Ten Christmas Facts for the Festive Season.

Daily Photo – The Festive Season

Ten Christmas facts for the festive season.
Here are ten Christmas facts with a bit of quirk and character that you might not have read in your Christmas cracker this year.

1. Christmas was once banned. In 17th-century England, Christmas was outlawed by the Puritans, who felt too much feasting, singing, and general merriment was suspiciously unholy.

2. Santa has a postcode. Letters sent to Santa in Finland are delivered to Rovaniemi, right on the Arctic Circle, which has an official Santa Claus Village and an alarming amount of elf-related infrastructure.

3. “Jingle Bells” is not really a Christmas song. It was originally written for Thanksgiving and makes no mention of Christmas, Jesus, or presents at all, just horses and snow.

4. Tinsel was once made of real silver. Early tinsel used finely shredded silver, which looked wonderful until it tarnished.

5. Norway gives the UK a Christmas tree every year. Since 1947, Norway has sent a giant spruce to London as thanks for British help during World War II. It now stands in Trafalgar Square looking stoically festive.

6. The world’s largest Christmas dinner was eaten by penguins. The Australian Antarctic Division once served a full Christmas meal to researchers surrounded by penguins, who were unimpressed and declined pudding.

7. Christmas lights arrived late. Before electric lights, people clipped candles to trees. Unsurprisingly, this led to a strong festive association with house fires.

8. There is a Christmas spider legend. In parts of Eastern Europe, spider webs are considered lucky Christmas decorations, thanks to a folk tale involving a poor family and a magically glittering web.

9. Rudolph was created by a department store. He was invented in 1939 as a marketing character for Montgomery Ward, proving that even Santa’s team has a corporate backstory.

10. Christmas mince pies once contained beef. Originally Christmas Mince Pies include beef & meat, mixed with fruit and spices as a way of preserving it. Modern mince pies quietly dropped the beef centuries ago, but kept the name, which continues to confuse people every December.

Merry Christmas

Daily Photo – Merry Christmas from Me to You

Christmas in a small city in the South Island of New Zealand has a habit of sneaking up on you. One moment it is just another ordinary December day, and the next there’s a tree, a few baubles, and suddenly the year is asking to be wrapped up and put away. In this part of the world, even the decorations seem to carry a faint hint of salt air and southern light.

There is something reassuring about the simplicity of it. A tree, a bird, a name written proudly across a red circle. No snow, no roaring fireplaces, just the quiet understanding that Christmas looks different depending on where you stand in the world. Down here, it often means a BBQ warming up, jandals by the door, and the vague but persistent idea that a trip to the beach should probably happen at some point during the day.

Wherever you are today, I hope there is something small and familiar that reminds you where you belong. Merry Christmas from Dunedin.

Puddle Full of Yesterdays

Hard Bricks, Long Shadows, No Alibis is my ninth photographic series. It grew out of listening to music from a time when the world was recorded in black and white. Songs from the 1950s that felt stripped back, plainly spoken, and emotionally unguarded. Music made with nothing more than a guitar and an honest voice, when atmosphere carried weight, when texture mattered and when nothing could hide behind colour or excess. Music with no alibis. That feeling became a lens through which I began to relook at my everyday surroundings.

These photographs strip the world back to its bones. Light. Shadow. Surface. Weathered brick, worn timber, concrete that carries a thousand footsteps. By removing colour, the images refuse distraction and ask the viewer to slow down and look without shortcuts. What remains is structure and mood, the quiet tension between illumination and darkness. Long shadows stretch and settle, revealing form while also hinting at absence.

This series is about honesty. In black and white there are no alibis. No easy charm, no decorative escape, no place to conceal flaws or soften truths. Buildings stand as they are. Streets hold their silence. The camera does not explain or excuse. It simply observes and places responsibility back onto the art of looking.

Hard Bricks, Long Shadows, No Alibis looks at a familiar world without comfort or nostalgia. It asks the viewer to remain present, to accept what is revealed, and to resist the urge to look away or invent a softer story. In this space, there is no hiding.

I’ll be sharing this series of 24 images here on the blog, one each day at 6am. Consider this an open invitation to drop back here each morning and see where it leads.

Daily Photo – Puddle Full of Yesterdays

Hard Bricks, Long Shadows, No Alibis
Puddle Full of Yesterdays
2025
No 1 of 24

Dawn on the Otago Peninsula


Daily Photo – Dawn on the Otago Peninsula

Dawn on the Otago Peninsula has a habit of rewarding poor decisions. Decisions like setting an alarm at an hour normally reserved for bakers, fishermen, and people who have clearly wronged themselves in a previous life. I was back on the hills again, chasing first light, convinced that this time would be different, even though experience suggested otherwise.

The hills rolled out in front of me, looking entirely unimpressed by my effort. They have seen far more determined early risers than me. Māori travellers crossed these ridges long before roads or coffee existed, and later European settlers arrived with grand plans, questionable footwear, and a firm belief that fences would solve everything. The hills endured it all and carried on regardless.

Below, the harbour caught the sunrise and held it gently, as if aware that this light was not to be rushed. A lone cabbage tree stood nearby, doing its usual job of looking vaguely historical and deeply unbothered. These trees have been guiding people across this landscape for generations, and now one was quietly supervising my tripod setup.

As the sky slipped into shades of gold and fire, the tiredness faded, replaced by that familiar, foolish sense of triumph. Dawn does that. It convinces you that getting up this early was entirely sensible, at least until the alarm goes off again tomorrow.

The Adventures of the Whaleboat Māori Girl

Daily Photo – The Adventures of the Whaleboat Māori Girl

Standing on the rugged cliffs of the Huriawa Peninsula near Dunedin in the 1870s, the crew of the Māori Girl watched for a telltale mist on the horizon. To look at their vessel, a mere 9-meter wooden boat – and then at their prize-an 80 ton Southern Right Whale (double the boat’s length) is to witness either the definition of bravery or complete madness.

Whether driven by a silver-tongued leader or the promise of a payday, these men possessed a courage that bordered on the impossible. Upon sighting a “blow,” they didn’t have the luxury of a mother ship; they launched directly from the beach, through the crashing surf.

The hunt was a test of raw endurance. Often, the crew spent over 24 grueling hours at sea, tethered to a thrashing giant that refused to die. They survived solely on their rowing strength and an intimate knowledge of the Otago coastline. When they finally towed their captured home, the struggle transformed into a community triumph, with the entire village gathering on the sand to turn the haul into a massive celebration.

Dunedin’s St Paul’s Cathedral

Daily Photo – Dunedin’s St Paul’s Cathedral

In 1862, amidst the chaos of the Otago Gold Rush, the first St Paul’s Cathedral rose from the empty, muddy landscape of Dunedin’s Octagon. Constructed from Caversham stone, the church was an ambitious symbol of English heritage in a new and raw town. Unfortunately, the soft local sandstone proved to be completely unsuitable for the biting southerlies that whipped through the city, the stone crumbling so rapidly that the church’s elegant spire had to be dismantled within a few years to prevent a complete collapse.

Despite this, by the turn of the century the congregation had outgrown the rapidly decaying structure, so thoughts turned to designing a new, less collapsible building. Enter architect Edmund Sedding, who had plans for a cathedral of grand proportions. As the world descended into war during 1914 and 1915, the old Dunedin church was razed to make way for a Gothic masterpiece of reinforced concrete and Oamaru limestone. For four years, stonemasons laboured on a magnificent vaulted ceiling, the only stone-ribbed roof of its kind in the country.

Yet the shadow of the Great War drained both coffers and manpower. By 1919, the grand vision had stalled. With no funds left for the planned central tower or chancel, builders erected a “temporary” wooden wall to seal the end of the nave. In 1920, the truncated cathedral was consecrated, a majestic but unfinished torso of stone that would wait fifty years for its completion.

The Otago Coastline

Daily Photo – The Otago Coastline

There’s something quietly wonderful about standing above the ocean and watching the land fall away beneath you. From up here, the coastline dissolves into haze, headland after headland, each one slightly less certain than the last. The sea moves with that steady confidence it always has, unconcerned by the surrounding hills or the thin lines of road carved into the slopes.

It’s a view that encourages slowing down. Not stopping entirely, just easing back a notch or two. You notice how the light skims the water, how the cliffs carry the memory of older shapes, how distance gently erases detail until only form and feeling remain.

This is the kind of place where thoughts wander without effort. Where the city feels present but politely distant. You don’t come here looking for answers. You come to let the questions stretch out a little, carried off toward the horizon.

Dunedin’s Unity Park at Night

Daily Photo – Dunedin’s Unity Park at Night

At night, Unity Park looks out over a Dunedin that does little more than whisper under the moonlight. The streets below glow in soft lines and clusters, streetlights tracing familiar routes down toward the dark, unruffled harbour. The peninsula becomes a suggestion rather than a place, its shape replaced by shadow and imagination. It’s a quietly satisfying view, the city settled, content to exist in the space between light’s edges, where you’re led away from the straight world into a place where details slip and time becomes misty around the edges.

The Colours of Dusk at Blackhead Beach

Don’t forget you can click on the catergory names above each post to see more photos related to that place. For example, you can give it ago here with Beach, Beach Life and Travel.


Daily Photo – Blackhead Beach

I spent the evening watching the waves roll in a steady rhythm at Blackhead Beach. The colours of dusk lasted deep into the evening as they swept over the rocks as if in perfect harmony to classic symphony. Beneath an ever changing sky, offshore, an island sat quietly as if it too were patiently waiting for night to return.

Revisiting the Adam Scott Jetty

When I’m not listening to Spotify or a Podcast, then I’m on audible listening to books. Audible is amazing and it really is mindboggling how many titles are on there!
You can find it here: https://www.audible.com/ep/audiobooks


Daily Photo – Reasking the question, who is Adam Scott?

Back in March of 2021, I asked the question, who is Adam Scott? You see, near the upper reaches of Otago Harbour, stretching out some 15 metres over the water is a jetty, named after Adam Scott. Four years ago, I did some digging but couldn’t find any reference to further information – and I still can’t. At the time, I stated that until I had a true story, I’d decided to make-up the widely untrue assumption that the naming of the jetty happened in 2013 to celebrate Australian golfer Adam Scott’s 2013 Masters win at Augusta. Thus, the Jetty was named after him in recognition of his wonderful achievement. 

Now, over four years later, I can reveal that I am still no closer to having an answer to the question, who is Adam Scott and why is there a jetty named after him?

The Rocks at St Kilda Beach

Daily Photo – The story of St Kilda beach begins quietly ….

The European story of St Kilda Beach begins rather quietly, without a single dramatic landing or a heroic explorer planting a flag in the sand. Instead, it arrived in the form of sealers and whalers who moved up and down the Otago coast in the early 1800s. They would have stepped ashore on these beaches as casually as you or I wander down the street for an ice cream, leaving little behind except footprints in the sand and a few scribbles in ship logs or a footnote at the bottom of a page.

A few decades later, when Dunedin began to spread south and the dunes slowly acquired fences, roads and houses. The suburb needed a name, and a developer called George Scott, fresh from Victoria, borrowed one he liked from Melbourne, Australia – St Kilda. Initially taken from a cluster of windswept Scottish Islands (that didn’t actually have a saint at all), the name had already travelled halfway around the world so when it was added to Dunedin’s coastal stretch of land, it was adopted without much fuss.

Today the beach feels like one of the city’s great locations. Everyone comes here at some point, whether to surf, swim, walk the dog, see the wildlife or simply stand and watch the sea rearrange its thoughts in a quiet yet moody sort of way.

The Dunes of  St Kilda Beach

Daily Photo – If you walk along St Kilda Beach on a quiet morning …

If you walk along St Kilda Beach on a quiet morning, before the dog walkers and joggers appear, it is easy to imagine the place long before Dunedin ever existed. The dunes once rolled back into a patchwork of wetlands, lagoons and sandy ridges that shifted with the seasons. Long before the name St Kilda arrived from halfway across the world, this coastline was part of the wider food gathering network of the Kai Tahu and Kāti Māmoe tribes. It was a place where shellfish were gathered, fires burned quietly against the wind and travelling parties camped while moving between coastal settlements.

Standing there with the waves tumbling in, it is comforting to think that the same rhythm drew people here centuries ago. The long, straight run of sand would have made an ideal landing place, and the nearby wetlands were a natural pantry filled with fish, birds and plants. Every so often, when the light is right, you get the sense that the waves remember, even if the city has forgotten. The gulls still circle in the same lazy patterns and the land sits with the sort of confidence that comes from having been here a very long time.

A Quiet Pause by the Otago Harbour

Daily Photo – Otago Harbour in Scattered Sunlight

There are moments along the Otago Harbour when the world seems to quieten itself, as if it has paused to take in the light. Walking the shared cycleway near Glenfalloch, I found myself stopped by the sight of sunlight scattered across the water. It shimmered in a way that felt almost theatrical, each ripple catching the sun and tossing it back like a handful of tiny stars.

I had only planned a short wander, the sort where you tell yourself you will keep moving, but the harbour had other ideas. There was something soothing about the gentle slap of the tide against the rocks and the steady rhythm of bikes passing behind me. The city was just across the water, close enough to feel familiar, yet from that spot it might as well have been a world away. Standing watching the water glitter, I was reminded that some of the best moments arrive quietly, asking only that you stop long enough to notice them.

Dowling Street in Dunedin

Daily Photo – Dowling Street in Dunedin

I had an enjoyable, meandering amble through Dunedin’s Octagon and around the streets that sit above it, where I joined a series of paths that led me back down into the city. That is where I came across a smallish street called Dowling Street. A short but steep two-block street in central Dunedin, its finest feature is the way it manages to encapsulate a multitude of layers from the city’s past. It is, I suppose, about 400 metres in length and lined on one side with a steep bank where the road was cut through a hill, while on the other stands an assortment of buildings of various ages. Further on, the street crosses the main thoroughfare of Princes Street and is surrounded by everything from office blocks to art galleries.

At first glance it doesn’t appear unique, but it is very much a living slice of history. Many of its buildings are heritage listed and their uses have evolved over time, which gives the street a layered feel. You can sense the old industrial-Dunedin, even as people live, work and create there today.

This small street has seen everything from industrial clothing manufacturing to decline after boom times to the revitalisation of art and culture. Its steep, narrow contours and worn stairway remind you of how much the city had to be reshaped, yet the area is creative and alive with galleries, studios, small businesses, creative energy and busy foot traffic. As far as streets go, it is not particularly handsome, yet it doesn’t need to be.

The Otago Museum Atrium

Daily Photo – The Otago Museum Atrium

If there’s one place in Dunedin that still makes me feel like a wide-eyed kid let loose in a treasure chest, it’s the Otago Museum. Every time I step through those bright, echoing atriums, I’m reminded that curiosity is a muscle that never really stops working. From the upper levels you can look down across the glass walkways and clean lines of the building, watching people drift in and out of exhibitions like they’re moving through different eras of history.

On my latest visit, the place felt alive in that familiar, quietly energetic way. Kids buzzed around the edges, adults wandered with that purposeful museum stride, and somewhere below, the gift shop chimed softly every time someone decided they absolutely needed a puzzle or a picture of a bird. I paused at the railing for a moment, taking in the reflections, the lights, and the polished floors that seem to stretch out like a map, one that leads to every corner of the Pacific, every tale of Southern people, every strange sea creature lurking in the “Sea Monsters” exhibition.

What I love most is that the Otago Museum doesn’t just display things. It invites you in, sits you down, and says, “Here’s the world, let’s explore it together.”

Long Grass near Portobello

Daily Photo – Long Grass in Summer

If there’s one thing this photo reminds me of, it’s how quickly summer settles around here. I took it near the Marine Studies Centre in Portobello on a stunning Sunday afternoon, the kind of day when the heat shimmers off the dry grass and you realise the season has truly arrived. Here in Dunedin, the daylight feels endless and the city has relaxed into what is hopefully a long warm-weather rhythm. Even the simplest scene, like these sunlit grasses, seems to hum with that easy summer energy. It’s a gentle reminder that this is the time of year built for slowing down and soaking it all in.

Marinoto

Daily Photo – Marinoto

The story of Marinoto begins in 1878 with a vision so grand that even the budget couldn’t keep up. Commissioned by part-time engineer and part-time entrepreneur John McGregor, the house was built from solid Port Chalmers bluestone and finished with pale Oamaru stone. Well, the part that was finished, anyway. After completing the exterior and the ground floor, McGregor ran out of funds and the house sat half-done for the next few years, quietly waiting for its next chapter.

That arrived in the form of Arthur William Morris. A director of the Union Steamship Company, he stepped in at a mortgagee sale and took over the property. By 1883, the first floor was complete and he named the house Marinoto, a word thought to mean calm or peace. It was an impressive home by any measure with fourteen main rooms, a grand foyer, coal-fired central heating, electric lights powered by its own generator, formal gardens, and even a tennis court.

Then came 1903 and the Sargood era, which turned Marinoto into its most glamorous version of itself. Under Sir Percy Sargood, the house became a lively hub of Dunedin society, the sort of place where you almost expected a brass band to strike up the moment you stepped through the door. The Sargoods hosted balls that spilled onto the wide lawns and garden parties that made full use of the thirteen acre estate. Guests wandered among the rose beds, paused beneath old trees, and did their best to look as though they were part of a grand period scene. Inside, a substantial staff kept everything running with the quiet precision of a well rehearsed performance, polishing silver, preparing feasts, and somehow ensuring no one was ever left with an empty glass or a spare moment. For a time, Marinoto truly became the place to be.

First Church Dunedin: How One Man Moved a Hill for a Masterpiece

Daily Photo – The Steeple Of Dunedin’s Iconic First Church

If you stand outside First Church on a bright Dunedin day, it’s hard not to feel slightly dwarfed by the whole thing. The spire seems to poke at the sky in that confident way only nineteenth-century architects attempted, and you can almost hear the distant echo of someone saying, “Yes, this will do nicely.”

The story behind it begins with the Reverend Dr. Thomas Burns, who arrived here in 1848 aboard the Philip Laing with 239 determined Free Church settlers and what must have been a very firm sense of purpose. Burns, nephew of the poet and spiritual anchor of the new colony, found himself the sole minister for the entire settlement. It’s the sort of job description that would make most people carefully rethink, but Burns pressed on.

As Dunedin swelled during the Gold Rush, Burns became convinced the town needed a proper church. Not a modest wooden chapel, but something permanent and impressive. The only problem was Bell Hill, which loomed inconveniently in the way. The solution was simple in theory and maddening in practice: carve the hill down until the ideal building site emerged. It took the better part of a decade, and Burns kept a close watch throughout, making sure the dream didn’t drift.

In 1862, architect Robert Lawson won the design competition, offering up a Gothic Revival masterpiece that looks as though it was dropped in from a much grander city. Burns was still very much the project’s champion and had the honour of laying the foundation stone on 15 May 1868. Sadly, he died in early 1871, two years before the church was finally opened on 23 November 1873.

He never saw the Oamaru stone finished or worshipped beneath the soaring interior, but you feel his presence all the same. First Church may be a place of faith, but it’s equally a monument to one man’s persistence, vision, and refusal to accept that a hill – even a big one – should stand in the way of something remarkable.

The Great Dunedin Fire of 1867

Daily Photo – Dunedin House & Otago

Recently, while wandering through central Dunedin I experienced a momentary bout of amnesia. The kind where you forget where you’re going, why you’re going there, where your car is parked, if I turned the oven off, that kind of thing! During one of these lapses in brain function, I caught myself gazing up at the buildings on the corner of Princes Street and Moray Place, wondering what once stood there. It seems, in this case, the answer begins with one of the most dramatic nights in the city’s early history when a fire swept through central Dunedin. It was so catastrophic that flames leapt across the streets and for a fast growing city in the middle of a  gold rush built mostly of timber, it was nothing more than a nightmare.

The alarm was raised on a Monday night in April, 1867 when flames were seen coming from the shop of ironmonger George Willson – whose premises sat on the westerly side of Princes Street. Not far from where Dunedin House now stands. Within hours the entire block had disappeared under a pile of ash. The Criterion Hotel, perched right on the corner of Princes Street and Moray Place, vanished into smoke, the Theatre Royal and the Octagon Hotel were completely destroyed and by Tuesday morning, the heart of Dunedin looked as if it had never existed.

Yet, like many Dunedin stories, the aftermath was not just about loss rather more about rebuilding. The fire showed that wood possibly wasn’t the best building material to construct a commercial city from and that brick and stone might be a better solution. Within six months new structures were rising from the rubble ushering in a Victorian and Edwardian building era of grandeur and magnificence.

The corner where Dunedin House now stands would have been taken up by one of these masonry buildings. The old Criterion Hotel site was rebuilt to suit the wealth still flowing into the city. Herbert, Haynes and Company rebuilt their large drapery store, a business that later became the DIC and is now part of the Public Art Gallery block. For decades the whole area was filled with ornate nineteenth century commercial buildings.

These stood for roughly a century until they were removed to make way for the modern commercial block known as Dunedin House. It is not the grandest building in town, but it occupies a site that has seen disaster, recovery, architectural ambition and a complete cycle of change.

The Dunedin and Port Chalmers Railway Line

Daily Photo – Ravensbourne Overbridge

The Dunedin and Port Chalmers railway line has the distinction of being New Zealand’s first public railway. The story begins in the early 1870s, Otago was booming from the gold rush and Dunedin was effectively the country’s commercial capital. As Dunedin grew, the nearby docks at Port Chalmers became the region’s lifeline with everything being shuttled by horse, cart, or boats around the harbour. Eventually, a fast, reliable railway link between the harbour and the city was considered essential and the new line promised speed, efficiency, and a bit of flair.

The work was undertaken by the Otago Provincial Council who controversially gave the contract to a British firm called John Brogden and Sons. The Brogdens were Victorian railway builders of the formidable, moustachioed variety. They arrived with boatloads of workers, crates of equipment and a confidence that suggested they knew what they were doing. 

It was then that things got messy. Many of the workers arrived expecting plenty of work and good wages, only to discover there wasn’t, conditions were poor, the workers were often drunk, there were wage disputes, demands for better housing while the Brogdens’ were accused of inflated claims, and demands for extra payments. Not only was progress slow, the whole project became an administrative, political and financial tug-of-war between local and central government. All of which made the project a pretty consistent mess for a simple 12 twelve kilometres of track. The line itself was not simple. The track had to thread its way along the steep harbour edge, where cliffs met water and space was tight, extensive cuttings and embankments were required and many large stone retaining walls were required to make the track safe. 

Fortunately, the line was finished in time and officially opened on 31 December 1873 and almost immediately transformed the movement of merchants, passengers, mail, and freight between the port and the city. Unfortunately, for John Brogden & Sons, by the 1880s their business empire had collapsed and they were financial ruined.

The Many Adventures of Captain James Cook

Daily Photo – Otago harbour

When Captain James Cook and his little tub, the HMS Endeavour, appeared off the Otago coast in February 1770, he was already on something of a hot streak. He had been sent to the Pacific to observe the Transit of Venus in Tahiti the year before and, having completed the task, was given free rein to bob about the South Pacific to see what else he could find. What he was really looking for was the assumed existence of Terra Australis Incognita, the great unknown southern continent that many Europeans were convinced lurked somewhere down under.

By the time he appeared off the Otago Coast, he had completed his scientific observations, his botanist Joseph Banks had collected and recorded thousands of previously unknown species of flora and fauna, he had named and claimed a number of islands for the British Crown, circumnavigated the entire North Island, identified and sailed through Cook Strait – proving that the North and South Islands were separate landmasses, created a remarkably accurate chart of the North Island coastline, and had begun charting the South Island.

By any standard it had been a successful trip. Once off the Otago coast, he noted several things in his journal. Firstly, the many coastal features suggested a potentially sheltered harbour. Secondly, he observed an abundance of whales and seals. The interesting point here is that he thought the entrance to Otago Harbour was nothing more than a bay and sailed on, while Europeans would return and slaughter the whale and seal populations to near extinction.

It had been only a few months since the Transit, but an astonishing amount had been achieved. So, apart from the small matter of almost wiping out an entire collection of marine species, the rest was pretty good work for someone who wasn’t really a captain at the time  – he just called himself one!

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