Ngaio Bisset's Last Kombi Weekenders
“After thirty-seven years, I can’t feel the needle any more.” — Ngaio (73) is selling her last hand-quilted Kombi weekenders at a special price. When the woolshed’s empty, that’s the end of them.
2 November 2026
Ngaio Bisset is seventy-three. For thirty-seven years she has made the same bag by hand, in an old woolshed at the end of a gravel road in Golden Bay. Every one has a Kombi sewn on the front — a real van that was parked in one paddock in the summer of 1975. Now she has to stop. What’s left in the woolshed is the last of the Hippie Bus Weekender.
“I can lift a hay bale. I just can’t feel the needle.”
Ngaio’s workshop is the old woolshed on the farm. The floorboards are dark and smooth from a hundred years of sheep. She cuts her fabric on the long slatted table where the fleeces used to be sorted.
Along the back are the finished bags, stacked on the old shearing board. The pile is getting smaller every week.
“My eyes are fine. My grip is fine. It’s my fingertips.”
Hand-quilting is done by touch. One finger sits under the cloth and feels the needle come through, ten times to every inch. Ngaio has worked like that every day for fifty years.
In 2021 her fingers started going numb. Her doctor in Takaka sent her over the hill to Nelson Hospital. Carpal tunnel, in both wrists. The operation gave her grip back. It didn’t bring back the feeling in her fingertips.
“I quilted by feel for fifty years,” she says. “Now I’d be stitching blind. That’s not how I was taught.”
Five vans, one paddock, and the best summer of her life
Why is there a Kombi on every bag? The answer starts in the summer of 1975.
The year before, the Government had offered young people land to start their own communities and live off it. The scheme was called ohu. Ngaio was twenty-two and working in a bank in Hamilton. She and her friend Lois bought a 1966 Kombi for four hundred dollars. It had no reverse gear. They painted a rainbow over the windows and drove south.
Down the island. Across on the ferry. Then up and over Takaka Hill in first gear, with the engine screaming the whole way.
“At the bottom was the whole of Golden Bay. Lois said, ‘Well, we can’t go back up that.’ So we didn’t.”
That summer, five young families lived in five vans, parked in a half-circle in one paddock. The farm next door belonged to a woman called Iris Tregear. Most farmers kept away from the young ones. Iris towed her caravan over, painted all over with pink blossom, and said they could use it when it rained.
That winter the paddock turned to mud, and Iris taught Ngaio to quilt at her kitchen table, the way the farm women did it in Southland. The rule was ten stitches to the inch. Any fewer, and Iris made her take them out.
“She never said my work was good,” Ngaio says. “She said it would see out the winter.”
In the summer of 1989 Ngaio was taking her two girls to the bach at Kaiteriteri and had nothing to pack their togs in. She quilted a bag and sewed the old rainbow Kombi on the front. A woman on the beach asked for one before they’d even unpacked the chilly bin.
Since then, Ngaio has made 4,900 of these bags. All by hand. No two exactly the same.
What makes Ngaio’s bags different
Pick one up and you feel it straight away. It’s solid, but soft. The pictures aren’t printed on. They are layers of real fabric, cut out and sewn on by hand.
“I never trace them and I never use a computer,” Ngaio says. “Sometimes a wheel comes out a bit bigger. That’s how you know a person made it.”
Here’s what you get:
Ten stitches to the inch. The whole bag is quilted by hand, the way Iris taught her. That tight stitching keeps the bag in shape for decades, even when it’s packed full.
A real van from 1975. Every design is one of the five vans in that paddock. Cut out and sewn on piece by piece — never printed.
Handles that don’t dig in. Padded all the way along, not just in the middle. Comfortable on the long walk from the car park to the ferry.
The right size for the bach. 45 × 23 × 25 cm, about 22 litres, 820 grams empty. A weekend of clothes, togs and a towel. Fits as cabin baggage on domestic flights and lies flat in a full boot.
Inside every bag is a small tag with a number on it, written by hand. Ngaio enters each one in an exercise book she started in 1989. The last number will be 4,900.
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“One of mine has been to Stewart Island every summer for thirty-one years”
What Ngaio is proudest of is how long her bags last.
“A teacher from Invercargill bought one off the wool hooks in 1995,” she says. “She’d just walked the Heaphy. She’s taken it to Stewart Island every summer since. Thirty-one years. It’s needed one new zip. That’s all.”
In 2018, a woman from Gisborne drove from the bottom of the South Island to the top of the North with her bag on the passenger seat. She sent Ngaio a postcard from Cape Reinga.
“Dear Ngaio — Bluff to the Cape. Bag never left my side. Thought you’d want to know.”
— Cape Reinga, 2018
Ngaio keeps it pinned to the woolshed wall.
Five designs, five vans — which one would you have lived in?
Ngaio didn’t make the designs up. Each one was a home to someone she lived beside that summer:
Flower Power Caravan — her own Kombi. Rainbow over the windows, flowers up the doors, and never a reverse gear.
Sunset Strummer — the Kerslakes’ pink bus. He played guitar on the step every night until the sandflies sent everyone inside.
Stay Wild Forest — two brothers who planted pine trees in the winters. STAY WILD painted on the back door by hand.
Coastal Surfer Camper — Sully’s van, with a board on the roof and nikau palms down the side. Off to the West Coast every time the swell came up.
Cherry Blossom Glamping — Iris Tregear’s caravan. Not a van at all. The one that changed her life.
“People ask which one is my favourite,” Ngaio says. “I tell them it’s the caravan. I went in there to get out of the rain and came out a quilter.”
The last batch — and why there won’t be another
For thirty years, Ngaio never had a shop. She sold her bags off a trestle table at the Takaka market on Saturday mornings. The rest hung on the old wool hooks inside the woolshed door, with a price card and an honesty box.
“Every Christmas the campervans came over the hill. Every January the hooks were empty.”
In 2022, after the operation, she gave up her market stall. Then she made one last decision. She used the slow hours her hands had left to make one final batch, all at once. That’s what is in the woolshed now.
There won’t be any more. Her daughters are a physio and a teacher. Her granddaughter can’t sew on a button, and doesn’t pretend she can.
“Iris said you stop when the work tells you to. I’d rather stop with a full shed than halfway through a bag.”
Final collection →
What buyers say about the Hippie Bus Weekender
Lynley P., 63, Tauranga
“People stop me about it. Twice at the petrol station, once in the queue for the Interislander. It’s the only bag I’ve owned that people want to touch.”
Denise W., 67, Timaru
“I bought it because it looked so cheerful. What surprised me was how well it’s made. Every stitch is where it should be.”
Karen M., 59, Whanganui
“I picked the Sunset Strummer because my husband played guitar on our first road trip round the East Cape. It’s been to the bach every long weekend since.”
Where can you buy Ngaio’s bags?
The bags are sold through Cedar & Tin. Ngaio’s granddaughter Hollie, who is twenty-six and works at the port in Nelson, set it up for her.
“Hollie does all of it,” Ngaio says. “Every Sunday she drives over the hill, packs the orders on the wool table and drops them at the post shop in Takaka. I just sew.”
One warning: copies of these bags have started to show up on big online marketplaces. They may look similar in photos. But they aren’t made by Ngaio, and they don’t have her numbered tag inside.
When the last one goes, that’s it
Since the special price started, the bags are going faster than Hollie expected.
UPDATE:
“We’ve sent more this week than in the whole of last month. There’s no restock. When the shearing board’s empty, that’s the end.”
— Hollie Bisset, Cedar & Tin
Final collection →
Common questions
Where can I get one?
Only through Cedar & Tin, the shop Hollie runs for her grandmother. Not on Amazon or Temu, and not in any shop.
How long will they be available?
Until this last batch is gone. There won’t be another one.
Can I try one without any risk?
Yes. There’s a 90-day money-back guarantee, no questions asked. If it isn’t right, email info@cedarandtinco.com and send it back.
How do I look after it?
Wipe it with cool water and a little mild soap. Let it dry flat, out of the sun. Don’t put it in the washing machine. Looked after like this, it will last for many years.
The bottom line
Every van on these bags was somebody’s home.
In 1975, five young families parked their vans in one paddock in Golden Bay. A twenty-two-year-old from Hamilton lived in the first one. For thirty-seven years she has sewn all five onto her bags by hand — because she never forgot that summer.
You get a bag that’s made to last. And you get a piece of one woman’s life’s work — ready for your next weekend away.
Thank you, Ngaio.
Ngaio’s personal 90-day money-back guarantee
Ngaio asked for one thing: a 90-day money-back guarantee, no questions asked.
“I want them in the boot on the way to the bach, not kept in a wardrobe,” she says. “If it’s not for you, send it back. That summer was free when I had it. I just want these out on the road.”
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What people are saying online
Lorraine H., Motueka
“We were in Golden Bay over Christmas and drove out to her woolshed. Fabric everywhere, bags stacked to the rafters. I bought two — one for me, one for my sister’s sixtieth.”
Sharon T., Palmerston North
“I gave one to my daughter for Christmas and she hasn’t let go of it since. Now I need one for myself.”
Jan F., Dunedin
“Finally a weekend bag that doesn’t look like it came from the mall. Three years old, nine trips, still looks new. If you can still get one, get one.”
The last of Ngaio’s bags →