From Taranaki to King Country
The Romantic Railway Route From Stratford to Taumarunui .

(By O. N. Gillespie .)

In countless spots in Taranaki, town and country, the visitor is shown the close and majestic cone of Egmont, and, in the distance, the snowy mass of Mount Ruapehu. The spreading country in between is a maze of blue mountain ridges and shadowy hilltops. To the north it is a land of mystery, much of it untrodden by the foot of man. In the last few years, however, a railway line has been made, striking boldly across all this terra incognita, and bringing the cosy town of Taumarunui, nestling at the junction of the Ongarue and the Wanganui Rivers, within four hours or so of Stratford, that lovely “town by the mountain.”

The trip along this new iron trail is a combination of a joyous vision of scenic wonder and a visual lesson on the historical truth that the railways made, and are making, New Zealand.

In more than one part of New Zealand, the Iron Trail is again being laid, bringing its gifts of regularity of transport and ease of travel to regions that have never known to set clocks by an engine whistle or heard the homely rattle of a night goods train.

I have just completed a leisurely and easy-going journey from Stratford to Taumarunui, the last major cross country railway route to be completed in our country. The route runs roughly parallel with the Taranaki coast, bearing east and north, and it has created a new world in its own fashion, and certainly brought a new area of beauty within travelling reach of every New Zealander.

James Cowan remembers of this region that in the days when he tramped with the railway route exploration party some forty years ago “there was not a habitation of man between the upper Ohura and the outskirts of Stratford, a distance of over eighty miles.”

This enormous mass of mountain and ravine, tumbled plateau and broad valley, bush-clad ridge and hidden swamp, lies between the North Taranaki Bight and the Wanganui River. The railway threads through it approximately in the middle, and a peep at the map is in the nature of a special illumination on the meaning of that black line with the criss-crossed markings. Clustered on either side of it and along it are the printed names of little towns and settlements. On either side are large and portentous blanks.

On the journey one gets glimpses from the tops of ridges, of noble rolling billows of bush and fern stretching into the blue distance and dominated by the towering white sentinel peaks on either horizon of Egmont and Ruapehu. It has its air of grandeur and remoteness from the workaday ugliness of commercialism. It is very comforting though to watch, from the carriage

(Rly. Publicity photo.)
One scene in an ever-changing panorama. Forest glory in the Tangarakau Gorge, North Island, New Zealand.

windows, the passing homesteads and green fields, even if there are signs of occasional rawness and evidences of a transition period in the newly broughtin bush lands.

However, one welcome fact emerges. The very lateness of this area of settlement, the recent date of the task of reclaiming valley and hill and flat from fern, flax and forest, has brought us down to the time when we have acquired wisdom about our forest heritage. Much of the best of the bushclad beauty of these valleys has been saved from axe and torch.

The pilgrimage from Stratford to Taumarunui is a scenic journey first of all, but it is also a panorama of our progress—a series of illustrated living booklets on the evolution of New Zealand from the pristine state of nature to the land with the highest average standard of living on earth. To proceed with this metaphor, Stratford and Taumarunui are like the book ends which hold the volumes straight on the shelves of a book-lover's library.

These two towns, standing at either end of the journey differ in personality, but both are representative of the New Zealand genius for making a small town a civic paradise, or something riear it.

Stratford is on the lower slopes of Mount Egmont, whose flawless cone is visible from every street corner, park seat, back garden, and playing field in the town. Its volcanic deposit, also, it must be said, is responsible for the page 10 riches and the very existence of the whole district.

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A picturesque corner of King Edward Park, Stratford, North Island, New Zealand.

There is “something in the Stratford air,” for its altitude is over 1,000 feet, and a morning stroll in the sunshine is, as I found, good wine for any city dweller. I like to think that Stratford takes its distinctive features from its proximity to that tremendous mountain monarch. The first observable quality of Stratford as a civic creation is spaciousness; nobly wide streets; large parks; open spaces and a uniformity of solid and imposing business premises and public buildings. I have heard countless claims about the dimensions of bridges, but I am prepared to admit Stratford's assertion that it owns the widest bridge in New Zealand. It is the full width of Broadway and in point of fact seems part of that roomy street. I was delighted to find, however, that “over the bridge” is still a phrase in use by the citizens, but it must baffle a stranger now and then.

In spite of the serried lines of motor cars in the main street, Broadway is so wide that the Traffic Inspector told me there was practically no traffic problem.

I like to think, too, that the mountain air has something to do with the progressiveness of the place. It was the first municipality to put into practice the forty-hour week; it was certainly not later than second in the installation of a municipal electric lighting system in New Zealand; it has led the way in the provision of free night lighting in the main streets. This scheme is most artistic, making a double row of frosted pearly globes that confer an opulent beauty on the vista from either end.

Stratford should be proud of its city fathers and once again I notice that phenomenon so persistent in the civic history of progressive and successful municipalities; long term of leadership in office, exemplified here in the person of Mr. J. W. McMillan.

Naturally Stratford has all the amenities of a larger city in older lands—deep drainage, good theatres, hotels, libraries, clubs, modern shops, paved streets, and extensive recreational facilities.

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The railway through the scenic wonderland of the Tangarakau Gorge.

But its parks will, I think, be for ever and a day the jewels in Stratford's crown of civic distinction.

King Edward Park would adorn any metropolitan centre anywhere in the world. It consists of fifty acres, mainly natural woodland; through it runs the Patea River, not the merely slow-running utilitarian stream which we cross at the South Taranaki Port, but a sparkling, limpid swift-flowing mountain stream. The “Round Tour” is a noble walk, and there are, of course, formal gardens in plenty. Swimming baths are being excavated, though the river abounds in delightful swimming holes. The camping site is well-sheltered and excellently appointed. On the western side, fine football grounds and general recreation areas are being levelled to give still more room. Victoria Park contains twenty acres, with football grounds, tennis courts and so on, and a delightful little lake from which, of course, on a clear day, Mount Egmont is reflected.

Then there is a small jewel in the process of being cut and polished in the new Windsor Park.

Miracles are being wrought by a band of enthusiasts upon the banks of the Patea River just as it emerges from under the railway bridge. There are the usual sporting facilities for golf and other games, but I reserve a special word for the splendid racecourse with its imposing concrete steps, and its record of parking as many cars as Trentham or Riccarton. Then there page 11 is the famous plateau, 4,000 feet above sea level, reached by a perfect motor road, and one of the best of the Mount Egmont trips.

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The motor camping ground at Stratford.

However, we had to leave the ordered and settled beauty of Stratford. There is no doubt about Stratford's future, and a study of the mounting figures recorded at its railway station is a source of still more comfort. This great cross-country railway is proving all the time its value to Stratford, and to New Zealand, and the tale of its inwards and outwards haulage is most impressive. Stratford takes its place as a junction centre.

Leaving Stratford, we pass a string of cosy little townships, all with a hall, a store or two, the inevitable service stations, and houses nestling on selected sites on the brows of hills, Electric light and power are everywhere until we get to Whangamomona. Our trip being a leisurely mixture of road and rail, we found that before Whangamomona was reached there were some fine patches of native bush, and the panoramic views from the Whanga Hill were well worthwhile. The little railway station town of Whangamomona lies in a saucer ringed by hills; and we had a cup of tea with the well-known hostess of this busy stopping place.

The journey increases steadily in interest after Whangamomona, fine ridge roads giving splendid distance views, and after the fine Tahora Pass, we reach the Tangarakau Gorge. This is going to give descriptive writers endless trouble with their adjectives, and the visitor making his first trip, will, as I did, suffer continually from suppressed speech.

From entrance point to actual exit, the pass is no less than fourteen miles in length. The road is practically level and follows the course of the river which is a tributary of the Wanganui. Here is an immense and continuous canyon of green bush, of lacy fern, of towering white cliffs above a stream now whitened by rapids and now slowing to dark pools. I have seen countless gorge roads of great beauty in New Zealand and have admired all the famous ones.

Tangarakau is unique among them all. The scene has a kaleidoscopic variety which is almost bewildering. Here is the final contradiction of the ridiculous observation about the sombre uniformity of New Zealand bush colouring. Every tint is here from

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A lakelet in Victoria Park, Stratford.

apple green to emerald, from sage green to the glow of aquamarine.

My friend of the camera was almost an object of compassion. If he could have been a two-camera man on the lines of those two-gun western experts, he would have been shooting from both hips all the time.

Anyone who can remember the Wanganui or the Mokau in their original glory will sympathise with him. Tangarakau offers a new view, a fresh photographic “shot” to every hundred yards of roadway. There is the effect of a succession of drop scenes. On the right stands a perpendicular bluff hundreds of feet high; on the left is a maze of drooping fern and dripping mosses; the whole seems to be the entrance to an immense tunnel through dark green foliage. Then an imperceptible curve in the road seems to move a shutter; now we see an endless vista of pinnacle hills, studded with small trees and feathered with tree ferns arranged in symmetrical patterns; each onward move brings down another canvas startlingly different, filling the eye with fresh magic of nature painting. It needs an ancient Grecian poet to give this rhythmical scenic diorama its proper verbal music.

Half-way along we stopped at a fine modern bridge across the stream. There were dozens of views to choose from, but a small white railed enclosure under the lovely trees took the eye and became the centre of the picture. In that silent place of ineffable beauty lies Joshua Morgan, pioneer surveyor, who died by the roadside while his greathearted mate made the trek in record page 12 page 13 time across the ranges to Tongaparutu on the Taranaki coast, thence to New Plymouth, the nearest source in those days of medical aid.

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Rangaroa, Taumarunui's pretty hill suburb.

In that simple act of gallantry and brotherhood they both achieve immortality; an increasing company of wayfarers throughout the ages will read the plain and forthright story on the board by the roadside.

However, Tangarakau has to be left, for all its continuing loveliness. The valleys commence to broaden and we find neat and tidy modern townships in Ohura and Matiere, and the line strikes east to meet the Main Trunk at Okahukura.

The road turns suddenly south at the rail junction and we followed the slow-flowing Ongarue with its willow lined banks right into Taumarunui. Now we pass huge cuttings through the pumice, shining white and absolutely vertical. The roads are broad everywhere, the country undulating, well planted and dotted with homesteads that show signs of the contentment of old establishment.

Taumarunui is a rich surprise. It is an important railway centre, as everyone knows, and this factor while contributing to the town's material success, also provides it with an entirely undeserved reputation. All expresses, except when the “Daylight” is running, pass through Taumarunui at times, which are rather like nine in the morning for a busy housewife, the essence of inconvenience. In my mind it has always existed as the place where after continuous talk, some one says “Now we'll have a cup of tea at Taumarunui and really get to sleep… .”

Out on the platform, the air seems sharp, and there emerges a one-sided street of shops and premises, a sprinkling of which are lit up. It all seems chilly and discouraging.

Taumarunui is a bustling, progressive, and exceedingly pretty town. It has all the usual modern amenities which would grace a European metropolis, and its citizens have a standard of civic comfort not yet reached in many a city of hundreds of thousands elsewhere.

The business premises are of metropolitan standard, there is an imposing hospital, beautifully situated on a plateau overlooking the river valley. But I am pleased to say that Taumarunui has retained a distinctive personality. The Cherry Grove with the

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The Meeting of the Waters. The junction of the Ongarue and Wanganui Rivers, North Island, New Zealand.

fine gates given by the Mayor (and its well equipped motor camp), I rate as one of the delectable things of New Zealand. It has not been tinkered with, retouched and planted with immigrant flower beds. I except from criticism of exotic trees, the willows of Taumarunui. ‘They are there by the thousand and have become part of the landscape as if they had determined to be good settlers and become naturalised.

The Cherry Grove Park is bounded by both the Ongarue and the Wanganui and we show the meeting of the waters in one of our pictures. The borough has displayed great wisdom and enterprise in the acquisition over a number of years of domain properties, the last of which, the fine racecourse, was obtained the day of my visit.

There are river flats which look like ornamental English park grounds, studded with second growth totaras, with their formal appearance of the trees from a Noah's Ark. Skillful use has been made of the rivers, but the real surprise in store for the first visit to Taumarunui is Rangaroa. The configuration of the country about Taumarunui runs to the occurrences of perfectly flat and spacious tablelands. Rangaroa has all the appearance of a garden suburb, away above the town, with fine residences, footpaths with pleasant green strips kept in order by the house owners, and pretty gardens.

When next you look out of the carriage window at Taumarunui you must look for a gently inclined road that sweeps up the side of the hill opposite to the main street, and imagine (Continued on page 49)