturesque Cambridge. (Rly. Publicity photo.)

This all started in a Main Trunk Sleeper where I encountered the English envoy of a large exporting organisation.

“I would like to meet,” he said, “the crossword puzzle genius who worked out your junction systems here. You never seem to have the waits that happen in other countries, and no matter what hamlet you wander into, you can pick up a train somewhere handy that lands you out again on a main line.”

He added that, more than once, as a result of a bright idea in a club, or, in one well remembered case, a surprise telegram on the train, he had changed his routine completely, and was relieved to find how little time was lost making the switch in his connections.

We are all accustomed to mild wonder at the Napier getting in one hour and some odd minutes before the New Plymouth, and we have all looked up the fractional times at which you change at Marton for Wanganui or Palmerston North for Napier, and so on. It had never dawned on me, however, that there was such a vast problem of intricacy and difficulty about these arrangements, until I did some thinking as the result of my English observer's remarks.

I decided to pay a tour of inspection of some railway junctions, and have what is called in the film world a “close-up.”

I looked over the railway map, and discovered a nest of junctions in Central Waikato. Frankton, Ruakura, Morrinsville, and Paeroa (as will be seen in the accompanying map) are a closely set quartette, compactly linked and serving a district that promised to be interesting.

So I and my friend of the camera set out on this railway junction Odyssey, and a fascinating experience it has all been, a revelation of human ingenuity, ceaseless human effort, and unstinted, indefatigable loyal service to the public.

Incidentally, I went among scenes of unforgettable beauty and interest, giving me still more comfort in the unapproachable variety and the diverse loveliness of our country.

The Waikato is the greatest dairying district in the world, and had for many years a time of universal prosperity, accompanied by bustling progress, unique in New Zealand from the fact that its development has been so recent. Only twenty years ago, Waikato lands were looked upon as somewhat poor areas, and capital for development was a difficulty. However, a sounder knowledge of the use of artificial fertilisers, and the rapid advance in scientific farming practice, produced a revolution. The extent of easy, flat, or gently undulating land was enormous, and the whole great basin of our largest river, flowered into endless richness.

The late development made its organisations grow on the more modern models of big business, and such a concern as the New Zealand Co-operative Dairy Company has a just claim that it is the largest dairy company in the world. It is American in scale.

The Waikato is a district of contrasts. Much of it is very old with a wealth of tradition and the sweetness that comes from age. Much of it is new with the efficient air of ultramodernity and (this is not said in malice) giving the impression that the main objective is commercial utility.

Perhaps the best way to tell the whole story is to keep to the chronological order of my journeyings.

From the Main Trunk train, we stepped off at Frankton Junction. As is usual in New Zealand, the station buildings are useful and that is all. A sporting writer would describe their architecture as more within the category of the mule than the thoroughbred. Still, the workaday mule was of more general utility in the war than the handsomest cavalry charger.

The place is a network of shunting lines, and there is a dense city of trucks, vans, and all manner of goods-carrying vehicles. Here is where I began to see life in its railway junc-

Diagram giving the location of the Junctions referred to in the accompanying article.

A typical scene at Frankton Junction. (Rly. Publicity photo.)

tion sense. Frankton is the hub of the Waikato freight traffic, and miles of heavily burdened trucks leave here every day and rumble back every day, coming and going from all directions. These trains have to be provided for among the score of passenger trains that pass through every day, and they have to be assembled, divided up, reassembled, and their segments so marshalled that individual portions can be conveniently detached again. They weave in and out all day and night, and the toiling warriors who deal with them, seem to know nothing about hours or fatigue.

Hamilton is the capital of the Waikato. It is an up-to-date small city. Its handsome main street has the usual surprising massive blocks of commercial buildings, fine hotels and shops, and the whole place has a self-contained air of commercial competency.

Its outskirts are very beautiful and the noble river, with parks along its banks, and rows of fine dwellings overlooking the water, give the town a distinctive atmosphere.

It has all the amenities of a metropolitan centre in any part of the world—water supply, deep drainage, electric light, gas, paved roads, many wonderful parks, golf links, trotting and galloping racecourses, and automatic telephones. The churches and schools are imposing, and St. Peter's Cathedral is the seat of the Bishop of Waikato and Taranaki. In short, it is a very fine specimen of a New Zealand provincial capital.

We drove to Cambridge along an ideal road, through one of the fairest prospects in the world. The pastures are emerald green, the hedges trim and well kept, the farm houses handsome and spic and span, all with vivid and orderly gardens, and splendid trees are everywhere. The rich autumn colouring of the English trees checkered the varying greens of the native foliage.

The entrance to Cambridge, through a towering colonnade of English trees, is worth crossing oceans to find, and the whole bonny place is endowed with similar beauty. I dare to say that this is a lovely English town, with improvements. This place of three thousand souls can claim a list of-amenities of the same standard as its big neighbour, Hamilton. It has three excellent hotels, and all the business establishments usually found only in very large centres in the Old World.

Its park, ringing a gem of lakes, is, and should be the pride of Cambridge. Our pictures show some of its beauty. Here are kauri trees making normal growth. Here is a veritable cedar of Lebanon of great age and height, and there is a forest of the lords of the tree world, all grown to be giants.

It was the first of May when we paid our visit and the sanctuary waters of the lake were dotted with hosts of wild duck who must have in some way got possession of a calendar.

There is a well attended Hunt, and every variety of outdoor sport with rod and gun is within walking distance. Cambridge is a red-haired girl among the comely towns of our Dominion. No one ever leaves it, once having gone there, and I can understand why.

We went from Cambridge, hating to go, and got out at Ruakura Junction. Through this isolated outpost of the railway front, twenty-six trains pass daily, most of them laden to the Plimsoll mark. The officer in charge has a job rather like that of a sentry, relieved by bursts of uncoupling, leaping on and off brakes, and other forms of physical exercise.

The outward train from Auckland picked us up after a few minutes, and we joined the train which runs to the Bay of Plenty, splitting at Paeroa to take travellers to Thames. The latter is a sweet and clean little place with a fine racecourse, and also, of course, all modern sources of comfort.

But it was on our return to Morrinsville that I got to the true inwardness of railway life. We joined there a

(J. F. Louden, photo.)
Hamilton and the Waikato River as seen from the air.

(J. F. Louden, photo.)
Along the banks of the Waikato River at Hamilton.

mixed train on its way down the Rotorua line. It carried six hundred tons of freight, and was approximately two furlongs in length, a mammoth, creaking, rattling, jointed snake of trucks with a brace of carriages and a guard's van. The engine puffed and grunted, hauling to various destinations along the line, ballast, timber, building materials, groceries, a couple of new motor cars for two primary producers, milk vans, machinery, and masses of mysteries hidden beneath tarpaulins.

At every stopping place, vans and lorries were waiting. Privates in the railway army and the indefatigable guard leaped here and there, the engine roared and whistled, while trucks were detached, pushed along side lines, more put on, all proceeding with speed and efficiency. Cinquevalli could take lessons from our folks who handle with such defitness and precision, those heavy milk cans. A flick of the wrist and an apparently effortless heave, and one goes in and an empty comes out. In a twinkling a mountain of the clumsy things appears and disappears. It was highgrade entertainment.

Waharoa, with its sky-scraper factories surrounded by enormous trees, provided us with a new movie star. This was Mac, a collie with a wise eye and enough brains to understand a book on economics. Mac's owner is the sole officer at Waharoa and his duties often take him down the lines a bit. Let the tablet machine ring, and Mac appears on the platform barking the announcement. If there is no response, he darts after the boss, and tugs his coat, explaining the urgency. After the points are changed he takes up a sentry position and woebetide anyone making even a gesture towards the levers. More than once an emergency call has been taken no notice of by humans waiting about the platform and Mac has filled the breach.

We had a look at Matamata, the newest of the Waikato towns. I liked its flagged pavements, pretty central avenue in the main street, its plenty of dainty homes. It has a city theatre and other amenities.

Nightfall came, but still the ceaseless activity went on with our cavalcade on iron wheels. Torches flashed here and there, the engine ran a fireworks display, moving in short spasms, furiously energetic figures belonging to railway heroes jumped, ran and did and undid things, all in vast good humour, all in the day's work. I registered a vow never to complain again about a missing case or a day's delay in the arrival of a couple of wild duck. These latter, by the way, appeared here, there and everywhere on the second of May. The Waikato sportsman's idea is to make their bag travel, for peeps at the addresses proved them to be a directory of New Zealand.

Next we reached Tirau, from which you go to Okoroire. One of these days the line will pop across the short intervening distance between Cambridge and this place. Okoroire Hot Springs Hotel is three miles by a good road from Tirau station, and was an unalloyed surprise.

Here is a miniature thermal regions township, a pocket Rotorua or Yosemite Valley.

It is complete. The hotel is commodious and has the air of a large rambling country house. Down a marvellous avenue of tall trees are the hot springs, which as the rhyme says of the best things in life, are free to guests. There is a fine sandy bottomed swimming pool, of apparently hot champagne, and there are others of varying degrees of heat, all housed in roomy bath-houses. A stream rushes close by, in a series of terrific, picturesque rapids and swirling cauldrons of crazy waters. The golf links are across the fence, a neat nine hole course. There are bowling greens, tennis lawns and other recreational facilities. There is shooting a furlong away, and a trout can be landed fifty yards from the lounge.

I want once again to mention that in our beneficent climate the exotic trees in fifty years have the growth

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
The lake in the gardens at Cambridge.

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
A scene in the Public Gardens at Cambridge.

and the appearance of majesty and antiquity of trees hundreds of years older in Northern climes. Waikato roads are testimony to this, for everywhere they are bordered by lofty greenwood and the pastures have the air of comfort and long settlement that tall plantations give. The bends in the road towards Okoroire are no-where excelled in this regard and the turn to the entrance is a sheer delight. Like so many little paradises in a country over-rich with them, Okoroire should be better known, particularly as a winter refuge from the pass-book inspection and old man depression.

Next day brought us back to Morrinsville, a bustling town with the inevitable brace of cinemas, good hotels and up-to-date business places. All these bright little centres should have a statue of a Golden Cow in the Public Gardens.

The trip ended at Hamilton. Here again we found the same tireless servants of the department, waiting late trains recking not of hours and caring only for the service.

These are my abiding impressions. First of all, there are the vast complexity, the enormous technical skill, and the patient supervision required to keep the iron network of this complex circulation system free from confusion.

And I was astounded at the service given by the rank and file. A small oversight by a tired man at one station makes endless work at another. There is no grousing. Grimy-faced warriors, kept long after their proper hours are done, “hop into it.” When trains are delayed, no one realises that for miles up and down the line, railway servants are waiting till the early hours of the morning to put things right, and doing it cheerily and often.

I was staggered at the cargoes meandering about this one New Zealand area. Not so very long ago, the whole Hamilton-Cambridge road could not have held the concourse of animals and men needed to move that colossal mass of goods our one wheezing engine dragged along those miles of rail.

And lastly, what a country we have in New Zealand! I went through New Zealand once with an American who loved the out-of-doors. After twenty miles or so he said:

“What a God-given place for a camp. I could live there for the rest of my life.”
Twenty miles further he said:
“Why there's another. What a place!”
And after another hour or so:
“Look over there. Let's stop. What a …”
And finally he said:
“All right. I won't say it any more. You've got the universe skinned to death. Why not tell somebody?”

That is how I feel as I continue my little journeys. We have another England here, another “green and pleasant land.” We have its soil and are of its people, and we have added blessings in more sunshine, milder airs and grander natural features.

We surely can do something towards strengthening our determination to cherish and maintain our precious heritage when we stress its claims.

We should, as our cousins across the Pacific say, “Tell the World.”

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
Two busy railway junctions—Morrinsville (above) and Paeroa (below).