The Last Time I was in Palmerston North

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The last time I was in Palmerston North it involved motel rooms, key swaps, seductive lingerie (black with little red flowers), garter belts (2), a whip, handcuffs and a Formula One driver. But, because you are probably not interested in any of that, I shall move on.

I came close to Palmerston North last week; the sign said Palmerston North 50ks but one can never make up ones mind as to whether such signs are meant as a guide or a warning.

Regardless I ventured no farther. I was in a hurry to get to Taupo (for a beer), to Hamilton (for an interview) and home (for a…). It was all part of a three-day road-trip through Hawke’s Bay, Wairarapa and Manawatu, ending, as much does, in the Waikato.

On that trip I saw parts of New Zealand I had never seen, and parts of New Zealand that would count among the most beautiful I have ever seen. Southern Hawke’s Bay looked like something from a Steinbeck novel, without the sadness. Manawatu was simply gorgeous, stunning. The Desert Road pulled at the heart, ripped at it, demanding that you leave part of it there, and I fear I did a little.

Most joyous of all though, and remarkably for me, were the towns. The towns of central North Island and the Wairarapa are thriving. There is not an empty shop to be seen, the streets are bustling, and the people are cheerful and friendly. Even Masterton, which had experienced a 6.2 earthquake the week before my arrival, was buoyant; I saw no damage and experienced none of the much-vaunted aftershocks. It was probably the high point of the trip.

The only sour point—and here you may say I am being predictable, but I have evidence—was Hamilton.

The only near-miss (crash) I had after travelling 100s of miles in my rental car was in Hamilton. What obscene logic persists in Hamilton that says it makes good sense to have two lanes going fully around a roundabout and cars in the right (inner) lane can at will and without warning cross over the left (outer) lane to exit?

But the evidence I have that Hamilton has a malevolent redolence for me was that my rental car’s GPS simply gave up the ghost when it reached the environs of Hamilton. It  could not track me through (and more importantly out) of the city. It gave me a series of confusing though strident instructions and then went blank. It did show a somewhat hazy image of what I thought was a bull mounting a cow, but it may have been a farmer and a cow—I simply could not tell.

The GPS recovered only when I was on the Te Rapa Straight and on my way home. It was as if it had fled the car and was waiting for me outside the town. Normal service was resumed but by that time I knew where I was going, and where I was going was home—taking with me wonderful memories of this beautiful country of ours and confirmation—if confirmation was needed—that Hamilton is just not my kinda town.