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

Reconnect A Few Dots – Selwyn Village In Auckland

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“It used to shock me, even at that age, to see old ladies singing in the streets, and soldiers returned from World War One selling matches in the gutter to survive. This made me realise I had to do my best to do away with all this sort of thing. That is where it all began.” – The Rev Canon Douglas Caswell

Daily Photo – The Chapel of Christ the King

On my second morning in Auckland, as I watched the rain blow sideways, I remembered I’d made a promise to myself to visit a place called Selwyn Village. I stared at the deluge, finished my coffee, and pulled out my phone to consult the Auckland bus timetable. It was immediately apparent that this was going to require multiple bus changes and a heroic amount of patience.

The village was the vision of Auckland City Missioner Reverend Douglas Caswell, who is, among other things, my grandfather. When the village officially opened in 1954, it transformed retirement care for the elderly by creating a compassionate, self-contained community for vulnerable seniors. The last time I was there was at least twenty years ago and, despite the rain, I was keen to reconnect a few dots in my memory and see what had changed.

Arriving, I stepped off the bus into puddles and took a moment to reorient myself. The buildings I was used to seeing, including those my grandmother once called home, were gone, replaced by something more modern and less 1950s-ish. My main focus, however, was the village chapel, where a memorial to my grandfather stands. I made a dash through the rain and, after shaking myself off like a shaggy dog, was greeted warmly by two village chaplains, who also happened to be two of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We chatted for a while and they showed me around before apologising that they had to hurry off to conduct pastoral visits in the nearby apartments. 

For the next hour, I read through information about my grandfather and his vision for a better kind of care for the elderly. I read about my grandparents’ determined fundraising efforts, studied original chapel designs from more than sixty-five years ago, sat where my grandmother would sit at every service (as would we on visits), and briefly wandered the gardens between showers, admiring the Caswell Memorial Light dedicated to my grandfather.

Eventually the bus appeared and I stepped aboard, wondering why memories of grandparents remain such prized treasures in our hearts. With that, the bus rattled off into the pouring rain.

#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, Wild Horses

Vanishing History: The Story Behind Dunedin’s Iconic St Clair Poles

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Daily Photo – Revisiting Dunedin’s St Clair Poles

There is a particular kind of optimism that belongs to the early settlers. They arrived at the bottom of the world, stared up at a mountain range that appeared designed specifically to prevent travel, and decided there must be a way through. They ventured into unmapped country searching for gold, launch small wooden boats into rivers no one has successfully navigated before, disappeared underground into cave systems simply to discover where they lead, or stood on a wild and exposed coastline facing the Pacific Ocean and think, yes, this seems like a perfectly reasonable place to build a settlement.

At some point in the nineteenth century, somebody looked at the stretch of coast that would become St Clair and came to exactly that conclusion. The difficulty was that nature had plans of its own. Standing on the Esplanade today, watching surfers drift beyond the breakers and families wander along the promenade with coffees in hand, it’s difficult to imagine the coastline as anything other than permanent. Yet for much of its history, St Clair was engaged in a long and often unequal struggle with the sea. The ocean would advance, people would respond, and then the ocean would advance again.

The first attempts to hold the coastline were charmingly optimistic. Timber walls were built, only to be destroyed. Stone walls followed and met much the same fate – in one case, a substantial wall survived for little more than two years before being swallowed by the sea. Another replacement was constructed at considerable expense and promptly suffered a similar fate and by 1890, after years of effort and expenditure, much of what remained was little more than wreckage scattered along the western end of the beach.

This was not simply bad luck. Geography was partly to blame. The shape of St Clair Point creates a complicated and often destructive wave environment. Storms arriving from the south-east are concentrated and redirected in ways that can be remarkably unforgiving. When the protective walls failed, the sea did not merely reclaim a strip of sand. Water pushed inland and contributed to a series of major floods that spread across South Dunedin. To residents living there at the time, the beach was not a recreational asset, it was a very real threat.

Eventually, around the beginning of the twentieth century, a different approach emerged. Instead of attempting to stop the ocean outright, engineers began looking for ways to work with the natural movement of sand along the coast. Their solution was the construction of groynes, heavy timber structures extending out into the surf. The idea was simple enough: trap sand moving along the shoreline and allow the beach to build itself naturally. For a time, the plan worked remarkably well. The beach widened. Sand accumulated. The coastline appeared more stable yet anyone familiar with the sea knows that victories are often temporary. Severe storms returned in the years before the First World War and reminded everyone that the ocean had not surrendered. The response was the construction of the concrete seawall that still forms the backbone of the Esplanade today, together with a new generation of timber groynes built from hardy woods including kauri, tōtara and Australian blue gum.

One of those structures would eventually become something rather unexpected. When it was first built, nobody would have imagined it becoming a local icon. It was simply infrastructure. A practical solution to a practical problem. Yet over the decades the groynes became woven into the visual identity of St Clair. They appeared in family photographs, postcards and later in countless social media posts. Generations grew up with them standing out in the surf, as familiar a part of the beach as the seawall itself.

Following reconstruction work in the 1950s, the groynes helped create what many remember as the golden years of St Clair Beach. Through the 1960s, 1970s and much of the 1980s, wide stretches of sand extended across the shoreline. For many Dunedin residents, this became the St Clair they knew best. Summer days seemed endless, and the beach appeared fixed and unchanging. Of course, coastlines rarely remain fixed for long. The sea is patient. Decades passed. Timber weathered. Marine borers tunnelled through hardwood piles. Winter storms loosened planks and broke supports. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the structures began to disappear. What had once been substantial coastal defences were reduced to weathered remnants protruding from the water. By the early 2020s, only a handful of poles remained until eventually there was one.

For a surprisingly long period, a solitary timber post stood isolated in the surf. It was no longer performing any meaningful engineering function. It simply existed, stubbornly resisting the waves that had spent more than a century dismantling everything around it. There was something strangely moving about that final survivor. It had become less a piece of infrastructure and more a monument to persistence, both human and natural.

When it finally vanished beneath the waves in July 2022, it felt like the closing line of a much longer story.

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#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, New Zealand, Observation, Wild Horses

Mince Pies, Milkshakes & The Good Old Kiwi Dairy

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Daily Photo – The Classic 1960s Kiwi Dairy.

The good old 1960s beachside Kiwi dairy. You could walk in with a crisp $1 note from your parents and purchase both a single-scoop ice cream and a hot mince pie for 10 cents each. You could add a Cadbury Dairy Milk chocolate bar for 5 cents, while a large raspberry milkshake whipped up in a metal tin would cost 15 cents. A scoop of hot chips wrapped tightly in newspaper would be another 10 cents, a standard loaf of Tip Top bread for making chip sandwiches would set you back a further 11 cents, and a packet of 20 Rothmans for the parents would cost 33 cents, bringing your total bill to 94 cents. You could still walk out with 6 cents of loose change in your pocket, provided you didn’t spend it on lollies.

The Kiwi beachside dairy served as the ultimate hub of the New Zealand summer. Following the chaotic transition to decimal currency in 1967, dairy counters became battlegrounds as fierce, sunburnt 10-year-olds aggressively argued the mathematical fairness of their lolly conversions with confused shopkeepers. This chaos was matched outdoors by the legendary “hot asphalt dash”, a frantic, high-kicking sprint across melting tarmac by barefoot kids desperate to reach the cool refuge of the shop’s chequered linoleum floor. Then there was the chest freezer, where children attempted to hide stolen frozen treats down their woollen swimming togs, only to be instantly given away when the ice pressed against their skin. Finally, nothing tested an owner’s patience quite like the agonisingly slow lolly selection, which saw sandy-fingered children spending twenty minutes debating how to spend a single 5-cent coin while an increasingly frustrated queue waited behind them.

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#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Auckland, Travel, Wild Horses

Panorama of Queen Street In Auckland

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Daily Photo – Panorama of Queen Street in Auckland

This is a nine-shot panorama of Queen Street in Auckland that I took while I was there. I was travelling light and without a tripod, so I simply made do and produced it handheld, which presented its own challenges. Not long after this, I came across a man playing an Erhu. I thought he was rather good and that he added a subtly different atmosphere to the area, which wasn’t nearly as busy as I’d expected. However, clearly I was in the minority, as his case was almost devoid of money. I then detoured along Victoria Street, where all I saw of the Sky Tower was it disappearing into a thick, heavy mist, before ducking into Father Ted’s Original Irish Pub on Wellesley Street for a pint or three.

#dailyat6am, Akaroa, Aotearoa, Banks Peninusla, South Island, Wild Horses

The HMS Britomart Monument

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Daily Photo – The HMS Britomart Monument at Green’s Point

If you find yourself wandering around Akaroa, it won’t be long before you come across Green’s Point. It’s a pleasant enough spot overlooking the harbour, but there’s something there that hints at just how differently New Zealand’s history might have unfolded. Standing in the grass is the Britomart Monument, a simple stone memorial marking an event that was decided by little more than timing.

In August 1840, Akaroa Harbour became the focus of an international race. The French had plans to establish a settlement here, and a group of colonists was already making its way across the Pacific. The British, however, had learned of those intentions and were determined not to lose control of the South Island before they had properly secured it. To make sure that didn’t happen, Lieutenant-Governor William Hobson dispatched HMS Britomart south from the Bay of Islands. The vessel arrived in Akaroa Harbour on 10 August 1840, and Captain Owen Stanley wasted little time. British officials were landed, a court session was convened, and the necessary legal formalities were carried out to demonstrate British authority. Most importantly, the Union Jack was raised.

Five days later the French warship L’Aube arrived carrying Captain Charles François Lavaud and the first organised group of French settlers. By then, however, the British had already made their move. The flag was flying, the paperwork was complete, and the South Island had effectively been claimed. The French settlers stayed regardless, helping to shape the unique character that still sets Akaroa apart today. French street names remain, French influence can be found throughout the town, and it is difficult to walk very far without being reminded of that heritage.

Standing beside the monument today, it is hard not to reflect on how narrow the margin really was. Five days is hardly any time at all. Had the Britomart encountered rough weather, suffered delays, or simply arrived a little later, New Zealand’s story might have taken a very different turn. History often feels inevitable when viewed from a distance, yet here on Green’s Point it becomes clear that sometimes it hinges on something as simple as who arrives first.

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

Visiting Takapuneke Reserve

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Daily Photo – Visiting Takapuneke Reserve

On my last full day in Akaroa I went to Takapuneke Reserve, located on the hillside at the eastern end of the town. I’d read that it had been identified as a site of national significance and, where once it was the location of a bloody massacre in the 1830s, it has since been declared tapu and is being transformed into a place of healing and learning through a partnership between Ōnuku Rūnanga and Christchurch City Council.

I arrived on an overcast day with a cool breeze drifting up from the bay. Looking around, I had the place to myself, along with its quietly sculptural landscape and walking trails. It was all extremely peaceful, with a backdrop that couldn’t help but put you into a calm, serene mood.

I stood looking out across the surroundings and admired how pleasant and well thought out the whole place seemed. Certainly a far cry from the scenes that graced the hillside in 1830, when smoke, gunfire, and violence tore through Takapuneke in an event that would leave deep scars on both the land and the history of Aotearoa.

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

Rainy Day at the Viaduct Harbour

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Daily Photo – Rainy Day at the Viaduct Harbour

The other day I saw a photo taken somewhere in the Viaduct Harbour. It was fine, sunny, and filled with people happily strolling around, visiting a few of the nearby bars and restaurants in the afternoon sunshine. In fact, it was the exact opposite of when I was there. From my vantage point on the Eastern Viaduct near the corner of Lower Hobson Street and Quay Street, the rain bounced off the pavement while the wind swirled between the surrounding buildings, driving it at odd and unexpected angles. Looking back across the Viaduct Harbour, then towards where the city should have been, now replaced by a thick, heavy white mist, I contemplated my surroundings and couldn’t help thinking that perhaps this was a more accurate introduction to Auckland than the polished waterfront scenes that appear in tourism campaigns. The harbour was rough, the wind unpleasant, and the city itself had vanished completely into cloud, yet there was still something strangely captivating about it all.

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#dailyat6am, Aotearoa, Banks Peninusla, South Island, Wild Horses

An Arvo in Takamatua Bay (formerly German Bay)

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Daily Photo – A Summer arvo in Takamatua Bay

Every so often it’s possible to come across a strange, slightly unexpected bit of historical awkwardness, and Takamatua Bay is one of them. Originally known as German Bay, it was a by-product of early colonial ambition and something we can thank the French for. 

Back in the 1840s, the French became enthusiastic about colonising the South Island, and their sights were fixed on Banks Peninsula and a port called Akaroa. A French company had grand plans to establish a proper French settlement and, to make it viable, they needed people – anyone willing to risk sailing to the far side of the world and starting again. At the time, Germany was a politically unstable patchwork of small states where people were facing economic hardship. So, when the chance came to emigrate to Banks Peninsula, a few German families happily signed on. 

When they reached Akaroa Harbour, land was allocated around the bays, and the German colonists settled in small numbers, farming, fishing, and setting about carving out a living on steep, bush-covered land that looked out over what became known as German Bay. In those dusty, pre-war years, the locals were perfectly content with the name, a nod to the handful of Teutonic families who had settled there and were, by all accounts, quite well behaved. It was a sensible, if unimaginative name that served everyone well until 1914, when the world decided to go collectively mad.

Suddenly, having a “German” anything in the neighbourhood was about as socially desirable as a case of the mumps. By 1916, gripped by a sudden (and conveniently timed) burst of patriotic fervour, the authorities decided that the name had to go. In a fit of enthusiasm, they quietly dusted off the original name, Takamatua Bay. It was a classic piece of historical rebranding while Europe’s map was being redrawn in blood and mud on the battlefields of the First World War.

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

The Miners’ Cottages of Arrowtown.

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Daily Photo – The Miners’ Cottages of Arrowtown

Before we leave the charm of Arrowtown, a place whose very existence feels almost like a fable, let us visit Buckingham Street and the historic row of gold miners’ cottages. In the early years of the gold rush, most European miners were not living comfortably in neat wooden cottages; many were in tents, rough shacks, or whatever shelter they could throw together.

These tidy weatherboard cottages seen in Arrowtown today often appeared slightly later, once the town stabilised and miners and business owners had made enough money to build something more permanent. So, it’s tempting to picture European miners settling into solid wooden cottages while Chinese miners made do with rough stone huts exposed to the elements by a creek, but the truth is a bit messier. Most miners started out rough, but over time built more permanent structures like the ones lining Buckingham Street, using milled timber and corrugated iron, materials that were more expensive and durable. The Chinese miners, arriving later and working the leftovers, rarely had that same chance. The contrast between the two styles of housing tells a significant story about the social and economic divisions of the 1860s and 70s Otago gold rush.

And with that sobering thought, I left the autumnal flow of beauty announcing itself loudly across the Arrowtown basin, heading for State Highway 6, which would take me past the Nevis Bluff, through the Kawarau Gorge, and on to Cromwell, Lake Dunstan, and the sedate town of Alexandra.

Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, Wild Horses

The Aramoana Boardwalk

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Daily Photo – The Aramoana Boardwalk

I was having what I was calling an ‘Aramoana day’. It wasn’t nearly as special or spectacular as it sounded. Quite simply, it involved driving out to the small coastal settlement on the northern side of Otago Harbour and stopping wherever I liked.

Since Aramoana is a good 30-minute drive along a narrow, winding harbour-side road, it gave me plenty of opportunities to pull over and waste away a good portion of the morning, and much of the afternoon, looking at whatever took my fancy. And that’s exactly what I did.

Which is how I came to be standing on the Aramoana Boardwalk, watching the world go by, and the occasional ship.

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

The Auckland Sky Tower at Night

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Daily Photo – The Auckland Sky Tower at Night

Recently I spent some time in Auckland, where 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. During that three hour period when the weather cleared, I ventured out on the streets and took this photo while the Sky Tower was visible. The thing was, the view I wanted was in the middle of the street meaning I had to cross the road, stop to take a photo and get back to the footpath before the lights turned.

Aotearoa, Dunedin, Ōtepoti, Wild Horses

Alleyway off Crawford Street

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Daily Photo – Alleyway off Crawford Street at 5am

There’s a specific kind of quiet you only find in the narrow gaps between old brick buildings at five in the morning. It’s a heavy, expectant sort of silence, as if the walls are holding their breath, waiting for the city to wake up and start making demands again.

I stumbled into this little pocket of Dunedin while wandering near Crawford Street, my camera tripod clattering far too loudly on the asphalt for such a peaceful hour. On the left-hand wall, a painted white hand reaches out from the bricks, frozen in a permanent, hopeful gesture. Reaching out for a handshake that isn’t coming, or perhaps just desperately searching for a passing flat white.

At the end of the alley, a single, brilliant light crowns the rooftop of the building beyond, cutting through the deep, bruised-blue of the pre-dawn sky. Above, the clouds streak by as if they are in a hurry to get somewhere, while down here, everything is still. It’s just me, the cold pipes, and the heavy weight of local history resting in the mortar. It’s beautiful, it’s moody, and it is definitely time for breakfast.

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.