Day 7 – Wellington to New Plymouth
Wellington in the Rain, Then the Road West
New Year’s Day began gently, almost reluctantly.
After the late night by the waterfront — fireworks, orchestra, and the quiet satisfaction of staying up past midnight — the morning arrived with little urgency. Checkout was 10am, and we timed it neatly, leaving the apartment just as the city was properly waking up.
The weather looked promising enough at first. Not bright, but not hostile either. On that basis, we decided to begin the day with Mount Victoria Lookout — a place we had not yet been to, and one that so many people describe as essential for understanding Wellington’s shape and setting.
By the time we reached the summit around quarter to eleven, Wellington reminded us who was in charge.
The rain was torrential. Visibility collapsed into mist and moving grey. You could sense the harbour more than see it — an outline, a depth, a suggestion of water and city below. Through breaks in the rain, just briefly, we caught glimpses: the cricket ground, parts of the waterfront we had walked the night before, the curve of the harbour that on a clear day must feel expansive and cinematic.
Instead, it felt intimate and elemental — wind-driven rain, cold air, and cloud racing low across the ridge.
Matairangi — More Than a View
What surprised me most were the interpretive panels scattered around the lookout. Even in the rain, they drew you in.
Mount Victoria is known in te reo Māori as Matairangi, and the summit as Tangi Te Keo — the cry of the keo. According to Māori tradition, the spirit Wataitai travelled along this ridge and over the summit. Its grieving, bird-like call — keo, keo, keo — gives the summit its name. The carved post near the edge marks this deep Māori heritage, anchoring the place not just as a viewpoint, but as a site of memory and story.
There were panels explaining:
- Wellington’s layered history — from early Māori settlement to colonial signalling stations
- The Mount Victoria Signal Station, once critical for maritime communication
- Wind patterns that define the city: from gentle 4–6 knot breezes to violent 34–40 knot gales
- Wind chill, exposure, and why Wellington feels colder than the thermometer suggests
Standing there in driving rain, those explanations felt less abstract and more lived.
Antarctica, Exploration, and the Edge of the World
One display focused on Antarctica and the Antarctic Treaty, linking Wellington’s harbour to the southernmost continent. Nearby was a small monument referencing Richard Evelyn Byrd, often described — somewhat boldly — as “the greatest explorer of the world.”
Byrd was a pioneering American polar explorer, deeply associated with Antarctic exploration in the early 20th century. He led multiple expeditions, helped establish permanent scientific presence in Antarctica, and played a role in shaping the cooperative spirit that later culminated in the Antarctic Treaty — an agreement that set Antarctica aside for peaceful, scientific purposes.
Whether or not one accepts the superlative, the connection made sense. Wellington, perched at the edge of the Southern Ocean, feels like a gateway city — not just to New Zealand, but to the vast, cold, largely unseen world beyond it.
When the Weather Decides
After only a short while — soaked, windswept, and laughing slightly at the futility of umbrellas — we retreated to the car. Mount Victoria had offered us no postcard views, but it had still delivered something honest: a sense of why this city is shaped the way it is, and why its people speak about wind with such familiarity.
From there, we pointed the car north-west, leaving Wellington behind and beginning the long drive toward New Plymouth.
The city disappeared quickly into rain and cloud, and the road opened ahead — another chapter waiting to unfold.
From Wellington to New Plymouth: Small Towns, Long Roads, and a Coast Without Its Mountain
Leaving Wellington behind, the road north-west quickly shifted us into a different rhythm. This was no longer about sights to be done, but places to be passed through — towns encountered at the pace of hunger, fatigue, and daylight.
Whanganui — Lunch Before Curiosity
Our first stop was Whanganui. I had originally marked it on the map with mild ambition — perhaps the glass-blowing studio, perhaps the elevator — but the drive had been long and the body had already voted. Lunch came first.
The town centre felt quietly elegant. Many places were closed — it was the first of January — but even so, Whanganui revealed itself as tidy, thoughtful, and boutique in character. Standing at the central intersection, I took photographs from all four corners. What struck me were the framed historical images mounted nearby: early twentieth-century views of the same streets we were standing on. Same geometry. Same bones. Different tempo. It felt like the town had aged with dignity rather than urgency.
We ate at Lal Kila, run by a warm Indian couple. The food was unexpectedly excellent. I had a chicken and avocado sandwich with curly fries — simple, generous, perfectly done. The rest of the family found their own comforts: noodles for Mon, familiar favourites for the children. It was the kind of lunch that quietly resets a long travel day.
We drove past both the glass-blowing studio and the famous Whanganui elevator without stopping. Not avoidance — just acceptance. There was still a long road ahead.
Onwards, Past Closed Doors
Further along the drive, we passed a well-known museum complex near New Plymouth — the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery and its Len Lye Centre — though at the time we simply clocked it as another place we should return to. On a first of January, it felt safer to assume closure than disappointment.
All the while, we kept searching the horizon for Taranaki.
And finding nothing.
Cloud after cloud. No silhouette. No reveal. We looked in every direction, unsure even where to expect it from. It became almost humorous — this great mountain we had travelled toward, choosing instead to remain entirely absent.
New Plymouth — Arrival Without the Peak
We reached New Plymouth in the late afternoon and checked into the Distinction New Plymouth Hotel. The room was comfortable, calm, and quietly restorative. I took a nap — the deep, unashamed kind that only comes after a long drive — while the others stretched their legs outside.
That rest worked. When I woke, the town felt ready to be met.
New Plymouth has a particular confidence. Even with many restaurants closed for the holiday, you could sense the underlying quality — places that cared about food, design, and atmosphere. In the end, only a handful were open: two Thai restaurants and a Turkish place. We chose Thai.
Dinner was excellent. Masaman prawns for me — rich, warming, indulgent. Pad Thai for the children. Mon finally got the fish she’d been craving. It was one of those meals where no one rushes, because the day has already done enough moving.
The Coastal Walk, At Last
After dinner, we headed down to the New Plymouth Coastal Walkway, a 22-kilometre ribbon of path tracing the edge of land and sea. We only walked a short section, but it was enough. The light was fading. The ocean was calm. The air carried salt and distance.
Still no Taranaki.
The children found swings in a nearby park and claimed them immediately. Mon joined in — unselfconscious, laughing — and the moment softened the whole day. Photographs followed. Not staged ones. The kind that feel true when you look back.
As the sun finally slipped away, we returned to the hotel.
This had not been a day of landmarks conquered or lists completed. It was a journey day — stitched together by meals, towns passed through, weather endured, and the slow accumulation of being somewhere new.
Tomorrow, perhaps, the mountain would decide to show itself.
