🌿 The Plan (Such as It Was)
The plan — and I use the word loosely — was to get to Abel Tasman National Park before the crowds arrived. Experience, that great and humbling teacher, had shown us that any place described as “beautiful” in a guidebook would, by ten o’clock in the morning, look broadly similar to the Oxford Street John Lewis on the first day of the January sales. People everywhere, queuing for things they didn’t quite want, looking mildly bewildered, and blocking the view.
Abel Tasman is one of New Zealand’s thirteen national parks and, at just over 22,000 hectares, it is the smallest of the lot. You might think that would make it easier to manage. It does not. Situated at the very top of the South Island, tucked between Tasman Bay to the east and Golden Bay to the west, it sits within the Nelson region, which enjoys more sunshine hours per year than almost anywhere else in New Zealand. The park was gazetted in December 1942 — somewhat improbably during the Second World War — and was named after the Dutch explorer Abel Janszoon Tasman, who became the first European to sight New Zealand when he turned up in the area in December 1642, exactly three hundred years earlier. He did not, it should be noted, have a particularly pleasant visit. His crew had a confrontation with local Māori at what is now called Murderers Bay — later renamed, with rather more diplomatic instinct, Golden Bay — and Tasman promptly sailed away without setting foot on land. Still, they named a national park after him. There are worse legacies.
The park is known for its golden granite beaches, its unusually warm coastal waters by New Zealand standards, and the Abel Tasman Coast Track, which is one of the country’s famous “Great Walks” — a network of nine premier tramping routes managed by the Department of Conservation. The Coast Track runs for roughly 60 kilometres from Marahau in the south to Wainui in the north, taking most walkers three to five days to complete the whole thing. We were not doing the whole thing. We are English and in our sixties, not contestants on some television survival programme.
💸 The Water Taxi Question
Here is where I must pause and say something about the water taxis, because they deserve their own paragraph and possibly their own strongly worded letter to someone in authority.
A peculiarity of Abel Tasman is that several of the most celebrated beaches and bays are not accessible by road at all. There are no roads into most of the park. The infrastructure, such as it is, consists of walking tracks and, for those disinclined to use their legs, water taxis. These small boats shuttle visitors from Marahau or Kaiteriteri to various points along the coast — Bark Bay, Tonga, Anchorage, and so on — dropping them off to explore and picking them up again later.
On paper this sounds rather adventurous. In practice, when you examine what these taxis actually charge, the adventure is somewhat tempered by the financial shock. The pricing appears to have been calculated on the assumption that every passenger has recently sold a kidney and is feeling flush. As someone who grew up in England in an era when a family holiday meant a caravan in Lyme Regis and counting out 50p coins for the amusement arcade, the idea of paying boat-taxi prices to reach a beach was never going to sit comfortably. We are, by national temperament, a people who will walk an extra twenty minutes to avoid paying for parking. Taking a boat we could walk around was never really on the table.
So we did the sensible thing. We parked the car and walked.
🅿️ Marahau: The Gateway
Marahau is the southern entry point to the Abel Tasman Coast Track and serves as the main jumping-off spot for most visitors to the park. It sits about 18 kilometres north of Motueka, which is itself about an hour’s drive from Nelson. The settlement is small — a handful of lodges, a couple of cafes, a kayak hire operation or two, and a car park — and at the hour we arrived, it was still, as I noted at the time, rubbing its eyes. The cafe was just opening. A dog sat in the middle of the road with the unshakeable confidence of an animal that knows the traffic situation.
We sorted ourselves out, laced up our boots, applied the obligatory sun cream — the New Zealand sun is not to be taken lightly; it will have you looking like a boiled prawn before you’ve had your mid-morning biscuit — and set off along the track heading north.
The morning air was fresh without being cold, which in my experience is about the best you can ask for when about to exert yourself. There was a particular quality of quiet that you sometimes get in the early morning before a popular place has properly woken up — a stillness that feels slightly borrowed, as if you know it won’t last but you’re going to enjoy it while it does.
The Coast Track wound gently north through coastal bush, the kind of dense, low vegetation that is particular to this corner of New Zealand: a mix of native broadleaf species, kanuka, manuka, and the occasional grand podocarp. The track itself is wide and well-maintained — this is, after all, one of the Great Walks, and it shows. The Department of Conservation takes these tracks seriously, and the surface was good underfoot. Every so often the bush opened up and you caught a flash of sea through the trees — an improbable, almost theatrical blue that seemed faintly unreasonable for this early in the morning.
🌊 Tinline Bay: The Tidal Beach
After perhaps an hour of steady walking, with calves beginning to register their professional opinion on the matter, the track brought us down to Tinline Bay.
Tinline is what is sometimes called a tidal beach — which is to say, it exists only at low tide. When the tide is in, it vanishes. When the tide is out, a stretch of rocky, interesting shoreline appears. Miss the timing and there is simply nothing there. This felt, I thought, a little strict. Faintly Old Testament. There is a narrow window of opportunity and if you miss it, well, that’s your problem. The sea is not running a flexible schedule on your behalf.
We arrived at the right time, which was either good planning or good luck and I will let you decide which. The beach revealed itself as mostly rocky — not the sort of place that invites you to spread a towel and read a paperback, but a place with genuine character. The rocks were the warm golden granite that gives the whole of this coastline its distinctive look, smoothed and rounded by however many thousand years of wave action. There were rock pools. We peered into them in the manner of people who have not entirely left childhood behind, which I consider to be a perfectly reasonable way to behave.
The highlight of Tinline, at least according to the various track notes and pamphlets we’d accumulated, was the cave. I shall be honest about this cave. It was less a cave in the traditional, spooky, stalactite-hung sense, and more of a tunnel — open at both ends, light visible from either direction, through which the sea had bored its way over geological time. A cave that had, essentially, committed fully to neither being a cave nor not being a cave. It occupied an ambiguous structural middle ground.
We walked through it anyway, because you have to, don’t you. Ducking slightly, emerging on the other side with what I can only describe as mildly exaggerated satisfaction. It is remarkable how easily one can be impressed by geography when on holiday. The same tunnel in an industrial estate in Swindon would attract no attention whatsoever. Here, framed by golden rock and blue sea, it felt like a minor achievement.
🏖️ Coquille Beach: The Steep Reward
A little further along the main track, a small sign pointed down a spur trail to Coquille Beach. The sign noted the distance as approximately 300 metres. Three hundred metres sounds brief and manageable. Three hundred metres is, under most circumstances, a perfectly civilised distance. The sign did not, however, mention the gradient.
The path down to Coquille Beach was impressively steep. Not dangerous, but assertive. The kind of path that requires you to place your feet with some thought on the way down and more thought on the way back up. At our stage of life — and I say this without self-pity but with the simple accuracy of a man whose knees have opinions — one has learned to regard downhill paths with a certain wariness. They present themselves as the easy option. They are not the easy option. They are simply the option where the difficulty has been deferred to later.
Down we went regardless, knees muttering quietly to each other in the manner of two colleagues who disagree with management’s decision but will carry on regardless.
At the bottom, Coquille Beach.
And it was, I will admit without qualification, quite beautiful. Pale, fine sand in that golden tone particular to this part of the coast. A small, sheltered bay, the water calm and clear, turquoise in the shallows and deepening to blue further out. And almost entirely empty. One other couple at the far end, making the most of their morning. Otherwise, we had it to ourselves. The water taxis were not yet running at full capacity. Our early start had paid off.
We stood there for a moment feeling quietly and disproportionately pleased with ourselves.
🦶 Into the Water (Against Better Judgement)
Off came the sandals. There is something about a good sandy beach that makes this happen automatically, almost without conscious decision. The sand underfoot was exactly as described — pale, fine, and with that particular softness that works up between your toes in a satisfying way. The kind of sand that seems to actively enjoy being walked on.
The water, when we reached it, was clear and looked deeply inviting. It also, upon entry, proved to be brisk.
Not, I should be fair, polar expedition brisk. Not the North Sea in February brisk. But brisk in the way that makes you immediately articulate, that sharpens your thoughts and encourages you to stand very still and breathe in a slightly controlled fashion. New Zealand coastal waters, even on the warm, sheltered, north-facing beaches of Abel Tasman, run at temperatures that require some psychological adjustment.
What followed was the ritual. Every English person who has ever stood in cold water anywhere in the world will recognise the ritual. The sharp intake of breath. The exclamation, probably unnecessary. The glance at whoever you are with, to confirm that they are experiencing the same thing and are not merely standing there enjoying themselves. The insistence — spoken firmly, for one’s own benefit as much as anyone else’s — that it is “actually quite refreshing.” The slow, almost imperceptible backward movement toward the shore, disguised as adjusting one’s stance.
Pride, of course, prevents actual retreat. One does not wade into the sea in front of witnesses and then simply wade straight back out again. That is not how it works. So we persevered. We stood there. We moved about. We allowed the initial shock to subside and the cold to become, if not exactly comfortable, at least familiar. In the way that unpleasant things become familiar if you stay with them long enough. The chill settled into the bones with a kind of resigned authority.
It was, in the end, genuinely refreshing. I am prepared to admit this now, at a safe distance from the water.
🌅 The Lingering
We stayed on the beach for the better part of twenty minutes, which does not sound like much but felt like a considerable indulgence given that we had a long day ahead of us and a drive to Picton still waiting on the other side of the afternoon.
There is something about an almost-empty beach in the morning that is difficult to replicate in any other setting. The sound of gentle waves. The calls of seabirds — in this case likely variable oystercatchers or white-fronted terns, both common along this stretch of coast, though I confess I was not making detailed ornithological notes at the time. The faint creaking of middle-aged joints settling back into a resting position.
No tinny music from someone else’s Bluetooth speaker. No inflatable flamingos. No one shouting about lost sunglasses. No queue for ice cream. Just sea, sand, and the particular peace of a place that hasn’t yet been properly discovered by the day’s visitors.
Eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, duty called. Which is to say: the uphill path back to the main track was not going to get any shorter by us standing here looking at it.
🧗 The Return
The climb back up from Coquille Beach to the main Coast Track was exactly as steep as anticipated. In fact, I am prepared to say it felt slightly steeper than it had looked on the way down, which is a well-known property of return journeys. Going down, the gradient presents itself; coming back up, it insists.
We paused twice. Both times we adopted the universally understood fiction of “admiring the view”, which is to say we stopped walking and stood very still while our breathing performed its recovery operation, and we looked at the scenery as if this had been our intention all along. The view was, in fairness, worth admiring. The bay below, the blue water, the golden sand, the forested hillsides of the park stretching away north. New Zealand does not do subtle landscapes.
At the top, we congratulated ourselves. Not extravagantly — we are English — but with the quiet, measured satisfaction of people who have done a thing and know they will feel it tomorrow morning when they try to stand up.
🚗 Pressing On
The Abel Tasman Coast Track heads on north from Coquille toward Anchorage, Bark Bay, Tonga Quarry, Awaroa, and eventually Wainui at the far northern end. The further bays along the coast are, by all accounts, more spectacular still — broader beaches, longer stretches of sand, more of those turquoise bays that look as if someone has turned up the colour saturation on the photograph. We would happily have carried on. The coast was offering further temptations at every turn.
But we had Picton to get to by the end of the day, which meant the Marlborough Sounds, the Queen Charlotte Drive, and a reasonable number of kilometres still to cover. The ferry the following morning was not going to wait for people who had lingered too long on a beach admiring the scenery. We made our peace with this, walked back to Marahau, retrieved the car from its parking spot, and drove away.
🪞 Reflections
Abel Tasman rewards the early start. If you turn up mid-morning in summer, the car parks are full and the water taxis are queuing and the beaches are filling up fast. Go early, walk in, and you will have stretches of genuinely beautiful coastline almost entirely to yourself for at least an hour or two. That is worth the effort.
The walking is not difficult, at least in the southern section near Marahau. The Coast Track itself is well-maintained and wide. The spur down to Coquille Beach is steep enough to make its presence felt, particularly on the return, but it is manageable if you take your time.
The beaches are, in truth, as good as advertised. The sand really is that colour. The water really is that blue. New Zealand does not always live up to the photographs, but here it does.
We did not regret skipping the water taxis. Walking in gave us a different experience — quieter, more gradual, earned rather than delivered. There is a certain satisfaction in arriving somewhere under your own steam that you do not get from being dropped off by a boat. It also costs considerably less, which is never a bad thing.
Would we go back and do more of the track? Without question. The full Coast Track, given three or four days and the right weather, would be one of the great walks of a lifetime. We did a small corner of it on a morning when we had other things to get to. It was enough to make the point clearly: this is a very fine piece of coastline, and it deserves more time than we gave it.
Planning your visit to Abel Tasman National Park.
📍 Location
Abel Tasman National Park sits at the northern tip of New Zealand’s South Island, nestled between Golden Bay (Mohua) and Tasman Bay (Te Tai-o-Aorere). Covering 237.1 km², it is the smallest of New Zealand’s national parks, yet one of the most visited. The two main access points are the settlements of Mārahau in the south and Tōtaranui in the north.
The park is approximately 60 km northwest of Nelson and around 245 km west of Picton. The nearest major airport is Nelson Airport, from which Kaiteriteri and Mārahau are roughly an hour’s drive away. Regular bus services connect Nelson and Motueka to Mārahau, and the Interislander Ferry from Wellington to Picton offers a scenic gateway for those travelling from the North Island.
🌐 Website
The official park information is managed by the Department of Conservation (DOC): www.doc.govt.nz/parks-and-recreation/places-to-go/nelson-tasman/places/abel-tasman-national-park/
📞 Contact
The primary contact for visitor enquiries, track conditions, hut bookings and safety information is the DOC Nelson Visitor Centre (Whakatū / Nelson), located at Millers Acre, 1/37 Halifax Street, Nelson Central.
Phone: +64 3 546 9339 Email: nelsonvc@doc.govt.nz
🕐 Opening Times
The national park itself is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year — there are no gates or entry barriers. However, visitor services, water taxis, kayak hire operators and the DOC visitor centre maintain their own seasonal hours. Water taxi and kayak services may operate on reduced schedules during winter months (May–September), so it is advisable to check with individual operators in advance. The DOC Nelson Visitor Centre keeps standard business hours and can advise on current track and facility conditions.
💰 Entry Fees
There is no charge to enter Abel Tasman National Park, and day walks along the Coast Track are completely free. Fees apply only for overnight accommodation within the park.
Great Walk Huts (per person, per night):
During the peak season (October–April), international visitors pay NZD $56 for adults and NZD $32 for children. New Zealand residents pay NZD $42 for adults, with under-18s staying free. During the shoulder months of May, June and September, the rate drops to NZD $32 for all adult visitors regardless of nationality, with under-18s free. In the quieter winter months of July and August, the nightly rate reduces further to NZD $26 per adult.
There are four Great Walk huts along the Coast Track — Anchorage, Bark Bay, Awaroa and Whariwharangi — all of which must be booked in advance through the DOC website year-round.
Campsites:
The park has 18 designated campsites, many positioned directly on the beachfront. These also require advance booking and are priced separately; fees vary by site and season and are available via the DOC booking system.
No fees are required for guided tours, water taxi travel or kayak hire — these are priced independently by private commercial operators.
🏞️ About the Park
Established in December 1942 to mark the 300th anniversary of Dutch explorer Abel Janszoon Tasman’s 1642 arrival — the first European to sight New Zealand — the park is renowned for its golden sandy beaches, sculptured granite cliffs and lush coastal native bush. Over 70 species of birds have been recorded within its boundaries, including petrels, shags, penguins, gulls and herons. The surrounding waters are home to fur seals (kekeno) and dolphins, and the Tonga Island Marine Reserve protects some of the most pristine coastal habitat in the country.
🥾 Walking & Tracks
The centrepiece of the park is the Abel Tasman Coast Track, one of New Zealand’s nine official Great Walks. Spanning 60 km from Mārahau in the south to Wainui Bay in the north, the track passes through native bush, rugged headlands and sheltered estuaries. Most walkers complete the full route in three to five days, though it can easily be broken into day sections with the help of water taxis. There is one compulsory tidal crossing at Awaroa Inlet, which can only be made safely within 1 hour 30 minutes before and 2 hours after low tide — consulting tide timetables before setting out is essential.
For those seeking a less-travelled alternative, the Abel Tasman Inland Track offers a five-to-seven-day circuit, though it is considerably steeper and rougher underfoot. Shorter walks include the popular Wainui Falls Track, an easy 3.2 km return route leading to the park’s tallest waterfall at 20 metres.
🚣 Kayaking & Water Activities
Sea kayaking is one of the most popular ways to explore the park’s sheltered coves and islands. Both guided tours and freedom hire options are available from operators based in Mārahau and Kaiteriteri, catering to all experience levels. Water taxis provide flexible access to six major bays along the coastline and operate year-round, though advance booking is strongly recommended, particularly during summer.
🐦 Wildlife & Conservation
Active conservation efforts within the park are led by the Department of Conservation alongside privately funded organisations such as Project Janszoon and the Abel Tasman Birdsong Trust. These groups are working to restore the park’s native biodiversity, which was significantly modified by deforestation and farming following European settlement. The park’s offshore islands — including Tonga, Adele and Fisherman Islands — host species not found elsewhere in the park and are subject to stricter visitor access restrictions.
ℹ️ Practical Information
Dogs are not permitted anywhere within the national park. Drinking water at huts and campsites is untreated and should be boiled before use; treated water is available at Totaranui, Bark Bay and Anchorage. The New Zealand coastline is at risk from tsunamis — in the event of a long or strong earthquake, or any unusual sea behaviour, visitors should move immediately to higher ground. Mobile phone reception is limited throughout much of the park. Insect repellent is advisable, particularly in the summer months when sandflies can be prevalent.