I took this photo a few summers ago while spending a few days in Wanaka. I was there between Christmas and New Year, at that in-between moment when the Christmas celebrations had begun to fade and everyone’s attention was shifting toward welcoming the year ahead. The town was overrun with holiday energy, families picnicking by the lake, people soaking up the summer sun, and travellers passing through.
One of the great things about museums is finding things you never expected. For example, you don’t expect to find a submarine 80 kilometers from the coast in a small Otago town. In fact, when you do, it feels a bit like a practical joke. There it sits, stranded in Middlemarch, a vessel that never touched the sea, looking less like a cutting-edge machine and more like a mislaid water tank – which, at one point, it actually was.
The story is simple enough: two men convinced themselves there was plenty of gold lying on the wild riverbeds of Central Otago and the best way to get at it was with a submarine. Only in New Zealand could such a thought be entertained with such seriousness. Elsewhere, there would have been committees, diagrams, and several university studies explaining why it was impossible. Here, they just built the thing.
That it didn’t work seems almost beside the point. The Platypus isn’t really a wonderful failure – it’s proof of that casual, can-do optimism that bubbles away in this country. A submarine eighty kilometres inland may not be practical, but it is gloriously, stubbornly imaginative. And somehow, standing here beside it, you can’t help but admire that more than if it had ever struck gold.
Just for second, imagine beginning inside this iron tube. Eight men wedged in this space, the clank of shafts, the hiss of pumps, the smoke of oil lamps, an air supply slipping away through a leaking valve, insufficient pressure to expel water, all the while waiting to find out if the contraption will rise back up to the surface. Standing here today, I could help but think volunteering to go in such a thing lands somewhere between absurd and heroic.
Oturehua is in the Ida Valley and I found myself ten minutes after leaving town detouring onto Coal Pit Road near Idaburn, before eventually heading for Waipiata by way of Wedderburn and Ranfurly. The Hawkdun Ranges were keeping me company out of the left-hand window, stretching up into the vast blue sky, covered in a magnificent sweep of white – a clear sign of winter lingering a while yet.
I stood on the side of the Ida Valley-Omakau Road, where the last of a recent snowfall lay dissolving into slush beneath my feet. Before me, stretched the flat farmlands of the valley, sheep scattered across the fields, looking for the remains of the winter feed. Beyond them, Hawkdun Ranges rose in a sweep of white, snow tumbling down their edges. It was one of those moments when the Ida Valley felt caught between two seasons, winter reluctantly loosening its grip, spring waiting just around the corner.
If you’re ever in Connecticut, USA it is highly recommended that you visit the USS Nautilus at the Submarine Force Museum. It was the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and is permanently docked on the Thames River which you can walk aboard and explore. In Kiel, Germany at the Laboe Naval Memorial you can visit the U-995, a World War II U-boat. Sydney, Australia has the HMAS Onslow at the Australian National Maritime Museum in Darling Harbour and Kaliningrad, Russia is home to the B-413 at the Museum of the World. What all these nautical museums and submarine attractions have in common (as in fact do most) is that they are located close to significant bodies of water such as a harbour or ocean. Not so in New Zealand. Here in the land of the long white cloud, to see our one and only submarine you have to drive 80 kilometres inland to Middlemarch – its closest water supply being an outside tap! Yet, it is here you’ll find the Platypus, a submarine that’s a nod towards New Zealand’s ingenuity, inventiveness and No 8 wire mentality. The only drawback being, it never really worked and spent more time holding water than being in it!
The brainchild of R.W.Nutall and Antoine-Prosper Payerne, who between them came up with the genius idea of building a submarine that could easily dredge the river beds of Central Otago. The theory was that vast quantities of gold must lay on the Central Otago riverbeds and a submarine seemed the ideal way to access it. If the gold wouldn’t come to them, they would go to the gold, thus ‘The Platypus’ was born.
Of French design, The Platypus submarine was constructed, fitted and finished locally in Dunedin before a series of moderately successful public launches took place, starting in December, 1873. The difficulty was that the vessel took a good dozen people to operate and most rational people didn’t want to have anything to do with the craft. Eventually, when at last a group of brave individuals were persuaded to get in the thing, the testing continued, with mixed results at best. During the last of these trials, things went so badly, when The Platypus eventually resurfaced, the men scrambled out, certain they were about to die. After this, unsurprisingly, support started to wane and before it could be transported to the gold fields, the project collapsed with The Platypus left abandoned on the banks of Pelichet Bay (now Logan Park) for four decades.
The Platypus Project suddenly jumped back to life in the 1920’s when the submarine was dismantled, cut into three sections and sold. The two end sections were purchased by a farmer from the Barewood area near Middlemarch where it was used as a water tank with the middle section disappearing and remains missing. Another 70 years later, the farmer donated the remains to the Middlemarch Museum where it stands for people like me to marvel over. Which, is what I did now.
From Ophir I headed northwest over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley. A wide, sunlit expanse where the air feels thin and clear, and the land rolls out quietly in front of you. It’s the sort of place that makes you slow down, breathe deeply, and wonder why more people don’t live in valleys like this. Then you realise how special it is and hope it never changes.
As I made my way through the wide-open expanses, the remains of a recent snow drift lay either side of the road, melting in the winter sun. In the distance the Hawkduns loomed – a great, brooding mountain range that dominated the skyline, the kind of mountains that make you feel wonderfully insignificant.
The Ida Valley itself has a curious stillness, as if time slows down. Farmhouses sit low and square against the wind, fences run for miles into the distance, and the road stretches on so far ahead that it seems almost reluctant to end. Out here, there’s a sense that this is a place built on endurance – of people who chose to stay, even when the winters bite hard and the summers bake the earth into cracked clay.
There’s something beautiful about the valley. Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the long shadows cast across the plains, or maybe it’s the knowledge that for decades, this land has seen lives come and go – gold miners, farmers, artists – yet somehow, it has resisted change. You can sense history lingering in the dry air, tucked away in stone cottages and forgotten farm sheds. I pressed on, the road drawing me deeper into the valley, half expecting to meet no one, and quite enjoying the idea.
Remember, I’ve got some thing new coming on Monday. Make sure you call in and check it out!
In the bustling streets of Hong Kong, I stumbled across a quiet little garden I might easily have missed if I hadn’t been looking for somewhere to rest my feet. It’s called the Public Square Street Rest Garden, a small elevated patch of green set in front of the Tin Hau Temple. Despite the city’s frenetic pace, this spot offers an unexpected pocket of calm, where locals gather beneath the trees to chat, relax, or simply watch the world go by.
One afternoon as I wandered past, I noticed a large group of elderly men completely absorbed in a series of intense board games. I had no idea what they were playing, but the level of concentration on their faces was something to behold!
I later learned the game was Xiangqi – often called Chinese chess or Elephant chess – a strategic contest symbolising a battle between two armies, where the ultimate goal is to checkmate the opposing king. The game dates back over two thousand years and is so deeply ingrained in Chinese culture that it’s said mastering Xiangqi can sharpen your skills in business and decision-making. No wonder it continues to be the country’s favourite board game.
So, I’ve got some thing new coming to my blog this Monday. Make sure you call in and check it out!
This is the Walter Taylor Bridge in Indooroopilly, one of Brisbane’s quirkiest landmarks. Opened in 1936, it’s not just a suspension bridge but once had people living inside its towers. For decades, the tollkeeper’s family called the northern pylon home, with laundry lines stretching over the traffic below.
Built by Walter Taylor using surplus Sydney Harbour Bridge cables, it was the longest span of its kind in Australia at the time. There was once even a ballroom in one tower. Practical, unusual, and full of character, it’s a true slice of Brisbane history.
Amongst the jigsaw puzzle streets of Dublin that twist and turn across the city, you’ll find St Stephen’s Green. Within St Stephen’s Green, I found a man called Daniel. The few items that he was carrying with him were carefully placed on a park bench while he chatted to anyone who would stop by to talk. He was polite and friendly and spoke in a gravelly tone that told of a less than comfortable life on the streets of Dublin. He spoke of having many favourite spots in the city centre but this spot was by far his favourite. Manly because of how peaceful it is and the calmness of the place. Then just as he spoke they arrived, pigeons. Lots and lots of pigeons.
It turns out that Daniel works for one of the homeless shelters in Dublin. Collecting money and donations, along with doing other ‘odds and ends’ that need to be done. But, what he really likes to do is feed the pigeons. As he threw seed out for them and gently poured it into the hands of strangers who stopped, the pigeons were quick to find the food source. In an instant, three to five pigeons were on heads, shoulders and arms, gently pecking. Suddenly, as quickly as they had arrived they were off into the sky. They swooped in a massive loop before landing in exactly the same spot and continuing their hunt for food.
According to the Guinness World Records the daily light and sound show in Hong Kong is the world’s largest permanent light show. Called ‘A Symphony of Lights’ it has been in operation since the 17th January, 2004.
The Symphony of Lights show in Hong Kong really is something quite amazing. Starting nightly at 8:00pm, it’s a 15 minute spectacular of light and sound that luminates Victoria Harbour. The best viewing locations for the nightly spectacle are the Tsim Sha Tsui waterfront outside the Hong Kong Cultural Centre, the Avenue of Stars, the promenade at Golden Bauhinia Square in Wan Chai or from sightseeing ferries in the harbour.
Originally started by the Hong Kong Tourism Board in 2004, the show is set to an orchestra of music and features lights, lasers, fireworks and other multimedia light and sound displays from over 50 buildings that participate in the show. It also holds the world record for the largest permanent light and sound show.
The other day I mentioned Lightroom Presets and how useful they are. Well, today’s photo from Hong Kong was edited with a preset (I use them all the time) called ‘Don’t Jab With A Jabber’.
I found myself bobbing along in one of Hong Kong’s famous sampan boats, weaving through the bustling waters of Aberdeen Harbour. Sampans are the traditional wooden boats that were once the backbone of Hong Kong’s fishing community, small, sturdy, and surprisingly nimble. These days, most of them are used to ferry curious visitors like mself around the harbour, giving us a glimpse of a slower, older way of life that’s still clinging on amid the glass and steel towers of the modern city.
I could tell you that the word ‘sampan’ comes from the Cantonese for ‘three planks,’ referring to the original flat-bottomed design. But honestly, I was less concerned with the etymology and more distracted by the colourful chaos of the waterfront with junk boats, houseboats, rusting barges, and the occasional super yacht all jostling for space like a very polite traffic jam.
The boat itself was decked out with lanterns and trinkets that swayed gently as we chugged along. There’s something oddly calming about the soft putter of the engine and the slow rhythm of the water slapping against the hull. I sat there, gazing out at the tower blocks and fishing boats, thinking that in a city known for its pace, this little pocket of calm felt like a small, stubborn act of resistance.
I listen to all sorts of music while I take and edit photos, it kinda depends on my mood. If you wanna hear what’s currently near the top of my rotation, follow This Link to Spotify.
This is Victoria Bridge, one of Brisbane’s busiest crossings, lit up in vivid purples and blues for the night. It spans the Brisbane River, linking the South Bank cultural precinct to the CBD. The current version of the bridge (because there have been several over the years) was opened in 1969, which makes it over 50 years old now. A respectable age for a bridge.
To be honest, I had to double check the name. For some reason, I always confuse it with the Goodwill Bridge further downstream, which is a pedestrian-only crossing. The Victoria Bridge however, is the one where the buses thunder across in both directions and if you’re walking, you can sometimes feel the vibrations of the traffic humming through the concrete.
On this occasion, it wasn’t the traffic or the practical usefulness of it all that I was interested in, but the way the lights bounced off the water below, giving the river that surreal, glassy finish. If you’re a fan of city reflections (which I’ve discovered I am), it’s one of those spots that makes you stop for a second.
I could tell you more about the history of the bridge (it’s burned down, collapsed, and been rebuilt more than once), but instead I’ll just point out that right underneath this very spot is where the old horse-drawn trams used to cross, back when Brisbane was a much sleepier place.
So, I’ve decided to make a few changes to the layout of this here blog. If things seem to have changed dramatically next time you visit, it’s all part of a master plan. Hopefully (with fingers crossed🤞), the photos with appear larger on most devices with a change in size to the titles as well. I hope you enjoy.
Don’t forget you can click on the catergory names above each post to see more photos related to that place. For example, you can give it ago here it Dublin 🇮🇪.
I stumbled across this photo while looking for something completely different. I took it one evening when I was heading across Dublin to Tara Street Station. From memory, I’d come from O’Connell Street via one of the bridges that cross the River Liffey when, in heavy traffic, I came across the Thomas Moore statue just as the evening sky was turning a lovely bluish-purple.
A few days later I left the shores of Lake Wakatipu and nearby conservation areas such as Mount Aspiring National Park. I headed in a roughly east-north-easterly direction for nearly two hours past towns like Clyde, Alexandra, and through the Ida Valley to Oturehua. I’d remembered about a general store called Gilchrist’s which is famous for being one of New Zealand’s oldest continually operating general stores. It still sells all sorts of quirky goods and is decorated with vintage advertising signs. I called in and wandered around. Afterwards and back in my car, I eventually rejoined state highway 83 where I was soon passing wide open- tussock covered plains that are a feature of the solitude of Central Otago.
I drove past fence lines and farm gates that looked like they hadn’t swung open in years. Beyond, sheep grazed quietly on the wide flats, ringed by dark hills and ominous peaks still holding snow. The wind moved in soft gusts, bending the grass in the afternoon sunshine that filled the valley.
I hadn’t allowed myself nearly as much time to explore the beginning of the Routeburn Track as I would have liked, however the day was quickly marching on. I left the Routeburn and headed towards the Paradise Forest located in the Paradise Valley. I eventually reached Diamond Lake and from there, I continued on a way until I reached the Paradise Valley and the beech forest I had been aiming for. To fans of ‘The Lord of the Rings’ the forest is also known as Lothlorien, realm of the Elves.
The next morning was bright, clear and I was heading in a northwesterly direction and the start of the Routeburn Track. Situated in Mount Aspiring National Park and having been a formal recreational tramping track since 1964, while I had no intention of walking the track I had made up my mind to at least wander along the track for a bit and have a wee lookaround.
The scale of the Routeburn Track is relatively small by international standards (33 km / 20.5 miles). Yet, what it lacks in length, it makes up for in spectacular scenery, dramatic landscapes, lush forests, and panoramic mountain views. The track just wraps you up in tranquillity and overwhelms you with towering peaks and sweeping valleys. Walking the track you find yourself in a constant state of awe and amazement. I wish I’d allowed myself more time but alas time was against me.
The road to Glenorchy followed the eastern edge of Lake Wakatipu for 46 kilometers (28 miles). Two or three times I stopped in laybys and lookouts and went to the edge to stand hopefully in the murky gloom, knowing there was a lake out there, sure that I’d get blown into it at any moment. The wind and rain was everywhere – and coming from every possible direction. It seemed impossible to find a location that was both sheltered and safely away from the road side as campervans, tour buses and recreational vehicles hurriedly came to and from various places on the lake, looking decidedly unimpressed with the weather. Some time previously, I had bought an overpriced cup of coffee from one of those roadside caravans, so I sat in my car sipping coffee waiting for a break in the weather. The nearby mountains echoed in the moody atmosphere while storm clouds continued to roll in. I’d really been looking forward to the drive from Queenstown to Glenorchy. I sat in my car listening to the wind continuing to whip up the lake, only adding to the sense of drama. For the life of me, I couldn’t decide if I was happy I was driving into it or not!
I found this sign while out on the Otago Peninsula. There’s something about it that seems to say so much about rural life on the Otago Peninsula. It points to roads that feel like they’ve been forgotten about. Where there’s wind-bent grass, broken fence posts and long silences. Occasionally a local passes in a ute with a friendly wave, birds hover over ahead, and the weather changes quickly.
There’s something quietly revealing about standing alone on a long, empty gravel road, rain clouds drifting overhead and snow dusting the distant ranges. It’s the kind of place that either makes you want to turn back quickly or stay a while. When a cool wind lifted my hat and sent it tumbling, I took it as a sign. I sat by a nearby boundary fence and paused for a bit. Besides, I had a flat tyre to deal with, and the boot wasn’t going to unpack itself.
Not far from the ferry terminal in Oban, you’ll find the Kai Kart, quietly serving some of the best fish and chips in the country. There’s nothing fancy, just a caravan cooking great food as the sizzle of fresh blue cod, and the smell of salt fill the air. In fact, according to some reviewers it’s arguably the best fish & chips in the country. Plan for a bit of a line, bring some patience, and a taste for Oban hospitality. Good food, simply done.
There are numerous street markets in Hong Kong and they don’t come alive till late afternoon, and run deep into the night. They’re a hive of people with all sorts of places to shot and food galore.
Out on the Strath Taieri, near Sutton Salt Lake, the wide open spaces feel like stepping into another world. Towers of schist rise from the golden tussock and dry shrub, scattered across a quiet plain. The sky stretches endlessly above, broken only by rolling clouds and the distant Rock and Pillar Range. There’s a stillness with time, shaped by sun, salt, and centuries of erosion. Out here you don’t come for noise or crowds, you come for the textures, the crunch underfoot, and the feeling of standing in sparse, open landscapes.
This is St Stephens Green, a few days after Christmas on a chilly Dublin afternoon. It almost seems impossible to believe it wasn’t always the manicured Victorian park it is today. In the 17th century, the area was used as land for grazing livestock. It then became a popular dueling spot during the 18th century as men would settle disputes with pistols at dawn in the park. Around this time, public executions including hangings were held in the area while in more recent times the park featured a statue of King George II that had stood since 1758. That was, until it was blown up the day after the coronation of George VI by Irish Republicans in 1937
I like Melborune, partly because it is very walkable and easy to navigate thanks to all the bridges across the river, but mostly because of the trams. So, when I found myself with a day free of any planned activities, I spent the first part of the day riding trams to random locations I’d never been to before. Following that, I spent the rest of a very pleasant Melbourne day wandering its busy streets and narrow alleyways, admiring the Yarra River, its modern skyscrapers, historic architecture and bustling laneways.
It was while ambling along Swanston Street that I came across this lady who does the most colourful designs with vinyl records. I watched and chatted to her for about 10 minutes as she created new designs that would evolve right before your eyes.
Here’s another photo from my phone, I’d forgotten all about it. I took this in Belfast while on a Black Taxi Tour through some of the city’s historic peace lines and murals. It was both a surreal and profound expereince.
When I was growing up, I couldn’t tell you what all the troubles in Northern Island were about, all I knew was that there were two groups of people who were very angry with each other. This much I was certain about, mainly due to the fact that every so often a news item would appear on television which featured things being blown-up, people getting shot at and lots and lots of fighting. What started all this? Well, I just couldn’t say, but boy did they seem to dislike each other.
So, a number of years later (quite a few actually), when I found myself in Belfast, I took the opportunity to do a Black Taxi Tour. I’d been reliably informed that it was a fascinating way to see many of the historic sites in Belfast that featured in the violent clashes between the British Army and the Provisional IRA. To which, I have to say, it was one of the most eye opening tours I’ve ever done. If you’re ever in Belfast, I’d advise doing a Black Taxi Tour, it really is a fascinating few hours.
It was on this tour that we passed through the Falls district where the Falls Curfew took place. Until that time, I didn’t know what the The Falls Curfew or The Battle of the Falls was. Thus I discovered on a rainy day in Belfast that the Battle of the Falls was a violent clash in July 1970 in Belfast, Northern Ireland, between the British Army and the Provisional IRA in the nationalist Falls Road area. Triggered by an arms search, the army imposed a curfew and launched a large-scale operation, sparking intense gun battles. Four civilians were killed, and hundreds were injured. The incident deepened mistrust between the Catholic community and the British Army, escalating tensions during the early troubles.
Two Trees
The idea of simplicity is one that I find myself revisiting time and time again. This photo, Two Trees, came from that impulse—to strip things back, to sit with the bare essentials. Just earth, sky, and two trees holding space in their own quiet way. It felt like a kind of conversation between, nothing dramatic, but something stretched across the space between.
I’ve always been drawn to the structure of the landscape—lines etched by ploughs, long shadows, open skies. It’s tempting to fill a frame, but this time I left a lot out. I wanted room to breathe and to explore the space between the Two Trees. You can feel the emptiness, but also the balance. It reminds me that not everything needs to be explained.
Dry grass in the Haka Valley
While I was in the Haka Valley I took all sorts of photos in the halflight of morning, during the early hours before daylight took hold. After the sun came up, I went exploring other subjects, like the simplicity of long, dry grass waving in the morning sun.
Shrine of Remembrance, Brisbane
After leaving the edge of the Brisbane River, I wandered up onto Ann Street, the pace of the city quickening around me. I had planned a short detour through King George Square, but as I reached it, I realised Brisbane’s Shrine of Remembrance was nearby. Drawn by curiosity, I entered ANZAC Square, where sunlight filtered through the trees and danced on the classic Greek revival columns that guard the eternal flame, flickering gently in the stillness. I lingered there, absorbing the atmosphere of the ANZAC spirit. Eventually, the heat of the day began to settle me. In search of shade and refreshment, I crossed the street and found solace in a cold beer at The Grand Central Hotel.