49 Secret Place

Every childhood has a geography of its own, a map drawn not by roads but by permission. There were places you were meant to be, and places you discovered for yourself. The forest at Ōtaki Beach belonged firmly to the second category. It was not marked, fenced, or supervised. It was simply there, a dense stand of pine and macrocarpa trees that formed a boundary between houses and imagination. For us, it became a secret place.

The macrocarpa trees were the heroes of the forest. Their branches were generous, strong, and low enough to invite climbing. They were perfect for tree huts, the kind built without plans, using whatever timber, nails, and rope could be scavenged. Each hut was a declaration of independence. Up there, balanced among the branches, the world felt different. Quieter and louder at the same time. Closer to the sky, further from adult concerns.

This painting captures that sense of elevation and retreat. The tree stands alone on a rolling hill, its trunk splitting and reaching upward, sheltering a small hut tucked into its canopy. A ladder runs straight up the trunk, a simple but daring invitation. The scale is important. The hut is small, almost fragile, but it is enough. Enough to claim the space as your own.

We defended our fort with homemade slingshots, armed with macrocarpa nuts. The ammunition was plentiful, the accuracy less so. It was more enthusiasm than skill that kept the battles going. The familiar shout from Mum, “you will lose an eye”, would cut through the excitement, a warning delivered from a distance. We kept our heads down, knowing full well that the worst that would happen was a bruise and a good story. Fear was part of the game, but it was manageable, shared, and quickly forgotten.

The forest was never still. When the westerly wind blew in from the beach, everything changed. The trees came alive, their tops swaying and colliding, the sound of wind through needles and branches growing so loud we had to shout to be heard. Branches snapped and cracked overhead, reminding us that this place, for all its familiarity, had its own rules. The painting’s dramatic clouds echo that energy, rolling and swelling behind the tree, suggesting movement and noise even in stillness.

Colour plays its part in memory. The golden grass beneath the tree glows with late afternoon warmth, while the sky shifts between calm blue and looming shadow. It mirrors the forest itself: welcoming and wild, safe and unpredictable. There was always something going on there, even when we were not.

Secret Place is not just about a tree hut. It is about ownership without possession, adventure without distance, and a time when hours passed unnoticed. A reminder that the most important places are often the ones we stumble upon, defend fiercely, and carry with us long after the forest has changed.

Oil on fine portrait linen: 95 x 125 cm; 37.4 x 49.21 in (Sold)