Anyone who has ever lived in a small village built in the forest, centred around a sawmill, constructed along a boardwalk and consisting of tightly spaced wooden houses knows their greatest fear is to hear the word “Fire!” ring out in the middle of the night.

In the early morning hours of the last day of 2024, Telegraph Cove went up in smoke.

Thankfully the call “Fire!” did not mean people had to leap out of their beds and flee for their lives. These days, the Cove is closed for the season in December, with no tourists staying, no business operating, and virtually no one around except the few hardy people who live close to the road.

Which meant those few stood helplessly by watching the flames spread and devour the most historic parts of this historic place until help could come from other towns. The location of the blaze meant firefighters had to work from boats and floats, which added to the difficulty and hazard.

When the grey light of day emerged, and the red glow of flames became the thick fog of steam, one could see the destruction.

The original Saltery, built in 1925, and which was renovated to become a restaurant and pub was gone except for the end where summer diners enjoyed their fish suppers.

The original Net Loft, also built in 1925, which was renovated and extended, and extended again to become and unique marine museum, one of the best on the Pacific Coast, is completely gone. All those photos of brides and grooms exchanging vows under whale skeletons are now archival.

The general store and post office, built in 1954 to replace the old general store and post office that was attached to the Net Loft and later renovated to become a coffee shop – gone.

Saddest of all for me was the loss of the Wastell Manor, my grandparents’ house where my mother and aunt grew up and where I have fond memories of so many summers spent. It was never a great house, but the memories!

Handing brightly coloured clothes pegs to my mother and grandmother on laundry day. Being given bread dough to make my own little loaf on baking day. Smelling the damp clothes hanging on the wooden kitchen rack to dry on rainy days. Making porridge in the early morning and tea in the afternoon and cookies all the time with that big, wood-burning stove. Painting all those outside stairs and cleaning all those salt-sprayed windows. Watching my grandmother’s long awaited sunroom being built to her joy. Seeing snow fall on passing tugs with the living room binoculars. Eating family dinners on gold and white Limoges plates and sterling silver cutlery. Learning how to iron pillowcases and tea towels on the back deck, listening to rain clatter on the plaster awning.

I remember the sound the wooden stairs made when I went up to bed, the rasping of the doorbell with its metal dial, the bell rung from the front porch to alert my grandfather that he was wanted on the phone, and the voices of all those people that rattle around in my head – all memories now.

I remember finding out that Telegraph Cove’s original telegraph line shack, built in 1912 and the oldest structure in the Cove, was where my grandmother’s bedroom was. I now sleep in the bed that was in that room.

The only thing left of that house is the improbably narrow chimney rising above the ashes and the rubble on its little hill above the boardwalk.

It takes years, sometimes decades to built a place, and only a matter of hours for fire to eat it up entirely. If nothing is done, in a year no one would ever know there had ever been a house there.

Hopefully, something will be done. The rest of Telegraph Cove resort is standing as strong as ever. The other buildings are untouched, except for the smell of smoke no doubt. The old bookkeeper’s house, now staff accommodation, will probably have to be sacrificed as it spent several hours surrounded by fire and then firehoses, but the rest look safe as, well, safe as houses.

There has been an outpouring of grief and support – social media, local governments, even the national and international media have run the story. Of particular interest is the WIC, with its unique mandate and collection of marine mammalian skeletons. The scuttlebutt so far is that it will be rebuilt by Jim and Mary Borrowman and their team of volunteers and advocates.

Gordie and Marilyn Graham, owners of Telegraph Cove Resorts, have determined to put retirement on hold and rebuild.

What would crush most people as they look to a future quiet reward of time, doesn’t faze people of the North Island. If anything, a blow like this lights a fire (forgive the pun!) in their bellies. Instead of rushing to the exits, they roll up their sleeves and get back into the fight. “We will rebuild!”, say they, five minutes after the shock of destruction. “And not only rebuild, but build back bigger! And better! With new ideas!”

Is it any wonder that I look to these people, whether they established this unique place in the 1920s, or renovated it in the 1980s, or will expand it in the 2020s, with wonder and admiration. Every setback is an opportunity. Every restraint is an avenue for innovation. Every no is a dare. When working for the force of good, the world needs more of them!

Telegraph Cove, the third incarnation? To be written!