Raglan - One Grey Morning
I got my first tattoo in Raglan. I was a bright eyed 18 year old with a penchant for birds and pretty things. I had also seemingly missed my rebellious phrase. I never acted up. Never went to parties, alcohol had never soaked my tongue or wits, nor had I ever smoked. Lectures were never needed on me about rules, curfew or how to better behave. I was a model daughter. I loved to study and read and good grades made my heart a flutter, not boys.
So, on my 18th birthday I had an inkling to rebel in some way. I thought perhaps permanently altering my skin may be a good entry into rebelliousness.
I went with an owl for my first tattoo. A symbol of my namesake, Athena. Greek goddess of wisdom.
I wanted her to be on my back, a sentinel - watching my back always.
The tattoo parlour was small and on the second story. It was run by a kind looking woman, with arms rippling with ink. I sat in a chair, while she went about creating art on my back. Her view was the ocean. I remember watching the ocean, wild and free, as I attempted to find some aspect of myself that was wild and free. Not the tightly wound studious girl I had been for most of my life. This tattoo was a symbol of wanting to change.
Raglan is a special spot for me. It was the spot where I first glimpsed the ocean. Fierce and unforgiving. Poseidon’s domain. It is a small seaside town, around a 30min drive from Hamilton.
It has changed a lot since I was a child.
Gone is the old fish and chip shop, where you could get a scoop of hot salty fries and battered fish for under $5. The place always smelled like a mix of old oil and salt. A heady aroma. The place is no more now. Instead the main street is dotted with hipster cafes, surf shops and a plastic free grocery store. Apartments are springing up here and there and the place like most places really is under siege from gentrification. Raglan once was the siren call for artists, hippies and surfers, and to a degree it still is. But it is also now a place for yogis, airbnb owners and the wealthy.
I returned to this part of the sea this week. Something I do when I can. Say hello to a place that has been dear to me since I was a stumbling child.
It was a grey day. Clouds seem to follow me whenever I plan to visit Raglan.
Heavy and portentous.
The trip was to Ngarunui Beach, or as some call it the Main Beach. A beach that surfers flock to for the great surf and us non-surfing folk go to for the beautiful ocean vistas.
The walk down is steep. And you can not help think of the inevitable walk back up. The one that will have your calves burning and your lungs screaming for oxygen. Well, mine at least. Surfers often bypass me as I weave and struggle, carrying their surfboards with ease.
This week I discovered something a bit different about the beach. The lifesaver tower was being repaired and a large fence had been erected around the steps leading to the beach. My heart sunk, I so desperately wanted to feel the sand beneath my toes and the salty sea air in my face.
Luckily a local saw my crestfallen face and explained to me an alternative way to reach the beach.
As he pointed down a long muddy corridor, I thought, well things are about to get a bit muddy.
And muddy they did get. This new walkway was muddy and wet, I sloshed forward. The muckiness forgotten when I heard the soft melody of the ocean beyond.
Wild onion weed grew in abundance along the path, their strong and off-putting aroma following along.
Until the path finally opened up, and the wild beauty of the west coast could be seen.
Raglan. Wild and wind-swept. Black sand beaches, wild waves playing along the coastline, surfers bopping in and out of the water, like seals. They looked small when within such a vast and erratic space.
I was with the sea. My happy place. Finally.