The commute
Tony Milne of Rough Milne Mitchell on crossing dimensions and deeper perceptions.
In 2023, we introduced Ridetober at RMM. A chance to get to work by other means. Some walked, others bussed. Big Russ car-pooled and a good few biked. And thus started my commute. Come rain, shine, frost or claggy morn and with the pesky easterly my constant companion, I have discovered a layer of our city I had previously lacked an appreciation of.
As landscape architects we conceptualise landscape as having overlapping physical, associative and perceptual dimensions. The physical dimension is easiest to understand. Associative means those intangible things that influence how places are perceived and activities specifically associated with the qualities of a landscape. Perceptual means both direct sensory experience and broader interpretation through the senses. This includes all the senses.
Sensory perception typically occurs simultaneously with knowledge, memory and interpretation. One year on, I now understand the route I commute, through an association with those things that define the various parts of the city I cycle past. I enjoy my morning commute most: it is dark, I cycle as the city wakes.
Often, my commute starts with a cut through the Prestons neighbourhood. The smooth asphaltic concrete of the streets allows a high and smooth cadence (cycling chat I overheard at a cafe once). Next, I travel along Mairehau Road, which traverses a slice of residual countryside, fending urban encroachment on all sides.
To my left, pūkeko forage in the darkness, the braver ones skirting the roadside verge. To my right lies one of the few remaining market gardens, where the robust smell of brassica and cabbage assault my senses. Whilst dark, I certainly know where I am.
Countryside morphs into suburbia, the majority of the houses with curtains still drawn. The odd light draws attention, and I wonder about the day that awaits those setting about their morning routine. The upstairs flats I next pass are always with their lights on, windows and occasionally the door open. A place that appears never to sleep. A place for a trade. A place that seems to have a storied life.
I swing into Cambridge Terrace, navigating the pothole that sits waiting on my perfect line. Rather ironically, a pothole still on the run from our mayor’s infamous pothole gang. The ghostly darkness of the Barbadoes Street Cemetery, where many of the cities’ forefathers rest, envelops my route.
This is a secluded part of the inner city where, among other things, fornication is a commodity oft traded. The Ōtākaro River Avon flows to my left, and at this time of the year, a committed whitebaiter sets up his stand. I am not sure what he thinks as I cycle through.
I connect with Te Papa Ōtākaro Avon River Precinct, a project RMM played a role in and a promenade I unashamedly enjoy. At this time of the morning there are only the rabbits to greet me as the Canadian Geese have recently flown to lay in the Canterbury foothills. As I pass, Maurice packs his bed roll in Victoria Square.
My commute is done, and I have barely scratched the surface of the narrative of the route I ride.
