The Bethells of Te Henga was thrown off quickly in preparation for a family reunion of the Bethells, so it was a surprise when it was quoted as a model family history and went into three reprints. The little book covers not only the history of John Bethell who arrived in New Zealand as a baby in 1858, but also of the land on the west coast of Auckland known as Bethells Beach, or by its Maori name Te Henga, where he made his home.
The Bethells of Te Henga.
Excerpt re arriving to spend a holiday at the beach cottage Otawewe at Te Henga.
As soon as we had settled in, ‘bagged’ a bed and each deposited our little suitcase beneath it, we would whoop off to check out our favorite spots. Down past the caravan to ‘Pa’s Seat’ made from a hollow log, to ‘our’ beach to see what new path the creek was taking, and the possibilities of dam-building; on past the strange rocky pyramid that rises twelve feet out of the surrounding sand, and at whose base we, one summer, found a gigantic and very smelly whale carcase; down to the rocks and caves where one year the sand would build up and the next be washed away, revealing deep enclosed pools where we swam but never touched the bottom for fear of the nip of some disturbed crab. Then into the big cave, our shrieks echoing in the deep recesses, till we reached the soft dry sand where the sand hoppers thrived above the reach of the high tide; but I always feared to be trapped there, by a tidal wave perhaps, and would quickly scamper back into the sunlight. After a year of wearing shoes, we were awkward clambering barefoot out on the sharp rocky shelf with its anemone-scattered rock pools to peep into the next bay; then down onto the hard sand by the mussel beds, ‘riding’ flax sticks and toitoi heads, leaving patterns as we went, dogs and children weaving and circling, to flop down eventually on the sheltered grassy flat of the ‘little island’ where you could stay hidden and see everything that happened on the beach. But very soon the call of hunger, so back up the cart track, stubbing toes on the sandstone base, through ‘the Dip’ where New Years Eve bonfires were held every year, and back to the cottage, grateful for its enclosing walls and ravenous at the smell of food cooking....