In 1855, my ancestor Thomas Urquhart McKenzie packed up his wife and five children and headed “up the coast” from Porirua to Rangitīkei.
This Matariki, I’m following in their footsteps.
Fortunately for me, Thomas’s daughter Eliza—my second great-grandmother—left behind an extraordinary account of the journey, written nearly seventy years later. Her memories have become my script.
It all begins at a place she simply calls “The Ferry”.
The trouble is… there isn’t one anymore.
Today, Porirua Harbour is crossed by bridges, motorways and railway lines. The ferry has disappeared from everyday memory. Finding it became the first mystery of the journey.
As it turns out, “The Ferry” could have been one of two places: Jackson’s Ferry, on what is now reclaimed land beneath North City Shopping Centre, or Bowler’s Ferry at Papakōwhai.
But the biggest surprise hasn’t been narrowing down the location.
It’s been discovering how willing people are to help.
It started with a conversation with Dr Russell Poole, our Flock House Remembered historian, whose knowledge of the route gave me somewhere to begin. From there, a simple question to the Porirua Branch of the New Zealand Society of Genealogists rippled out to librarians, local historians, council staff and heritage groups. Each person seemed to contribute another piece of the puzzle.
It’s reminded me that local history isn’t locked away in dusty books.
It’s alive.
It’s carried by communities who are faithfully preserving stories, maps, photographs and memories that might otherwise disappear.
The more I’ve learned about this ordinary corner of Porirua Harbour, the more I’ve realised it isn’t ordinary at all.
And this is only the first stop.
For my ancestors, this journey took almost a week.
Today, you could drive it in a couple of hours.
But I’m beginning to suspect that if you really want to understand a place, you have to stop measuring distance… and start measuring stories.
