The old noble of the northern forest. Puriri is not the tallest – kauri and rimu outgrow it – but it is the most solid. Its trunk is thick, gnarled, and often buttressed at the base, spreading out like roots of an ancient oak. The bark is dark brown and rough, cracking into square, blocky plates that look like a jigsaw puzzle. A tree that looks like it has been here forever, and it has.
What makes it special? The leaves. Unlike needles of podocarps or tiny scales of mānuka, Puriri has proper, broad, glossy leaves – three to five leaflets arranged like a hand, each one smooth and dark green and shiny. It looks almost tropical, which makes sense because Puriri is a member of the mint family, of all things. A tree that grows 20 metres tall, with leaves the size of your palm, related to sage in your garden. Evolution is strange.
The flowers are the real show. In winter and spring, when the rest of the forest is grey and quiet, Puriri erupts in clusters of pinkish-red blossoms. They look like snapdragons, tubular and lipped, hanging from branches like small, velvety bells. These flowers are filled with nectar – so much nectar that tūī,
kākā, and
silvereye fight over them, chasing each other through the canopy in a frenzy of sugar and feathers. Puriri feeds the winter birds when nothing else will.
After the flowers come the fruit. Puriri produces a bright red berry about the size of a cherry, with a single hard seed inside. The berries are edible – sweet, but not much flesh – and
kererū (wood pigeon) loves them. The pigeon swallows the berry whole, digests the flesh, and poops out the seed somewhere else. Puriri travels on wings.
The wood is legendary. Dense, heavy, and incredibly strong – so strong it was used for shipbuilding, for fence posts that last a century, for bearings of water mills. Māori carved it into weapons – mere, patu, clubs of warriors. A wood that does not rot, does not crack, does not give up. A Puriri fence post sunk into ground in 1880 is probably still standing.
To sit under a Puriri on a summer afternoon is to sit under a green umbrella. Dense canopy, broad leaves, deep shade. Tūī singing, bees buzzing in flowers,
kererū wobbling on a branch digesting a belly full of berries. The tree of the north, the old noble, the one that feeds the birds and shades the ground and holds the line.