In 1920, the Prince of Wales visited New Zealand.
Royal tours to this most distant part of the Empire were infrequent, with the long journey a daunting prospect even for those who could travel in luxurious fashion. It had been nineteen years since the last royal visitors, the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall (later King George V and Queen Mary).
This visit by the Prince of Wales caused great excitement around the country. The prince was later to become Edward VIII, best remembered today for the events around his abdication, but in 1920 he was a dashing young man of twenty-five; the most eligible of bachelors, a fashionable trend-setter, and the royal idol of his day. The prince drew crowds everywhere he went in New Zealand, and one of the largest crowds of all was in Rotorua.
The centrepiece of this Rotorua welcome was a concert, put on by what was probably the greatest assembly of Māori performers since that earlier royal visit, and with audience members coming from far and wide. Surviving contemporary descriptions make it clear this was a memorable event for those fortunate enough to attend, with many fine performances. The impression gained from these reports is that the concert would have been hugely rewarding with or without the presence of a royal visitor.
While throughout the four weeks he spent in New Zealand the prince managed to give the impression of being charmed and delighted by everyone he met, this appears to have been more a mark of his own well-schooled ability at conveying such impressions than a reflection of his real feelings. He found the whirlwind of engagements and travel (42 different places in 29 days) exhausting, and there were parts of his duties that he actively loathed. His true feelings, so well-concealed at the time, are revealed in surviving letters written to Freda Dudley Ward, his lover at that period; opinions expressed with a frankness that would have scandalised if made public back then. “Half the men are overflowing with scotch at most of the places I’ve been to,” he claimed, while from Christchurch he wrote, “These New Zealand women really are too amazingly plain and unattractive for words… and their powers of conversation nil.” Of the tour as a whole, the prince wrote that “It is a rotten way of seeing a fine country… Returned soldiers & shrieking crowds & school children are all I shall remember from my visit.”
While he was genuinely impressed by the geysers and hot pools of Rotorua, he found this section of his tour as wearying as the rest; not helped by the constant presence of the Governor General, for whom the prince had conceived a profound dislike. “He’s a liar and a cheat at any games: cards, golf and everything. And he’s too pricelessly pompous for words. I could never tell you how much I loathe him.”
But one small event on an evening in Rotorua perhaps offered a brief respite amid the round of speeches and dinner parties and official receptions. The prince had managed to slip from his hotel all but unnoticed, and while he was out and about he took it into his head to ride on a merry-go-round.
Somewhat to my own surprise, for it was not part of my original plans, the Prince of Wales makes a small appearance in my latest book, Tom and George. And so does the merry-go-round at Rotorua, when a family who would not have attracted the attention of any news reporters decide to have their own little treat. Unlike the Prince of Wales, their memories of this time are warm ones.