Out Of Range

When I first mentioned to a friend that my sister and I, plus combined broods, were about to rent a beach cottage in an extremely isolated location for a few days – no TV, no phone, no wifi and no Netflix – she had some helpful advice. “Take flares.”

“Emma!” I scolded her. “It’s an old bach, sure, but we’re not about to convert it into Studio 54 and do the hustle!”

“Safety flares,” she reiterated. “In case of a natural disaster.”

She had a point. If there was another big quake, and with us only a few kilometres from the Hikurangi subduction zone on the North Island’s east coast, we’d need to move fast to avoid a possible tsunami. A scary thought, but potentially not as terrifying as the realisation that, disasters notwithstanding, we were about to have to entertain four children and a dog in a teensy house for the best part of a week.

FREE RANGE

Cresting the hill and turning sharply onto a steep gravel road, I glance down at my phone. This is it – officially out of range. A full battery, but no bars. No Google Maps. No contact with the world. If I haven’t finished that text, sent that email, made that call, I’m certainly not able to do it now.

Our little cottage is perched on a blanket of green grass, overlooking a glittering sea. And once we’re all on-site, cars unpacked, grizzly children refreshed after long drives in hot cars, we head straight to the golden sand. It’s low tide and the most amazing rock pools have appeared – waist-deep, perfect for a dip. My son, 11, and the Labrador are first in. The water is the most astounding blue, and the pools teem with sealife. It’s an awesome start.