Chapter 2
The shells that line my shores hold secrets of the early settlers' footsteps, their dreams, and their struggles.
Around 1,100 years ago I watched as Kupe and his crew arrived on these shores, their canoes gliding across my waters, bringing settlement to what you now call the North Shore. Kupe himself took shelter in Te Haupakaua (Torpedo Bay), where his crew laid down roots that would eventually become the foundation for a thriving settlement.
Two centuries later, Toi te Huatahi followed Kupe‟s sailing directions, landing at Te Haupakaua and marking the beginning of a new chapter in my story. His grandson, Uika, settled permanently at North Head (Maunga Uika) with his people known as Te Kawarau. Two centuries further on (around 1350 AD), the Tainui canoe arrived, anchoring at Te Haupakaua (Torpedo Bay) and subsequently at Taikehu (Devonport Beach). The Tainui people named the spring on North Head, Takapuna, and this name eventually came to mean all the land northwards to Lake Pupuke, including of course the Takapuna Beach.
People were drawn to these coastal stretches where seafood was abundant, forests lay rich with resources, and the sea itself offered swift passage. Back then, my soils—too heavy for cultivation in most places—yielded only to determined hands working the land of Takapuna and Devonport.
Over time many iwi have called this land home, and their histories are etched into every headland and hill. About 150 years after the Tainui canoe landed (around 1500 AD), the shadow of war fell over the shore. Pā were built as defensive fortresses on the ridges of Te Onewa (Northcote Point), Te Matarae a Mana (Kauri Point), and Rohopara (Castor Bay). There was blood spilled on these sands—at Milford, the ground beneath the dunes cradles the fallen, victims of a battle long ago where many residents were slain and buried in dunes.
These pā were repeatedly attacked through the 17th and 18th centuries and by 1750, as a result of continual warfare the area became largely depopulated, and many pā fell into disrepair. The Takapuna area had become difficult to hold because it was easy to attack and allowed little chance of retreat or escape due to its island-like shape. After a Ngati Whatua defeat at Tamaki, Ngati Paoa refortified North Head, only to be attacked by Northland’s Nga Puhi, who besieged the pa for several months during the winter of 1793. The occupants eventually escaped to Waiheke. Once again the area fell into disrepair, with no permanent population despite the fertility and natural resources it possessed. After Nga Puhi had withdrawn, Ngati Whatua ended up controlling the Waitemata.
In the 1820s came the muskets, brought by Ngāpuhi raiders. The violence again cleared my shores, leaving me bereft of the voices and rhythms of those who had dwelled here. But people are resilient, and by the 1830s, survivors—remnants of Ngāi Tai —returned to settle around the tuff crater lagoon and Shoal Bay, their spirits unbroken, their roots still tethered to this land.
By the mid-19th century, I had become a land of change and new beginnings. In 1843, surveyors Allan O’Neill and John Logan Campbell arrived to map my shores, their instruments tracing the curves of my coastline from Devonport to Milford. The land was parcelled into farm lots, and I became a place where dreams were made and futures forged.
By 1844, the land was offered for sale, and in 1849 Governor Grey bestowed a gift upon the Māori chief Patuone, brother of Tamati Waka Nene, a leader of great renown. A life interest in 110 acres, situated between Takapuna's coastline and Barry's Point Road's lagoon, was bestowed upon Patuone. His village, named after himself, stood on a small hill opposite the Barry’s Point Road. While I was known then as Waiwharariki, the locals began calling me Patuone’s Beach in his honour. For 25 years, Patuone called this place home, until his passing in 1872, when he was laid to rest at the Holy Trinity Church Cemetery in Devonport.
By the late 1800s, farms began spreading from Narrow Neck to Milford, their fields worked by settlers from Auckland and beyond—English, Scottish, and Irish farmers among them. Among the first farms was one established by William Hurst. His land bridged Lake Pupuke and the sea, with orchards and a homestead framed by oak and pine trees—trees that still stand today, marking the entrance to Minnehaha Street.
As time passed, I saw the rise of dairy farms at Crown Hill and Archers Road, their milk flowing through Takapuna and Devonport. A brickyard sprang up near Smith’s Bush, supplying the growing community with bricks that built homes and businesses, reaching even as far as Auckland.
By the late 19th century, my character began to shift. Visitors no longer came for the lake alone but for the allure of my beaches. Day trippers from Auckland flocked to Takapuna and Milford, drawn by the soft sands and the promise of escape. To meet this growing demand, the Devonport Ferry Company began weekend excursions, and a wharf was built at the end of what is now The Promenade. Though the wharf bustled with life for a time, it fell out of favor with the arrival of steam trams, its timbers eventually dismantled.
As my beaches grew in renown, they became places of refuge and delight. Around 1909, Paul Hansen transformed his beachside home into a guesthouse, naming it Mon Desir. It welcomed travelers seeking respite, and after World War I, it grew once more—complete with a beer garden for revelers. Mon Desir became a cherished landmark, embodying the spirit of hospitality that had come to define me.
The names bestowed upon me hold secrets of the past. I was once known as Waiwharariki, a name that echoes with the whispers of my history. In the mid-1800s, the settlement at Shoal Bay headland, within Takapuna, bore the same name – a testament to the enduring presence of my shores. The story of Waiwharariki is woven into the fabric of time, its threads carried on the winds that rustle through my flax.
At my northern end, Te Urutapu stands watch, its ancient Pohutukawa trees a testament to the enduring power of the sacred. Beyond me lies Pupukemoana, Lake Pupuke, and the waters of Wairau Creek. Even Milford Beach, once known as Onemaewao, tells of ancient myths, its name translating to “the fairy’s beach.”.
As I stand today, I am reminded of the names that came before. The whispers of Waiwharariki's past still linger, carried on the breeze as it rustles through my flax. The people who once called me home – Patuone and countless others – their stories etched into the land, a lasting legacy that I proudly bear.
I watched as settlers shaped me, and I shaped them in return. My sands, my shores, my waters—they hold the memories of those who walked before you, each layer of history a tide that has risen and fallen with time. I am not just a stretch of sand and sea. I am memory, witness, and voice. You can know me as Waiwharariki, and these are my stories.
© 2025 Garry C Venus
Comments