That’s right: “botanic.” Not “botanical.” Like “colour” (color), “flavour” (flavor), and “trolley” (shopping cart), “botanic” displays the grammatical difference between New Zealand and the United States. This one, at least, makes sense. “Botany” is the noun, modified to “botanic” to produce the adjective. Americans (for reasons that are, I’m quite certain, lost in the annals of linguistic history) have then modified the word further to produce “botanical.” It’s redundant, really—but then, if you asked people in the States for directions to “the botanic gardens” they would correct you and inform you that ‘It’s “botanical.”’ Probably easier to keep things the way they are.
The botanic gardens were gorgeous. As shutterbugs we find gardens quite fascinating and productive places to visit. The Knot Garden of hedges sculpted around pockets of brightly coloured flowers; the Rock Garden hillside mimicking a Japanese garden; aviaries with brightly coloured birds of the southern hemisphere; the Native Collection of unique New Zealand flora; and a traditional English herb garden gave us heaps of good photographic opportunities, lovely smells and peaceful walkabouts.
One fascinating part is the Loveland Bush. It’s a large section of the gardens in which the gardeners have evicted all non-native species and allowed the forest to grow (hence “bush”). Walking through the paths of the Loveland Bush is taking a stroll through rainforest of two or three canopies. It’s a cool (literally and figuratively) reminder that native New Zealand was a rainforest. If left to its own devices and native species, it grows from pale green sheep pastures to dark, thick forest with wide, spreading leaves above and bushy ferns below. And not a single poisonous animal to worry about. Good for going barefoot!
Then there’s the duck pond. One of the many species introduced to New Zealand by the Brits and Scots is the mallard duck. They haven’t killed them off again, so I suppose their presence is not having too great a negative impact on the environment. In fact, the botanic gardens cultivate the mallard presence by clipping their wings and giving guests free seed bars with which to feed the beasts. Great for little kids and mallard lovers, not always so good for romantic lunches in the park.
Sara and I brought our sack lunches to a bench by the pond. Good place to sit down—under a spreading willow—and enjoy the lovely weather, eh? As soon as we drew the first sandwich out of our bags, we saw the ducks. About fifteen of them hopped out of the pond and came over to us. And they’re not shy—oh, no. These ducks know where their bread is buttered and which hands feed them. So they come for it.
Perhaps it is hard to imagine the unsettling quality of birds stalking you. After all, the walk of a duck is symbolic of silliness. But if you’ve seen Alfred Hitchcock’s brilliant thriller or had your own run-in with a determined member of this particular order of avians (as I have had with a goose), then you’ll know that fifteen ducks pressing in on you with the confidence of an urban street gang can be unnerving. The way they tip their heads back and forth to size you up is especially freaky. As if they’re saying, “Yeah, we can take you. Now, ’and over a bit ’o that bread, there’s a good lad,” with that icy mallard glare.
Many thanks to the five-year-old who showed up on the other side of the pond, squealing with glee to be scattering handfuls of seed on the brick patio. Only two or three ducks held out hope that they might get some of our lunch, and with those odds (three hundred pounds of human against six pounds of duck) I felt brave enough to shoo them away with my boot. Thereafter we ate in peace.
Who thought to bring mallard ducks to New Zealand, anyway?
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