Daily Photo – Nathan Road & Kansu Street In Hong Kong
The history of Hong Kong is a bit of a colonial “now you see it, now you don’t.” I’m certain Hong Kong wasn’t, then was, but now isn’t a British territory. It all started in 1842 when the British decided they quite liked the look of the island after the First Opium War. After some unpleasantness involving tea and opium, the British decided Hong Kong Island would make a fine trophy, using the Treaty of Nanking to wrap the whole acquisition in a layer of official paperwork.
A few decades later, in 1860, they added Kowloon to the collection when the British decided they quite liked the view across the harbor too. But the real kicker came in 1898 when the British signed a one hundred or so year loan agreement with China for what was termed ‘New Territories’.
I’m not sure about you, but to me, this sounds very much like wanting the lawn mower back you lent to the neighbours, particularly if it’s one of those fancy ride-on ones. Britain had spent a century turning what was essentially a barren rock into a glittering global financial hub. So, by the time the 1990s rolled around, China liked what they saw, and checked the calendar.
Because the New Territories held all the important bits (like the water and the space to actually put people), Britain couldn’t really keep the island and give back the rest – it was an all-or-nothing deal. So, on July 1, 1997, amid a lot of rain and some very stiff upper lips, the lease ended. The Union Jack came down, and Hong Kong became a Special Administrative Region of China. It was the end of an era, proving that even in international diplomacy, you eventually have to return what you borrowed.
When Jack Tewa first found gold near the Arrow River in May 1862, it’s fair to say he would have been quite surprised, considering he was searching for lost sheep at the time. The valley of the Arrow River was so inaccessible that, for some time, the first miners had the place all to themselves. That was until their closely guarded secret was discovered by the rest of the world, and a canvas town sprang up almost overnight, yet getting there was no easy task.
During the 1860s gold rush, getting to the town we now know as Arrowtown, or Fox’s as it was known back then, was a gruelling test of endurance. Located in the Wakatipu Basin, it was one of the most inaccessible regions in the country and, before the development roads, miners used a combination of river trekking, mountain scaling, and sheer determination to get there.
The most common route was to travel to Cromwell and follow the banks of the Kawarau River through deep gorges and past vertical rock walls that were little more than narrow ledges high above the ferocious river. For those coming from the Cardrona Valley, the most direct path was also the steepest, over the rugged and often snow-covered Crown Range. Another common approach was via a steep ridge track that climbed out of the Kawarau Gorge and bypassed the dangerous river bluffs; this path was called the ‘Gentle Annie’. It was a punishing and brutal climb that was anything but gentle. Yet another completely different route was taken by those choosing to travel via Lake Wakatipu. They would trek to the town of Kingston at the southern end of the lake, take a boat to Queenstown, and walk the final 20 kilometres across the Frankton Flats to reach the Arrow River in the Wakatipu Basin.
Getting to the Arrow River was a brutal journey and not for the faint-hearted. It would be some time before anything resembling a road was created and, when they were, things didn’t get any easier. Wagons had to be dragged axle-deep through mud by teams of up to eighteen horses.
Life at the Arrow River was anything but idyllic and a far cry from the picturesque scene. In the early 1860s, miners arrived to find it loud, dirty, and physically grueling, a long way from the “Golden Arrowtown” we know today.
Daily Photo – The Magnificent Clutha River in Autumn
When I set out on this section of my trip, it had been my intention to stop in Roxburgh and call in to the Jimmy’s Pie shop (which just happens to be the best pie shop in the world, and I won’t hear a word against it) and grab some lunch. Unfortunately, it was Sunday and it was closed. So, instead I got some lunch in Alexandra and ate it sitting in the sunshine on the banks of the Clutha River, admiring the town bridge and the autumn hues reflecting in the river as it gently floated past.
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.
Daily Photo – Small Huts, Harsh Lives & Arrowtown’s Chinese Settlement
I went to the historic Chinese Settlement in Arrowtown. It was early, and I expected it to be busy, but it wasn’t. I had the whole place to myself, which was a lovely surprise. I spent the time, as I often do in these situations, imagining that I had to pick one to live in. It was a hard choice, and even harder to imagine living in one through a Central Otago winter.
It would have been a gruelling test of endurance. These small, windowless dwellings offered little insulation against the biting frost and snow, relying on a small hearth for both warmth and cooking. The cramped space would have been damp and dimly lit, making for a lonely existence during the long, freezing nights. If anything, it speaks volumes about their character, even more so when combined with the harsh treatment they received from the wider community.
The hypocrisy of the European miners, particularly those who had arrived from the Victorian goldfields, was quite something to behold. On the one hand, many communities viewed the Chinese miners as “aliens”, fearing that if they were not Christianised, they would somehow become an “evil” influence, tainting the region. Furthermore, their preference for congregating in gambling houses or opium dens was heavily frowned upon.
However, when one compares these relatively unobtrusive vices to the behaviour of many Europeans, whose daily exhibitions in grog tents, street brawling, pothouse pugilism, and general public lewdness were common occurrences, it becomes clear there were much larger social issues to worry about than a few gambling debts and the odd smoking pipe.
Daily Photo – Autumn in Arrowtown’s Historic Chinese Settlement
In 1865, when the initial excitement of the Otago Gold rush had settled and many of the miners had drifted to other gold fields, the Dunedin Chamber of Commerce decided that they wanted to keep the economy going. To do this they invited Chinese miners to the region. For many of the invited miners, the plan was simple. Spend a few years finding gold and send the money home before returning themselves. So it was that by the mid-1860’s the first of the recruited Chinese miners reached the Otago goldfields, yet what they found was not what they expected. Upon arrival they discovered they weren’t allowed to have new claims of their own and instead were told they had to pickover the abandoned European claims. Within a few years, thousands of Chinese miners could be found on the goldfields – spread throughout Central Otago and one of these locations was Arrowtown. It’s a sad tale really because many of the miners never made anywhere near enough money to send home. In fact, many of them never made it home. Penniless and persecuted by many of the Europeans, a large number of those who were invited to the Otago goldfields never saw their families again.
I visited the Arrowtown Chinese Settlement in the full throws of an autumn blanket. Not being allowed to settle in the main village, the Chinese community set up homes and market gardens on the outskirts of the town beside the river. Now, not more than a 5 minute walk from the town’s main street, the historic village and surrounding tracks twist and turn through trees, past streams and the nearby Arrow River. It really is quite special.
Daily Photo – Train at Flagstaff Station in Melbourne
I set out in the morning with what felt like a very clear plan, tested and approved by someone far more organised than me. Walk to Newmarket Railway Station, catch the City Loop to Flagstaff Station, change trains, continue through to Southern Cross Railway Station. From there, board the train to Yarragon. Straightforward enough on the App.
Somewhere along the way, things began to loosen slightly.
At Flagstaff, the trains moved with a kind of quiet efficiency that suggested everything was working exactly as it should. There’s a certain confidence to a train arriving on time, doors opening in precisely the right place, people stepping on and off without hesitation. I, on the other hand, hovered just far enough back to suggest I was observing rather than participating, quietly double-checking that I was still following the right version of the plan.
By the time I reached Southern Cross, the plan had unravelled just enough to become interesting. Power lines had been damaged somewhere further along the line, and the train to Yarragon had been quietly replaced with a coach departing from bay 54. There was something mildly disappointing about it, though no one seemed particularly surprised. It had the feel of a well-practised disruption, as if this sort of thing happened often enough that it barely registered.
The coach made its way out to Pakenham, where we were funnelled back onto a train that carried on as if nothing had happened. No announcements, no grand explanation, just a seamless return to the original script.
I stopped in Alexandra long enough to grab some lunch and pay a small fortune for a tank of petrol. From there I headed towards Clyde, where I had planned to eat while taking in the view from a hillside lookout. The road slipped quietly out of town, passing row upon row of dark green conifers before giving way to farmland, with timber post-and-rail fences running alongside the road. Then came the scattered piles of schist, tussock, and dry grasses that define so much of the landscape in this part of the country. Beyond them,fruit trees carried their autumn colours, oranges and golds dominating the palette. All around, the hills, rocky and sun-bleached, rolled off into the distance. I stood at the Clyde Lookout and ate my lunch, taking in a view that stretched far beyond me as the mid-morning sun settled into the autumn day.
I left the market and caught a tram into the heart of Melbourne’s CBD. After a short journey I alighted at a stop that read “Bourke Street Mall” and walked a block or two until I found myself outside St Paul’s Cathedral on what was called Swanson Street.
It was then that I suddenly realized I was rather hungry and so went looking for a place to eat – a job that you might expect to be relatively easy in a place widely considered the culinary capital of Australia. But that’s the thing about Melbourne: the city wants you to eat out as soon as you get there, launching an assault on your senses that only the very strongest of wills can resist. This is due in no small part to the fact that the city is home to more than 3,500 restaurants and cafes serving cuisines from over 70 different countries. Take Lygon Street in Carlton as an example; this “Little Italy” precinct boasts approximately 100 restaurants, cafes, and bars alone – and that’s just one street.
Consequently, choosing a place to eat becomes insanely difficult, mainly owing to the fact that there are so many options. Give me a choice between seafood and Italian and I can usually manage, add Indian, Chinese, Greek and a range of Lebanese and Asian influences to the mix and things start to get complicated. But multiply those choices by a thousand and you have a situation that is frankly alarming.
Walk down any central Melbourne street and you’ll find long queues to establishments that are now city institutions. But that doesn’t matter because you can always duck down an alleyway or side street and find a cafe that is impossibly small and roughly the same size as your living room, squeezed between two equally small eateries that nevertheless welcome you like a long lost friend, which is what I did now.
From Swanson Street I turned into Flinders Lane and then again into a small alleyway not more than 2 metres wide and 50 metres long called Centre Place.
Centre Place was transformed from a neglected service alley into a revitalised laneway by the City of Melbourne and the Victorian State Government in the 1980s, and they’ve done it exceedingly well. The alleyway is tiny, yet it holds upwards of 20 small scale cafes, sushi bars and eateries and is as much a tourist destination as it is a venue, and choosing a place to eat can be quite an overwhelming task. Fortunately the job is made easier by a series of maître d’s eagerly enticing you in.
I was on my second lap down the lane when I must have said out loud “ooh Eggs Benedict” as no sooner had the words left my mouth than a pretty young waitress dressed all in black and clothing that left little to the imagination stepped forward and pointed out they also do a New York version featuring a beef brisket. Well, before I knew what was happening I was seated, had ordered and a glass of coke was being placed in front of me by a young man in equally tight clothing and a multitude of piercings that frankly looked like they’d be both painful and annoying. From my vantage point at a table that was placed where a window once sat, I watched the comings and goings of a busy lane in the heart of Melbourne. It really was quite fascinating to watch the people drift by, and for a cafe that couldn’t have been more than 50 square metres, the food was exceedingly good.
Satisfied and full, I paid by waving my phone at a machine on the counter, a neat trick I’d recently been taught by both my wife and daughter a few nights earlier, and stepped out into the throng of foot traffic to consider my next options.
When one of Melbourne’s founding father’s, John Batman died in May of 1839, he was 38 years old and buried in the Old Melbourne Cemetery. While his name would forever be linked with founding the city of Melbourne, his death wasn’t so heroic. In fact, it was rather tragic. Having contracted syphilis, the disease quickly took over his body, he became disfigured, crippled and in the final months of his life, the disease was so advanced that his nose had rotted away, he became incapacitated and had to be pushed around in a wicker carriage. He died in debt, estranged from his wife and alone. His funeral was a modest, yet well attended affair, after which he was buried in the Old Melbourne Cemetery. In the coming years he would be joined by merchants, Ministers and many other of the city’s earliest settlers until the cemetery was closed for burials in 1854.
Throughout this time, Melbourne grew at a lively pace and small wholesale and retail markets started popping up to serve the rapidly growing population. One of which surrounded the Old Melbourne Cemetery. As the market encroached on the cemetery, the public outcry became furious and proved unpopular with market gardeners and traders who refused to use the space – fearing disease and the disrespect of selling food over graves.
That was until 1876 when everything changed. The Victorian Government passed an Act officially gazetting the Old Melbourne Cemetery site as land to be reserved and developed into markets. A year later as bodies and skeletons were exhumed and re-interred at the Melbourne General Cemetery – things got a little messy. You see, back in 1864, a fire at the lodge belonging to the Old Melbourne Cemetery gatekeeper destroyed most of the burial registers. This meant when it became time to exhume most of the bodies, officials had absolutely no idea who was buried and where. So while identified graves were shifted, some 6,000 to 9,000 graves remained buried as the new market space was developed and officially opened as The Queen Victoria Market on the 20th March, 1878.
Daily Photo – Tram on Elizabeth Street in Melbourne
I was flying to Melbourne, a city that was settled twice, in two different decades, in two separate locations, by two different groups of people. The first attempt took place in late 1803 and was a spectacular failure. Led by a man named Lieutenant-Governor David Collins, a British army officer, colonial administrator and newly appointed Governor of the intended settlement, the expedition set sail from England on 27 April 1803 aboard the HMS Calcutta. The purpose of the trip was to establish a penal colony and secure the southern coastline of Australia for the British, before the French laid claim to it. Accompanying Lieutenant Collins in his wee fleet was a dozen Civil officers and administrators, 50 Royal Marines, 50 free settlers and their families, 300 male convicts and around 16 convict wives who had come along for the ride.
The party arrived at the chosen site of Sullivan Bay on the Mornington Peninsula in late October 1803 and set about clearing land, constructing shelters, storehouses, developing a parade ground and completing other tasks vital to their survival. However, within a month it became clear the site was poorly chosen at best. The sandy soil was difficult to work with, there was a lack of fresh water, the timber unusable for building, crops struggled and morale quickly dipped. By January they’d decided to abandon the settlement and in February the expedition packed-up and sailed for Van Diemen’s Land, landing on the banks of the Derwent River – thus establishing what is now known as the city of Hobart. The entire experiment had lasted 14 weeks and was a complete failure in establishing a British presence on the intended coastline.
Thirty years later, in June 1835 colonial settler and part time explorer John Batman returned to Van Diemen’s Land, having completed what can only be described as a short, brief trip. Traveling with a group of likeminded Tasmanian settlers, they’d been tasked with looking for new land, suitable for grazing and one of the areas they explored was beyond the abandoned Sullivan Bay site in a place called Port Phillip. Here Batman claimed to have negotiated a treaty with local Aboriginal and recorded in his diary: “This will be the place for a village.” It was by no-means a long, drawn-out expedition. Batman had crossed Bass Strait, explored quickly, made his claim, and returned within a month.
Things progressed quickly! In August settlers arrived on the banks of the Yarra River and began establishing a permanent camp – a mere 60 kilometres from the original 1803 site. Unlike the attempt made by Collins, the northern banks of the Yarra River proved much more suitable. It supplied a reliable source of fresh water, better soil, shelter and was much more practical. From there, the settlement took off with surprising speed. Within a year rough streets were beginning to form, basic buildings replaced tents and the population had grown to some 200 people. By 1837 land sales had begun, the population had sprung to nearly 1000 people and the location was officially given the name – Melbourne.
Following the need to head out of town for a few hours, it wasn’t long before I found myself leaving the settlement of Outram and rolling along State Highway 87 towards Middlemarch. It’s one of those roads that drifts quietly into the hinterland, leaving town life behind as it follows the Taieri River through wide, empty plains and low, weathered hills, where the mountain ranges do most of the talking and you find yourself driving a little slower without quite knowing why.
As I approached Middlemarch and chugged past the outskirts of town, I came across an unusually large gathering of vehicles near the local rugby club. Every available space along the road and in nearby paddocks had been taken, cars and 4WDs of every description were lined up and separated by hay bales acting as makeshift road markers. Propped up against them were large signs announcing the “Strath Taieri A & P Show 2026”.
For a moment I considered calling in and wandering around, but then thought better of it. There’s only so much farming talk you can bluff your way through before someone asks a question you can’t answer, and I wasn’t in the mood to be found out.
Several streets later I came across the local museum which proudly displays (and quite rightly may I add) New Zealand’s only submarine and I thought about stopping by, but it appeared to be closed. Instead, I settled for a quiet stroll around the local train station where I could wander about without the risk of being drawn into a conversation I wasn’t equipped to have.
This little train shed isn’t at Pukerangi, it’s actually further on from Pukerangi, about halfway between the old train station there and the former station at Sutton. I was heading to Middlemarch for a few hours out of town, and took the opportunity to detour down some of the sideroads that break off from State Highway 87. Before long the sealed surface gave up entirely, turning to gravel that crunched under the tyres as the road twisted its way into the dry, tussock and rock-covered hills that surround the Strath Taieri.
Out here, the landscape feels open in a way that’s hard to describe, wide skies stretching overhead while the land rolls away in soft browns and golds. The shed itself appears almost by accident, a small, weathered reminder of a time when the railway was the only real thread tying these places together, quietly enduring long after the trains have passed.
I caught a lift with a local who was heading to Lee Bay and the Rakiura Track. When I told him I was wanting to walk from the Mamaku Point Reserve back to Oban, he’d promised to drop me off at the northern end of Horseshoe Bay, where the beach meets the Reserve. It was here that I began my walk back to Oban, a distance of about five kilometres. Horseshoe Bay features a long, flat beach surrounded on three sides by bush, along with a handful of houses overlooking the sand, the bay and beyond to Foveaux Strait. With the tide well out and nobody else around, I decided to walk along the sand. There were footprints heading in both directions. Clearly other people had enjoyed the scenery and the idea of walking close to the tide, although there was no sign of them now.
At the end of the bay I rejoined the road and cut up through the bush before descending on the other side where it opened out onto Butterfield Beach. Once again, I walked on the sand for as long as I could, before rejoining the road for a short stretch and arriving at yet another beach, this one called Bathing Beach. For the most part, the weather had been kind, but by the time I arrived at the beach, the weather was changing. I decided not to hang around and was pleased that the final section of the walk climbed steadily over yet another hill before dropping down again into Oban.
I was flicking through some of my unpublished images and came across this one from Paraparaumu on the Kapiti Coast. I think it was taken after a few minutes wandering along Marine Parade from Paraparaumu Beach in the direction of Raumati South and Paekākāriki. I’d been watching the sun drop slowly behind Kapiti Island while ambling along the beach and, just as I was about to call it a day, something caught my eye. The toetoe bushes that line the sand dunes, quietly separating the beach from the road and footpath, were swaying in the evening breeze and suddenly seemed worth a second look.
Daily Photo – The Catlins from the Papatowai Highway
If you venture into the Catlins, you have several options for where to go and which direction to take. Passing Lake Catlins and following the Catlins River through the area around Houipapa, you soon find yourself heading toward small rural communities such as Caberfeidh, MacLennan, then on to Papatowai and eventually Tautuku. Not long after leaving Houipapa the road climbs gently, and before long you reach a point where you can look back down into a valley filled with the most remarkable shades of green. It is the sort of green that makes you realise there are far more varieties of the colour than you ever noticed before.
For tourists travelling through the Catlins, a common stop is the famous Florence Hill Lookout. Personally, I love this view. It feels quieter and more authentic, like stumbling across a secret the guidebooks have not quite caught up with yet.
Daily Photo – The South Sea Hotel in Oban on Stewart Island
This is the South Sea Hotel in Oban on Stewart Island. It began life in the late nineteenth century, when a hotel was first built on this site around 1890. By 1899 it had already been enlarged, an indication that even then there was enough traffic in this far-flung corner of the British Empire to justify expansion.
In those early years it was known as the New Oban Hotel, a name that firmly anchored it’s place in the settlement. Only later, in 1968, did it take on the name South Sea Hotel, which is how most people know it today. So while the bones of the building trace their origins back to the 1890s, the name “South Sea Hotel” has officially been in use since 1968, layering a more recent identity to much older story.
Daily Photo – Puketapu and the Sir John McKenzie Memorial
I was heading for Palmerston and the Sir John McKenzie Memorial, which sits on top of a prominent hill overlooking the town, near where he spent many years of his life. Given the fact that the memorial is a cairn on top of a hill that is over 300 metres high, Sir John must have been a person of some importance, which he was.
Hailing from the Ross-shire region of Scotland, he emigrated to Otago in 1860, eventually settling on a farm he named in the Shag Valley, near Palmerston. At the time, much of the land was owned by wealthy landlords who hoarded the best properties. Over time, he grew tired of this and spent years working his way up through local councils, proving that he actually knew his stuff about soil and sheep, before eventually moving to the “big leagues” in Parliament. There, he teamed up with a group called the Liberals and, when they won a massive election in 1890, he became Minister of Lands. He introduced the 999-year lease, allowing settlers with very little capital to get onto the land without having to buy it outright. He also passed the Land for Settlements Act 1894, which gave the government the power to compulsorily acquire large, under-utilised pastoral estates and subdivide them for small-scale family farming, and he established the Department of Agriculture to provide farmers with scientific advice, export grading standards, and pest control. What all this meant was that by the time soldiers returned from World War 1 they were able to purchase small parcels of land around the country and essentially start to rebuild their lives, which in turn gave birth to the Royal New Zealand Returned and Services’ Association (RSA), a fixture in every small-town across the country. Like I say, an important figure in the grand scheme of agricultural New Zealand.
When I set out, my plan had been to swing-by the monument (and tackle the arduous climb to the stop) and take in the great views that expand out in all directions and before leaving adjust my gaze over the horizon, let the wind blow through my hair and embrace the serenity. Alas, it was not to be. By the time I arrived in Palmerston, I had already spent a large portion of the morning walking boardwalks, strolling near streams, and detouring along dirt roads, leaving no time at all for my planned amble up the side of a steep hill. So, instead I settled for a view of the Sir John McKenzie Memorial from street level before returning to my vehicle and rejoining State Highway 1
A short drive north from Waitati of around 40 kilometres (25 miles) brings you to the community of Waikouaiti. It is a semi-rural township, with pockets of built-up housing that give way to farmland which almost entirely surrounds the town. To the east is a broad, sweeping bay with a long white sandy beach that stretches far to the south, while to the north the coastline becomes more rugged, with sharp cliffs and rolling hills.
Like so many towns around New Zealand, State Highway 1 rolls straight through it, first slowing to 70 km/h, then 50 km/h as you approach the heart of town. There is the usual collection of essentials: a dairy, pub, town hall, school, race course, museum, bakery, school and hardware store. Its origins trace back to early European arrivals, drawn by sealing and whaling before setting down more permanent roots, while the history of the local Ngāi Tahu iwi stretches back centuries before that.
And then, just like that, you are rolling out of town again into open farmland as the speed limit increases, first to 70 km/h and then to 100 km/h, past a scenic lookout and onto a winding ribbon of chip seal that carries you towards the next small town.
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!
Daily Photo – A game of Xiangqi
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!
Daily Photo – The Walter Taylor Bridge in Indooroopilly
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.
Daily Photo – Feeding pigeons in St Stephen’s Green
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 agravelly 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.
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