Auckland is a different place to the one Jay Crangle farewelled more than a decade ago.
Jay Crangle lived in the United Kingdom for 11 years - now she's come "home"
A small collection of weather-beaten buds was all that greeted my mother on her first visit to the Takapuna Rose Garden. As a woman more accustomed to the orchids of Kew, Takapuna's finest perennials did little to change Mum's mind that Dad had indeed made a grave mistake whisking us away from a life in Edinburgh to settle in the Commonwealth.
That was more than 30 years ago and I am relieved to say that flaccid flora is no longer deemed to be the height of sophistication here. I recently moved back after a "short OE" that grew into 11 years, four jobs, innumerable jaunts to Europe and the procurement of a life-size souvenir Pom to bring home to Mum and Dad.
Returning home has allowed me to see my City of Sails in a new light. Living in London, where I couldn't move for museums (or for the curious overuse of the word "artisan"), has made me eager to rediscover Auckland's cultural side. And in the days of flyskam – it's a new buzz word, the new Swedish term for being ashamed to fly because of concerns about climate change - we all have a responsibility to start our travels with what's on our doorstep.
From the Stardome's wine, cheese and astronomy, Pūhoi's wine, cheese and kayaking, my local bar's wine and cheese tasting (I'm sensing a theme here) I have left no rosé undrunk, and, more importantly, no cultural stone unturned, in becoming a tourist in my own city.
Upon moving back I was keenly aware I would be trading in more galleries than Picasso has paintings for far fewer here. So I was drawn (excuse the pun) to Auckland's Art Week, venturing out to Parnell with the smell of flat whites and freshly pressed chinos in the air. To me, Parnell has always been such a curious mix of classy and kitschy. Art Week reflected this, with an awe-inspiring oil painting of Aoraki sitting in juxtaposition to a Custard Creme mobile.
Being as fresh off the boat as I am, the mere whiff of a lamington brings me to tears of nostalgia. I was therefore quite taken by the installation of ceramic eskimo lollies - or, as my more politically correct friend calls them, First Nation Confectionary. They were in pride of place beside glass jet planes, a series of terracotta kina and a fetching watercolour of the Four Square man.
I was struck by the newness of the pieces, both in subject matter and in medium. My eyes have become accustomed to 16th century Dutch masters, so old their oranges have become ombres; their ivories, cream. One of my favourite games at the National Gallery was "spot the spaniel." I would go from gallery to gallery in search of King Charles puppies, hidden in the corners of oil paintings beneath centuries old discolouration and dirt.
In Parnell, instead, I found myself playing spot the piwakawaka, currently one of our nation's favourite emblems to depict in watercolour, sculpture, oil and, in one instance of upcycling gone too far, old bandages. While spaniels represent the majesty of European royalty past, fantails represent the vibrancy and youth of Aotearoa. In my books there is room for both Custard Cremes and Canaletto in this world.
One thing I have less room for is every New Zealander's reliance on the car. It has been a painful transition from being able to hop on a train and be in Glasgow in five hours, to spending approximately the same amount of time in Auckland rush-hour traffic. Such is my desire for locomotion that I found myself climbing aboard the Chelsea Sugar train to explore their refinery. Taking a more leisurely pace than Clapham Junction to Victoria (and involving more hard hats) my friend and I were treated to a veritable buffet of sugar facts and figures. We heard about the harvesting and transportation of sugar (quite sticky), the process of refining sugar (very sticky), as well as the public concern over the link between sugar and obesity (a sticky situation).
My favourite part of the tour was the sugar mountain, where sugar from the ships is delivered and housed. This was also the favourite place of most of North Shore's bees, adding a level of danger hitherto unknown to me on my European train experiences.
Along with eating Pineapple Lumps out of the freezer (you must try it) and laughing at photos of babies that look like old men, these sorts of niche cultural experiences are on my list of top 10 favourite things to do. I enjoy nothing more than tours that appeal only to a particular subsection of the population. In the case of the sugar factory, these are people with a penchant for local sucrose history who aren't allergic to bees. There was no shortage of oddly specific experiences in London and I am delighted to see they continue to grow here. Other niche tours I would like to see developed in Auckland include past locations of Georgie Pies and an exploration of the origin story of Harold the Giraffe.
It was in London that I also discovered my love of cultural activities run by volunteer enthusiasts. In the UK this took many forms, from the tour guides at London's first airport, to the man with the fetching navy overalls at the Victorian Testing Museum (for testing machines, not Victorians). I managed to uncover one of these enthusiasts on my visit to Kinder House, the 19th century Anglican minister's house in central Auckland. Our host took great delight in delving into the rich history of Mr Kinder and his family, from his negotiations with local iwi to his commitment to early photography. I left knowing more about the rules of Church of England grammar schools in the mid-1840s than I ever thought possible. It is these sorts of people the world over that make the world go round and I am delighted to find they exist in Auckland too.
So too exists a vibrant music scene, one I've been able to appreciate with fresh ears since coming home. This includes reconnecting with Sofar Sounds, a global company whose USP is running immersive gigs at unique venues. My partner and I regularly found ourselves in a room full of man buns at their trendy London shows. It is a decidedly more relaxed atmosphere at their Auckland concerts. The sort of evening that was limited to plaid covered millennials (and me) in London attracts a more diverse crowd here. Our concert crowd ranged from an 8-year-old boy who BYO'd croissants – the calibre of young people in Ponsonby being a cut above the rest - to a couple in their late 60s, who BYO'd port in a teapot. The more relaxed Kiwi atmosphere is something I relish here. Want to wear pyjamas to the supermarket? Go for it! Want to check how to pronounce our Prime Minister's name? Just get on the blower!
In my hunt for more unusual gigs I also discovered Auckland Central City Library's lunchtime heritage concerts. While many associate libraries with the sound of the word "shhh", they are welcoming places here. The ratio of elderly people wearing woolly hats was higher than most concerts I normally attend, bringing a coach trip atmosphere to the whole affair. I was treated to the tunes of two female composers, Clara Schumann and Amy Beach. We were told the creativity of one was finally able to flourish when she and her husband bought a house big enough for her to have a piano room. It was only through having her own space that she was able to ensure her playing did not disturb her "nervous husband".
This touched on one of my biggest fears since moving back: that there would still be a "boys will be boys mentality", where men get away with bad behaviour because that's just how things are around here. I am relieved to say that aside from an unfortunate incident of a man catcalling me on K Rd, I have found that not to be the case. I recognise I am unusual in this regard – I work almost entirely with women, spend my time with broad-minded folk who share my world view. There are plenty of women who still experience the burden of a "nervous" husband and whose life is awash with #metoo. At least there is one less culprit now though, my admirer on K Rd having been burnt to a crisp by my laser eyes, a secret superpower I honed in the company of an Italian waiter and reserve for such occasions.
Along with refining my laser eyes abilities, my return home has inspired me to reconnect with Aotearoa's history. From Māori pā to walking tours of old cemeteries, I have sought out the weird and wonderful aspects of our past. This included spending a rain-soaked afternoon exploring Brown's Bay heritage trails. Wet phone screen in hand, my partner and I PDF'd our way through the delights of the original library and the old skating rink. I was thrilled to learn that in the early 20th century Brown's Bay used to be referred to as the Naughty Bay (and will now forever be called so by me), due to the raucous behaviour at the pubs and clubs there.
Through all these explorations it struck me how much of New Zealand's heritage exists only in verbal form. There is no London historical site that isn't on Google; no cultural experience that isn't documented online. It is the polar opposite here. Only the other day I was chatting with my friend about an art gallery I like in Devonport and she said to me "Oh you mean the one near the bear pit?" Much googling ensued and I was rewarded only by one NZ Herald article from 2011 with a brief reference to a circus that may or may not have been the origin of the pit's name. My recce to the said bear pit location proved slightly more successful – the wall dating from that time was still there. I wonder though, that if our cultural touchstones are oral, do we risk losing them? Or does that perhaps make them all the more precious, rich historical tapestries rewoven by each generation?
Possibly due to being one of the few New Zealanders who gets excited by old bear pit walls, I often felt like an outsider growing up here. With a complexion akin to Nicole Kidman circa the Tom Cruise years and sporting prowess roughly on par with an overfed kererū, I have often felt as if I don't fit in.
Coming back to New Zaland makes me realise how much of it I do connect with. As I find myself schooling my Pommy partner on the local lexicon (Tena koe! Ka pai! You're not in Guatemala now, Dr Ropata!) I realise how and why this is home. There is a hum to our land that exists nowhere on Earth. Moscow has its rich and chequered history of conquest and communism. Rome has its art, its churches, its ruins. But Aotearoa resonates with an energy that seeps deep into your soul. I have had the privilege of working with colleagues at Ngāti Whātua Ōrākei recently. I was explaining to one that the vibration of the land was one of the things that drew me home. I had to hold back tears far greater than those brought on by a lamington when he said to me, "Ah you feel it too? This is your tūrangawaewae. It means that you belong."
It is in stillness and in quiet that I can connect to this energy. And despite its reputation as a bustling metropolis, quietness can be found in abundance in Auckland. I vividly remember elbowing my way round a Pompeii exhibition at the British Museum with half of London. Yet on a rainy Sunday afternoon I found myself perusing the pumice in the volcanic section of Auckland Museum with only one other very elderly man (possibly dating from the Pompeii era). Here you have to work harder to get your cultural fix. But here too, a casual conversation about art can lead to the discovery of a bear pit. You may be the only one in Wenderholm Beach House in winter, the only one in the archives of Auckland library.
There aren't (artisan) museums on every corner but there is culture out there. You just have to be willing to stop and smell the roses to find it.
