Turn left at Haast, follow the road as far as it goes, and you find yourself at Jackson’s Bay. We had left our vans back at camp and drove the 50 or so kms down to the end of the road. These days it is a quiet little fishing settlement, a few crayfish boats moored off the wharf, and a couple of small fish processing plants set up overlooking the bay.
There is a good information area set up, which tells of the history of the area, and the flora and fauna.
The long wharf dominates the bay, and is obviously the heart of the place. Being a working day, there was only our group of six and a few other visitors going for a walk along the wharf.
As we strolled along the wharf, one of the other visitor’s commented, “This has to be better than New York!”. What did she mean? As it happened, I was wearing my “I love New York” tee-shirt. I was quick to assure her that I was indeed a Kiwi, and yes, this part of the country is great.
Jackson’s Bay wasn’t always such a quiet little place, and has a sorry tale of falsehood and shattered dreams to tell. After the West Coast gold fields had been worked, the local government came up with a plan to relocate the unemployed former gold miners. In 1874 any man over 16 years of age could take up a 50 acre block of land in this area and be granted ownership. Cottages would be built for families and roading put in, and the fertile soil could grow anything, the brochure promised. Four hundred settlers arrived on the steamship Waipara with their families and possessions, ready to start their new life. They found that the land was not rich and fertile, but a swamp full of sand flies and mosquitoes, it never stopped raining so that crops were lost with flooding, and the ferocious dangerous sea just added to their woes. The settlement lasted only two short years, dreams were shattered, and many lost their lives and were buried in the historic cemetery.
The path wanders around the trees which have grown up in the cemetery. Many of the graves are bordered by rocks, while others have wrought iron surrounding their plots. A monument honours the memory of the early settlers laid to rest in the cemetery or in some other lonely place, and is topped by a cut and polished rock brought down to Jackson’s Bay by glacier action.
It was just a short drive to Neil’s Beach, taking us down an unsealed track past a couple of weather beaten old caravans. Signs saying “Danger”and “Keep Out” were stuck in the ground. Did people live here, we wondered or were they used by fishermen? Then we saw someone sitting in the window – oh dear, hope he doesn’t see my camera.
Neil’s Beach was a wild, pebbly beach littered with driftwood, from where we could see Jackson’s Bay away in the distance. There was a fishing rod stuck in the sand, and the waves tried to lap our shoes. But the sand flies were biting hard, so this was no place to stop for a picnic lunch. Back we drove to camp to hitch up the vans, drive off and find a nicer picnic spot.
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