My grandfather, in all his 1940s romanticism, decided to take me on a scenic drive yesterday afternoon. We headed north of Wellington, over the Redwoods and into the Hutt. It was, of course, a beyond familiar route for one who was born and raised in Wellington. And I was, of course as a cynical and snobby Wellingtonian, in a oh-gross-its-the-hutt frame of mind. You see, the Hutt is for Wellington what Brooklyn is for New York, what Canada is for the States, what New Zealand is for Australia.
But there was something in driving into the hutt with my romantic, post war, old and loveable grandfather that made the drive rather beautiful. And in review of the photos I snapped, I must say, its really not all that bad!