A cabin in the world

by Nicholas Witts (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection New Zealand

We drove down the dirt track of a road not far from the city lights of Auckland. We still felt umbilically linked to the rising towers and commuter rush, however a short ride out and we found ourselves in a different world. There was no urbanisation. Traffic lights had given way to trees, pavements had now become grassy verges. The whole drive was flanked by farmland where cattle roamed on the pastures of the fertile land of New Zealand's North Island. Sitting amongst this landscape, almost selectively placed away from the city folk, was a road-side wood cabin. It was perched on the corner of a sweeping left corner, tucked up against a bank where the shadows of a late summer sun concealed its face. It was entirely built of logs that bore stretch marks and rings, ageing it like a weathered man that was tired of the world. Its coppery-tin roof was coated with moss. This cabin felt like it didn't want to be found. There were no cars parked outside and no evidence of life, yet for all this it displayed a sign welcoming passers by the come enquire about the handmade crafts that were on sale. We pulled over and tested the waters. Every part of the following approach was done was a sense of reserve for we did not want to disrupt or disturb anyone who preferred to seclude themselves. 'But there was the sign' we told ourselves. A small part of them surely wanted to be found. We opened the front door slowly and out leaked the sound of Billy Joel's Piano Man, a hearty relic of a bygone era that made this place feel like it was living in the past. Inside, the place gave off a different pull compared to the outside. It had shelves lined with wooden creations - models of ferns, coasters, door stops, even plates. They were all a testament to the craftsmanship of whoever had carved such beauty. The smell of pine hung in the air, but all was silent apart from the backdrop of music. We perused the shelves and took interest in the characteristic of each carving, until we finally found ourselves sharing the floor with company. From out of a backdoor came a gentleman who appeared to have been sitting too close to a fire. His cheeks burned bright as he shuffled behind his counter. As if unassuming of new custom, he remained there and didn't talk. It felt like it was his island, a retreat where he felt comfortable within his own world. We continued further into the shop, paying fleeting glances to the shelves as the figure behind the desk now seemingly warranted more attention. Now within earshot he reached out, "See anything you like? The coasters used to be favourites for passers by." He was right. They were what we would have picked, and what we would go on to pick. "They were beautiful," we replied before asking about how they were made. The conversation then ebbed and flowed. He told us of the trees and the paua stone he had embedded one each one. He told us of New Zealand lore and why it was the land of the long white cloud. And then in dulcet tones he told us of himself and his story. Explaining how he had come to end up in the cabin he began reaching far back. "You know I once took a van around Wales, it was one of the best times of my life. In fact, it was where I met my wife who I run this shop with," he explained. And there, in that hut at the side of a New Zealand road, the world seemingly shrunk and the miles dissipated. Between the pine and the paua, our homeland became the common denominator. We had a local connection that panned across continents and oceans. And now we also had two hand crafted coasters.