This was meant to be a spontaneous blog, come home and I’d slap together this clever witty, fluffy piece on Rotorua. Best laid plans, my good intentions wafted off into the ionosphere never to be seen again.
The man and I just love an excuse for a holiday. Road trips are a firm favourite. My husband’s recent birthday provided us with an excuse. The birthday boy’s wants and desires were paramount. A massage had to be part of the package. Taking that into consideration there was only one possible destination, The Polynesian Spa in Rotorua.
Rotorua is a tourist hot spot, with that in mind, accommodation was our first priority. It had to be walking distance to the city centre, restaurants, bars, etc. Jet Park Rotorua fitted the bill. We had stayed here the previous year; breakfast is part of the deal.
Escaping Auckland on a week day is problematic, travelling from the rural west and heading south is fraught, traffic jams galore. Adopting a common sense approach we decided on a leisurely mid-morning start.
Arriving in Rotorua, we donned our tourist hats.
Memories of the Pink and White Terraces, destroyed when Mount Tarawera erupted in 1886.
Rotorua, the city of tulips.
First stop Whakarewarewa Village, it must be at least twenty years since our last visit.
Yay, for my Ellsworth coat. Whakarewarewa is a geothermal wonderland, boiling hot pools and bubbling mud.
I tried very hard to capture a mud hiccup here, after dozens of photos I gave up.
You’ve heard of the Terracotta Warriors.
Now I give you the TerraWhaka Warriors
A relaxing afternoon was spent at the Polynesian Spa. An afternoon in the Retreat, a relaxing soak in the mineral pools overlooking Lake Rotorua, followed by a leisurely massage and a restorative tonic.
The Trip Advisor Gods were consulted before deciding on where to dine. We both have a penchant for the different. Rotorua didn’t disappoint, Che Chorizo and Ali Baba Tunisian Takeaways were superb.
I marvel at what this blog has become. Has it fulfilled its original intentions, yes and no? I started out all teachery. Funnily enough when I was immersed in that other realm, called education, I didn’t have time to blog. The creativity was squished out of me, tired and exhausted this blog collected dust. Now I have time to be me.
I have always been a writer, I thought I might write a book one day, don’t hold your breath. I wanted to do a Master’s Degree in Writing, then I discovered others wanted to steer my boat. I am not good at doing what I’m told. What The Colour of Knowing has given me is a vehicle to express myself in a guarded way. A chance to play with words, big words that I wouldn’t ordinarily use. It makes me feel clever. Most importantly I’ve discovered that if you don’t use it you lose.
So here I am three years on, The Colour of Knowing came out of a very dark place, a poem I wrote after a distressing day in the classroom. A poem I will never share. It has evolved into a mish mash that is me, the teacher, the adventurer, the creator of wonderful things and the occasional writer. Hold on tight and enjoy the ride.
Ka kite ano.