Road trip: ladies in a Land Rover

“Road trip!” we whoop, pulling onto State Highway 2. Three mums untethered for a weekend, hitting the open road with nothing but loose plans to explore the second-hand shops of the lower North Island. The best part: we’re travelling in a brand-new Land Rover Discovery D350.

We nestle into white leather seats, unsullied by children’s smears and crumbs, feeling more than a little smug about our luxurious whip.

On the outside, the Discovery D350 has lost its traditional sharp edges as if it’s been left out in the sun to melt. We like the pleasingly rounded bubble bonnet, but all three of us wrinkle our noses at the asymmetrical number plate smooshed into the now globular rear end. We’re grateful to be inside the car rather than following it. 

From behind the steering wheel, the Land Rover’s elevation and widescreen views give the impression of flying, guided by a full suite of digital componentry. Driving starts to feel cinematic.

Outside Dannevirke we pass shaggy highland cattle with ginger fringes covering their eyes like surly teenagers. The detritus from overnight wind litters the highway, but the gales have blown the cobwebs off the day leaving it blue and shining.

Our first stop is at Woodville Mart, a cornucopia of collectibles in a cavernous building. There’s crockery, tools, taps, teaspoons, romance novels, wheels and fittings, all fastidiously categorised. If you needed a specific piece of vintage hardware, you could undoubtedly find it here. 

Down a side street we find The Viking’s Haul, run by an actual Viking. The softly spoken owner, Evan Nattrass, greets us from behind his long grey beard and fur-trimmed hat. We pore through the musty jumble, chortling at retro record covers featuring dumpy men in provocative poses. There are teetering stacks of earthy tableware and an abundance of familiar, nostalgic kitchen items like salt pigs, egg cups and teapots.

We’ve timed our visit to Woodville well because alongside the stalwart second-hand shops there’s also a market on. Inside the Woodville Community Centre stalls are set out on the shiny basketball court. We browse carved wooden jewellery, native plants, cupcakes, fruit wine and crocheted baby clothes while a man wearing a poncho and wide leather hat croons country songs. 

With the Land Rover’s capacious boot piled high with paper boutique bags we drive on to Martinborough, stopping at the Wine Merchants for local pinot noir and bubbles to sip in the hot tub at our Airbnb.

After a sunset spa, we all slip into something more comfortable – our pyjamas – to play cards accompanied by a feast of cheeses, meats, crackers and dips.

The next morning, the driver’s seat of the dewy Discovery greets me like a hug, automatically adjusting to my pre-set preferences.

We’re too early for the shops in Martinborough, which is a shame because the immaculately styled window displays are enticing. With credit cards burning holes in our handbags, we continue our drive south. 

Wicked Secret Emporium in Tauwharenīkau is a big old villa crammed with taxidermy chickens and peacocks, silverware, furniture, quilts and cushions. We’re welcomed by a friendly proprietor and a floppy young Alsatian who comes over for pats.

Further along in Featherston, Monsieur Fox is like rummaging through my grandmother’s wardrobe. Prickly 1960s dresses sit next to fur stoles, rhinestone earrings and a slightly chipped Crown Lynn nautilus vase that I’m sorely tempted to buy. But resist.  

I ease the Land Rover around the slow curves of the Remutaka range, ignoring the queue of traffic behind us; there’s no way I’m taking the precariously narrow road at pace in this behemoth.  

We pull into Petone at the northern head of Wellington Harbour. The waterfront is thronging with families, cyclists and dog walkers on a breezy blue-sky day.

Also on the waterfront is the astonishingly popular Seashore Cabaret. We queue in single file up the stairs as if we’re waiting to get into a nightclub – a nostalgic experience in itself. The colourful café is housed in what was once the Petone Rowing Club and also a dance hall. The legacy lingers, with carnival signage, pinball machines and fun house mirrors. We tuck into fish tacos and a shared basket of curly fries.

Cruising into Wellington, we sing along to Texas Hold ‘Em, our sternums and the rear-view mirror vibrating to the bass from the dialled-up Meridian subwoofer. Alongside, Wellington Harbour is a swirling painter’s palette of teal and turquoise.

The Wellington CBD is not an ideal place for sizeable vehicles, particularly when we arrive at a parking building with a 1.9m height limit and the Land Rover measures 1.893m. We all instinctively hunch, holding our breath, as I inch the car into a tiny space.

While parking was nerve wracking, shopping in Wellington city is slightly overwhelming. We beeline for the collection of vintage clothing shops on Cuba Street, rifling through racks jammed with fabric in colour-coordinated sections, but there’s just so much choice. Hunters and Collectors is well outside our depleted budget with its glamorous designer labels. I sift through intimidatingly stylish pieces from the likes of Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier and Gucci. 

Further downtown we come across a brightly lit Japanese dollar store, bursting with cheap ephemera. There’s kitchen and tableware, accessories and decorations, but unlike the second-hand versions, it’s all plastic-wrapped and largely disposable.   

I can’t help but think that while it might take more effort to find vintage items – even necessitating a road trip to source them – there’s so much more value in those dusty objects that are made to last. These are things that are textured with the patina of other people’s lives and stories; items that have been deemed worthy of passing on and will probably still be functioning long after the cheap, mass-produced versions have become waste.

Plus, I’ll be reminded of this journey of discovery in a Discovery every time I use my Ekatāhuna cabbage bowl.