Page:Through South Westland.djvu/52

Often peat-bog, ringed by gaunt dead forest, added to the dreariness, and beyond were desolate sandhills and a cold-grey line of sea. No life, no colour. A broken bridge, with ragged timbers unrepaired, and beyond that three miles of bare, flat road. Then a few houses appeared, and presently we were riding down the wide street of Hokitika, the chief town on this bit of the coast. There was a general air of hilarity abroad, and the town was full of holiday-makers. However, we got rooms in one of the hotels which, at any rate, commanded a magnificent view across a wide stretch of tideway, bounded by low, swampy shores shut in by forest. But far away—a hundred miles or more to the southward—like a mighty rampart standing out to sea, the Southern Alps rose up. The green Pacific rollers seemed to wash the base of those blue peaks and crests, which culminated in the great mass of Mount Cook, towering over all. Evening by evening we watched that unrivalled view, saw the long purple wall with snowy summits change to rose against a clear green sky that shaded upwards into azure—then darken gently as the stars came out and the moon rose, turning the snows to silver. Hokitika might boast a fine harbour, were it not for the dangerous bar and shoal-water at the mouth of its river. A long mole has been run out to sea, and moderate-sized steamers can lie alongside the wharf, close to the town. Here we found a busy little launch awaiting passengers for the Mahinapur Creek. I know that this and the