Prologue

Tell people you’re spending the night in Queenstown and you generally get a look of indifference, usually followed by a prolonged state of apathy. There’s no follow-up question or lengthy discussion, you become another person visiting the resort town that calls itself (with more than a touch of self-indulgence) ‘pure inspiration’. On the other hand, tell people you’re spending the night in Winton and people get curious, they ask all sorts of questions, usually starting with – why? 

Recently on a drive along the Otago’s Peninsula it struck me as I wound my way along twisting turning roads, bouncing out potholes and splashing through puddles that I was in need of a change of scenery. I had grown tired of the same familiar surroundings that make up life in a small city, I wanted to see something different, something fresh, something new. Well, maybe not new, but at least something I hadn’t seen on a weekly basis over the last six months! It occurred to me, as it just so happened, I was soon having a few days off – an ideal time to get out and hit the road, to once more see my own backyard as it were. 

Over the next few weeks I began plotting possible itineraries that would both take me around the South Island and yet be manageable within three to four days. What quickly became evident was that I wanted to avoid the major tourist locations and cities. Stopping in places like Queenstown and Wanaka held little to no appeal. Where once they were the goose that laid the golden egg of New Zealand holiday destinations (and let’s be frank here) that egg was well and truly cooked years ago. I didn’t want to stand in long queues for overpriced food and beverages, or sit in endless traffic jams thinking ‘gee, don’t those mountains look lovely’, I wanted to drive along back country roads and through small forgotten towns. I wanted to visit places that had more sheep than residents, where traffic is blocked by farmers moving their flocks and see livestock grazing in a frosty winter paddock of rolling Southland farmland, bathed in the soft light of early morning.  

I wanted to go back to places I’d visited years ago and had long since forgotten about, to Tautuku, Nightcaps and Dipton and see if I could remember them. I wanted to hear the long silence that fills the Ida Valley on a cold and chilly winter morning with the road vanishing into the Hawkdun Ranges far off in the distance. 

I wanted to see quiet country towns with quirky bits of history, to read and listen to stories involving strange, shady, controversial characters from New Zealand’s past. I wanted to drive around and see small towns in-out-of-the-way places. I wanted to get out of cities and tourist hotspots and travel through small-town New Zealand. 

Feeling inspired, one evening, having acquired a map of the South Island which I spread out and studied on the living room floor. I drew a circular itinerary following roads and towns that would take me all over Otago and Southland, writing various notes and scribbles beside selected places for later reference. And so, one July evening, as the fire blazed away beside me in my warm, cozy lounge, I made careful and considered preparations to depart through the quiet Dunedin streets, early the next morning.

My departure the next day was delayed. This was due to a drip in the shower that had started several days earlier. It began as nothing more than something that could happily be ignored. However, over the preceding 24 hours, it had gone from a minor drip to a continuous dribble, and now was a steady trickle.

Here, in the clear light of morning, summoning all my limited plumbing knowledge, I deduced three things. Firstly, that it would need to be fixed. Secondly, that it was beyond my very limited capabilities. And finally, that it would require the services of a plumber. Within the hour, a guy named Phil or Greg or something arrived, inspected the shower, and within minutes was pulling all sorts of fancy tools out of his truck (muttering to himself, ‘This could get gnarly’), taking off the mixer and opening up some of the pipework in the wall.

This pleased me, as it confirmed that this wasn’t something I should be attempting myself. I learned this lesson some years earlier when the ballcock on our header tank, which sits in the roof, seemed to be constantly running. Thinking this would only be a matter of making a small tweak, I went and investigated, making some minor adjustments. I was so pleased with my efforts, I informed my wife that I would show off my handiwork to a plumber. He arrived and was equally impressed, so impressed he looked at it for hours, finally making me promise to both my wife and himself that I would never touch anything involving plumbing or electricity ever again. And I never have.

While all this was going on, I filled the time by making cups of coffee, read the newspaper, studied my map and pretended to understand I knew what he was talking about. 

Eventually, after much muttering, clanking, and rummaging through tools that looked like they belonged in an operating theatre rather than a bathroom, he announced that the job was done. The leak was no more. He packed up his gear, gave me a cheerful nod, and drove off, leaving me standing there feeling oddly triumphant, despite having contributed absolutely nothing to the process. 

I didn’t hang around. Instead of quietly slipping my car out onto the Dunedin streets in the early morning hours as intended, I hurriedly dumped everything on the backseat and made car-tyre screeching sounds as I set off for State Highway One, heading south.

Part 1:

Henley

On my way out of town I had intended to stop at Mosgiel, a suburb on the outskirts of the city. That was before my departure was delayed. I had carefully picked out a photographic location high on a bridge overlooking the motorway. My intention was to capture a long exposure of vehicle lights disappearing into the distance as the town quietly woke from its slumber in the early morning light.

However, I was now running late. So, I parked these plans to one side, saving the idea for another time, and detoured to the small riverside village of Henley, a place that actually does have more sheep than residents, is prone to flooding, and is a delightful spot for a riverside picnic on a warm and lazy summer’s afternoon.

I paused for a moment beside the river. It was still, sedately ambling its way past the village. I got out and walked across the bridge, disturbing a raft of ducks as I did so. They noisily appeared from the reeds, splashed across the top of the water for a moment, and disappeared into the distance. It was starting to rain, and moments later I was back in my car and had rejoined State Highway One, heading south.

Waihola

My next stop was Waihola, a township that lies roughly 40 km south-west of Dunedin and sits on the edge of a lake with the same name. While small in stature, the town has a steady stream of visitors thanks to the State Highway network running direction through the middle of the town, and people stopping off to see the lake or to link up with the Clutha Gold Trail Cycle network – a 135 kilometer cycle path that follows the route once used by gold miners during the 19th-century gold rush, seeking  fame and fortune on the gold fields. I stood and looked out across the lake and over to the start of the cycle network that ran its way to the far off Central Otago towns of Lawrence and Roxburgh. Apart from a nearby truck, the place was empty, the cycle path unused but for the local bird life that had taken up residence on the boardwalk. It was all very picturesque, in a dull, moody sort of way. 

Milton

I rolled through the town of Milton just as the clouds turned an ominous shade of grey and threatened rain. The place was quiet, with people hurriedly moving between shops, dashing from vehicle to shop and back again. At the far end of the main street, I could see a long traffic queue had formed due to distant roadworks. With traffic at a standstill, I pulled over and walked a short distance down the street, observing life in a small country town.

Generally speaking, most New Zealand towns are made up of a single long main street, with all the major shops branching off it. The main street also doubles as the highway, so in most cases you’re forced to drive through the centre of town, which is rather clever when you think about it.

There are several things you can guarantee every town has: namely a pub, a grocery store, a disused post office or bank, and a petrol station that is also home to the local mechanic – whose name is probably Barry or Scottie and who will no doubt have a faded Playboy centrefold from the 1980s or 1990s hanging in a not-too-conspicuous position somewhere inside the workshop. There’ll be a store of some description that sells and services large farm machinery, and some other completely random business called Arthur’s Antiques, Helen’s Haberdashery, Katie’s Knitting & Yarn Boutique, or Tim’s Terrific Trades for Trash.

The interesting thing about Milton is the famous dog-leg that runs about halfway along the main street. The funny thing is, nobody is completely sure why it’s there. What it proves is that it is indeed possible to fail at building a straight road on a completely flat piece of land with no immediate obstacles – while surveyors stand at each end to mark out a straight line. Either that, or the person drawing up the plans did so from thousands of kilometres away, had no idea of the surrounding landscape, and mistook a crumb on the map for a land feature that needed to be avoided.

Whatever the reason, it provides the town with an interesting talking point, something I was to discover other towns could well do with.

Lovells Flat

It wasn’t long before I was once again on the move, heading for a place called Lovells Flat. A light sheen lay on the surface of the quiet road from the recent rain that had been falling. Occasionally a truck or ute would pass me from the opposite direction, momentarily kicking over a small cloud of spray as it disappeared in the rear view mirror. I travelled a while, listening to a random collection of songs on the stereo, the views were clouded, occasionally parting to reveal far off scenes of farmland as far as the eye could see. 

As I reached the brow of a hill, the cloud began to fade and on a straight stretch of road, an old sod cottage, partially hidden by trees came into view. I pulled the car over, got out and went for a slow walk around the grounds. The ground was wet and full of puddles, all of which I very narrowly avoided missing, before having a peek inside. A double fireplace, a table, a few chairs, a bed, some cabinetry, a few personal items and that was about all that sat in the single room dwelling. 

Built in the 1860s by a man named Hugh Murray, the cottage now stands as one of the few surviving physical links to mid‑19th-century settler architecture in South Otago. Yet, between 1865 and 1939 the cottage served as a store, a stopping place for miners, a bake house, a school, a Sunday school classroom and post office. 

Of all the tales about the Old Sod Cottage, the most intriguing is the story of its last overnight inhabitants. In the winter of 1939, two local brothers decided, for reasons that can only be described as either admirable or foolhardy, to travel through the region during a heavy snowstorm. Predictably, the snow soon became impassable, their vehicle became stranded and the pair were forced to spend the night in the cold cottage without heating or food, before continuing their journey the next day. 

I took one last slow lap around the grounds, gave the cottage a final, respectful nod, and considered its place in the region’s past, a neat little monument to everything from pioneer life and the gold rush to local schools, churches, wartime memories, and the rise (and quiet demise) of the post office and railway.

Then, satisfied, I got back in the car, aimed it toward the distant fog, and rejoined State Highway 1 heading for the far off town of Balclutha.

Balclutha

I’d left the heavy cloud cover behind and near a place called Stony Creek I found myself pushing through a dense layer of fog. As I approached the town of Balclutha, the morning fog became fine mist, the mist turned to drizzle, and then hard rain – before the murk suddenly cleared, leaving an overcast, gray blanket hanging low over the town where the sky used to be. 

I had it in mind to get a photo of the Balclutha Bridge from up on the hill with State Highway 1 winding its way down the gentle slope to meet the bridge, the rural town neatly placed on the other side. However, this proved impossible as both the slope of the hill and the layout of the road were different from what I remembered. Either that, or in the last couple of months they’d excavated the hill, moved the bridge and realigned State Highway 1. Something that seemed a tad unlikely, even with a progressive town council. 

Instead, I pulled into a spot called Arthur Strang Reserve. The rain had left the ground muddy, with small puddles merging on the edge of the walkway. I wandered to the edge of the Clutha River, watched the river flowing under the town’s main feature, the Balclutha Bridge. Built in the early 1930s, the bridge is a sort of make-shift landmark once described as majestic, handsome and a joy forever. Mind you, they said something similar about the Beehive in Wellington, and that’s just an oversized wedding cake dropped on a lawn. A bridge for the town came into existence when the locals got sick of having to cross the swift river by way of ferry, that was until the wooden structure was swept away in a flood, not more than ten years after it was built. Its replacement also appears to have been somewhat lacking, as it was not considered to be completely sound, safe or sturdy before it too was replaced by the current concrete structure which greets (or farewells) visitors to the rural community. On a fine day it’s an impressive and beautiful landmark. This wasn’t a fine day! 

I wandered back along the path toward the car, hopping over puddles as I went. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an empty Durex packet, half a dozen crushed Woodstock bourbon cans, and a crumpled Mrs Mac’s Beef, Cheese and Bacon Pie wrapper. Clearly, some people find ninety-year-old concrete structures far more exciting than I do, I thought. Either that, or I’d just innocently strolled through the local teenage pickup spot – probably dubbed ‘copulation point’ by the youth of Balclutha. Either way – it looked like some people had been having a very good time – something that can’t always be said about Balclutha in the middle of winter. 

Kaka Point

In early February 1909, a man by the name of Percy Redwood disembarked at the busy Romahapa Railway station, eventually arriving at the popular seaside settlement of Kaka Point on The Catlins coast, a short time later. The wealthy farmer from South Canterbury, had come to the region via Dunedin, where suffering from ill-health, a Doctor had advised him to get plenty of rest and relaxation by the sea. Short, but well presented in his forties, Percy, who came from a middle-upper class family with plenty of money, presented himself at a local boarding house where he stayed over the next few weeks. During this time, he endeared himself to the locals with his outlandish tales and lavish spending, while at night he would entertain with his musical talents. In fact, so popular was the eligible Mr Redwood that many of the families started to view the charming man as a fine match for the young, unmarried ladies in the area. So, when Mr Redwood approached Mr George Ottaway – the owner of the boarding house and asked permission to marry his daughter Agnes, both George and his wife Martha were delighted.

At the time, it was noted by locals that Percy did seem to owe a number of people in town money. However, on occasions he would disappear to Dunedin for business, reappearing a few days later settling most of his bills. However, before a wedding could take place, George Ottaway, wanting to make sure his daughter Agnes would be well cared for, wrote to Percy’s mother asking for assurance on financial matters and was delighted when the reply arrived, confirming that Percy was a man of considerable financial means. He had savings of fifteen hundred pounds, a further fifteen hundred pounds invested in his uncle’s farm, an income of one hundred and fifty pounds per year and was to be given a furnished house to the value of one thousand pounds when married  

With Percy being such a good catch for an unmarried young lady, a lavish wedding was planned with all the businesses in town (and the local area) receiving vast orders to ensure the large crowd would be well catered for. The finest material was ordered to suit the groom and dress the bride – who delighted in showing off with pride the ring with five diamonds her fiancé Percy had bought her. 

When the big day arrived, the ceremony was an enormous affair, the only disappointment being that none of Percy’s family could attend, due to another family wedding taking place on the same day. So, the marriage between Mr Percy Redwood and Miss Agnes Ottaway was held in Kaka Point on April 21, 1909. 

The problem with all this was that Mr Percy Redwood didn’t exist. Mr Percy Redwood was actually a lady named Amy Bock.

The marriage of Percy Redwood and Agnes Ottaway had been the talk of the region for weeks. Yet, even as the festivities wound down, there was an undercurrent of unease among some of those present. It was quietly noted, that none of Percy’s relatives had appeared, and there were many unpaid bills

By the following morning, the whispers became serious talk. Agnes’s parents and several close friends of the family met with Percy, confronting him over the unpaid debts. They agreed to grant a week for the accounts to be settled, but until that time, the planned honeymoon would not proceed. Still uneasy, a handful of the Ottaways’ friends began making private inquiries, determined to ensure that Agnes had not been misled. Their suspicions only deepened as conflicting stories emerged about Percy’s background, prompting them to turn to the police for assistance.

It was then that the truth began to unravel. A local detective, well acquainted with the exploits of a fraudster named Amy Bock, was shown a photograph of the groom. Percy Redwood was then identified as well known con-artist Amy Bock. Three days after the wedding, Bock was arrested, went to trial and was sentenced to two years of hard labour and declared a “habitual criminal.” 

I’d first heard the story of Amy Bock many years ago and I’d come to Kaka Point hoping to track down the old boarding house or its location, but I couldn’t. After driving up and down the streets a few times, I eventually gave up and parked by the beach. Staring out at the sea, I said to no one in particular, “How does a lady born in Hobart end up being arrested as a man for impersonation, forgery, and theft in Kaka Point, of all places?” Of all the spots in the world she could have chosen, she picked here. I think that’s just swell.

Tunnel Hill

Here’s the thing about travelling in New Zealand. No matter where you go, you’ll either find yourself completely alone, or surrounded by a convoy of tourists in campervans. You can always spot them on their slow pilgrimage around the country – they park at odd angles until joined by fellow travellers, when they create a circular formation that resembles an impenetrable fortification you might see in a wagon train heading west across the American desert. 

They never travel light either. They have so much gear with them they look like they are either preparing to invade a country or go in search of weapons of mass destruction in a bio-contaminated area. Having left the seaside village of Kapa Point, I came across a slow moving annoyance of campervans who had taken up residents in a carpark at a place in the Catlins called Tunnel Hill. When I arrived, they were hurriedly going about their business setting up an outdoor version of London’s Savoy Grill inside their fortified circle while others seemed to be holding an annual AGM. They were British of course. They had to be British! Only the British would take a 5 minute walk to an old railway tunnel this seriously. For a nano-second I considered joining them, but then I decided I’d rather have my wisdom teeth removed with a circular saw and instead opted to stop in Owaka for a cup of coffee and a wander around the museum.

Catlins Lake

I didn’t get a cup of coffee in Owaka, nor did I wander around the museum. I’d read the museum was open seven days from 8:30am till 5:00pm, except if it was open, they were doing a remarkably good job of making it look closed. As for coffee, I only found one place that was open, and it was so packed that the last thing I felt like doing was standing in a queue, slowly losing the will to live as the line crept forward at a pace that would make a glacier impatient – all the while listening to someone debate the merits of almond milk versus soy for their flat white. Instead, a few minutes down the road I stopped at Catlins Lake and took in the view – an old pier jutting out across the water towards the upper estuary of the Catlins River. Something that was far more peaceful and rewarding.

Papatowai

Around 30 minutes after leaving the town of Owaka, I arrived in the even smaller settlement of Papatowai. The drive had been pleasant, taking me past forests, estuaries, scenic lookouts, beaches, and waterfalls. I could easily have spent several days exploring everything along the way, but that simply wasn’t possible.

My plan had been to take an amble through a disused railway tunnel before grabbing a cup of coffee in Owaka and wandering around the local museum. However, this was thwarted by a slow-moving annoyance of campervans, an unmoving coffee queue, and a closed sign. Lacking the anticipated injection of caffeine, I instead pulled into Tahakopa Bay at Papatowai and went for a walk along a path called The Old Coach Walkway.

It was a short, easy track through lush native bush, with mossy forest, ferns, and occasional glimpses of the Tahakopa River. The path was relatively flat and easy-going, though a tad damp and muddy after the recent rain. When I reached a lookout point over the river, I paused and took in the scene before me. Like so many places I’d visited, I could have lingered longer, but time was moving on and so did I. After one last look at my surroundings, I made my way back to the car and rejoined the Chaslands Highway.

Tokanui

I was driving to Tokanui, a distance of about 50 kilometres (30 miles) from Paptowai, located in the southeastern corner of the South Island. The population of the small settlement stands at roughly 150 (give or take a few families) and passing through it you’d never guess this sleepy little spot was once the proud terminus of a government railway line. Not that it went anywhere mind you – it stopped, quite literally in the middle of a paddock. 

The Tokanui Branch line opened in 1911 with talk of eventually linking through the Catlins and on to Otago. A grand vision and plan that, on paper at least, made it look like Southland was about to ‘boom’ and Tokanui would become its beating heart.  

But, the extension of the Tokanui line never came. The Catlins’ timber trade went bust, the farming population didn’t ‘boom’, and the government shelved its plans. This left the branch line finishing, exactly where it was, in the middle of a field. For the next fifty years, trains to Tokanui from Winton, dropped off supplies, picked up livestock and wool bales, then turned around at the lonely little station in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the world. 

I had read that the last train left in 1966, and while the tracks are long gone, you can still spot the odd bit of line and raised bank where a railway line might have gone. There wasn’t much, but then again, neither was the railway.

Fortrose

When you’re driving, you have lots of time to think and consider things. Time to let your mind wander and contemplate issues that fill daily life. Things that you don’t otherwise have the time to pay attention to. Important things, such as ‘what was in that chorizo risotto I liked the other night, what are the opening lyrics to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody’ and ‘is now a good time to sort the glove box!’ On one occasion, I passed a sign that said ‘200m Fortrose Cafe Coffee Food 24 Fuel’ – yet we can’t punctuate, I thought to myself. I left the town as quickly as I arrived. Yet, as I did, I began to wonder about the Fortrose Cafe.  Were they selling three separate things or was ‘coffee food fuel’ some sort of all-in-one super-snack for a desperate road-tripper, designed to keep them awake for 36 hours straight?

The fog, fine mist and rain of South Otago along with the gloomy overcast conditions of The Catlins were now starting to give way to pockets of high broken cloud and patches of blue sky. The drive from Tokanui to Fortrose had taken less time than it did to play The Doors twelve minute epic The End. Which, funnily enough is where The Catlins region ended and I rolled into Southland. As the final bars of the song were fading into the background and Toetoes Bay and the mouth of the Mataura River came into view, under a clearing, yet moody sky, I was happy in the knowledge that in Fortrose, you can get your coffee, lunch, and petrol all in one cup. Just don’t light a match near it! 

Mokotua

So, I drove on from the small settlement of Tokanui to the even smaller Mokotua. Smaller by 33%, to be precise. The drive lasted under 30 minutes, I passed rivers and streams that dissected the farmland on either side of the long, straight roads. Passing through an area called Gorge Road (about halfway between Tokanui and Mokotua), I realised I had the road to myself. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a vehicle. Tokanui, perhaps? I couldn’t for the life of me remember! Out here, there was no need to worry about following distances or getting stuck behind someone who treats the accelerator like a suspicious red button not to be pushed. Not that I’m impatient, of course, I just prefer not to grow old waiting for someone to reach the speed limit.

Since I had the road to myself, to fill the time, I switched from listening to music to a podcast that I’d downloaded earlier to keep me company. I’d been following the trial of Erin Paterson, a lady from East Gippsland, Victoria, Australia, who had been accused of murdering her in-laws after they died eating death-cap mushrooms that were found in the Beef Wellington. She’d recently been found guilty of murder, and in the wave of media coverage that had followed in the preceding days, I’d fallen behind in my listening. Of all the things mentioned in the trial, the one thing I found strange was this: guilt or innocence aside, if you had ‘explosive diarrhoea,’ would you wear white pants? If my lower half had declared independence and were having less of a bowel movement and more of a plumbing crisis, white certainly wouldn’t be my first choice in colour.

After that thought, I decided mushrooms (and anything wrapped in pastry) might be off the menu for a while. The road ahead lifted and dipped like a lazy rollercoaster, disappearing over each rise before spilling into the next stretch of farmland. Power lines marched beside me, the only company apart from the occasional flock of sheep. Mokotua flickered past almost unnoticed, a scatter of paddocks and a store before vanishing behind me. Beyond each crest, I felt closer to Bluff, New Zealand’s southernmost town, one of the country’s oldest European settlements, home to the iconic Stirling Point signpost and the world-famous Bluff oysters.

Bluff

I like Bluff. It’s got a sign that points in twelve directions at once, a graveyard for ships, and a lighthouse. Also, it’s not Invercargill. That alone is worth celebrating. There’s even an enormous painting of what can only be described as an underwater steampunk chicken lounging in a copper bathtub. Why? Who knows. Bluff doesn’t need to explain itself.

There used to be a house where every inch of the inside was covered in paua shells which is long gone unfortunately. Mind you, they do have a food truck that is frankly, far better than they have any right to be. Last time I visited, it was bucketing down with rain. They actually wrote down my licence plate and brought my food out to me in the car. Now that’s service. I know places that can’t even remember my order while I’m standing at the counter, let alone tracking me down when I’m hiding in the car.

This time, I just drove around and admired the port from various angles, finishing with a view from up on the hill. It looked like a giant, moving jigsaw puzzle I couldn’t solve and certainly didn’t understand. Out on the horizon, Invercargill loomed in a faint grey haze. That was my next stop. Lucky me.

Invercargill

The drive from Bluff to Invercargill was 26 km (16 miles) of pure anticipation. I felt I’d been a bit harsh on one of the world’s most southern cities, so I decided to approach it with an open mind and a sense of expectation. But it’s hard not to prejudge a city that’s been called “the arse end of the world,” or a place where “people only smile when it’s windy because their lips are frozen to their teeth.”

Instead, I chose to focus on a slightly more optimistic description: “a promising settlement that was progressing satisfactorily.” Mind you, that was in 1857, when the town had grown in just a year from two houses and a few tents to a village boasting fourteen houses, two inns, and three stores. Progress, indeed.

Yet, despite my reservations, I arrived with a newfound sense of hope. After all, a place that produced New Zealand motorcycle legend Burt Munro can’t be all bad. Can it?

I completed an uneventful drive into the heart of Invercargill, parked near the well-known Boer War memorial, and went for a wander. I strolled a short distance to the Otepuni Gardens before detouring through the surrounding city streets, eventually arriving back at my car.

The place was pleasant. A steady stream of shoppers hurried about and the weather agreeable. Then, it suddenly dawned on me, there wasn’t a hill to be seen. Invercargill it turns out, is as flat as a pancake. This was something I’d never noticed. At the time I was having this revelation, it also occurred to me that here was a city with no pretence. No trying to be something it wasn’t, Invercargill just was. Quietly doing its thing at the bottom of the country, and maybe that was enough.

I left with an open frame of mind.

Wallacetown

I left Invercargill with a strange sensation, and I don’t mean a tingling between the toes that might be a touch of an athlete’s foot. I was leaving the city with an idea of what I might actually do when I returned. That was a new feeling for me. Usually, when I leave Invercargill, I don’t give the place a second thought, but this time was different. 

As I rolled out of the inner city, I thought about the Classic Motorcycle Mecca, Transport World, and Queens Park – all I could come back and visit. I was still mulling over these options as I passed through Avenal, then Waikiwi, then Lorneville, and then I was passing open farm fields, having completely missed my destination of Wallacetown. 

By the time I realised this, I was someway down the road. Recutalant to retrace my steps just to poke around the town, I decided to push on another twenty minutes to Riverton.

Riverton

In the time that it took me to drive to Riverton, the entire Romanov dynasty in Russia collapsed and Bolshevism took over. When you think about it, that’s a lot to happen in 20 minutes. In actual fact, it took more than 20 minutes. It took about 300 years, but it’s amazing how history can be condensed into a podcast, and how consuming it can get while you’re driving.

So, while I listened to the tale of how the last Tsar of Russia (Nicholas II) and the rest of his family were being shot in a cold basement somewhere in Russia during 1917, I was rolling into the small Southland town of Riverton. A town that proudly claims itself to be the “Riviera of the South.” A splendid place it is too.

Like most New Zealand towns it has a single long main street, with all the major shops branching off it. It also used to have an oversized paua shell that greeted visitors on their way into town, but upon my arrival I discovered it had been moved – to the far end of town overlooking the river. Rather fetching it was in its new home. Mind you, if I’d paid $30,000 for an imitation marine mollusc to be repainted, it better be dazzling as all hell! 

The last time I was in Riverton I filled the afternoon by wandering around the paths that flanked the river and realised two things. Firstly that Riverton is a charming town and the second that it had occurred to me while walking across the town bridge, that I didn’t have any particular reason to be there. So, on this occasion, as I crossed the town bridge, I took a moment to park my car and look back across the estuary to the town. It really was a nice little place!

Orepuki

I was heading for Tuatapere, the “Sausage Capital of New Zealand.” A bold claim really – especially in a country where around 400 million sausages are eaten every year. 

On the way, just outside a place called Orepuki, the weather started to turn. The drive had been long and winding, twisting its way out of rolling farmland and into something altogether more coastal. The paddocks gave way to rugged beaches that looked quiet and pristine in the afternoon light. Out on the horizon, across the bay, dark clouds were gathering with all the pleasantry of a grumpy bus driver. Things were starting to look ominous.

A little further on, I passed a sign that read “Gemstone Beach.” I’d read about this place before. Apparently, all sorts of rare and colourful pebbles are washed from Fiordland via the Waiau River, eventually ending up on the shoreline. It’s a fossicker’s paradise. For a fleeting moment, I considered pulling over for a poke around. But the afternoon was ticking on and I wanted to see our nation’s sausage capital. Priorities.

Tuatapere

When local Tuatapere sausage guru Leo Henderson came up with a new recipe in the 1980’s, little did he know he was creating what is now arguably the country’s best sausage. At the time of creation his friends and neighbours were so impressed and filled with pride that whispers quickly spread: the local ‘snarler’ produced by the well-known butcher from the high street was the best in the land. Thus, over time, word spread that the local delicacy from the countries most south-western town (with a population of approximately 560 people),  was so good that Tuatapere became known as the “Sausage Capital of New Zealand”

It only occurred to me later that day, as I was looking at an abandoned farmhouse being slowly swallowed by sheep, that I should’ve stopped and brought some of the famous local product. I sighed in disbelief. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid! For a moment I considered going back, but it was getting late and I didn’t have time. There I was, driving through the sausage capital of New Zealand, and I DIDN’T stop and buy any to take with me. I could’ve kicked myself! I did kick myself and vowed ‘never again shall I make such a monumental blunder!’ Well, not for the next 72 hours at least! 

Ohai

I continued on to Ohai, an even smaller town than Tuatapere. According to Statistics New Zealand as of the 2023 Census the rural town had 288 residents. However, in more recent times the place has experienced somewhat of a ‘boom’ as people from bigger cities have decided they rather like being able to buy a decent house for under $300,000 or a quarter-acre section $60,000.

Once a bustling coal town, life in Ohai appeared to be on the quiet side as I slowly rolled through the town. Just as I was passing through what I assumed was the beating heart of central Ohai, two teenagers came into view, slouching their way down the middle of the road, kicking a can. I kid you not. There they were, just ambling along the centre line, taking it in turns to kicking a crushed and faded tin can down the middle of the street. Occasionally one of them would stop, pick-up a stone and whirl it away in the distance to nothing in particular. Oh what it must be like to be a teenager in a rural, northwestern Southland town. 

Beyond the town the Tākitimu Mountains and Fiordland’s Princess Mountains were visible in the distance and gave the place a semi-alpine feel. The afternoon was pressing on, the light was starting to dip ever so slightly while heavy clouds once again hung overhead. On the outskirts of town a sign pointed back towards the town that read “Ohai Ohai”, so I said “goodbye, goodbye” and carried on to Nightcaps. Or, should I say ‘Nightcaps Nightcaps’.

Nightcaps

The town of Nightcaps was a disappointment.
As a garment (please stick with me here), the nightcap dates back to around the 14th century Northern Europe where indoor heating was absent and caps were worn in bed to keep the head warm. 

Back when I was planning this trip and I spread out a map of the South Island on the living room floor, Nightcaps was one of the towns that caught my eye. Naturally, I’d assumed the residents of the town had chosen the name as a way to celebrate the famed piece of night attire, and that it would be written into the town charter that all local residents had to wear one, day or night. So, you can imagine my disappointment when upon arrival not a nightcap was to be seen. There were plenty of swandries, red-band gumboots, utes covered in mud and working farm dogs noisily yapping away, but not a nightcap to be seen. For a moment, I speculated that the name might be because all the town’s residents get up at midnight, have a belt of whiskey and return to bed. However, I wasn’t prepared to hang around for seven or so hours to confirm my suspicion so I pressed on.

The town was pleasant and had all the facilities you’d expect to find in a small rural town. As I passed through I imagined it being delightful, slowly moving and charming in the height of summer. Unfortunately, it wasn’t summer. It was the middle of winter on a cold and gray Thursday evening.

Winton

By the time I arrived in Winton, it was already early evening. The light was fading into that blue haze of half-light that comes at sunset. As I navigated the surrounding streets, I was surprised to find that Winton was larger than I’d been expecting. While still on the small side, it was considerably larger than anything I’d seen for some time, so I happily drove around for a bit, taking in the sights and looking for a place to stay.

The town of Winton sprang to life as miners seeking the riches of the central Otago goldfields plodded across the plains from Invercargill to the goldfields of Wakatipu. The steady stream of travellers became so great that a railway was constructed, and Winton quickly became one of the main transit points for local farmers along with those travelling to and from the goldfields. While the town has grown, as I drove around I couldn’t help but feel it kept some of its transient origins. I liked this.

I took a room at the Railway Hotel, a handsome two-storeyed Edwardian-style building that would’ve been a grand place at the time of its reopening in 1910 (the original building having opened in 1861 before being destroyed by fire). I was given a smallish room, spent several minutes exploring it, opening cupboards, testing the water pressure, and trying to turn on the TV, before presenting myself at the downstairs bar, ready for a pint and something to eat.

I stood at the bar for several minutes before a gravelly voice from behind me said, “You’ve got to ring the bell if you want something.”
I looked around to see a man with a long grey beard in a John Deere tractor cap looking at me with a crooked smile. His name was Jim, I was to discover later, and he must not have been a day younger than 150.
“Pardon me?” I replied.
“The bell, you’ve got to ring it if you want service. They’ll be in the other room setting up for the quiz night,” he continued.

A quiz night, I thought to myself? Now this was a stroke of good fortune. I could just see myself enjoying a nice meal before joining a team who might be down a member. It just so happened that I had recently been part of a champion-winning quiz team, and feeling in a somewhat confident mood, I inquired if anyone could join in. My mind whirled in thought, maybe I could enter on my own. I’d go down in local folklore as that stranger from out of town who whistled in on the breeze, won the local quiz night, and disappeared as quickly as he arrived. However, my daydream was shattered when I was told by a lady behind the bar, “All the teams are full. We’re expecting quite a turnout tonight.”

With this, I slunk to a table, menu in hand, and set about ordering some dinner.
“Besides, the questions are probably all about farming and not nearly as challenging as the local Kindy fundraiser that I’d been part of the winning team in,” I muttered to myself as I surveyed a menu that was about five pages long and had dishes from every major continent on it. For a moment I considered ordering a Greek kebab with a side order of pork bao buns and margherita pizza, just to give the night a truly international flavour. However, I decided to go with a steak and order another beer.

I finished my meal and ordered another pint, with the pleasant sounds of poker machines whittling away in the background. Occasionally Jim, my new best friend, would come over and we’d engage in short conversation before he too became lost to the dazzling lights and sounds of the pokie machines. Eventually, I looked at my watch. It wasn’t late, but I was tired. It had been a long day and my eyes were beginning to droop.

I went outside and looked at the town of Winton under the night sky. The trucks were still bowling past; they had been all day. I retired to my room, read a few pages of my book, and listened to the soothing sounds of laughter coming from the quiz. I bet the questions suck, I thought to myself as I drifted off to sleep. 

Part 2

Winton

In the morning, I was awake early and sprang out of bed in an enthusiastic mood. After all, it’s not every day you go to the grave site of the first and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand. I completed my morning ablutions without incident, ate breakfast, and quietly slipped out into the chilly morning air to take in the town of Winton. Immediately across the road stood the old post office.

The previous evening, the old post office building had looked quite splendid bathed in harsh light. A bright orange streetlamp had thrown its starburst glare squarely across the façade, giving the white walls a lovely glow, while a colder blue light hovered to the left like some disinterested moon. Against the inky black sky, the building’s details of arched doorway and windows seemed exaggerated, as though trying to remind passersby of the importance it once held. But now, in the morning light, it had taken on a different complexion. It looked softer, almost apologetic, as though the bravado of the night had drained away and left behind a tired old building simply trying to mind its own business while it nursed a hangover!

I walked up one side of the street and back down the other, taking in the morning. It was only 7:30 a.m., but trucks were already rattling past. I made my way to my car, and soon after I too was on the road, heading for a place called ‘The Larches’ and later the grave of Minnie Dean.

The Larches, a modest property just outside the rural town of Winton, gained a measure of notoriety in the early 1870s as the home of the infamous baby farmer Williamina Dean (better known as Minnie Dean) and her husband, Charles.

The Deans moved there after their hotel business near Riverton collapsed. If that wasn’t enough, a fire at their new home left them teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. With Charles struggling to find steady work, Minnie turned to what was then called “baby farming”, taking in infants for payment from mothers who were unable or unwilling to care for them. Quickly whispers soon began to spread. Several children in her care had died, reportedly from neglect or mistreatment, and the town began to watch her more closely.

Locals noticed a curious pattern: Minnie often travelled alone by train, returning with a child in tow. Then, days, weeks or months later, she would be off again, returning with another child, many of them never to be seen again. On one particular journey, a local reporter saw her board a train carrying a baby and a small hatbox. When she came back, the baby was gone, and the hatbox was unusually heavy and all she carried. Suspicion turned to alarm, and the police were alerted.

In 1895, a search of The Larches revealed a grim discovery: the bodies of two infants and a three-year-old girl buried in the garden. Her trial was swift. Found guilty of murder, she was sentenced to death. On 12 August 1895, at Invercargill Prison, Minnie Dean became the first, and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand.

I found her grave on the edge of the old Winton Cemetery, slightly apart from the others, as though she were still kept at arm’s length from society. Today, Winton likes to be known as a prosperous farming community rather than for Minnie Dean, but the story still lingers in the background.I climbed back into my car and drove through the nearby streets. I drove past ‘The Larches’ where once a ramshackled old weatherboard cottage with a dirt floor once stood,  a faint emptiness settling over me. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, some dramatic flash of history, perhaps, but in the quiet morning hour it all felt strangely anticlimactic in a sad sort of way. Eventually, I rejoined the main state highway, all the while thinking about the life of Minnie Dean. There was nothing else to be said.  

Dipton

Limehills is the kind of place you could easily miss if you blink too long while driving, which is exactly what I did. I’d been hoping to get an early fix of caffeine, my eyes scanning for the tell-tale sign of a café with a chalkboard out front and a name like “Bean There” or “Perky’s,” but the opportunity sailed past without me even noticing. By the time I realised, I was rolling into Dipton, wondering if I’d dreamt Limehills entirely.

Located on State Highway 6 between Invercargill and Frankton, Dipton’s population hovers at just over 2,000 people, who enjoy its tranquil rural feel. The nearby Ōreti River sparkling in the sunshine, all the while surrounded by wonderfully green pastures that seem to go on forever. But this was winter. The pastures weren’t green, the sunshine wasn’t shining, and the tranquillity seemed to have slipped away. A low grey winter cloud hung over the town like an unmade duvet, the nearby paddocks were lined with mud, cows standing about in that resigned way cows do when they know there’s no point complaining.

And yet, there was something oddly comforting about Dipton in winter. The stillness was different; it was more of a sedate winter hibernation. Still, I’m sure locals welcome visitors with all the good graces in the world. I could turn up at the Winter Community Catch-Up in June, attend rock ’n’ roll lessons on a Wednesday evening throughout July, stop off at Bee’s Bites for a taste treat, or join the locals in seeing Nick Hyde live in the Community Hall in September, all the being embraced into the town. Dipton seemed to be the kind of place where locals would tip their hat with a friendly “morn” before moving on with their day.

Dipton wasn’t flashy. It’s not even mildly attention-seeking. It was just quietly getting on with the business of the day. As must I, which is why I headed for Lumsden.

Lumsden, Lowther & Athol

Twenty kilometres beyond Dipton is Lumsden, then the towns of Lowther and Athol. But, I didn’t feel like stopping at any of these places. The rural feel was giving way to mountain passes and ranges with snowcovered peaks, all of which gave an ominous, moody feel to the far off horizon. I was happy to drive and watch the countryside pass me by. Besides, I was deeply engrossed in an Australian podcast called The Crewe murders: New Zealand’s most infamous cold case. In 1970, Harvey and Jeanette Crewe were shot dead in the living room of their Pukekawa farmhouse, their bodies found in the Waikato River three months later. 

When the Crewes’ were first discovered to be missing, their two-year-old daughter Rochelle was found alive and alone at the Crewes farmhouse, having been cared for by an unknown person/s. Local farmer Arthur Allan Thomas was eventually arrested and charged over the murders, the prosecution relying heavily on a spent .22 cartridge case found in the Crewe garden. Thomas was convicted, appealed and reconvicted and spent nine years in prison before it was revealed evidence was planted by police. In 1979, nine years after the Crewe’s were murdered, Arthur Allan Thomas was granted a Royal Pardon by Governor-General Sir Keith Holyoake on the advice of Prime Minister Robert Muldoon, while to this day, the murders have never been solved. 

As I drove with the countryside changing around me, I realised it’s the mystery around the Crewe murders more than the murderers themselves that make the case so fascinating. The actual murders were nothing more than a grisly affair that has happened countless times before. What made these murders so sensational was the sheer amount of unknown intrigue that lasted throughout the case. With the Crewe murders, new evidence doesn’t provide answers, it only raises more questions, and that’s very rare!  

About the time I was whizzing through the small Southland town of Athol, dodging slow-moving cars with Australian bumper stickers that read “I come from the land down under” and “Australian and Proud,” my podcast was ending and I was feeling in a somber mood. I had started the day with the infamous baby farmer Minnie Dean and moved on to the horrific murders of Harvey and Jeanette Crewe. These were heavy topics for 10am and now I was being held up by slow-moving Australians. So, to lighten the mood before arriving at Fairlight, I spent the time trying to remember jokes about Australians.

Question: How many Australians does it take to make chocolate chip cookies?
Answer: Ten. One to make the batter, and nine to peel the M&Ms.

Question: What do you call an Australian in the final of the Rugby World Cup?
Answer: A referee.

Question: Why did the Australian stare at the carton of orange juice?
Answer: It said “concentrate.”

Fairlight

Leaving Athol, State Highway 6 quickly slips into that familiar Southland habit of stretching out in long, ruler-straight lines, as if the surveyor couldn’t be bothered. Further on, smaller settlements appeared almost apologetically, little more than a handful of houses and a war memorial that looks like it’s been keeping a quiet eye on the place for over a century. Blink, and you’re on your way again.

Further on, I found myself at Fairlight. At first glance, it’s just a station beside the road, but this patch of ground was once “The Ten Mile,” a staging stop for horses and travellers in the pre-railway days. Then came the 10th July 1878, when the first train rattled through on the newly completed Athol-to-Kingston line. Invercargill marked the occasion with a celebration excursion, five engines, twenty carriages, and presumably a few startled sheep watching the spectacle roll past.

The building here today started life as Otautau’s railway station, built around the 1920s, and was hauled over to Fairlight in 1996. Now it serves as the southern terminus of the Kingston Flyer, quietly keeping watch, waiting for the next whistle of steam, and maybe remembering the days of old when the carriages made the ground tremble.

Kingston

From Fairlight, the road to Kingston hugged the edge of open farmland before finally giving way to the lake. The weather had slipped into that particular winter moodiness – a low ceiling of grey, the hills brooding under a dusting of snow, and Lake Wakatipu the colour of slate. By the time I rolled into Kingston, it felt as though the clouds had settled in for the long haul.

Kingston’s first claim to fame was, of course, the Kingston Flyer, the old steam train that once flew its way up and down the tracks. But I discovered it had a second claim to fame: it was here that the TSS Earnslaw was launched.

Built in Dunedin, the Earnslaw had been dismantled and loaded onto trains for the journey to Kingston, piece by piece, before being reassembled and launched on 18 October 1912. She set out from Kingston to Queenstown on her maiden voyage that day and has been gliding up and down Lake Wakatipu ever since, a floating slice of Edwardian elegance.

I stood and looked out across the lake, then back towards the town. I’d managed to see the Flyer, stand where the Earnslaw first touched the water, and even exchange a few words with a handful of locals who seemed equal parts curious and amused by my visit. It felt like I’d done Kingston justice – enough history, conversation, and weather to fill a small notebook. With that achievement under my belt, I pointed the car toward the Devil’s Staircase, Carlin Creek, Jacks Point and finally Frankton.

Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

I returned to the car and drove 32 kilometres (20 miles) along a glorious yet winding road to Jack’s Point, a resort on the edge of Lake Wakatipu framed by the dramatic, snow-covered peaks of the Remarkables on one side and rocky tussock covered hills on the other. To the north lay the ever-expanding district of Frankton, a strategically important location during the time of the Otago Gold Rush in the 1860s and the birthplace of WWII hero and flying ace William Hodgson.

I’d read about RAF officer William Hodgson quite by chance before leaving on my trip, wondering if I might be able to find a war memorial in the area with his name on it. Born in Frankton on 30 September 1920, Hodgson joined the RNZAF in Dunedin in 1939, training first at the Otago Aero Club and then at Wigram’s Flight Training School before being shipped off to the United Kingdom in April 1940. Upon arrival, he completed Hurricane training and was posted to the 85th Squadron at Debden in May, becoming involved in the Battle of Britain in August – his squadron being ordered to patrol the skies over Canterbury. From there, he went on to fly close to 150 missions, being officially credited with destroying five enemy aircraft and damaging many others. On 13 March 1941, Hodgson was a passenger in an A-20 when shortly after takeoff, a panel came loose, wrapped itself around the tail fin causing the plane to crash, killing all on board.

My plan upon arrival in Frankton was simple: go for a walk, see if I could find any mention of William Hodgson at the war memorial, have a coffee, and grab some lunch. But that quickly changed when I discovered that traffic was in a state of insane chaos due to a series of never-ending roadworks. Vehicles were backed up in every direction, made worse by airport traffic and tourists who seemed determined to photograph mountains, rubbish bins, or whatever the hell else had caught their fancy. Stuck in this traffic hellhole, I decided that poor Mr William Hodgson would have to wait. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary in such chaotic shambles, so I escaped via State Highway 6 as quickly as possible. Stopping instead at Lake Hayes, which I hoped would be much more peaceful and was only 9 kilometres (5 miles) further on.

Lake Hayes

At Lake Hayes, the weather was starting to break. The heavy, overcast gloom and constant threat of rain was giving way to still, settled-yet cold-conditions. I pulled into a relatively empty car park and went for a stroll along one of the tracks that followed the shore. The full loop is a picturesque and enchanting 8-kilometre (5-mile), two-hour walk around the lake’s edge. On a different day I’d have embraced the track and set off for a decent walk, but time wasn’t on my side. Instead, I stood by the water’s edge, taking in the near-perfect mountain reflections in front of me.

The lake was still, like a sheet of glass stretching all the way to the distant shore, creating a flawless, crystal-clear mirror image of the mountains across the horizon while wildlife lazily pushed through the reeds near my feet. Only the steady hum of the motorway behind me, with its chaotic rhythm, broke up the tranquillity of this peaceful oasis. It couldn’t last. It didn’t last. Just as I pulled out of the car park and bravely rejoined the stream of traffic, an annoyance of British campervans arrived and began setting up a corral in the very car park I’d just vacated. Hungry and thirsty, I slipped into the traffic flow heading for Cromwell, roughly 45 kilometres (27 miles) away, passing through the wonderful Gibbston Valley and Kawarau Gorge – an ever-changing journey of spectacular mountain peaks, deep ravines, with a striking yet imposing river.

Bannockburn

Just before reaching Cromwell, near Highlands Motorsport Park (a world-class venue that at one point looked doomed for the scrapheap until Scottish-born entrepreneur and racing enthusiast Tony Quinn injected the necessary funds to see it completed) I decided on a whim to detour 5 kilometres to the small settlement of Bannockburn. 

Bannockburn got its start in the days of the Otago Gold Rush and at the height of the gold rush, around 40,000 miners were working claims across Central Otago, with about 10,000 in the Clyde, Cromwell, Bannockburn, Stewart Town area by 1864. Around this time, a story emerged of a chilly spring evening when a handful of miners gathered at one of the numerous watering holes just down the hill from Stewart Town near Bannockburn. After a hard week of sluicing and picking through schist, they were ready to unwind, and as the night grew later, the whisky flowed, the laughs grew louder, and the stories taller.

By the time the last orders came, three miners – let’s call them Jack, Tom, and Bill – discovered that the relationship between their brains and legs had broken down entirely. They began the long stumble back up the hill to Stewart Town in a not-altogether-straight line. As the night deepened, the songs grew louder, the hill steeper, and the gullies all started to look the same. Familiar landmarks blurred in the moonlight. Hours later, the townsfolk woke to faint voices and songs drifting over the hills through the night. At first light, a search party set out and found the trio several kilometres off the usual track, tangled in a scrubby gully, their boots soaked, clothes torn, and nursing hangovers that could floor a crash of rhinoceroses.

These days, all that’s left of Stewart Town are a few crumbling remains on a historic reserve, while Bannockburn itself has a population of around 500 – a number that soars to what feels like 5 billion in summer as holidaymakers flock to Central Otago to enjoy this sun-baked pocket of the country, where golden hills, vineyards, and vast blue skies linger late into the evening. Upon arrival, I drove around for a bit, admiring the remains of old schist buildings that still grace the town, before slipping out across the bridge.

Cromwell

A few minutes later, I arrived in Cromwell. It had a sluggish sort of feel. The town was busier than expected, yet low mist and cloud had settled over the place, giving the day a lethargic air that residents seemed to embrace as they ambled between shops at a pace suggesting they had nowhere urgent to be. I drove through the historic precinct, where the original town once stood before the area was flooded and most of its historic buildings were lost forever, eventually leaving via the main bridge at a place called Dead Man’s Point. Here, I joined State Highway 8, with Lake Dunstan coming into view, and carried on towards Clyde.

Clyde 

The drive to Clyde was 20 minutes of scenic beauty along the shores of Lake Dunstan. The weather was in an indecisive mood, with ominous storm clouds gathering overhead, while settled patches of blue sky showed signs of promise far off in the distance. All along the lake there are bays and inlets that are usually filled with people in the summer months; however, today they were empty, as occasional gusts of wind whipped up the lake, disturbing the wintery aqua hues on the lake’s epilimnion. The road was strangely quiet – a welcome surprise, let me tell you – leaving me free to happily gaze out the window, contently singing along to some 1970s Soul Train mix that Spotify had told me was “a vibe I know you’re into,” putting me in a happy and content mood as I pulled into town and parked outside a local bakery.

Like a lot of places in Otago and Southland, the town of Clyde got its start in life thanks to the discovery of gold in the region. When that happened, everyone went absolutely bananas and rushed to the goldfields seeking fame and fortune, the epicentre of the mayhem being the town of Clyde – although back then it was simply known as “The Dunstan.” At the height of the gold rush, Clyde was the largest town in the country, and it’s also home to one of my favourite gold rush robbery stories.

At the time of the Otago Gold Rush of the 1860s, the towns of Frankton and Clyde were strategically important hubs in the gold escort network. Located on key routes between Queenstown, Arrowtown, and the wider Otago diggings, shipments of gold often passed through one or the other on their way back to Dunedin. Depending on where the gold originated, it might be staged overnight in Frankton or in Clyde before tackling the next leg of the journey. In July 1870, gold from the local diggings was being held in Clyde’s lock-up, awaiting the Monday morning escort to Dunedin, when one of the country’s most audacious robberies took place, gold and banknotes to the value of around £2,000 at the time were stolen from inside the Clyde gaol.

The robbery occurred on a cold winter’s night in late July 1870, as a hard frost settled over the town. Earlier that day, the weekly gold shipment from the local diggings had been brought into Clyde and stored away in the town lock-up, located inside a cell within the town jail. The next morning, upon inspection, it was discovered that the outer gaol door remained secure, but the larger, heavier, and stronger door inside had been forced open and the gold and banknotes were gone.

After an exhaustive search, with a substantial reward offered to anyone who could help solve the crime, the cash boxes were found empty in a water race just 50 metres from the gaol, while whispers around town suggested a local shoemaker and the constable on duty might have been involved. Local gossip even hinted that the constable had simply unlocked the outer door to let the shoemaker in, yet none of this was ever proven and no one was ever convicted.

The robbery had taken place some time between midnight and 4 a.m. The thieves broke through the inner door by removing heavy screws and manipulating the sturdy iron bolt across it. Once inside, they threw the cash boxes over the gaol wall and made off with the loot – the gold and notes were never recovered, although town gossip suggested they were hidden 50 kilometres (35 miles) from Clyde, somewhere in the rocky Maniototo hills.

Omakau

Just after you leave the town of Clyde – heading towards Alexandra on State Highway 8, there’s a turnoff called Springvale Road. I took this, heading for the town of Omakau. As I did so, a strange thing happened: the sky cleared revealing a stunning winter’s day. It felt almost biblical. One moment I thought it was going to rain, next I was traveling through bright sunshine under a vast and radiant blue sky. This was the weather I’d been hoping for since leaving home, and now at last, here it was – stretching off into the distance, a big blue sky over a timeless land. I couldn’t be happier. 

I’d read somewhere that Omakau is a charming little Central Otago town, a lovely place to stop and stroll around. So that’s exactly what I did. I parked out the former Commercial Hotel and went for a wander, reading signs and inquisitively peering into various shop windows before strolling the short distance down to the Manuherikia River 

Over a hundred years ago, a violent storm swept through the region, bringing a combination of flooding, snowstorms, and blizzards. So unexpected was the weather system, many people were caught unprepared and heavy rain caused rivers like the Manuherikia to swell with one drowning recorded. During the snowstorms that followed, further fatalities were recorded. Thankfully, when I was there the river was in a pleasant and agreeable mood, and looked rather fetching from my vantage point on the bridge. I could almost make out the town of Ophir, which was where I was heading next. For a moment I considered walking there. It was only two kilometres away and the day was warm and fine. What’s more, I was on my own time and in need of a good walk. Just as I was about to set off, a bout of rational thinking kicked in. If I walked there, I’d also have to walk back, and the afternoon would quickly disappear. A decent walk now would mean less time for a beer at the end of the day. I mulled over this quandary for a few minutes … and then headed back to the car.

Ophir

The very small town of Ophir has a delightful post office, a wonderfully creaky old bridge, a charming pub, and for a glorious stretch of time – the claim of being the coldest place in the country. This, of course, was before some mean spirited person decided to rifle through forgotten weather records and unearthed the inconvenient fact that neighbouring Ranfurly had once managed to be even colder. Three degrees colder, in fact. The record was promptly reassigned, leaving Ophir with its post office, bridge, pub, and the rather less marketable distinction of being merely the second coldest place in New Zealand. 

Ophir’s near-record low of -21.6 °C was reached on Monday, 3 July 1995. To put that in perspective, the average temperature at Scott Base in Antarctica – a place where penguins look like they’re regretting their life choices – is a comparatively balmy -19.8 °C. Ophir was so cold that day locals swear livestock froze to the ground, hens had to be prised off their perches, and hypothermia was a very real threat. For years, the town proudly held on to this shivery claim to fame, until 2015 when the past inconveniently caught up with it. Old records were dusted off and revealed that back in July 1903, a site just west of Ranfurly had clocked an arctic –25.6 °C. And just like that, poor Ophir slipped from first place to second – which is a cruel fate for a town that was already small enough to be overlooked on most maps. 

Fortunately for Ophir, the post office is delightful, the old bridge is wonderful, and the pub is charming. I arrived from nearby Omakau in bright sunshine on a fine but chilly afternoon, wandered about the old buildings, and walked across the bridge – which I rather enjoyed. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I walked across it once more. Then, for good measure, I skipped, hopped, and danced my way across as well, before climbing back into the car and slipping over the hill into the Ida Valley.  

The Ida Valley

From Ophir I headed northwest over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley. A wide, sunlit expanse where the air feels thin and clear, and the land rolls out quietly in front of you. It’s the sort of place that makes you slow down, breathe deeply, and wonder why more people don’t live in valleys like this. Then you realise how special it is and hope it never changes.

As I made my way through the wide-open expanses, the remains of a recent snow drift lay either side of the road, melting in the winter sun. In the distance the Hawkduns loomed – a great, brooding mountain range that dominated the skyline, the kind of mountains that make you feel wonderfully insignificant.

The Ida Valley itself has a curious stillness, as if time slows down. Farmhouses sit low and square against the wind, fences run for miles into the distance, and the road stretches on so far ahead that it seems almost reluctant to end. Out here, there’s a sense that this is a place built on endurance – of people who chose to stay, even when the winters bite hard and the summers bake the earth into cracked clay.

There’s something beautiful about the valley. Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the long shadows cast across the plains, or maybe it’s the knowledge that for decades, this land has seen lives come and go – gold miners, farmers, artists – yet somehow, it has resisted change. You can sense history lingering in the dry air, tucked away in stone cottages and forgotten farm sheds. I pressed on, the road drawing me deeper into the valley, half expecting to meet no one, and quite enjoying the idea.

Oturehua

I found Oturehua tucked quietly into the heart of the Ida Valley. With a population of a little over one hundred, it felt as though time had politely slowed down just enough for me to notice the hills, the wide skies, and the gentle hum of a quiet Central Otago town.

I arrived at rush hour. Four or five utes were parked outside the Railway Hotel, a family wagon idled off into the distance, a family of five emerged from Gilchrist’s General Store, and a group of cyclists enthusiastically inspected their machinery on a nearby patch of grass – no doubt about to tackle another section of the famed Rail Trail.

I parked and called in at Gilchrist’s General Store, famous for being one of New Zealand’s oldest continually operating general stores. It’s the type of place that time has forgotten, but nobody else has. It’s like a living museum; as soon as you step inside you’re transported back in time, free to rummage through the shelves for all sorts of quirky goods while vintage advertising signs decorate the walls. I wandered around, reading the old signs and enjoying the endearing elegance of a place that has no right to be as charming as it is. Behind the counter stood a ladder, reaching to the higher shelves. It’s wasn’t hard to imagine a whimsical shopkeeper climbing the ladder behind the counter, then pushing himself to the other end of the display, the ladder gliding smoothly along the shelves on its clever wheel runners. Throughout the store, not only are there old signs, tins, and packaging to admire and reminisce over, but the original telephone exchange is still in place. If that isn’t enough, between the 1920s and the 1940s the business also incorporated a bakery that employed up to 12 people.

Yet Gilchrist’s General Store, the Railway Hotel, the Rail Trail, or even Hayes Engineering are not the most remarkable things about this tiny settlement. The real surprise is that, for a town of just over 100 residents, two have won New Zealand Heritage Literary Awards for poetry. The settlement regularly hosts literary and artistic events such as the Under Rough Ridge Writers’ Retreat, and the wider community is home to a remarkable concentration of writers, poets, and other artists. Without the world noticing, Oturehua has become a creative hub in rural Central Otago, far from the country’s urban centres.

I went for a walk up and down the street where the main cluster of buildings stood. I can’t even call them shops, because mostly they weren’t. I don’t mean that in a rude way – just as a statement of fact. Yet the strange thing was, the longer I stayed, the more the place grew on me. It had no right to. There didn’t seem to be enough there. Yet – and here’s the kicker – it was more than enough.

Ranfurly

It was mid to late afternoon when I came into Ranfurly. The sun was beginning to slip down the sky, casting a long golden light across the Maniototo Plains. I was on my way to Waipiata, but Ranfurly was sitting there in the middle of the landscape looking quietly self-assured, so I decided to make a small detour. Like most New Zealand small towns, Ranfurly seemed to be quietly going about its business while the outer world went hurriedly by.

The Maniototo had been vast and open all afternoon, a place where the sky seemed to take up more space than land. Coming into Ranfurly felt a little like stepping into a pocket of civilization after so much emptiness, if only for a microsecond – a modest town on the edge of a timeless land supporting a surprising amount of character.

Putting its ruralness aside, the first thing I always notice about Ranfurly is the art deco. It’s everywhere: shopfronts, corners, the old post office. Ranfurly owes this quirk to a run of fires in the 1930s, which had cleared much of the main street and forced the town to rebuild. While other places might have chosen a more practical, no-nonsense approach to reestablishing the town, Ranfurly went in a slightly different and quite unexpected direction by giving itself a touch of Hollywood glamour.

The result is a main street with clean lines and curved corners, pastel colours and cheerful facades – the sort of place where you half-expect to find Clark Gable leaning against a doorway in the tearooms. If tourists stopped and asked him for directions he would be able to turn and say, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn! Further down the street outside the pub they could have Humphrey Bogart telling people “The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world” while Gene Kelly could appear every time it rains, singing and dancing – twirling an umbrella.

Of course, all of this isn’t so. Like most New Zealand towns, Ranfurly is built on farming, family, and a strong sense of community. But the art deco architecture gives it a twist – a kind of unexpected pride that sets it apart from its neighbours. You come for the wide landscapes and sharp light of Central Otago, and somehow leave remembering a town that chose style as well as substance. But what really tickled me was the thought that, out here on Maniototo Plains, a town had decided not only to exist but to do so with a certain amount of pizzazz, as if to say, “yes, the sheep are important, but have you seen our curves and pastel trims?”

Waipiata

I left Ranfurly deciding to take a backcountry gravel road to my destination of Waipiata – a short trip of only 10 kilometres, pretty much having the road to myself, apart from the occasional farmer who would pass, creating a dramatic dust storm and a wave of gravel that would rattle against the windscreen. After the onslaught had dissipated, this off course would leave me peering through a film of muck so thick it took a four-step process to clean. Step one (while driving) was to spray the windscreen and flick the wipers, which only turned the dust into a thick brown sludge that would be smeared across the windscreen – briefly leaving me driving blind. Step two was to repeat step one which was required to clean-up the mess created by step one – which helped a little. Step three was another repeat, finally restoring visibility to approximately 80%, and step four bringing things back to clear. At least until the next farmer appeared right on cue in a perfectly choreographed arrival.

It was getting late by the time I arrived in Waipiata, a tiny settlement in the Maniototo. Once a bustling railway stop but now a sleepy village with a pub, a scattering of houses, and the wide open sky for company. The sun and light were starting to fade and an evening chill whistled in from somewhere out on the plains. I went for a short drive around the town, stopping at the local domain which peered out across the plains to the snowcapped peaks on the horizon. I followed a track through the tussock for several minutes that seemed to go nowhere. I stood for a few minutes and listened to the silence, the land stretching away rising gently to meet the blue-grey mountains where the last of winter’s snow clung to the ridges. It had been a long day, but I was pleased I was here. I turned, returned to my car and went in search of some accommodation – The Waipiata Country Hotel, a place I’d chosen specifically for the food. 

Before leaving on this trip, when a few of my friends had heard what I was doing, the food at the Waipiata Country Hotel had been highly recommended. So highly recommended in fact it was the sole reason I was there. Now, here I was, on the verge of what I’d been told was a culinary feast. I found the hotel with little problem, dumped my gear in my room, spent a moment organising myself and headed straight for the bar! On the way, I spotted a sign that read “We are not able to predict when a social gathering might occur. If your stay coincides with a night when the locals come down from the hills to gather and celebrate we can only apologize for any excess noise coming from the bar. Please feel free to use the earplugs provided – or come out and join in.” I ordered a pint, found a table and sank into the bar stool. I instantly felt at home!

To be honest with you, the first pint didn’t touch the sides and the second didn’t last much longer as I carefully surveyed the menu. It had been a long day, I was tired, hungry, thirsty and before I knew it I was happily devouring a delicious Lamb Shank Pie with mash and veg. I know it doesn’t sound that spectacular but it really was. I loved every mouthful, it was so good I considered ordering a second, but I knew I couldn’t possibly manage it. I washed it all down with a beer and happily sat there full, content and musing over how correct people had been. The food was nothing short of delicious and what’s more, there seemed to be delivery parcels of takeaway meals coming out of the kitchen every few minutes. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where all the food was going, I didn’t think enough people lived in the area to sustain so many orders but clearly I was wrong. By the time I was ordering my fourth pint I had firmly decided on several things. Firstly, I too would soon be raving to people about the food at the Waipiata Hotel and secondly, it wouldn’t be long before I would be heading to bed.

Part 3

Kyeburn

In the morning, breakfast was a generous affair of fruit, muesli, toast, coffee, and orange juice – the sort of spread that convinces you a second helping is simply good manners. After several rounds and feeling suitably fortified, I gathered my things and attempted a dignified exit, slipping quietly out the back door so as not to disturb the other guests. This worked perfectly for all of three seconds, until I tripped over a rubbish bin that clattered to the ground and promptly woke the neighbour’s dog, which then woke the rest of the neighbourhood. So much for subtlety.

The morning was cold, properly cold. Everything, and I do mean everything, was frozen solid. Since de-icing the car wasn’t going to be quick, I set off for a walk. Each step landed with a satisfying crunch on the frost, my breath hanging in the air like a thin city fog. Smoke curled lazily from a few nearby houses before dissolving into the washed-out colours of a Maniototo morning.

I’d been following a dirt road, but as the sun began rising over the hills I turned back toward the car, the new light dragging long shadows across the gravel roads and paddocks. I followed them for a while until I reached a frozen stream pressed against a fence line, glinting in the pale sun. I stood there for a moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of a world not quite awake, not yet anyway. 

Of all the things to come out of Kyeburn recently, by far the most remarkable happened in March of 2019, when a local discovered a series of moa footprints in the Kyeburn River. Experts from Tūhura Otago Museum were altered, the river diverted, and the footprints carefully removed to Dunedin. After study, the fossilised trackway was confirmed as the first of its kind known in the South Island and the second-oldest evidence of moa in New Zealand, dating back around 3.6 million years. 

Just think about that for a moment. Some 3.6 million years ago, a heavy-footed moa clumsily wandered across soft river mud, leaving footprints at just the right moment when the ground was firm enough to hold them. By sheer luck, nature quickly covered them with a fresh layer of sediment, shielding the prints from rain, wind, and any other wandering feet. Over millions of years the mud hardened to stone, only to be revealed by the river, just in time for a man named Michael to stumble upon them while walking his dog. Practically speaking, the chances of that happening are astronomically low. 

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost.

Kokonga

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost. Having settled overnight, it stretched across the fields as far as the eye could see, and by the time I reached Kokonga, it seemed even more bitter.

A few kilometres before the small settlement, I had passed through the Maniototo in the early morning. The hills lay flat and peaceful, like sleeping animals. Scattered farms stood distant and isolated; fields climbed up to the rolling hillsides, giving the valley a far-flung feel. The sun had yet to take hold of the day and, for the meantime, remained tucked away behind dark, puffy clouds. On a short stretch of road beside a frozen field, I passed a sign that read “Railway Road – No Exit”, the track itself running only a short distance up into the hills. I pulled over beside an old, forgotten fenceline and got out to look around. There was no one about. Presumably, the people of Kokonga were still sensibly tucked up in bed, warm and cosy.

I wandered past a house with a neatly kept garden – no sign of life – and then along the former railway line, now part of the Central Otago Rail Trail. I stopped where the view opened over a scattering of caravans and huts that sat in the frost-stiffened grass, paint peeling, windows squinting out at the day as if half-asleep. Behind them, the hills rolled away into the distance, capped with snow and looking noble and grand, as mountains often do. The whole scene lay under a pale winter sky, stark, cold, beautiful in a way that makes you wonder if the people living here are brave, mad, or a little of both. I pondered that notion for a bit, not reaching a conclusion as my feet crunched their way back to the warmth of my car.

Rockvale

I returned to the car and drove fifteen kilometres along yet more slow but lovely roads to Hyde, the way winding past sheep paddocks, willow groves, and the occasional farmhouse that looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a decade or two. The frost clung stubbornly to the verges as the sun began the day’s slow defrosting process. To the west, the Kakanui Mountains rose in a long, rugged line, their slopes catching snow in winter and dust in summer. To the south lay places with names like Fairleigh, Newton, Rockvale, Rock and Pillar, and Middlemarch. It was this last place I was heading to next – though on the way, I had a famous crash site to visit.

Straw Cutting

For ten years, the Hyde railway disaster held the title of New Zealand’s worst rail tragedy, until it was overtaken by Tangiwai in 1953. Having visited both, you couldn’t find a sharper contrast. Tangiwai is moody and sombre, with carefully constructed boards that guide you through the events leading up to, during, and after the tragedy. There are graves, multiple memorials, and a well-signposted track that draws you to the site itself. Once there, the information repeats in a way that allows you to pause, reflect, and imagine how horrific that Christmas Eve night must have been. It’s a poignant reminder of a tragic day in New Zealand’s history, and almost impossible to miss as you drive past. Hyde, on the other hand, is a different story entirely, it consists of a recently erected memorial that is 500 metres from the actual site and a lonely information board in the middle of a paddock politely advising you to head eight kilometres back up the road if you’d like to know more.

I was on my way through the Strath Taieri heading for Middlemarch when I reached a sign on the side of the road that encouraged me to see the Hyde Rail Memorial and that’s exactly what I did. I parked in a makeshift car park, spent a few minutes viewing the memorial – reading the names of those that lost their lives, then set off down the track for the crash site. I didn’t know what to expect but suspected it wouldn’t be much, after all, nothing along the way suggested I was even walking in the right direction. Sure enough, after about 500 metres I reached a curve known as Straw Cutting, where the old railway once ran. This, it was clear, was the site. At the top of a bank stood a modest board with just over a hundred words on it, none of which told me anything new. Quite frankly, it was a little disappointing. I wasn’t expecting a theme park selling novelty souvenirs, but I had hoped for a few stories about the survivors, or information about the crash. It seemed only logical: if you’re standing on the site of a disaster, that’s where the story should be told. You don’t go to a museum, stand in front of an exhibit, and then get directed three blocks down the street to read the details. Here I was, at the site of New Zealand’s second-worst railway disaster, and all I got was a reminder to put my rubbish in the bin (though there wasn’t actually a bin to be seen).

For the record, the Hyde railway disaster happened just after 1:30 pm on June 4, 1943. A passenger train was rattling its way from Cromwell to Dunedin, carrying 113 people, many likely heading for the Dunedin Winter Show. The driver, under pressure to make good time, had taken the train well beyond the safe speed limit. As it careered into a sharp bend near Hyde, the inevitable happened – the carriages left the track, crashing and rolling in a scene of devastation. The wreckage stretched across the countryside, leaving survivors to clamber free and search for loved ones amid the chaos. Twenty-one people lost their lives, many more were injured, and Hyde (along with Straw Cutting) became one of those quiet country places forever marked on the map by tragedy, its story, much like the Tangiwai disaster, retold with a mix of sorrow and disbelief.

Middlemarch

If you’re ever in Connecticut, USA it is highly recommended that you visit the USS Nautilus at the Submarine Force Museum. It was the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and is permanently docked on the Thames River which you can walk aboard and explore. In Kiel, Germany at the Laboe Naval Memorial you can visit the U-995, a World War II U-boat. Sydney, Australia has the HMAS Onslow at the Australian National Maritime Museum in Darling Harbour and Kaliningrad, Russia is home to the  B-413 at the Museum of the World. What all these nautical museums and submarine attractions have in common (as in fact do most) is that they are located close to significant bodies of water such as a harbour or ocean. Not so in New Zealand. Here in the land of the long white cloud, to see our one and only submarine you have to drive 80 kilometres inland to Middlemarch – its closest water supply being an outside tap! Yet, it is here you’ll find the Platypus, a submarine that’s a nod towards New Zealand’s ingenuity, inventiveness and No 8 wire mentality. The only drawback being, it never really worked and spent more time holding water than being in it! 

The brainchild of R.W.Nutall and Antoine-Prosper Payerne, who between them came up with the genius idea of building a submarine that could easily dredge the river beds of Central Otago. The theory was that vast quantities of gold must lay on the Central Otago riverbeds and a submarine seemed the ideal way to access it. If the gold wouldn’t come to them, they would go to the gold, thus ‘The Platypus’ was born.

Of French design, The Platypus submarine was constructed, fitted and finished locally in Dunedin before a series of moderately successful public launches took place, starting in December, 1873. The difficulty was that the vessel took a good dozen people to operate and most rational people didn’t want to have anything to do with the craft. Eventually, when at last a group of brave individuals were persuaded to get in the thing, the testing continued, with mixed results at best. During the last of these trials, things went so badly, when The Platypus eventually resurfaced, the men scrambled out, certain they were about to die. After this, unsurprisingly, support started to wane and before it could be transported to the gold fields, the project collapsed with The Platypus left abandoned on the banks of Pelichet Bay (now Logan Park) for four decades. 

The Platypus Project suddenly jumped back to life in the 1920’s when the submarine was dismantled, cut into three sections and sold. The two end sections were purchased by a farmer from the Barewood area near Middlemarch where it was used as a water tank with the middle section disappearing and remains missing. Another 70 years later, the farmer donated the  remains to the Middlemarch Museum where it stands for people like me to marvel over. Which, is what I did now.

Sutton

Having marveled over New Zealand’s only submarine, I headed in a southeasterly direction toward Clarks Junction, a small rural crossroads settlement where State Highway 87 meets the Old Dunstan Road, a route goldminers once took from Dunedin over the Rock and Pillar Range to the Central Otago goldfields.

On the way out of Middlemarch, I passed a sign that said “Sutton Salt Lake.” I considered making a quick visit, but I knew it wouldn’t be quick, and I really didn’t have the time. Access to New Zealand’s only inland salt lake is via a 3.5-kilometre walking track through the wide-open spaces of the Strath Taieri. I had visited earlier in the year and had the whole track to myself. I spent a leisurely morning walking past schist towers that rose from golden tussock and dry shrub, scattered across a quiet plain. The sky stretched endlessly above as the ground crunched underfoot. It was a stunning day, the vast blue sky broken by a few rolling clouds over the Rock and Pillar Range in the distance.

The Sutton Salt Lake is a hidden treasure in the heart of New Zealand. A place of rare ecological importance and significance, it is the nation’s only inland salt lake, formed by rainfall, evaporation, and mineral-rich schist. Its fluctuating saltiness creates a fragile environment where only specialised plants survive, making it a living laboratory of adaptation. Surrounded by the stark Maniototo landscapes, it offers a striking glimpse of nature’s resilience and rarity in Central Otago.

I know a salt lake doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it really is a special place. Exploring the lake and surrounding landscape is like finding a white peacock in the wild, seeing the Sea of Stars in the Maldives, or watching Aston Villa win on Boxing Day. It’s like experiencing the Boston Red Sox win the World Series, or Charlize Theron herself – a rare and beautiful thing.

Clarks Junction

Leaving Sutton’s Salt Lake behind, I carried on along State Highway 87 towards Clarks Junction. Highway 87 peels off from State Highway 1 and Dunedin’s Southern Motorway south of Mosgiel, running through the Taieri Plains, past the Maungatua Range and into the Strath Taieri valley, before finishing at Kyeburn. It’s 114 kilometres of open road that rises and dips with the wide spaces it passes through, a road where the most daring thing you’ll encounter might be a lone sheep – lost and hungry. Once you leave the soft, green pastures of the Taieri Plains, the highway threads through the undulating country around Lee Stream before dropping into the Strath Taieri. Here the horizon suddenly stretches into the far distance, anchored by the Rock and Pillar Range, which carries snow in winter and shimmers like an oasis in summer.

This is a landscape whose vast, open spaces and dramatic landforms have drawn the attention of famous New Zealand artists. Colin McCahon found inspiration here, as did Grahame Sydney, Marilynn Webb, James K. Baxter and Brian Turner. There’s something about this country that demands a response through paint, poem, or photograph – it pulls you in. 

The land itself shifts almost without warning. One moment I was passing lush paddocks edged with trees, the next, tussock, scattered trees, and piles of schist as far as the eye could see. The hills in the distance rise under a vast sky, and you realise you’ve crossed into a country that is both stark and strangely beautiful. It’s like another world, empty, exposed and completely stunning. It was here that I found Clarks’s Junction. I pulled the car over and went for a walk. 

Outram

I left Clarks Junction and continued on State Highway 87 towards the southeast until I reached the small junction town of Outram. A drive that was 26 kilometers of quiet, peaceful bliss. The whole time, I didn’t see a single car, truck, campervan (thank goodness), tractor, or anything else that annoys me on the road. It was as if everyone else in the world had suddenly vanished. That was, until I descended from the higher elevation plains of Clarks Junction, Lee Stream, and Lake Mahinerangi to the Taieri Plains where Outram is located, and I found a steady stream of traffic milling around the town.

The journey is certainly much more pleasant than it used to be. Back in the 1860s when everyone lost all common sense and went completely crackers over the discovery of gold, the route (The Old Dunstan Road) I had just driven was close to the same one used by the miners to get to the goldfields. Outram was a key starting point for the original Dunstan Road. Travelers would start their journey from Outram and make their way up to Clarks Junction, where the more rugged and arduous part of the journey took miners high between the Lammermoor and Rock and Pillar Ranges to the goldfields. While it was possible to make this journey by horse or coach, many went on foot. This was an immensely difficult trip. Miners, with their heavy swags, would often be exhausted and starving. Some became so desperate for food and water they would trade gold for a loaf of bread, or they would eat the fat from a freshly killed sheep’s tail. The lack of provisions and the extreme weather, including snow and bitter cold, led many to be near death from starvation and exposure.

Having arrived in Outram, I parked outside a bakery that was conveniently located near a petrol station – this pleased me as I needed both food and petrol. Afterward, I went for a stroll around the town. Locals were casually going about their daily routines and ignored me as I poked around. I walked to one end of the street where the road heads out of town towards the Taieri River and further on to Mosgiel, while at the other, I found houses with connections to the earlier days of the town, such as the old Blacksmith’s house, the former Bank of Otago building, and a Watchmaker’s shop.

I returned to my car, pleased with the fact I wasn’t making the journey on foot carrying all my worldly possessions on my back. As I pointed the car towards the coastal suburb of Brighton, I noticed the time. It wasn’t nearly as late as I thought it was. Back in Sutton, when I decided to skip the Salt Lake, I had thought to myself, “If there’s time, I could detour from Outram to Hindon before continuing on to Brighton.” This seemed to me a capital idea, so pleased that I had the time to put the plan into action, I headed to the tiny settlement of Hindon.

Hindon

The drive to Hindon can’t be described as a sedately, peaceful trip through the wide spread scrub of the Silverpeaks Range. It’s more like a strenuous ordeal that’s an adventure in itself. The road is unpaved, steep, narrow and winding that includes passing over a shared road/rail bridge with sections that have sharp bends and steep drop-offs. In a sense, it’s scenic but challenging.  Fortunately, I’m a wonderful driver and was able to expertly navigate my way through to Hindon. In fact, I was navigating the road so well, a local who was tending his garden took the time to yell, scream and wave at me in the most dramatic fashion. I acknowledged his friendly one arm jester with a wave, and returned to the spectacular scenery that provided views of the Taieri River, dramatic rock formations that disappeared into the distance, and the tracks of the Taieri Gorge Railway far below. 

To be fair, there isn’t actually a lot to do at Hindon apart from look at the scenery, read an information board, sit by the river or throw stones off the Hindon Road and Rail Bridge. Sitting by the river is fine if you want an afternoon of serenity in the summer sun, but this was the middle of winter and there was rain in the air. So, before I went to find a few good stones to hurl off the bridge into the river far below, I took the time to read the information board – something I always feel compelled to do. Later, having propelled some mighty fine stones off the bridge that landed in the river with a satisfying crash, I also discovered that the Hindon Railway Station not only served as a passenger stop, but it was a refreshment stop, a post office, and a school – quite the CV for a tiny building in the middle of nowhere. 

With that, my duties in Hindon complete, I returned to the car and began the steep ascent back to paved roads where there’s at least room for two, and no need for nervous prayers.

Brighton

One moment I was stuck in a heavy line of traffic on State Highway 1, the next I was heading over Scroggs Hill on a winding gravel road, free of traffic, towards the seaside community of Brighton.

It was here that New Zealand’s most successful defence lawyer, Dr. Alfred Hanlon, spent his last years. Having spent the best part of his life defending accused murderers such as Minnie Dean, Alexander McLean, and Mina McKellar, when he finally retired in the 1940’s, deciding he wanted a quieter life, he chose the peaceful surrounds of Brighton and nearby Ocean View.

In those days, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot, connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway, and in many ways, not too dissimilar to what it is today. Brighton is the kind of place that comes alive in summer. During winter, it slips into a sort of semi-hibernation as the southerlies bite, but once spring arrives, the colours return and the days slowly warm, leading into the long weeks of summer. That’s when Brighton is at its best.

There’s the annual gala day to look forward to, or you can simply wander into the local dairy for the essentials of a Kiwi summer: a classic ice cream cone, a piping-hot pottle of chips with sauce, a pie, or a thick milkshake. You can hire paddle boats and drift lazily around the estuary, watch local kids leap from the town bridge into the river, clamber over the nearby rocks exploring rock pools, or spend time with the ever-growing sea lion population. And, of course, you can always just stretch out on the beach and let Brighton do what it does best – let you enjoy summer.

So you can perhaps imagine the sense of joy that came over me as I drove over the crest of a hill to find Brighton covered in sunshine. I wound my way down the hill through a series of suburban streets that looked lovely in the sunshine and were scattered with boats, surfboards, kayaks and other assorted items that suggested the owners spent a lot of time in the sea. 

I stopped at a t-junction and found a park close to a nice grassy clearing where I intended to soak up the relaxing atmosphere and inviting sunshine. This I did, before moving on my way. And, just  like that I was heading for Dunedin. 

Dunedin 

I left Brighton heading for Dunedin. I’d decided to take the Southern Scenic Route, a 610-kilometre roading network that connects Queenstown, Fiordland, and Dunedin via The Catlins, Invercargill, and Bluff. Created in the 1980s as a way to boost tourism, the drive gives you an entirely new perspective on New Zealand and the joys that can be found along its coastline.

I took a section of the Southern Scenic Route now,  as I approached the city of Dunedin. Having left the township of Brighton and passed the Kaikorai Lagoon, I turned right onto a stretch of road known as Blackhead. The name comes from the headland, a mass of dark volcanic basalt formed by the Dunedin volcanic field some 10 million years ago. This is a wonderful and distinctive part of Dunedin’s coastline, with beaches well known for their surf, a steadily returning sea lion population, historic walking tracks, and a hidden cove tied to Dunedin’s earliest days.

I drove along Blackhead Road and paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air as I looked out over the beach. Then I carried on, climbing over the hill into the suburbs of Corstorphine and St Clair. Ahead of me, Dunedin slowly came into view, the harbour, the peninsula, the eastern coastline, and the central city all unfolding in front of me. It was good to be home.

Before I left home on this trip, I’d decided that when I returned, it would be an ideal opportunity to look at Dunedin from a different perspective, to view the city as a tourist might. So, when the hills of the peninsula eventually came into view, with the harbour stretching out into the distance and the city centre neatly tucked on the far shore, I paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air and the familiar, distinctive coastline. I quickly discovered that I’d set myself an impossible task – I was far too invested. You see, having called Dunedin home for 98% of my life, I couldn’t look at it any other way. It was home.

Still, not wanting to give up completely on the task I’d set myself, I had a flip through a few well-known travel guides to gain a foreigner’s perspective, an honest attempt to see the place through a different set of eyes, if you will. Eventually, after much reading (and let’s be honest here, most travel guides are pretty dull) and a few false starts, I was able to cobble together some kind of semi-coherent consensus. The overall opinion seemed to be that Dunedin is a place where history, creativity, and nature meet. With its heritage architecture, lively arts scene, and easily accessible wilderness, it comes across as charming, quirky, and environmentally blessed. Added to which Dunedin is a UNESCO City of Literature, and in the heart of the Octagon you can even follow a literacy walk, stopping at plaques commemorating writers of note and literary milestones.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against these publications; they are, in fact, very useful. I’ve even used one myself in a moment of poor judgement and indecision. It’s just that you could easily apply that description to almost any major city in the world – some minor cities as well, come to think of it. What I wanted was something unique, something you couldn’t say about any other city in the world. Then, just when I was about to give up, just when I was thinking Dunedin would fall into the vast well of nondescript cities, I happened to stumble across notable New Zealand poet Peter Olds and a quote that I absolutely love when he so eloquently said: “I fell flat on my face, drunk in the Octagon: right on top of a plaque with my name on.” There, in that single unvarnished sentence, Dunedin is captured quite beautifully.