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calls. It’ s also here where the West Coast first shows its face, in brooding clouds rolling over moss-drenched peaks, a preview of the ethereal beauty to come.
Descending from the alpine pass, the air thickened with humidity and the scent of rainforest. The town of Greymouth lies at the mouth of the Grey River, once a hub for coal and gold, now a sleepy, weathered town with a frontier heart. It was our first real taste of the West Coast proper as the Tasman Sea stretched to the horizon where my home nation sat just out of sight.
The town had a utilitarian feel, service stations, motels, a solid pub or two, but it held charm if the traveller is willing to look. Fuelled up, with a steak and a pint at the Speight’ s Ale House, we’ d consider a short detour to Shantytown Heritage Park, where the echoes of the gold rush linger, though time didn’ t permit and we needed to make a run and head for other locations before our time ran out, the real treasure lay ahead. From here, the State Highway 6 became a north-south artery, clinging to the contours of the land, offering some of the finest motorcycling terrain in the Southern Hemisphere.
A short ride north of Greymouth took us to Punakaiki, home of the Pancake Rocks and blowholes, a land where the Earth seemed to fold back on itself. The coastal road here was nothing short of majestic, cliffs on one side, crashing surf on the other, and a forest canopy that often closed in overhead like a cathedral of green. My partner raced off ahead enjoying the sweeping bends and an almost secluded road, I decided slow was good and enjoyed what I could.
It had been suggested we swap our helmets for beanies at the Pancake Rocks visitor centre to wander the short walking track. The limestone formations, sculpted by millennia of wind and sea, were layered like stacks of pancakes offering a name to the local attraction. At high tide, water surges through subterranean
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