From Taupō to Napier and Down the Pacific Coast Highway: Hawke’s Bay and the Return to Wellington

You wake in Taupō with the lake still and grey in the early light, the steam from the geothermal vents along the waterfront catching the first hints of sun. This morning you’re pointed east, and the van feels different — lighter, somehow, as though it knows the volcanic plateau is behind you and something gentler awaits. State Highway 5 unfurls through pine plantations and farmland, the road rising and falling through the kind of countryside that makes you grateful for the wheel in your hands and the open road ahead. The drive from Taupō to Napier takes about two hours without stops. You won’t take that long.

About forty minutes in, the landscape shifts. The pines give way to rows upon rows of green, and you realise you’ve entered the Bay of Plenty’s kiwifruit heartland. Te Puke calls itself the kiwifruit capital of the world, and it doesn’t exaggerate — the vines stretch to every horizon, their leaves catching the breeze in waves that look almost like water. You can pull off at one of the roadside stalls that dot the highway, where honesty boxes sit beside crates of the fruit at a few dollars each. The gold kiwifruit, sweeter and less tart than the green, tastes entirely different here than it does in a supermarket at home — sun-warmed, almost honeyed, the flesh soft enough to eat with a spoon. Buy more than you think you’ll eat; you won’t regret it.

The road descends into Hawke’s Bay through a series of sweeping curves, and then you see it: the Pacific Ocean stretching out to the horizon, the city of Napier spread across the curve of the bay like a painting. The approach from the west gives you the full picture — the Art Deco city centre nestled between the sea and the hills, the port cranes in the distance, the vineyards of the Gimblett Gravels invisible from here but present in the way the afternoon light falls on the land. Pull into the Napier Top 10 Holiday Park, right on the waterfront, and there’s nothing quite like arriving with the sound of waves in your ears.

The holiday park is one of those rare camping grounds that feels both well-run and genuinely inviting. The powered sites are generous, the kitchen and shower blocks are spotless (a blessing after a few days of the van’s small shower, which works fine but rewards brevity — you learn new things about your own efficiency), and the location is unbeatable — a five-minute walk to the Marine Parade, ten to the heart of the Art Deco district. If you’ve been wild camping or freedom camping for the past few nights, the hot showers here will feel like a luxury you didn’t know you were missing. The camp kitchen has proper gas hobs and ovens, which means tonight you can cook something that doesn’t involve boiling water or a single frying pan — the local Pak’nSave is a ten-minute drive and has excellent produce, including lamb that tastes like it came from the farm next door.

The Art Deco Historic Centre deserves the afternoon you’ll give it. Napier was rebuilt after a devastating 1931 earthquake, and the city chose to do it in the style of the moment — Art Deco — with a Pacific twist that incorporates Māori and Polynesian motifs into the geometric facades. Walking Tennyson Street feels like stepping onto a film set, except the buildings are real and lived-in, housing bakeries and bookshops and bars that belong to the present. The guided tours run daily from the Art Deco Trust building, and they’re worth the hour even if you’re not normally a guided-tour person; the guides know every detail, from the subtle differences between early and late Deco to the stories of the individual architects who shaped the city’s look. Your campervan fits easily in the free parking along Marine Parade, and from there you can walk the whole district in a lazy, happy loop.

Dinner in Napier is the kind of meal you remember. Hawke’s Bay is New Zealand’s oldest wine region, and the restaurant scene reflects that confidence — small plates of local produce, wines by the glass that change with the season, and a relaxed sophistication that doesn’t feel pretentious. The Mission Estate, one of the country’s oldest wineries, has a restaurant that overlooks its own vineyards and the city beyond; book ahead if you want a table. For something more casual, the Sunday farmers’ market at the Hawke’s Bay Showgrounds is a Saturday-morning option if your timing lines up, but even on a weekday the local grocers and butchers in Napier’s centre will supply everything you need for a van-cooked feast. That lamb you bought earlier, seared in the camp kitchen with salt and pepper and a splash of Gimblett Gravels red wine, served with roasted kumara and a handful of rocket from the supermarket — it’s simple, and it’s perfect.

Day 9 takes you south from Napier toward Cape Kidnappers. The drive to the Cape is short but scenic, winding through farmland that drops away suddenly to cliffs and sea. The gannet colony at the tip is one of the largest mainland gannet colonies in the world, and there are two ways to reach it: the track or the tour. The track is a four-hour return walk across the beach and up the cliffs, and it requires planning — you need to check the tide times carefully, because the beach route is impassable at high tide, and you’ll want sturdy shoes and plenty of water. The tour, run by several local operators, takes you out in a vehicle that looks like it was designed for the moon, bouncing across the same beach with commentary about the geology and the birds. Both options give you the same payoff: standing at the edge of a cliff, watching thousands of gannets wheel and dive against the Pacific, their chicks fluffy and absurdly cute in the nests that dot the hillside. The smell is intense — seabird guano has a particular pungency — but the sight is worth every second of it. Bring binoculars if you have them; the birds are close enough to see without them, but the detail of their markings and the precision of their dives is something you’ll want to study up close.

The afternoon belongs to Te Mata Peak. The drive to the summit is a winding, narrow road that climbs steeply through sheep paddocks and native bush, and the van will work a little harder than it has all trip — but the view from the top is the kind that redefines the word. Hawke’s Bay spreads out beneath you like a map: the city of Napier and its sister city Hastings to the west, the Pacific Ocean to the east, the vineyards laid out in geometric precision, the mountains of the Ruahine Range distant on the horizon. You can walk the ridge trail in about forty minutes, following the spine of the peak with the wind in your face and the whole region at your feet. The sunset from here is legendary, and if you time it right you’ll watch the light change from gold to orange to deep pink, the shadows lengthening across the bay, the city lights beginning to flicker on below. It’s a hard place to leave.

Back at the holiday park for a second night, you’ll find the routines of campervan life settling into something comfortable. You know now where your pans live, how to angle the van for the best breeze, which local supermarket has the best bread. The freedom camping norms of New Zealand have become second nature — you’ve learned to check for the blue signs that indicate legal spots, to arrive late and leave early when staying in busy areas, to treat the DOC toilets you encounter with a mix of gratitude and caution. Tonight you’re at a proper holiday park with all the amenities, so you take the long shower you’ve been promising yourself, do a load of laundry in the coin-operated machines, and sit outside with a book as the last light fades and the stars come out, impossibly bright above the bay.

Day 10 is the final stretch, and it’s a long one. You’ll leave Napier early, with the van packed and the beds stripped, because you have the entire Pacific Coast Highway ahead of you — State Highway 2 running south through the Wairarapa, hugging the coast as much as the road allows, with the sea on one side and farmland on the other. This is the kind of driving that makes you wish the trip were twice as long: the road curves and rises, offering glimpses of beaches and headlands that make you want to pull over every five minutes. Give yourself permission to do exactly that.

The first major stop is Ōpouawe, a tiny settlement where a river meets the sea and the beach stretches for miles. The parking area is right by the water, and you can walk the sand in both directions without seeing another soul most days. It’s a good place to stretch your legs, make a cup of tea from the van’s kettle, and sit on the beach with your feet in the cold Pacific water, letting the finality of the trip settle in. Castlepoint, further south, is the real highlight of this stretch. The lighthouse sits on a rocky promontory that juts into the ocean, and the beach below is wide and wild, the waves crashing against the limestone cliffs with a sound that feels ancient. You can walk out to the lighthouse along the headland, the wind strong enough to lean into, the water a deep, impossible blue. The carpark here is large enough for campers, and you’ll see others doing exactly what you’re doing — parking up, making lunch, soaking in the last New Zealand coastline you’ll see before the ferry.

The drive from Castlepoint to Wellington takes about three hours, and it’s the hardest part of the day — not because the road is difficult (it’s fine, winding in places but well-maintained), but because every kilometre takes you closer to the end. The Wairarapa opens up into wide, golden plains, the Rimutaka Range rising ahead of you, and then you’re over the hill and descending into the Hutt Valley, the city spreading out below, the harbour glinting in the afternoon light. The campervan depot in Wellington is near the ferry terminal, and returning the van is a process you’ll want to budget an hour for — checking the gas bottles, cleaning the interior (the rental company will expect it reasonably tidy, not spotless, but save yourself a fee by sweeping and wiping surfaces), filling the water tank and emptying the grey water. It’s a small ritual of closure.

You’ll hand over the keys and step out onto the Wellington pavement, the city around you full of wind and the particular light of a late afternoon. The van is gone. The road trip is over. A woman with a toddler on her shoulders passes, pointing at a seagull on a lamppost; the child laughs, a high, sudden sound. The gulls wheel overhead, and someone has left a half-eaten pie on a bench. The air smells of salt and exhaust and something baking from a nearby café.