Tree ferns. Magical, ancient things from the time of the dinosaurs. Mention New Zealand to many people, and Sauvignon or rugby might be their initial response, but for me, it was all about the ferns.
We have long wanted to visit this faraway country, a place you go to fuelled with preconceptions (‘it’s like Britain in the 1950’s’), excitement (‘unspoilt paradise’) and curiosity (‘you won’t want to leave’/‘everyone under 25 is desperate to leave’). For a Brit, the very idea of New Zealand is delightful: distant and exotic, yet reassuring in its Commonwealth affections, and perhaps more warmly inclined to its old Imperial godparent than its neighbours. Kiwis themselves present an image of the country as a down to earth, no fuss kind of place, where folks look out for one another and where there is always a sensible, preferably home made solution for most things that life can throw at you. One of the strictest Covid lockdown policies in the world, plus sustained battering by climate change weather catastrophes appear to be ripping and tearing at that image. We arrived in Auckland shortly after severe flooding had almost cut off the upper part of North Island, and while everyone we met was welcoming, a weary cynicism pervaded so much of their conversation. Social tensions skyrocketed during Covid, and a challenging economic landscape is hindering recovery. Re-opened tourist markets are now helping, and busy airports and booked-out car hire companies testified to its popularity as a destination, but wherever we went, so many small eateries and businesses had not re-opened. A week into our stay and Cyclone Gabrielle raged across North Island, heaping more misery on communities which had barely recovered from the earlier storms. More than happy to do our bit for this beautiful but seemingly beleaguered country, we set off from Auckland south down State Highway 1, complete with its single lane bridges, and while Neil was dreaming of albatrosses and orcas, for me, it was all about the ferns.
The country boasts more than 200 varieties of fern (cf 40 in the UK), against a backdrop of extraordinarily high endemism: more than 80% of NZ’s 2500-odd varieties of tree, flower and fern occur nowhere else in the world. And that is what happens when, as Earth was rippling and juddering into its current form, you decide to go it alone. This very young country split from the mother ship Gondwanaland 85 million years ago. Squeezed relentlessly between the Australasian and Pacific tectonic plates, its vast mountain ranges emerged only 5 million years ago. The Malvern Hills, where I grew up, were created in their own vast, land-bending collisions over 300 million years ago. In Earth terms, Zealandia is a teenager, restless and forever limb-shifting, volcanoes and earthquakes regularly re-sculpting its cities and coasts. Aware of how priceless that geological isolation is, the country’s mortal guardians are now - for the most part - watchful. Compared to our painfully nature-denuded land, NZ has gone to great efforts to preserve its unique biome. From the sub-tropical north with its rainforests to the Southern Alps and their sub-alpine beech woodlands, over a third of the country’s lands are legally protected and subject to conservation, ensuring vast tracts of undisturbed vegetation where ancient plant forms thrive.
Ferns have inspired botanists and laypeople for years. The Victorians pursued the evergreen plants with such passion that the term pteridomania was coined to describe the obsession. Soon, the obsession evolved into a craze. People started printing fern motifs on everything from dresses, tea sets, visiting cards, and fans, to christening presents, tombstones and even custard cream biscuits (check the swirling motif when you next stop for tea). Glass, textiles, pottery, and wood were brimming with fern designs. Iron gates, chandeliers, and fire grates were built to resemble the plant’s fronds and leaves. Live ferns hung over dining tables and even inside theaters. Wardian (glass) cases filled with ferns were found in every house that could afford them; gardens and orangeries were replaced with ferneries.
I love them for the symmetry and structure of their fronds, from the largest and toughest to the tiniest of filmy ferns, almost translucent, they are so thin. The young croziers are also beautiful: I defy anyone not to be entranced by that elegant uncurling.
Today, ferns are commonplace in British gardens, but tree ferns do still excite envy here, so it was extraordinary to walk through natural groves of these prehistoric giants. Reaching over 7m tall in places, they (dicksonia and cyathea varieties) live below the forest canopy, crucially remaining damp and misted at all times. Below them, around them and on them grow smaller fern species of varying shapes and sizes, along with countless mosses and lichens, while towering over them are the giants of the forest, the white pines (kahikatea) and rata.
It seems there is no surface here without something growing on it - the whole place seethes with life. While its endemic fauna was decimated by man (and continues to be ravaged by introduced egg-eating species like possums, stoats and ferrets), New Zealand boasts some of the most beautiful wild landscapes on the planet. This is not a lost world, but every national park we visited evoked that sense. It is a small step to picture dinosaurs browsing in this antediluvian landscape.
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