I walk around the crater rim, marvelling at shadows, hearing no English. The sun is going down, and I join the rest in taking photos.
At the bottom, was all black and gold schoolboys, joggers, recovering mothers pushing cross country prams. Tahaki reserve... I went here once to see a summer dub gig, picnic blankets on now sodden grass, 5 years ago.The tree-shadow stretches to touch the city skyline.
As I walk from the reserve, a flying fox (boys screaming down it, coaxing each other to greater speed). If I turn right, down to the playground and the road... but left is a path... I bush-bash! Not sure if people live down here (in Melbourne, you would be certain of it), mostly flat, one person wide. Look through trees, parents pushing small child on a swing, do I take a picture? No, let them enjoy their moment... and I can't get a good frame.
At one point, foot in front of foot only - even scrambling to get up natural mud and rock steps. Then, over, and back to the car (past shops and people coming home from work, even a colleague - Alex "Hi, how are you enjoying your holiday?").Drive to the summit. Feels like country roads, cattle stops and fences. Turn right to summit, here, and park.
Coaches. Tourists (real ones).
Walk towards the trig station, change my mind and walk around the outside of the
platform. Two birds (what are they?), used to visitors, wait for me to pass the bin - see my shadow?
The rim walk is beautiful at this time of dusk, sun glistening off harbour and bridge.
Face Rangitoto, all shadows, but see the rush hour travelling home? As I watch - voyeur me, glad to be here and not in my car in that.
Still, all is tourists. Two sit, excited by an image, on the edge of an ancient pit. How would they know? The shadows frame them, they are beautiful - giggling, as young girls do.
(If they were kiwi girls, it might be over a cigarette, or a picture of Tana.)
Turn, look across the crater, coaches start to leave.
Furthest point of crater wall, over to lookout (number 2 on this walk) road winds down and so do coaches.
Steadfast tree (coprosma?) stays solid, holds on for dear... 
Sit to write. A man passing by looks at my journal. I glare, made unfriendly at the invasion. Four (five?) men ask to take pictures. I think they want me to take theirs, but they take turns to have their photos taken with me. Flattering, and odd. "Pretty", "Thank you".
(Tourists, coaches go; now walkers, joggers, cyclists. Exercise where ancient ones fought, cooked, loved, lived.)
Back to the car park, up to the map and distance dial (copper and raised letters); over to the surveying obelisk (originally late 1800's, replaced in early 1900's) - one plaque is bent in. In the car and drive home.
("Good times for a change / see the love I've had / can make a good man turn bad").
