Your tyres crunch onto the beach access road through lupin-covered dunes, the asphalt giving way to gravel then sand-dusted hardpack. The settlement appears gradually: fibrolite cottages painted in faded blues and greens, fishing rods leaning against verandahs, wetsuits drying on wire fences. Smoke rises from a brazier where someone's burning driftwood collected after last week's storm.
“One of New Zealand's last true bach settlements where multi-generational families return to the same weathered cottages year after year, decade after decade.”
Tropical beach hammock between palms
The beach itself feels infinite—sand compacted hard enough to drive on at low tide, stretching north and south until heat shimmer erases definition. Waves arrive in orderly sets, their approach visible for minutes before they break with a percussive thump you feel through your feet. Toheroa shells, now protected, still litter the high-tide mark alongside bull kelp holdfasts and purple-lipped mussel clusters. The sand squeaks underfoot when dry, a quartz-rich composition that polishes driftwood bone-white.
Evening brings the settlement to life: families converge at the surf club, kids on BMX bikes circuit the gravel roads, and someone always launches a kontiki fishing rig from the beach. The offshore wind dies with the sun, leaving the surf glassy and golden. Dinner smells drift from open windows—bacon, eggs, whitebait fritters during the season. This is bach culture distilled: simple structures, shared routines, and the ocean as constant neighbour.
