The Vulcan Hotel Ghost Story: The Legend of Rosie in St Bathans

Daily Photo – Is the Vulcan Hotel Really Haunted?

By the time I arrived in St Bathans, the temperature had climbed to a positively tropical three degrees, although thanks to the heavy snow that had fallen several days earlier, it still felt like the sort of day where a thick pair of socks was an essential item of clothing. The tiny gold-mining settlement was only just coming to life and while it wasn’t completely deserted, it’s quietness wasn’t particularly surprising. St Bathans has a main street of roughly 500 metres, a handful of historic buildings and the general atmosphere of a place that has never been particularly interested in keeping up with the modern world.

At the centre of it all is the Vulcan Hotel, a building that looks as though it’s been sitting there quietly watching Central Otago change around it. It is also reputed to have a resident who has been around for considerably longer than most of the current guests. Her name is Rosie, and apparently she is a ghost.

The story most commonly told is that Rosie was a young prostitute who was murdered in Room 1 of the hotel for her small amount of gold in the 1880s, supposedly by a client. Her ghost is said to haunt Room 1, where guests have reported seeing her, feeling her presence or experiencing the sort of unexplained disturbances that are particularly easy to explain, except for the fact that you’re staying in a 19th-century hotel in the middle of nowhere. There is, however, a slight problem with the story. There doesn’t appear to be any contemporary newspaper report of a woman being murdered at St Bathans in the 1880s.

There is an even more awkward historical detail. The famous building known as the Vulcan Hotel wasn’t actually the Vulcan Hotel in the 1880s. It was the Ballarat Hotel. The original Vulcan was a different building altogether and was destroyed by fire in 1931, after which the Ballarat became the hotel we know today. So Rosie, if she really was murdered there, was technically murdered in the Ballarat Hotel, which makes the whole thing rather harder to put neatly on a tourist brochure and kind of spoils the Room 1 story. 

However, there is another version of the story, one that is considerably more elaborate. It all starts with an anonymous, hand-sewn booklet called The Tragic Tale of the Vulcan Ghost, by a Lady who tells the story of a woman named Rosie O’Dowd. Rosie supposedly came from an impoverished family and began working at the hotel when she was only twelve years old. The years passed and she eventually fell in love with a wealthy traveller named Piers Osmond, who regularly stayed in Room 1. Osmond gave Rosie a snow globe, got her pregnant and then disappeared, which seems a particularly efficient way of destroying someone’s life.

Rosie then lost her baby during childbirth and, overcome by grief, apparently went mad outside Room 1 before disappearing, never to be seen or heard from again, well in living form at least. Her body was never found, but her spirit supposedly returned, leaving the Vulcan with at least one permanent resident. 

It is a wonderful story, but there is very little evidence to suggest that Rosie O’Dowd or Piers Osmond actually existed. There are no obvious historical records confirming the romance, the pregnancy, the snow globe or Rosie’s disappearance. In fact, there are several different versions of Rosie’s story, with different names, different occupations and different accounts of how she died. The more you look, the more the historical Rosie seems to dissolve into folklore.

But standing outside the Vulcan in a tiny settlement at the end of a long Central Otago road, I found that I didn’t really care. St Bathans is full of stories from its gold-mining past, and Rosie is simply another one that has survived because people like having a ghost attached to an old hotel. The miners have gone, the goldfields have disappeared beneath the tussock and the streets are now so quiet that you can stand in the middle of them without having to worry about traffic.

Whether Rosie O’Dowd ever walked into Room 1, whether Piers Osmond ever stayed there, or whether a snow globe ever sat on its bedside table is impossible to say. But somewhere along the way, somebody gave the Vulcan Hotel a ghost, gave her a name and gave her a rather tragic story. And now, more than a century later, Rosie remains in St Bathans, haunting the local hotel.

Which, for a ghost, is probably about as Central Otago as you can get.

Mount Ida And The Snow of 1863

Daily Photo – The Ida Range

The gold discovery in the Naseby area was made in 1863, and the rush was spectacular. The original prospectors discovered gold around the Hogburn, and within only a few days, more than 1,000 miners had arrived. By the end of July, there were over 2,000 men working around Naseby and the wider Mount Ida field. The rush happened so quickly in the essentially empty Maniototo countryside that towns popped up almost overnight, and Naseby was one of them.

Of course, getting several thousand gold-hungry men to the goldfields was one thing. Getting them back out again was another. In September 1863, Sergeant Ryan, stationed at Mount Ida, sent Constable Garvey and another policeman to investigate the new rush at Clarke’s, in the Mount Burster area. On the return journey, an over-confident Constable Garvey walked ahead of the others into a snowstorm. The constable and his companion, fearing they had become lost, took shelter beneath a rock while the weather closed in around them. When the storm had passed, the two men eventually staggered back to Mount Ida, badly frostbitten. Garvey didn’t make it. His body was later found, ravaged by the storm. It was a sobering reminder that beneath all the excitement of the gold rush, this was still a wild and unforgiving corner of the country, where a man could leave town in search of a few nuggets and simply disappear.

The Town of Naseby

Daily Photo – I.N.P Hjorring Draper & Clothing

My final stop for the day was Naseby, another town that started life in the gold rush and has managed to survive thanks to holidaymakers looking for somewhere a little quieter, and considerably less expensive, than the tourist hotspots of Arrowtown, Frankton and Queenstown. I found the town covered in bathed in bright daylight and a chilly 2 degrees. The main road into town led me past row after row of cottages and the local reserve, which was filled with kids building snowmen, Dads throwing snowballs, and mothers wondering how on earth they were going to get everything dry! A few blocks further along, the streets were filled with cars parked on snow-covered sidewalks as people strolled around enjoying the wintry snow. People happily sat in the sun out front of the local hotel as pockets of snow slid off the roof and water from the melting snow trickled down the footpath.

At its peak, the population of the town had grown to around 4,000 miners, with the town featuring up to 14 hotels, two butchers, multiple bakeries, billiard rooms and banks, a courthouse, a warden’s court, a post and telegraph office, a police station and jail, a blacksmith and wheelwright shop, a hospital, a school, and numerous churches. All of this was there to service the miners who had swelled into the town. I strolled for a few blocks, looking at nothing in particular, before returning to my car and leaving the town of Naseby behind.

The Idaburn On Agnew Road

Daily Photo – The Idaburn on Agnew Road

The road from Ophir in the Manuherikia Valley headed up over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley, and that’s where the weather really changed and the scenery shifted dramatically. The sharp blue sky vanished, and a ghostly white, low-lying mist and fog took hold, slowly dissolving the landscape into it.

I drove on and on into the mucky white gloom, the temperature slowly dropping into negative numbers before settling at a freezing −5°C. The heavy hoar frost drained every trace of colour and sound, leaving only absolute silence. By the time the side roads crossed the Idaburn, trees and bridges were merely shapes in the haze, sitting on the edge of the world.

The Town Of Ophir

Daily Photo – The town of Ophir

I walked up and down the main street, Swindon Street. At one end was the Pitches Store and Butcher, an old-fashioned stone building that started life as a family-run general store and butchery in the 1880s and now advertises itself as contemporary luxury accommodation and a restaurant for those wanting a quiet retreat in slow-paced surroundings. Further on is the rather small but grand Post and Telegraph Office, which proudly lays claim to being the longest-running Post Office in the country. It’s open for three hours every weekday morning, where you can admire the memorabilia display or buy a postcard and get it marked with the town’s unique pick-and-shovel gold-mining postmark. Next door is the town’s Peace Memorial Hall, which still holds a function or two, judging by the nearby faded posters, and is reputed to have great acoustics and an outstanding dancing floor, although I can safely guarantee that is something I will never be able to confirm in person! 

I’d parked at the opposite end of the town at the pub, otherwise known as Blacks Hotel, and on the way back I passed buildings that had been stables, churches, bakeries and other such places you might find in a small Central Otago gold-mining town.

And that pretty much exhausted the town of Ophir. All that was left to do was drive across the popular local landmark, the suspension bridge, and head into the Ida Valley, a place I’d been looking forward to seeing once again.

Cottage In Snow At St Bathans

Daily Photo – Cottage in snow at St Bathans

I rounded a corner, and the quiet settlement of St Bathans came into view. I rolled down the hill into town, following its single street that runs through the middle of the settlement for no more than 500 metres before disappearing around a bend and continuing out into the countryside. It’s a tiny place, yet for all its smallness, St Bathans somehow manages to contain multitudes of soul.

When I finally arrived, I parked beside the old stables, swapped my shoes for gumboots, walked past a few historic cottages and the famous Vulcan Hotel, and set off through the snow towards the Blue Lake for a look around. As far as I could see, there was little more than snow, hills and the occasional fence post poking through the white snow. Below me, the lake was a deep, tranquil blue, reflecting the rugged, snow-covered hills beneath a perfectly clear sky. A touch of mist lingered around the far shore, while the still water reflected everything back with such clarity that the whole place seemed almost unnaturally quiet. It was one of those winter scenes where the cold gets into everything, but you don’t particularly care because the view is worth freezing for.

Winter At Hawkdun Station

Daily Photo – Hawkdun Station

I drove to St Bathans from Ranfurly on icy roads, with snow banked on either side and my tyres crunching over the frozen surface to the steady flapping of the windscreen wipers. Heavy snow drifted through the air, and I became increasingly convinced that I was going to hit a patch of black ice on some lonely back road, spin off over a bank, and eventually be buried beneath the snow, only to be found several months later in the thaw, with the story of my strange disappearance left to be told on some random podcast years later.

Just then, the clouds parted, the sun broke through, and a vast, pristine winter landscape stretched beneath a clear blue sky. Mounded, pillow-like formations of snow blanketed the uneven ground, occasionally broken by frozen streams. In the distance, the Hawkduns showed themselves as a majestic range of snow-covered mountains at the edge of the serene, snowy expanse. I rounded a corner, and the quiet settlement of St Bathans came into view.

Hyde Railway Station

Daily Photo – Hyde Railway Station

On my way through the Strath Taieri, I decided to call in at the now defunct Hyde Railway Station. Once an important freight and railway-working centre, it sits at the northern end of the Strath Taieri, beneath the long, weather-beaten bulk of the Rock and Pillar Range. With disused rail tracks and wagons quietly sitting out the front, it is now surrounded by tall trees and long grass that becomes covered in hard frosts in winter. 

Yet one fact seemed to strike me more than most: the station wasn’t actually in Hyde. The township was 2 km further north. It seems that when the Otago Central Railway reached Hyde in 1894, the township was so short of level land that even the railway couldn’t find somewhere to park itself. So, what do you do when you can’t fit the railway station in the town? You simply move the railway station elsewhere.

And so it was that the main station for Hyde was built about 2 km south of the town, on the only suitable piece of flat land available. Giving the station a definite middle-of-nowhere feel, which, when you think about it, seems quite appropriate for New Zealand.

On The Road To Becks

Daily Photo – White Horse Hotel (Former)

I’d arrived at the Blue Lake after leaving State Highway 85 and bouncing along a gravel road for a while before finally reaching the tiny settlement of St Bathans.

After standing in the snow for a bit, I left St Bathans via the Loop Road, heading towards the tiny town of Ophir via Lauder and Omakau. The road took me through the old gold-mining settlement of Cambrian, with banks of snow lying either side of the road and the surrounding hills looking decidedly wintry, before eventually rejoining State Highway 85 at Becks. These days, Becks is little more than a name on the map with a pub, but once upon a time it was an important stopping point on the Cobb & Co coach route between the Dunstan and Maniototo goldfields. With a pub, of course and little else. So maybe Becks hasn’t changed that much after all.

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The Doors of Perception: Infinite

Daily Photo – The Doors of Perception: Infinite

When Jim Morrison and Ray Manzarek formed the band The Doors in 1965, Jim Morrison proposed the name ‘The Doors’ to symbolise breaking through everyday reality into the unknown. However, it wasn’t an entirely original concept. Morrison was blending two of his favourite literary influences, William Blake and Aldous Huxley. In his poem The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake wrote: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” Whereas Aldous Huxley borrowed Blake’s phrase for the title of his famous book about psychedelic experiences, The Doors of Perception.

So, when a name for the band was needed, “The Doors” immediately came to mind. While they weren’t talking about physical doors, but rather how the mind receives, filters and processes reality through the cognitive filters of human consciousness, it’s still fun to wonder what might be beyond the random ones that pop up unexpectedly. In this case, I like to think a Dragon named Droofus but it’s more likely to be a stack of chairs.

Fenceline In The Ida Valley

Daily Photo – Fenceline in the Ida Valley

Driving through the Ida Valley during a recent snow dump, the scenery shifted dramatically. About 15 minutes before reaching Oturehua, the sharp blue sky vanished, dissolving the landscape into a ghostly white.

I took this around 3 pm, but with the temperature hovering at a freezing −5°C, there was no warmth left in the air. The heavy hoar frost and low mist drained every trace of colour and sound, leaving only absolute silence. The icy fence line is the only anchor guiding the eye through the haze, making Central Otago feel less like home and more like the edge of the world.

Stone Cottage in The Snow at Blackstone

Daily Photo – Snow at Blackstone Hill

While exploring part of Central Otago during a recent snow dump, I passed this well-known cottage. On this occasion, the snow was piled high, creating what was almost a wall of snow on either side of the road. In a previous life, I believe this place was a general store and post office, meaning it would have been quite the community hub before people moved on and it spent many years as just another dilapidated building.

Rural Intersection At Dusk

Daily Photo – Main Street & Gimmerburn-Waipiata Road at dusk

With a few days free and a recent snowstorm having left much of Central Otago looking beautifully white, I headed off in search of snow photos. The plan was simple enough: drive until I found something interesting, stop far too often, and hope the weather cooperated. So, naturally, the first photo I post from the trip is a non-snow photo.

After spending the day criss-crossing the Maniototo, stopping whenever the light caught my eye, the landscape demanded another look or the snow got really interesting,  I eventually rolled into the tiny settlement of Waipiata. I found my accommodation, dumped my bags in my room, and immediately headed back outside. It had been a long day in the car and I needed to be outdoors for a bit. As dusk settled across the wide-open landscape, the last of the daylight softened the empty streets and surrounding hills, giving the little settlement the sort of quiet charm that only seems to appear at the end of the day.

The Magnificent Clutha River in Autumn

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.

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Still Lumbering Along the Gold Trail in Central Otago. 

Daily Photo – Lake Dunstan from the Clutha River Lookout

I was heading for Lake Pukaki via Cromwell and the Lindis Pass when I came across Lake Dunstan. It was a mix of dry, barren rock covered hills and lines of trees along the shore in the throws of autumn colour. The contrast really was quite lovely and all along the lake there were inlets and bays where people could launch boats, swim and picnic. Just before arriving at the town of Cromwell, I called in to one of these rest areas to take in the view. It also gave me a chance to read about two fellows from local history named Horatio Hartley and Christopher Reilly. Both seeming to have a restless spirit, the pair met on the California goldfields and by the time they landed in New Zealand, the gold rush party was well underway. Gabriel Read had kicked off the rush in the Tuapeka a year earlier, and while the rest of the world was frantically scrambling over worked claims, Hartley and Reilly were drifting quietly, almost invisibly, up the Clutha River.

As time ticked on, they pushed further into the hinterland, looking for something the others had missed, and It wasn’t until they hit a stretch of the Clutha River that their luck changed.  A brutal, bitter winter had dropped the Clutha River to levels rarely seen. It exposed the black sand, the shingle bars, and deep, rocky clefts where the gold liked to hide. Working quickly, while the rest of Otago were moaning about the “end of the gold era,” Hartley and Reilly were washing six ounces a day (about NZ$14,000 per day) out of the river. They kept it quiet of course. You don’t find a fortune and immediately go shouting about it. Eventually discovered by a prospector with the same idea, stories began to spread of the search for gold up the Clutha River.  

A few days later, the door to the Chief Gold Receiver’s office in Dunedin swung open and two dusty miners strode in and dumped 1,000 ounces of gold on his desk. For a reward of £2,000, they’d reveal the location and on September 23, 1862, the Dunstan goldfield was officially proclaimed, triggering an avalanche mayhem! Suddenly, names like Cardrona, Arrow, Whakatipu, Shotover, and St. Bathans were on everyone’s lips.

As for Hartley and Reilly, neither stayed to see the chaos they’d unleashed, they quietly drifted into the pages of history.

Autumn in Central Otago

Daily Photo – Autumn in Central Otago

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.

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Toward the Hawkdun Range

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.

Gravel, Wind, and the Hawkduns

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.

Driving Through Clyde

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Daily Photo – Driving Through Clyde

I’d spent several days in Central Otago, in and around the Kawarau Gorge area, and on the way home, on a whim, I called in at the Clyde Dam lookout. It was at that point that I spotted this view of the Clutha River winding its way under the Clyde Bridge with the stark, barren hillside beyond the far away town of Alexandra only adding to the and a sense of emptiness and seclusion that is such a feature of  this area of the country. Fortunately, I had plenty of time on my hands, so I detoured down into the town of Clyde and had a lovely wander around for half an hour or so in the afternoon sun. 

The Solitude of Central Otago

Daily Photo – The solitude of Central Otago

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.

The Road Home

Daily Photo – The Road Home

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.

The Lindis Pass

The Linid Pass in Summer

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

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

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

Gee’s Flat in the Kawarau Gorge

Kawarau River in the Kawarau Gorge

Tucked away in Otago’s history is the short-lived mining settlement of Gee’s Flat. It emerged during the height of the Otago Gold Rush as miners pushed into the rugged Kawarau Gorge, searching for new riches. By 1862, nearly 100 prospectors had set up camp here, battling the harsh terrain in hopes of striking gold. But mining at Gee’s Flat was no easy task. Water supply was unreliable, with miners depending on nearby creeks or the river itself fir a steady water supply. This was relatively easy when the river level was low, however when the river swelled, the dangers became all too real—flooding was common, and drowning became a consequence of life on goldfields near rivers.

The Bullock Track Walkway

Bullock Track Walkway

Leaving the town of Clyde, then Roxburgh, the drive to Beaumont and later Lawrence was uneventful. Having caught-up on all my podcasts and not feeling in the mood for music, I filled the time by making a list of random places and things in the area that I might like to visit.

By the time I reached the Beaumont Bridge, my list included:

Walk the Bullock Track Walkway.
Find that random shed in the Tiviot Valley I spotted.
Walk up to the Alexandra Clock. 
Visit the Gorge Creek Memorial.
Explore Conroy’s Dam.
Walk the Old Reservoir Trail.
Walk up to Flattop Hill above Butchers Dam. 
Visit the ‘Somebodies Darling’ grave near Millers Flat.
Visit the Fairlight Train Station. 
Find the Horseshoe Bend Bridge

Now, you might think that visiting the Jimmy’s Pie Shop in Roxburgh should be on the list, however it doesn’t qualify. Firstly, it’s far too obvious and not obscure or random enough and secondly, whenever I drive past, I stop off anyway.

A Walk In Clyde

The Lord of Clyde in Clyde

The town, while small, was surprisingly quiet. I hadn’t expected there to be the large crowds that filled the town in early January when summer is at its peak; however I thought it would be busier than it was. After a leisurely amble up and down the main street, I deduced it might be an in-between period of summer when all the locals have gone back to work, while those still in holiday mode are away at more exotic locations like Queenstown, Taupo, or Rotorua. Over the years, Clyde has developed from a sleepy little town filled with construction workers who were working on the nearby dam to a popular holiday spot that swells on weekends as people escape the city rush to pack the tiny town for a few days before heading back to work on Monday. 

I stayed in the town once during one of its more ‘busy’ periods. The summer evening was long and warm. It was really rather pleasant. In the evening, it took forever to find a free table at any of the various eating establishments and even longer to order food, which was very nice, once it arrived. Therein lies the problem with many of the more popular small towns in New Zealand: they become so attractive that they simply don’t have the infrastructure to handle the large crowds they attract. 

On this occasion, the town was bathed in warm summer sun. It was quiet, meaning the streets were free to stroll around and enjoy all the lovely offerings Clyde had on display.

The Clyde Dam

The Clyde Dam

With plenty of time left in the day, I stopped at the Clyde Dam lookout. When the dam was completed in 1993, it created Lake Dunstan and proudly holds the title of the country’s largest concrete gravity dam. It stands 102 meters tall, with a base width of 70 meters and a crest length of 490 meters. All of which is fairly small by international dam standards when compared against the Tarbela Dam in Pakistan or the Fort Peck Dam in the United States. But, it is the biggest in New Zealand, and that means something. 

The dam was constructed between 1982 and 1993 to reduce the country’s reliance on imported oil and to fuel industry, but it wasn’t without controversy. The decision to build the dam prompted vehement opposition, a court case, and even required an act of Parliament to get the project across the line. 

All of which means we have a giant dam that produces lots of lovely electricity and a wonderful big lake for swimming, fishing, and boating. But  there are some of us who would prefer to have the old Cromwell Gorge back, with its historic huts and plentiful fruit orchards. I thought about all this as I looked out across the dam. Then, deciding I was probably in the minority I got back in my car and headed down the hill into the nearby town of Clyde.

Lake Dunstan & The Cromwell Gorge

Jackson’s Inlet at Lake Dunstan

I left Queenstown Airport and spent the next 50 minutes driving to the town of Cromwell. I passed through the Gibbston Valley and the Kawaru Gorge and before arriving at the small, bustling town of Cromwell that was filled with people and bathed in bright sunshine on the shores of Lake Dunstan. Stopping for petrol and a bite to eat, a short time later I rejoined State Highway 8 and crossed the Cromwell bridge, now having the lake for company out of the right hand window. I rounded a bend and was greeted by a serene view of the lake. The lake looked warm, placid and tranquil as the summer sun took over the surrounding hills that once formed the Cromwell Gorge. Not being able to resist, I called in to an inlet for a closer look.

Lake Dunstan & The Cromwell Gorge

Lake Dunstan in autumn

Whenever I’m driving past Lake Dunstan I can never decide whether I actually like it. You see, when the lake was made after the Clyde Dam was completed in 1992, it flooded the spectacular Cromwell Gorge, taking with it many historical important settlements that’ll never be seen again. If you never saw the gorge, you have no reason to miss it, however if you remember the famous gorge, you’ll know how wonderful it was. 

It had dramatic cathedral-like rock formations on either side of the Clutha River that dropped dramatically to the river far below. The road, which connected Cromwell to Clyde and Alexandra twisted and turned through the valley, passing historic gold-mining locations that linked to the every origins of European settlement in the area with orchards of every description lining the river banks. Now, in its place is a stunning lake with mountain views and small inlets scattered along the shoreline, making it a popular spot for recreational activities like boating, fishing, and cycling along the shoreline trails. 

I pondered all of this while driving through the gorge. It was a crisp autumn day. I’d left the town of Cromwell and after several minutes I found myself driving past where the gorge had once been, stuck behind a campervan. Do I ever hate campervans! They take up entire lanes on the road, they constantly sway from side to side, they’re slow and they spoil the view. Plus, they always seem to be either lost or unsettlingly disoriented. I can’t tell you how much I loathe campervans!! On this occasion, I just happened to be following two of them, going slower than a snail suffering from a bad case of arthritis. Groups of geriatric’s with walkers could have passed us! So, I pulled into one of the rest areas by the lake to wait several weeks until they were far ahead of me. 

It was mid-morning and there was a cool crispness to the morning air as autumn leaves lined the shoreline. Across on the distant shore, the rocky hillside glistened in the morning sun. It was all very still and tranquil, yet I still missed the old gorge!

Olivers – The Benjamin Naylor Story

Olivers in Clyde

Speaking of gold, Clyde is another place that quickly went from being a tranquil, sleepy hollow beside a river, to a boomtown overrun with gold hungry miners. When gold was discovered in the gorge beyond where the town of Clyde now lies, chaos ensued. Within a year, in the vicinity of fifteen to twenty thousand miners were clambering along the banks of the river and surrounding gullies, seeking a fortune in gold. 

So it was that Clyde (then known as ‘The Dunstan’) became a confusion of shanties as calico tents and scantling huts shot up everywhere. Amidst the mayhem of the new town, as thousands of kilograms of gold was drawn out of the once quiet gullies, one new arrival at The Dunstan was Benjamin Naylor. Having been based in Gabriel’s Gully near Lawrence, he arrived with a wagon-load of supplies in 1862 once news of the gold discovery spread across the young province.  Affectionately known as ‘Old Ben,’ the merchant and farmer set up a tent store selling produce from his farm in the Manuherikia Valley to the grizzled, fortune seeker prospectors hoping to strike it rich.

The Clutha River at Roxburgh

The Clutha River at Roxburgh

Usually when I stop in the town of Roxburgh, it’s for one of two reasons: to grab a pie from the famous ‘Jimmy’s Pies’ shop or to stock up on fresh, seasonal fruit from one of the orchards. On this occasion, unfortunately the pie shop was closed, and I already had plenty of fruit. So, my plan was to drive straight through without stopping. That idea quickly changed as I rolled through the town. On a last-minute impulse, I decided to take a detour through an even smaller settlement called Millers Flat. I had no real reason, but it was nearby. As long as I crossed the river!