CHAP. VII 
IN THE COACH 
227 
alongside the pier, and the Bishop of Nelson (who was 
on board) kindly went on shore and engaged me a seat 
in the coach, for, alas ! to my dismay I found that I had 
a drive of twenty miles into Blenheim (in the centre of 
the Wairau Plains) that night to catch my coach next 
day to Nelson. This was not a pleasant surprise to 
me : there were no cabs, so my luggage was sent along 
in a wheelbarrow. It was pitch dark inside the coach, 
where we were packed like herrings in a tin. I knew 
that a boy was beside me, for in a few moments he had 
fallen asleep on my shoulder. Two women in the far 
corner made an incredible noise with their perpetual 
chatter, and a man who evidently “ enjoyed ” bad health 
was very plaintive over his many ailments ; the friend 
beside him was unsympathetic. At ten o’clock there 
were gleams of lamp -light and we drew up with a 
flourish of trumpets in front of a substantial-looking 
hotel, feeling ready for supper and bed. It was the 
cheapest drive I had ever had, and even with my lug- 
gage, which was by no means light, cost only five 
shillings. After a sleepless night I was up at six next 
morning, and at seven we started on our way by coach 
again. Blenheim was still sleeping and nothing was 
astir along the road but the milk-carts en route to a 
big butter factory, which we passed by the way. 
The river had risen so high from the last rains that 
we had to go an extra eight miles round. It was a 
pretty, homely-looking country, and we drove between 
hedges of hawthorn, barberry, and sweetbrier, with fields 
on either side, small homesteads dotted about, and 
gardens with apple trees laden with fruit. We passed 
numerous rustic wooden bridges. Under the shade of 
tall poplars and willows ran the Wairau River. The road 
for many miles skirts the plain, famous in New Zealand 
history. It was here that in 1843 the first serious fight- 
