Ferrymead Heritage Park, Christchurch - Memory Lane and a giant playground
May 19th 2010 08:53
Located at the foot of the Port Hills, on the site, initially, of an ancient Maori hunting ground and later, of Zealand’s first public railway, Ferrymead Heritage Park includes two traditional Maori villages, the model town of Moorhouse (old Christchurch from colonial times to the 1920s) as well as a transport and technology museum.
Every evening at 6.30, a cast of more than 30 actors brings the whole 25 acre complex to life with “Lost in Our Own Land” a 3 ˝ hour re-enactment of 200 years of local Maori and Pakeha history.
On weekends and during holidays, a team of dedicated volunteers mans the businesses and transport of Moorhouse and visitors stream into the little town to ride the tram and the old steam train.
On the Thursday afternoon that we visited Ferrymead, all of its attractions were ‘static’, which meant that neither the transport, nor the businesses in the town were manned and operating. Still everything was open and the whole of Moorhouse was ours.
We could visit one another in “our” cottages and shops. We could linger in the dimly-lit church and in the spooky gaol, where a criminal dummy lay stretched on a bed, staring with glassy eyes at a small barred window. We could tinker with the pumps in the street and potter with the gadgets in the sheds. We could sit in the single classroom in the little school. We could push buttons and follow tiny trains around miniature landscapes, through tunnels, points, signals and crossings in the model railway shed. We could hide in the thunderbox outhouse and scuff along dusty roads.
There were huge garages lined with motors from every era. There were hangars full of aeroplanes, including an old NAC Friendship like the one on which I took my first flight in the 1960s.
Ferrymead, on that static Thursday afternoon was brilliant. For those of us who have lived most of our lives in the 20th century it was a leisurely stroll down Memory Lane and for those who have lived all of theirs in the 21st, it was a giant playground where their imaginations could take flight and soar.
There was only one sign of real life in Moorhouse that afternoon – a solitary soul tinkering with a plane in the aircraft hangar – one of those dedicated enthusiasts, who, since it was founded in the 1960s, maintain the treasures of Ferrymead.
The main street of Moorhouse
Every evening at 6.30, a cast of more than 30 actors brings the whole 25 acre complex to life with “Lost in Our Own Land” a 3 ˝ hour re-enactment of 200 years of local Maori and Pakeha history.
The Moorhouse General Store
On weekends and during holidays, a team of dedicated volunteers mans the businesses and transport of Moorhouse and visitors stream into the little town to ride the tram and the old steam train.
The main street of Moorhouse
On the Thursday afternoon that we visited Ferrymead, all of its attractions were ‘static’, which meant that neither the transport, nor the businesses in the town were manned and operating. Still everything was open and the whole of Moorhouse was ours.
We could visit one another in “our” cottages and shops. We could linger in the dimly-lit church and in the spooky gaol, where a criminal dummy lay stretched on a bed, staring with glassy eyes at a small barred window. We could tinker with the pumps in the street and potter with the gadgets in the sheds. We could sit in the single classroom in the little school. We could push buttons and follow tiny trains around miniature landscapes, through tunnels, points, signals and crossings in the model railway shed. We could hide in the thunderbox outhouse and scuff along dusty roads.
The school house
There were huge garages lined with motors from every era. There were hangars full of aeroplanes, including an old NAC Friendship like the one on which I took my first flight in the 1960s.
That old NAC Friendship
Ferrymead, on that static Thursday afternoon was brilliant. For those of us who have lived most of our lives in the 20th century it was a leisurely stroll down Memory Lane and for those who have lived all of theirs in the 21st, it was a giant playground where their imaginations could take flight and soar.
There was only one sign of real life in Moorhouse that afternoon – a solitary soul tinkering with a plane in the aircraft hangar – one of those dedicated enthusiasts, who, since it was founded in the 1960s, maintain the treasures of Ferrymead.
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