The literary festival that could

For 30 years, I had an advertising agency in Parnell and in the late 1980s my favourite advertising haunt was the Veranda Bar and Grill in a beautiful courtyard in one of Les Harvey’s brick villa developments on Parnell Rd.

Murray Gray had a wonderful small bookshop under a silkwood tree, which graced the centre of the courtyard. The clever Murray had named his bookshop Under Silkwood, and in 1992 over a glass of whiskey late one Friday night, I confessed to Murray that I was intending to be the mayor of Waita¯ kere City.

Murray said: ‘‘I’ve got a great idea if you make it in. A steam train carrying writers and story tellers from the Auckland Railway Station to Helensville.’’

I told him I loved it and it was just the sort of thing I wanted to do, if I actually got in. Well in October 1992, I became that mayor and Murray and I hatched a glorious plan to give the west a creative, cultural writers treat.

In 1993, Murray was joined by his lifelong partner Naomi McCleary, Under Silkwood once again being the auspicious meeting place. The three of us made plans with help from Waita¯ kere Libraries, but the festival’s success was largely due to Murray’s genius for knowing who was writing the best local novels and short stories, and who would join us for a glass of wine on a train trip to paradise.

Going West took its name from the tales from a book by the extraordinary Maurice Gee who had reinvented Henderson as the fictional Loomis. So, we had a name, and without much trouble, a group of railway enthusiasts found us Diana –a massive steamblowing monolith. The tickets sold out in days and Going West was born.

Each year Murray Gray and Naomi McCleary would find and invite the best novelist of the year, those that we knew well and those we were yet to discover, to join us on an expedition through the ’burbs of West Auckland.

With much whistle-blowing and steam billowing, the train departed the central railway station at 9.30am loaded with festival-goers. The train would stop at the New Lynn kiln, the Chapel of Faith in the Oaks at Waikumete Cemetery, the Corban Estate Arts Centre, and on to a sumptuous lunch in Helensville. The corks of excellent Westie wine would pop at 10am. It was an instant success.

The writers loved it, they were our stars, and we mixed it with extraordinarily fine musicians, such as Linn Lorkin serenading us on the train through the western

suburbs and Caitlin Smith performing at the Waikumete Chapel. Maurice Shadbolt read from his work on the Henderson Station platform. Elizabeth Knox at Swanson, and Bill Manhire at Helensville.

Along the way the wonderful Going West photographers Gil Hanley and Marti Friedlander captured the writers and poets giving us their words, their language and their life. I recall CK Stead reading from Talking about O’Dwyer – it just was an extraordinary moment, as was listening to John Yelash reading from his biography Jail Song and his unknown but very evocative small novelette 40,000 Beers Ago. After Helensville and lunch, it was always difficult to shepherd people back on to our five-carriage train, but the day was only half over and the magic would continue back into Auckland. Ian Wedde gave us a classic reading in 1998 on the nation’s narratives and Dame Fiona Kidman always blessed us with some of her exquisite insights into friends and lovers.

Over the years, and with some sadness, we lost our steam train as they pulled up the Western Line for double-tracking and the festival moved to the Titirangi Hall. Going West was extended to a two-day extravaganza starting on a Friday night with an opening address that we named after our major sponsor and book lover the late Sir Graeme Douglas. It seemed that no-one wasn’t available. The keynote orators would read from their own writings or even extract from others. All of the greats made an appearance.

As we enlarged the audience, the event took on a life of its own with photographers, new poets, new dreams and visions, and Murray – ever the genius timekeeper – somehow got people on to the stage, into the workshops, and kept a brilliant pace as voice after voice enthralled the audience.

It was and is an amazingly creative event. If the steam train was exciting, the Titirangi atmosphere was perfect in surroundings of bush, often shrouded in mist and winter rains. The warmth of the Titirangi Hall was a perfect venue to lift our spirits and I think we are better for it. Murray would find a new theme every year, the audience would continue to grow as he would pluck new writers, new works and perfectly setting the voices from Ma¯ ori through to Pasifika through to Croatians and a richness of talent.

I will never forget the 1996 Breathing Words opening evening with Bernard Makoare, Robert Sullivan and Ngahuia Te Awekotuku opening with transfixing taonga puoro and taking us to the world both ancient and real.

These were some of the moments that have really changed our literary world. They were moments in time and we look back on them and remember when Michael King addressed us in 2001 with the topic Never Lost for Words, Geoff Park talking of his Wild New Zealand Voices from the Landscape, or Patricia Grace giving us her take on ancient Ma¯ ori and life in between two worlds.

These times are recalled in the new book Voices of Aotearoa which celebrates 25 years of Going West. It’s a revisit of these moments when a literary festival becomes something more compelling, inspired by the wonderment of nature and people as they spin their tales. Murray and Naomi’s kaupapa was always to hold a tight programme that focused on us as New Zealanders and writers as respected taonga. We didn’t drift into what must have seemed at times an inevitable international net, we stayed with Going West and we stayed with New Zealand artists and crafters of words.

Here in the west, high in the Waita¯ kere Ranges in Titirangi, we found that special place and we unfolded a dream that has continued to enthral and please our creative souls. Going West and its celebration book brings this all together. It’s a beautiful publication celebrating an extraordinary event. Long may it continue.