Peter Bromhead: Assault on Mount Rangitoto

As a doddery old 70-something, I concluded that if tots can make it to the summit, I could manage the climb as well. Illustration / Peter Bromhead

I first learned of Rangitoto Island's existence as a pimply-faced young man in postwar Britain. There was a feature in the New Zealand Shipping Company's brochure about their recently launched ship, named after the volcano.

Planning to move to New Zealand, I was more interested in the liner's entertainment facilities than the geography of the Hauraki Gulf.

These cargo-passenger liners were the main commercial link between Britain and this country in the 1950s.

Operating monthly via the Panama Canal, they discharged disgruntled Poms on the outbound run, returning to Britain carrying frozen mutton.

After a month at sea, dining on smoked kippers and empire trifle, I was delighted to arrive in the gulf and view Rangitoto for the first time as dawn broke. At the time, I made a mental note to explore the mountain, intrigued with its history.

Now, some 50 years later, I've finally visited the island, thanks to being roped-in as a parent accompanying young schoolchildren.

As a doddery old 70-something, I concluded that if tots can make it to the summit, I could manage the climb as well.

The ascent to the crater proved to be an anti-climax.

While not expecting a bottomless pit swirling with molten lava, I was mildly surprised to discover only a rather boring, completely bush-clad encircled valley.

A single signpost dominates the summit plateau, stating: "No Fires Allowed" - a rather droll declaration for authorities to post on top of a sleeping volcano.

Part of the enchantment of Rangitoto is the collection of holiday houses, frozen in time from an era when New Zealanders created weekend retreats as cosy, makeshift holiday homes - not as the pretentious architectural conceits that now dominate much of our coastal landscape.

I recently stayed in one of these ostentatious glass boxes on Waiheke Island. The so-called architectural masterpiece - completely soulless, with swimming pools and a massive wine cellar - left me uneasy at how wealth has destroyed the innocence of a much simpler lifestyle.

I would strongly recommend that architects take their clients - particularly those blessed with more money than sense - to view these bach hideaways, hopefully to absorb some of the intangible values that an earlier generation of New Zealanders created.

They might detect the echoes of an era when the size of the fish you caught was of more value than the size of your fancy new kitchen oven, equipped with mind-boggling ways to grill your catch.