Day 1 – Brisbane to Rotorua
Rain, Roads, and Quiet Omens
Day one began without drama, which in travel terms is often a quiet blessing.
Just before departure, a small mystery emerged.
While repacking the suitcases — redistributing weight after discovering Mahi and Mayank’s case had tipped the scales at 28 kilograms — a brand-new paperback surfaced in Mayank’s luggage: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. None of us could remember buying it. No receipt, no recollection, no clear owner. It had simply… appeared.
I started reading it at the airport. A fable about a shepherd who leaves the familiar to follow dreams of travel and meaning. It felt oddly well-timed — one of those books that seems less chosen than encountered.
We took a mid-morning flight out of Brisbane, lifting off with the familiar sense of departure that only really settles once the coastline slips away beneath cloud. The flight itself was uneventful, calm enough to let time blur gently. Somewhere mid-air we discovered, slightly sheepishly, that each of us had a $15 food voucher bundled into our tickets. A small, unexpected gift. Pre-paid meals tasted marginally better for being accidental.
We touched down in Auckland at around 5.25pm local time, greeted by low cloud and steady rain. Auckland felt grey and softened, the kind of weather that presses everything inward. The airport, however, demanded outward movement — the car rental turned out not to be lost at all, merely waiting on the other side of the terminal. A longer walk than expected, but one that gave us time to stretch after the flight and reset our bearings.
Our reward was a near-new black Mitsubishi Outlander, four-wheel drive, barely run in at thirty kilometres. It felt quietly luxurious — modern, clean, responsive — especially when compared with the well-lived familiarity of my seven-year-old BMW back home. There’s something about a new car at the start of a long road journey that carries its own promise: unmarked paths, untold conversations, silent listening.
The rain followed us south. Auckland slipped away, then Hamilton, and the light faded faster than expected. Along the drive, signs for Hobbiton began to appear — tempting, iconic, and briefly considered. But the reality was already settled: fully booked for our dates in Rotorua, and travelling in the opposite direction to where we needed to be. Some places are meant to wait. This one would.
We stopped just after Hamilton for dinner — fast food. Kentucky Fried Chicken for most of us, while Mon sensibly opted for sushi. It was close to 9pm by then. The sun had only just set, but darkness fell quickly, decisively, as if someone had drawn a curtain.
The drive into Rotorua was wet and heavy with weather. Rain persisted, steady and unrelenting, muting the landscape and slowing the world. And then, almost imperceptibly at first, the scent arrived.
Rotorua announces itself not with signs, but with smell. That unmistakable sulphur note — sharp, mineral, ancient — the earth breathing up through cracks in its own crust. Tonight it was gentler than expected. The rain had softened its force, smoothing the edges, turning what can be pungent into something more atmospheric — a reminder rather than a warning.
We arrived at our accommodation on Hinemaru Street — a spacious two-bedroom apartment with a generous lounge and kitchen, comfortable and welcoming after the long drive. The location felt immediately right: close to the gardens, central to restaurants, quietly placed without feeling removed. We would be here for three nights — long enough to settle, not so long as to stagnate.
By then, tiredness had caught up with us. Luggage unpacked only as much as necessary, showers taken more out of habit than need, and the beds received us without negotiation.
Day one ended not with fireworks or fanfare, but with rain on windows, sulphur softened by water, a mysterious book about following one’s path resting nearby — and the deep, contented exhaustion that tells you the journey has truly begun.
