Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, Wild Horses

The Early Hours On Crawford Street

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Daily Photo – Crawford Street at 5:30 AM

At about 5:30 in the morning, Dunedin feels like it belongs to someone else. The usual daytime hustle has slipped quietly away, leaving behind a version of the city that is calmer, softer, and just a little bit mysterious.

Standing on Crawford Street, I found myself with the place almost entirely to myself, only the occasional car slipping through the darkness. If I’m being completely honest, I was functioning without a morning injection of black coffee into my system and wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing up. It had seemed like a brilliant idea the previous evening, photographing the city before the sun claimed it but now, standing in the chill, my brain was struggling to string together a coherent thought.

The streetlights were still very much in charge, casting bright starbursts across the road as if they were quite reluctant to hand over the shift to the sun. Their reflections shimmered on the damp asphalt, while the long red streaks of passing headlights briefly stitched movement into an otherwise still scene. It had that faint, peculiar feel you only get at this hour as though the night had gathered a cast of unseen characters and quietly sent them on their way just moments before I arrived.

There was no sign of them now, of course, but you could almost imagine they had been here, lingering in doorways or drifting along the kerb in that unspoken way cities sometimes encourage. The buildings stood watch like patient witnesses, holding onto stories they clearly had no intention of sharing with a sleepy photographer.

At this hour, without the noise and distraction, you start to notice the small details, the shapes, the textures, and the spaces between things. Even the air feels different; it’s cooler, carrying that faint, salty promise of a warm January day still waiting somewhere beyond the horizon. Now, if I could just find a barista who’s started their shift, everything would be just about perfect.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Central Otago, Wild Horses

Toward the Hawkdun Range

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Daily Photo – Toward the Hawkdun Range

The valley opened out in front of me with wide, open spaces filled with nothing but pale tussock, each clump standing like a small island in a sea of dry grass. They stretched away in every direction, shaped by long Otago summer and a few decades of wind. Ahead, the land rolled upward in soft folds before rising sharply into the distant ridgeline of the Hawkdun Range. Up there the brown hills gave way to streaks of lingering snow, clinging stubbornly to higher gullies and shaded slopes. From where I stood the snow looked almost painted on, white lines cutting across the dark ridges like careless brushstrokes.

Heavy grey clouds hung low over the mountains, threatening rain, while a narrow band of blue held its ground above the ridge. Every now and then sunlight slipped through a gap and wandered briefly across the hills before disappearing once more.

I walked on for a while, partly because it felt good to move and partly because the valley had a an intriguing quality that’s hard to explain. The walk was refreshing, enjoyable as the mountain range loomed larger and larger the closer I got. It was somewhere around this point that a small but undeniable flaw in my plan became apparent. At some point I’d need to walk back!

I turned and looked behind me. The road ran all the way back across the valley floor toward Blackstone Cemetery, where my car was parked beside the gate. I began the slow trudge back to my car, some five kilometres away.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Central Otago, Wild Horses

Gravel, Wind, and the Hawkduns

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Daily Photo – Gravel, Wind, and the Hawkduns

I’d spent the best part of three days wandering around the Ida Valley in Central Otago, drifting between the small towns of Omakau and Ophir, and up into the hills around Poolburn. By the fourth morning, I found myself at Blackstone Cemetery, wandering among the old graves and a nearby abandoned schoolhouse that appeared to have closed its doors to the world some time ago.

The night before, I had stopped at the local pub in Oturehua for dinner and a quiet pint. What followed was a thoroughly educational evening spent talking to the locals about the weather, the railway that used to run through the valley, sheep, and several finer points of farming that I almost certainly misunderstood. The beers arrived with alarming efficiency, and by the time I eventually stepped outside, my legs had developed a curious independence from the rest of my body.

Now, having showered, eaten, and injected several litres of caffeine into my system, I was beginning to feel almost human. I decided a walk might improve matters further.

Earlier, I had spotted a line on the map called Home Hills Runs Road, which seemed to strike a perfectly straight path toward the distant ridges of the Hawkdun Range. It looked short enough to manage without a total physical collapse, so I left the car by the cemetery gate and set off.

The road stretched ahead through endless tussock. There were no houses and no traffic. There was only the rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot and a zephyr wind sliding across the floor of the valley.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Bluff, Wild Horses

You’ll Be Rewarded With Bluff

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Daily Photo – Striling Point Signal Station

If you manage to make it through Invercargill, you’re rewarded with Bluff. A place that doesn’t try to be more than it is, a small town at the southern tip of the South Island. It’s known for its oysters, a signpost, and being the gateway to Stewart Island by ferry. It’s exposed to the elements, has some decent street art, and a tasty food truck you can usually find parked on Gore Street.

This is the place that has watched ships come and go for well over a century through its harbour. It sits staring across the often moody waters of Foveaux Strait, where the wind seems to arrive with purpose and rarely leaves quietly. A place where fishermen keep odd hours and tell even odder stories, and where it has long been a meeting point for sailors, fishermen, and travellers heading further south.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, New Zealand, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Palmerston North

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Daily Photo – Dusk over Pamly North

The day began in earnest at Waiouru, a place that exists primarily to prove that if you give the military enough tussock and a sufficiently biting wind, they will stay there forever out of sheer stubbornness. Leaving Waiouru is less of a departure and more of an escape from a landscape that looks like the moon, if the moon were owned by the Ministry of Defence and featured a surprising number of tanks.

The drive south toward Palmerston North is one of those quintessential New Zealand experiences where the scenery does all the heavy lifting while you sit there wondering if you remembered to turn off the heater in the motel. You descend from the volcanic plateau, the mountains retreating into a haze of grey and white, replaced by hills so green they look as if they have been colour-graded by an over-enthusiastic artist.

Eventually the hills flatten out entirely, as if the land just gave up trying to be dramatic. This is the Manawatū. I rolled into Palmerston North, or “Palmy” to the locals, a nickname that suggests a tropical vibe the city does not quite possess, despite how hard it tries.

Navigating Palmerston North is a unique exercise in geometry. It is a city built by someone who owned a very long ruler and had an unwavering faith in right angles. I drove around for a bit, which is to say I navigated a series of wide streets that all seemed to lead to the same place. I found my motel and, after checking in and performing the mandatory inspection of the tea and coffee facilities (two packets of UHT milk and a single lonely biscuit), I set out for a walk.

The heart of the city is The Square. It is not just a square. It is a sprawling seven-hectare park that the city was built around, as if the early settlers arrived, saw a very nice patch of grass, and decided that was good enough. There is a large plaza at one end, while the other features the usual arrangement of shops you might expect to find in a city centre.

The Square itself was vast, with small pockets of people scattered around enjoying the warm, sunny day. For a long time I could not work out what it was that felt slightly odd about the place. Then it struck me. That was exactly the problem. It was large and open, but there simply was not anyone there. In a larger city it would be filled with people, but here in Palmerston North it almost seemed too big, as if no one was entirely sure what to use it for.

As evening crept in around the edges of the city, my stomach began to rumble. I wandered past various establishments until I stumbled upon a Thai restaurant. There is a universal law that states the quality of a Thai restaurant can be judged by the flamboyance of its décor. This place was modest, but it smelled heavenly of lemongrass and ambition. I ordered a green curry that was spicy enough to make my ears ring, but delicious enough that I did not care.

The night concluded in a local bar. I ordered a beer and sat in a corner, nursing a couple of pints and observing the locals. There were students from the university debating things with the intensity of people who have not yet had to pay a mortgage, and older men who looked as if they had been sitting in those exact chairs since the mid-seventies.

By the time I walked back to the motel, the city had settled into a profound provincial silence. The air was cool, the streets were empty, and the ginger nut biscuit was waiting for me.

All things considered, it had been a very good day.

#fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Orepuki – Blink & You’ll Miss It

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Daily Photo – Te Waewae Bay

The other day I was involved in a discussion about Southland towns. Gore was mentioned, as was Owaka, Curio Bay, Hedgehope, Mataura and Riverton. The community of Riverton entered the conversation, as did Gemstone Beach, Tuatapere, Nightcaps, Winton, Dipton and Colac Bay. However, there was one place we simply couldn’t remember.

As children, it had been described as the place where, “blink and you’ll miss it.” We knew it had a bowling club, a pub and a few residents, and that was about it. We knew it was something of a ghost town, a shell of what it once was, and that the name began with an “O”. We also knew it was somewhere near Te Waewae Bay. After several minutes of going back and forth, and round and round around in circles, we gave in and referred to Google Maps.

Its name was Orepuki.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Auckland, New Zealand, North Island, Wild Horses

Searching For The Top of Auckland’s Sky Tower

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Daily Photo – A View of the Sky Tower You Don’t See on Postcards

If you google “Auckland’s Sky Tower,” you’ll most likely be shown images of the city’s skyline at night, with the tower brilliantly lit in a kaleidoscope of colours, standing like a beacon above the harbour, its lights reflected in the water below.

Alternatively, it can be seen as a gleaming spire piercing the night sky, wrapped in ever-changing lights like a giant neon candle over Auckland, turning the city into a miniature Christmas village on a summer evening while its colours dance across the harbour.

Well, I hate to be the one to burst your bubble, but I’m here to tell you that isn’t always the case. The last time I was in Auckland, apart from a period of about three hours on a Wednesday night when the weather momentarily cleared, all I saw of the Sky Tower was it disappearing into a thick, heavy mist while rain pelted down onto the city below. For three days, all I saw was a grey shaft vanishing into a white nothingness. Still, it provided an alternative view of the Sky Tower, one the Auckland tourism board probably doesn’t rush to put on postcards.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Creativity, South Island, Wild Horses

Through a Photographer’s Lens: Reinterpreting the Hawkdun Ranges

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Daily Photo – Chasing Hawkdun Shadows: Following Grahame Sydney’s Vision

If we’re being completely honest, it’s New Zealand’s famed painter Grahame Sydney we can thank for making the Hawkdun Ranges the icon they’ve become. He’s the one who made them famous, consistently appearing as a timeless backdrop in so many of his most loved paintings, which hang in homes and galleries around the country and across the world. So really, when people like me turn up in the Ida Valley with a camera on a chilly yet cloudless Central Otago day, it’s not exactly groundbreaking. I’m just chasing shadows and light across the hills, taking inspiration from a vision that Sydney already nailed decades ago. Any originality? That’s entirely in the eye of the beholder, or in my case, entirely in the clumsy angle of a tripod.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, South Island, Wild Horses

A Bar, A Fashion Store, A Flood, A Gold Miner & A Horse

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Daily Photo – Eichardt’s on Marine Parade in Queenstown.

This is Eichardt’s in Queenstown. It sits on the corner of Marine Parade and is one of those places that seems to reinvent itself about every ten years or so. The current version is part upmarket boutique hotel and part fashion store. But it hasn’t always been like that. Over the years, it has been a private hotel, a public hotel, a public bar, a restaurant, a café, a fashion outlet, and even office space – all quite a long way from the Woolshed it began life as, 160 years ago.

In that time, it’s seen men on it, in it, under it, and thrown out of it. It’s been flooded more times than anyone can remember, appeared on TV, featured in books, and even hosted livestock. One memorable incident from the early mining days involved a prospector fresh from the diggings who rode his horse straight through the front doors and up to the bar. Seeing no reason to dismount when refreshments were only a few metres away, he placed an order with the bar staff – one drink for himself and one for the horse. By all accounts, the horse behaved perfectly, though it had to be escorted back outside before it could sample the beer.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Banks Peninusla, Wild Horses

Fenceline at Robinsons Bay

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Daily Photo – Fenceline at Robinsons Bay

I spent the next few days strolling the streets of Akaroa, rummaging through shop shelves looking for nothing in particular, visiting museums, eating at cafés, walking the surrounding hills, and exploring bays and coves, with the occasional fence line blocking my path. There’s always a fence line blocking the way. That’s the thing about walking in rural New Zealand, if you wander for long enough, eventually you’ll come across a fence that needs to be negotiated. On this occasion it was entangled with weeds and driftwood. It seemed to come from nowhere and disappear into the water. Just what its purpose was, I couldn’t imagine. It seemed to be in such an odd place. But then again, when it comes to the intricacies of rural life, my own farming knowledge begins and ends with knowing which side of the fence I’m supposed to be standing on. And sometimes not even then.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, North Island, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Cape Palliser

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Daily Photo – KiriKiri Bay (Useless Bay)

Sometime around 1827, the French explorer Dumont d’Urville sailed along an unforgiving stretch of on south-eastern coastline of the North Island. He was uninspired by what he saw, he decided it wasn’t worth the trouble. Unable to land because of heavy seas, he named it Useless Bay and moved on. It was a blunt assessment, but not entirely unfair. This part of the coast has never made things easy for those who arrive by sea. The shoreline is jagged, the weather unpredictable, and the rocks have claimed their fair share of ships. Today, Useless Bay goes by a much friendlier name, Kirikiri Bay, and sits quietly beside one of the most recognisable landmarks in the Wairarapa, the Cape Palliser Lighthouse.

I was heading there late in the afternoon under a sky that seemed intent on making a point. Heavy, dark clouds hung overhead like a thick blanket, pressing low over the land. Out to sea, a wall of weather loomed on the horizon, advancing steadily from the south. Earlier in the day I had read that snow was forecast for the Wairarapa. I had chosen to ignore this information entirely. After all, how often do you really believe snow will fall when it is forecast. Now, with the light fading and the air sharpening, it seemed the forecast might finally have got it right.

Cape Palliser has a long memory for bad weather, and the sea here has never lacked for stories. One of the more tragic is that of the schooner Witness, lost in 1854. Sailing from Lyttelton to Wellington with a varied cargo that included a large load of potatoes, the ship encountered rough weather as it neared its destination. Blown off course, it was driven south toward Cape Palliser and Palliser Bay. As the schooner began to flounder and drift dangerously close to the rocks, the captain gathered his crew and prepared them for the worst.

Fighting against the wind and heavy seas, he told the men that when the ship was close enough to shore, he would give the word to jump. He then followed this with further instructions to several crew members nearby. The cabin boy, misunderstanding the situation and believing the order had already been given, leapt into the sea. He drowned almost immediately. His body later washed ashore near the mouth of the Wharepapa River. The Witness was lost, uninsured, and its owner lost everything he possessed. It is a grim reminder that along this coast, mistakes are rarely forgiven.

Another shipwreck story from these waters carries a very different ending. In 1861, the Sydney-based brig Shamrock left Lyttelton bound for Otago, carrying timber and five passengers. Almost immediately it ran into violent gales. Under the command of Captain Thomas Dixon, the ship battled mountainous seas through the afternoon and into the night. By morning it was badly off course and taking on water. Fearing he could not keep the vessel afloat much longer, Dixon made the decision to beach the ship.

Against the odds, the Shamrock ran aground on a sandy stretch of Palliser Bay. Passengers, crew, and cargo were all brought safely ashore. The ship itself eventually broke apart on the beach, but lives were saved. Captain Dixon later reported that the storm had been so fierce the shoreline was littered with dead albatrosses, porpoises, and other marine life. For years afterward, locals referred to it simply as the Great Gale of ’61.

By the time I arrived at the Cape Palliser Lighthouse, the wind had picked up and the rain had begun to fall in earnest. The parking area could generously be described as makeshift. Standing there, bracing myself against the gusts, I looked up at the red and white striped tower perched on a rocky point some 60 metres above me. Getting there requires a commitment. First, you must climb the 252 steps that zigzag their way up the cliff face, steps that were not added until 1912.

The lighthouse itself was first lit in 1897, which means that for its first fifteen years, keepers had to scramble up a steep, muddy track just to reach their place of work. That was only the beginning. Large drums of oil and kerosene had to be hauled up the cliff by hand using a winch. Supplies to live on were delivered just once every three months, and only if the weather allowed it. When seas were too rough, stores were landed six kilometres away at Kawakawa Bay, leaving the keeper with the unenviable task of somehow getting everything back to the lighthouse settlement.

Climbing those steps, even in modern clothing with a clear path underfoot, I could not help but think that the job description for an early lighthouse keeper must have included a generous dose of stubbornness. Reaching the top, I stopped to take in the view. The wind tugged at my jacket, rain swept in sideways, and the sea below was a shifting mass of grey and white. It struck me that life here would have been deeply lonely, especially during long winters when storms cut off all contact with the outside world.

After exploring the lighthouse and navigating my way back down, I drove on, skirting fishing villages and avoiding sections of road that looked as though they might slide into the sea at any moment. At Ngawi, I stopped and walked along the beach. That was when I noticed it properly. To the south, an enormous, dark wall of weather was advancing, swallowing the horizon. Snow or not, it was clearly time to leave.

With one last look back toward the lighthouse standing firm against the elements, I turned inland and headed north, chasing warmth, light, and the familiar comfort of the Martinborough Hotel.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, New Zealand, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Waitati

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Daily Photo – The Local Swimming Hole

One of the best things about reconnecting with small towns in New Zealand is the sheer, quintessential Kiwiness of the things you find. Drive through any New Zealand town and you’re liable to find oversized pieces of fruit doubling as both local art and a nod to the agricultural richness of the region, while also providing a mandatory photo-stop for tourists who pretend to be holding it in one hand. You might call in at the local dairy that has a heavily faded Tip Top sign outside, where you can buy a “single scoop” ice cream that’s the size of your head for a mere $2. You can read the community bulletin board, with handwritten notes for “Free firewood, delivery $5,” or “Missing ginger cat, last seen August 1982,” call in at public toilets that double as the town’s architectural masterpiece, or pass by fences made out of boots, bras or bicycles that have long since become national icons.

There is always a bridge with a river running underneath and a sign saying “No bungy jumping allowed,” or walk a well-worn path to the local swimming hole where the river is wider and deeper, with a rope swing precariously dangling from a leaning tree on the riverbank. It’s DIY entertainment. Shoes are optional, wearing anything more than a T-shirt and shorts is overdressed, and if the river is high, you’re more than welcome to join in and have a go, as long as you remember the local, unwritten code of ethics when lining up: no invites and no cuts allowed.

Aotearoa, New Zealand, Summer, Wild Horses

The Classic Kiwi Summer

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Daily Photo – The Kiwi Summer

If you have ever wondered what it might feel like to live inside a postcard, you need only visit New Zealand in summer. The days stretch on with an air of confidence, lingering until nine thirty or even ten at night as if the sun sees no good reason to leave. 

A Kiwi summer is essentially a national migration either inland to Central Otago or to the beach. Every person in the country seems to own a pair of jandals, a chilly bin, and a slightly overoptimistic idea that the days will be long, hot and sunny. Most of the time, temperatures sit in the comfortable twenties which is perfect for tramping, cycling, or leaping off bridges while attached to a glorified rubber band.

In the evenings the entire population gathers around barbecues sizzling with sausages and fresh seafood. All of this is accompanied by a UV index so fierce you can get sunburned simply by thinking about going outside. Thankfully there is fresh fruit, real fruit ice cream, and endless road trips to make you forget your glowing red shoulders.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Moeraki, Moeraki Village, New Zealand, South Island, Wild Horses

Classic Coastal New Zealand

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Daily Photo – Boats at Moeraki Fishing Village

I was ambling around the Moeraki Fishing Village, enjoying that quiet feeling you get when a place is perfectly happy without you. The sky was doing its best impression of a damp woolen blanket and the sea had settled into a gentle green that looked far more inviting than it felt. Two upturned boats rested on the concrete like old friends who had decided to lie down for a spell. The blue one was peeling like a sunburnt tourist, while the white one still looked hopeful that someone might flip it over and take it for a spin. Neither seemed in a hurry.

Out on the water a handful of boats bobbed about, each one appearing to be minding its own business. The ruins of an ancient jetty leaned into the shallows, holding itself together out of sheer habit. You could almost hear it sigh every time a wave nudged it. At the same time, nearby a local fish and chip shop was sending out hot parcels at a pace that suggested they were keeping the entire village fed. It felt like classic coastal New Zealand, simple and quietly wonderful.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Aotearoa, Oamaru, South Island, Wild Horses

Oamaru (2 of 3)

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Daily Photo – Oamaru – The Opera House

Just up the road, the gallery-like quality of the streets started to show. The buildings are so confidently built, so unapologetically ornate, that you can almost hear the masons who shaped the stone congratulating themselves from the afterlife. The Opera House loomed into view next, and honestly, it is one of those structures that makes you pause. The tower, the details, the improbable brightness of the limestone in the late light all work together to create a scene that never feels tired no matter how many times you photograph it.

Every corner had something unexpected. A quiet side street where sunlight hit peeling paint in a way that felt cinematic. A row of heritage shopfronts that looked like they belonged in a much larger city. A crossroads framed by Oamaru’s heritage backdrop.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Oamaru, South Island, Wild Horses

Oamaru (1 of 3)

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Daily Photo – Oamaru – Victorian Precinct

There are towns you pass through and towns you wander into by accident, only to realise you have somehow stepped sideways in time. Oamaru is firmly in the second category. I arrived with the morning sun spilling across the harbour, casting long shadows from the old rail lines and turning the limestone buildings a creamy gold.

Walking through the Victorian Precinct felt oddly theatrical, like the locals might suddenly break into a dress rehearsal for something involving steam engines, goggles and elaborate hats. The old railway station and its simple wooden sign seemed frozen in a moment that refused to modernise. I stood there for a while, taking photos, noticing the way the gravel track curved gently toward the past.

Aotearoa, Dunedin, Observation, Ōtepoti, Wild Horses

Exploring Olveston: Inside Dunedin’s Grand Historic Home

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Daily Photo – Dunedin’s Most Elegant Edwardian Home

After an hour or so of wandering aimlessly through the museum, my mind started to drift toward what else the city might be hiding. Curiosity eventually nudged me uphill, into the Dunedin suburbs, and toward the stately home of Olveston. Spread over one acre, the site originally held an eight-room villa purchased by the Theomin family on Royal Terrace in 1881. Twenty years later they bought an adjacent property, and in 1904 they acquired another, giving them enough land to plan a new house and garden across all three sections. Construction began soon after and, by 1907, David Theomin — a wealthy English merchant who wanted to create an English country house in the city for his wife Marie and their children, Edward and Dorothy — had completed the grand four-storey home.

The finished house featured reception rooms, a library, a kitchen, a dining room, downstairs guest rooms, and a galleried hall rising from the ground to the upper floors, which also served as a ballroom. There was a billiard room, a card room, and numerous bedrooms, with the servants’ quarters on the top floor and a large laundry in the basement. Olveston remained a family home from the time it was completed until 1966, when Dorothy, the last surviving member of the Theomin family, passed away. She bequeathed the property to the City of Dunedin, and it opened to the public the following year.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, South Island, Wild Horses

Mount Cargill & The Organ Pipes

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Daily Photo – Mount Cargill & The Organ Pipes

After a slightly breathless scramble to the top of Dunedin’s famous Organ Pipes, you’re rewarded with a view that practically demands a moment of awe, and maybe a little happy panting. Beneath your feet, rock formations that took nearly 15 million years to form jut out like nature’s own sculpture garden, while native broadleaf and podocarp forest stretches lazily down Mount Cargill. Before European settlers arrived, this whole area was forest – proper, ancient forest and some of what survives today is genuinely old, especially where logging either gave up or wasn’t thorough enough. You’ll notice patches that are part original, part regenerating bush, and part exotic forestry that clearly went rogue. From these primeval rocks and leafy slopes, the land tumbles toward farmland and the shoreline far below, a reminder that nature likes to show off now and then. Much like its cousin, the Otago Peninsula, this corner of New Zealand has its own personality and charm that sneaks up on you, whether you’re ready for it or not.

Aotearoa, North Island, Wellington, Wellington CBD, Wild Horses

Rain on Willis Street in Wellington

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Daily Photo – Rain on Willis Street in Wellington

It had rained most of the day in Wellington, so I stuck to indoor activities. By early afternoon, I found myself wandering down a wet Willis Street after a slow day of museums and art galleries. The city felt different in the rain, quieter. There was a kind of charm in taking it slow, lingering over art and history while the world outside dripped with rain.  

Aotearoa, North Island, Travel, Wellington, Wellington CBD, Wild Horses

Upper Hutt To Wellington By Train

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Yesterday I mentioned I haven’t posted many photos taken from my phone. Well, so it’s not a one off, here’s one of Wellington Railway Station.

Daily Photo – Wellington Train Station

The mid-morning train from Upper Hutt to Wellington had been unusually full for a Thursday. Inside, it felt like a moving collection of private lives, commuters heading into the city, caught in their own little worlds. Some read engrossed, others stared blankly out the window, as if in a trance, the passing hills and suburban streets passing in a blur. Some wore headphones, their expressions blank, detached from the soft clatter of the carriage.

Others appeared restless, they needed somewhere to go, something to do. For others, just movement, just purpose was enough. In this quiet time, nobody had to think too much-it was the in-between hour, the hush before the city’s noise.

When the train finally pulled into Wellington Station, the mood shifted. The doors opened and, like clockwork, everyone disembarked, filtering through the terminal and dissolving into the city, each carrying on with a day that had already quietly begun.

Aotearoa, Milton, South Island, South Otago, Wild Horses

Milton

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Tokomairiro Presbyterian Church

The thing about small towns in New Zealand is—they really are just that: small towns. I don’t mean that in a mean, rude, or malicious way. I simply mean that’s what they are. Where once they may have been thriving hubs of industry with a lot going on, most of those big industries have long since moved. These days, apart from being home to people going about their daily lives, many of these towns have become more like places to pass through or maybe stop for a spot of lunch.

Take the small South Island town of Milton. I’m not saying Milton is a bad place, far from it. I quite like the town. I’ve stopped there many times and enjoyed wandering up and down the main street. But here’s the thing: with tourists flocking to the South Island to go bungy jumping, skiing, or hiking in the wilderness, strolling around Milton’s main street isn’t likely to make anyone’s top ten list.

Yet, I quite like wandering in small towns. There’s something rather splendid about ambling through with no particular purpose, then stumbling across a tearoom to rest for a while before continuing the journey. I hope they last for a long time to come.

Aotearoa, Hakataramea Valley, Kurow, Travel, Wild Horses

Driving Through The Haka Valley

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The choice seemed a little confusing.Fence post in The Hakataramea Valley

I spent the hours pre and post sunrise chasing interesting spots in the Hakataramea Valley. Tucked away in the Waimate District, the Hakataramea Valley sits at the foot of Kirkliston range in the South Island of New Zealand and is a wonderful spot. The Haka is a glorious location to be in the mornings, they can be unbelievably cold and have a deafening silence that seems to echo throughout the valley as the light appears over the Campbell Hills, bringing a new day to the surrounding ranges.

Aotearoa, South Island, Travel, Wild Horses

The Devil’s Staircase

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Lake Wakatipu at Kingston

To get to Kingston, at the southern tip of Lake Wakatipu, you have two options. However, it must be pointed out that it very much depends on where you’re coming from. If you’re coming from Southland, then you’ll pass through small towns such as Lumsden and Lowther before reaching the lakeside village of Kingston.

The other option (and possibly more interesting) is to turn off at Frankton on your way to Queenstown and pass through what is known as ‘The Devil’s Staircase’. Roughly 35 km south of Queenstown, it’s part of the drive between Queenstown and Te Anau and is considered a must-do leg of any Otago/Southland driving itinerary, both for the thrill of the drive and the spectacular views. Exactly how it got its name has become part of local folklore — in other words, no one really knows!

Given the nature of the road, one can only imagine what it must have been like to tackle the narrow, winding, and steep terrain, with sharp curves hugging cliffs above Lake Wakatipu, without the aid of a motor vehicle.

One story tells the tale of Captain Frederick Burwell and the Southland Hussars. Formed in the 1860s in response to fears of a Russian invasion, the cavalry corps were intent upon defending the Otago-Southland coast. At the time, there were many volunteer militias throughout New Zealand, so it wasn’t unusual for settlers to sign up to volunteer groups.

So, in 1885, when an April Review was held in Queenstown, up to 258 men from surrounding areas were due to gather. In Kingston, Captain Frederick Burwell needed to take his 30 men from the end of Lake Wakatipu up to the review assembly point in Queenstown. However, instead of going via boat, for some reason he decided to travel overland — a journey that took him and his men via the notorious Devil’s Staircase.

Travelling on horseback, they negotiated their way over small, narrow, and rugged tracks next to sheer vertical drops, before facing near-perpendicular rock faces in spots over 1,000 feet high. Once they reached the summit, a magnificent view of the lake came into view. Having passed the famous Staircase, the Kawarau River was crossed by punt, arriving in Queenstown late in the afternoon, where Captain Burwell and his men were warmly greeted, having successfully completed an arduous 40-mile journey.

Just why Captain Burwell opted for the deadly overland trip via the Devil’s Staircase instead of the easier ferry trip was never fully explained.

Aoraki/Mount Cook, Aotearoa, Mackenzie Country, South Island, Wild Horses

On the Road to Mount Cook

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The road to Mount Cook

Here in the South Island, once you get into the MacKenzie Country, there are literally thousands of spots you can explore to take photos. Lake Ohau, Twizel, Lake Tekapo, Mount Dobson, and Lake Pukaki are just some of the areas you could spend weeks in and never run out of subject matter—and I haven’t even mentioned Mount Cook yet. Heck, on the way to Mount Cook you can even simply stand in the middle of the road and get interesting photos!

Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, South Island, Travel, Wild Horses

The Orokonui Ecosanctuary

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The Orokonui Ecosanctuary

One morning, I found myself at Orokonui Ecosanctuary. The warmth of the sunlight spilled over tussock and flax and caught the curve of the visitor centre like it was a natural part of the landscape. The nearby ponds reflected the still morning sky as tui’s and bellbirds tuned up for their morning symphony. Somewhere out there, a takahē waddled through purposefully looking for a spot of breakfast. I hadn’t even started walking the tracks yet, and already, nature was making me grin like an idiot.

Aotearoa, Frankton, Lake Hayes, Queenstown, Queenstown-Lakes District, South Island, Wild Horses

War & Peace

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The Shotover River n the Queenstown Lakes District

Let me assure you of this much (and it’s absolutely true)—only in the Queenstown Lakes District could you drive through traffic that was so insanely stupid and chaotic, yet be surrounded by scenery that was so breathtaking it could be the backdrop for a Hollywood movie. There I was, sitting in a seemingly endless procession of cars, buses, boats, camper vans, trucks, and motorbikes—being overtaken by grandparents with walkers out for an afternoon stroll, slowly developing a healthy dose of road rage as my knuckles turned white from gripping the steering wheel. And yet, all the while, I was encircled by majestic mountain peaks that reached up into the sky and stretched beyond the horizon, and crystal-clear blue lakes that sparkled and shone in the sunlight. Nowhere else had I ever found a situation that was such a shambles—and so spectacular—all at the same time.

Aotearoa, Gore, Southland, Travel, Wild Horses

The Brown Trout Capital of the World

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Gore – ‘the brown trout capital of the world’

Gore’s claim to fame is that of being the brown trout capital of the world and the location of the country’s prestigious Gold Guitar Awards for country music. I was on my way home from Invercargill and decided to stop for coffee and a walk around. The town was quite delightful in the afternoon sunshine with flower beds and hanging baskets lining the town’s main street. In fact, it was almost charming, a pleasant surprise.

Aotearoa, Kurow, Travel, Wild Horses

Kurow, Otematata and Omarama.

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The former National Bank in Kurow

I was on the way to Omarama via lakes going by the names of Aviemore and Benmore, and small towns with names like Kurow and Otematata. By the time I arrived in Kurow, I was ready for a bite to eat and wander in the sunshine. So, having purchased lunch at a local bakery and eaten it in the sun – I enjoyed a quiet stroll around the rural town by heading off in the direction of Otematata.

Aotearoa, Central Otago, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, Travel, Wild Horses

The Lindis Pass

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The Linid Pass in Summer

The Lindis Pass is another stunning area of New Zealand, offering vastly different experiences depending on the season. In winter, it’s often blanketed in snow and ice, with caution advised when the road is open. In summer, the landscape transforms into a sunburnt, otherworldly terrain, its dry textures stretching across the hills. Set between the Lindis and Ahuriri Rivers, the pass was traditionally used by Māori as they journeyed through the land. In 1857, surveyor John Turnbull traversed the area and named it after his homeland—Lindisfarne Island in northeast England. 

When the Otago gold Rush took hold across the region in the early 1860’s, the moving hoard of miners who rambled from rush to rush eventually came upon the Lindis River in April, of 1861. An estimated 300 miners swarmed over the hillside as news of a find at the Lindis River spread. However by July most of the miners had moved on due to the remoteness of the area and the extreme climate. 

On a fine summer’s day, I stopped at the Lindis Pass lookout and decided to join the steady stream of people heading to the summit to take in the view. From the peak above the Omarama–Lindis Pass Road in Central Otago, the view across the pass is breathtaking—a reminder of the natural beauty and history that define this unique part of the country.