OUR PLACE: In a roundabout way...

Stortford Lodge roundabout is the busiest intersection in Hawke's Bay.
Okay, I made that up, but after two hours parked there on Monday I figure I can't be too far off the mark.
Sunny but crisp outside, the car slowly heats like a crockpot as the rays stream in. It gets so bright I have to stop writing as I can't look at the laptop screen without squinting.
I scout for a cooler spot to park, choosing the shade of a large gum tree near the Hastings Fire Station. Just then, three Indian mynahs noisily announce their arrival and land in the gum.
The mynah is Hastings' official bird.
Okay, I made that up, but I figure I can't be too far off the mark as another rowdy couple arrives. This ubiquitous pest dominates the Bay's airwaves; if you can't hear one, you can see one, and vice versa. Personally I'm not a big fan of these pests. Each time one calls, its head bobs. Its hood's apt apparel for a bird that prefers the urban environment. I pull out my camera, wishing it were a slug gun, yet somehow they sense they're between the cross hairs and fly away.
The "lodge", they tell me, was once a booming trading post, where agriculture interfaced with commerce, corn and cows swapped for coin. The wealth of heavy trucks circling the roundabout indicate this may still be the case.
An old digger walks by and tells me he's frustrated with the big rigs. "Too many come through here, far too many."
I don't argue, but wonder what amenity it is he thinks is suffering as a result. After all, the lodge has always been quintessential Hastings, a heady mix of diesel, beer and primary industry. All evidenced by three petrol stations, sale-yards and pubs on its flanks.
Statistically, Hastings is the country's most cycle-phobic city. Okay, I made that up, but I figure I can't be too far off the mark.
During my two hour watch, only six cyclists ride past. Of those, just one wears a helmet. The others choose hoodies to protect their melons. Darwin was so ahead of his time.
In terms of its architectural graces, the lodge has but the one - the enduring Tommo's at the Lodge restaurant. She's a beaut. I never tire of marvelling at The Matrix of rooflines. But here's the sad thing: I've watched the cladding on the upper tier slowly rot since moving back to the Bay eight years ago.
A young mother walking by with a buggy disagrees with me. "Nah it's okay. Won't take much to replace those boards." True. But I imagine that's what they said in the 50s about another historic pub on another Hastings corner.
Perhaps it's a little churlish to call it the Albert's apprentice, but Tommo's decay is disheartening for two reasons. One, the Lodge is Hastings' primary gateway, and the building's a visitor's first impression. Secondly, this popular piece is the work of the late great Bay architect, Paris Magdalinos.
But then I'm biased. Tommo's was a childhood favourite. My first memory there was as an 11-year-old in 1984. I'd never ordered a la carte before, the waitress so pretty I could barely talk to her. I thought I'd swoon her by ordering and demolishing the lunch special of half a chicken. My waistline is still paying for that famous meal, finished with rapturous applause from my siblings.
My two hours are up, so I take a photo of Tommo's, and decide to ring Hastings Mayor Lawrence Yule to ask if council was willing to fund the replacement weatherboards as a gesture to both the city and Paris Magdalinos. Surprisingly, he agreed instantly.
Okay, I just made that up, but I figure I can't be too far off the mark.