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 – Otago Harbour from Broad Bay Cemetery
When I set out in the morning it hadn’t been my intention to end up standing on the point in Broad Bay Cemetery taking a nine-photo panorama of Otago Harbour, but there you are. Earlier in the day, a friend of mine had said that he was ‘heading down the peninsula to run a few errands’ and asked if I wanted to be dropped off somewhere for a walk around, then collected a few hours later on the return journey. With no particular plans on a warm, still autumn afternoon, I happily agreed.
It wasn’t until we were well underway and I was asked ‘where I wanted to be dropped off’ that I suddenly realised I had no idea. So, we agreed that the Broad Bay Boat Club was as good a place as any and, as I watched the vehicle disappear down the road and around the bend, I set off on my wander.
I was in Bluff, mainly because it wasn’t Invercargill. I have nothing against Invercargill per se, it’s just that Bluff had the things I wanted to see, namely a lighthouse (which is actually more of a beacon station), a sign that points in twelve different directions, and a food caravan that had been highly recommended. It also used to be the home of the famous Paua Shell House, owned by Fred and Myrtle Flutey until it was acquired by Canterbury Museum and shifted to Christchurch. Besides, it had been many years since I’d visited the town of Bluff and I fancied a poke around.
When I arrived, to say the weather was atrocious really wasn’t giving it enough credit. It was, not to make too fine a point of it, appalling. When I’d started out from home that morning it had been spritzing a little, nothing too dramatic. Now, some three hours later, having finally arrived, it was quite simply bitter.
I parked my car, fought a bracing gale to stand underneath the famous twelve-point sign, and marvelled at the fact that I knew I was 15,008 kilometres from New York City, 1,680 kilometres from Hobart, 9,567 kilometres from Tokyo and 1,401 kilometres from Cape Reinga all at the same time. I turned, gazed out to sea, adjusted my sight over the horizon, and let the wind blow through my hair for a bit before returning to my car and heading for the food truck I’d passed on the way through for a spot of lunch. There, I ordered a healthy feast of fish and chips and, while I waited, studied the old abandoned building that sat across the road.
Daily Photo – Strath Taieri Railway line towards Pukerangi
I was finding my way to Middlemarch, a town approximately 80 kilometres northwest of Dunedin. Along the way, I was tempted to detour onto one of the many sideroads that break off from State Highway 87, where the sealed surface gives way to gravel that crunches under the tyres and twists its way past the dry, tussock and rock-covered hills surrounding the Strath Taieri. Before long, curiosity got the better of me and I turned down one, eventually coming across the railway line that was once a crucial connection between Dunedin and the Otago goldfields. But the thing is, it was lucky the thing got built at all.
Thanks to inconsistent government funding and the wonderfully flawed Co-operative building system, it took a staggering 12 years to complete the 64 kilometres of track. The 1891 brainchild of Richard Seddon, the Co-operative System was a government-led employment scheme that bypassed private contractors and hired gangs of workers directly, prioritising relief for unemployment over the speed or cost-effectiveness of construction. In short, it was less about building a railway quickly and more about making sure people had work.
Of course, while it was being built, there never seemed to be a shortage of disasters along the way. One particularly difficult stop, not far from Middlemarch, was Pukerangi, originally known as Barewood. It was a notoriously windswept and exposed place that lacked access to fresh water. So while the workers struggled to construct massive stone viaducts, water often had to be hauled in by horse and cart or locomotive simply so they could survive the summer heat. And when they were not suffering through the heat, their accommodation huts were in danger of being blown off the ridgelines because somebody had decided it was a good idea to camp on the most exposed parts of the plateau.
Then there was the decision to allow trains and horse-drawn wagons to share the same narrow route, which naturally led to terrifying encounters for local farmers who suddenly found a train bearing down on them while crossing a bridge. To top things off, on one section engineers insisted on cutting the track directly into sheer rock faces rather than tunnelling, leaving parts of the line suspended precariously above the Taieri River and resulting in 300 metres of track taking two years to complete.
If anything, it is a wonder the railway ever reached Middlemarch at all. Yet despite all the chaos, the quality of the workmanship was so exceptional that much of it remains in near-perfect condition today, even if the line itself now ends abruptly at the Middlemarch station, where the steel rails give way to the Otago Central Rail Trail.
Every so often it’s possible to come across a strange, slightly unexpected bit of historical awkwardness, and Takamatua Bay is one of them. Originally known as German Bay, it was a by-product of early colonial ambition and something we can thank the French for.
Back in the 1840s, the French became enthusiastic about colonising the South Island, and their sights were fixed on Banks Peninsula and a port called Akaroa. A French company had grand plans to establish a proper French settlement and, to make it viable, they needed people – anyone willing to risk sailing to the far side of the world and starting again. At the time, Germany was a politically unstable patchwork of small states where people were facing economic hardship. So, when the chance came to emigrate to Banks Peninsula, a few German families happily signed on.
When they reached Akaroa Harbour, land was allocated around the bays, and the German colonists settled in small numbers, farming, fishing, and setting about carving out a living on steep, bush-covered land that looked out over what became known as German Bay. In those dusty, pre-war years, the locals were perfectly content with the name, a nod to the handful of Teutonic families who had settled there and were, by all accounts, quite well behaved. It was a sensible, if unimaginative name that served everyone well until 1914, when the world decided to go collectively mad.
Suddenly, having a “German” anything in the neighbourhood was about as socially desirable as a case of the mumps. By 1916, gripped by a sudden (and conveniently timed) burst of patriotic fervour, the authorities decided that the name had to go. In a fit of enthusiasm, they quietly dusted off the original name, Takamatua Bay. It was a classic piece of historical rebranding while Europe’s map was being redrawn in blood and mud on the battlefields of the First World War.
Daily Photo – The Gaulter & Sons Grain Store in Temuka
Just how the Gaulter & Sons Grain Store in Temuka didn’t burn to the ground in October 1901 is anyone’s guess. Considering a nearby fire destroyed most of the surrounding buildings but the grain store, is quite remarkable. It’s a bit eerie when you think about a timber structure, filled with dry grain dust and filled with flammable machinery, the places should have gone up like a box of matches!
Originally built in the autumn of 1889 to provide storage and ease of access to the railway yards across the street, it’s a classic piece of “Kiwiana” and agricultural history that remains standing to this very day. The 1901 fire was discovered around 10:30pm on a quiet Tuesday night in a group of wooden buildings and spread quickly! It destroyed offices, storefronts, the retail portion of the site was heavily damaged and the loss of stock was significant. Yet the grain store survived and remained what it had always been: a busy, noisy, slightly chaotic place, with wagons coming and going, grain spilling, deals being struck, and, occasionally, people sleeping among the sacks.
I hadn’t planned to come back, not really, but for some reason I did. So I returned, without much thought, and found myself looking over the ocean in the early honest hours of the morning. The beach, like the surrounding businesses, was quiet, the tide easing in and out with a kind of patience that makes everything else feel hurried in comparison. The sky stretched wide, layered in deep blues and purples, with thin ribbons of orange gathering near the horizon. The first hint of sun, not yet committed, but close. The shoreline held the sky, soft and shifting, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of water. Further along into the distance, small lights began to appear in windows. Nothing dramatic, just the quiet signs of a day beginning somewhere beyond the edge of the sea. I stayed for a while, not thinking about much at all.
By early evening the Esplanade at St Clair Beach had begun that quiet transformation it does so well. The last of the daylight lingered out over the water, a soft wash of gold fading into blue, while the first hints of night settled gently over the hills. Out to sea, the horizon blurred, as if the day was reluctant to let go.
Nearby, the restaurants were coming to life. Doors opened and closed in a steady rhythm, voices carried out onto the pavement, and the clink of cutlery and glass drifted through the salt air. There was a warmth to it, an easy hum of people arriving, meeting, settling in. You could sense the shift from daytime wandering to evening ritual.
I stayed out by the railing a little longer than I needed to. The tide rolled in with that familiar, steady patience, each wave folding over itself like it had done a thousand times before and would do a thousand times again. It felt like the kind of moment you do not interrupt. Just stand still, take it in, and let the night arrive in its own time.
The first thing that strikes you out here is the space. Not just the size of it, though there is plenty of that, but the quiet way it stretches out in every direction. A soft, rolling sea of green, rippling in the breeze, with the old slaughter shed sitting in the middle of it all as if it has simply grown there over time.
It is easy to forget the urgency that once defined this place. These paddocks, so calm and almost leisurely now, were once part of a tightly run operation where timing mattered and delays cost money. Livestock moved through here in their thousands, the rhythm of the farm dictated by rail schedules and distant markets on the other side of the world. Today, there is only the low murmur of the wind working away in the grass.
The shed itself feels modest against the scale of the land. Weathered timber, a practical design, built for function rather than flair. And yet it carries a certain weight. This was not a place of comfort or charm, but of hard, necessary work, where speed and efficiency mattered more than anything else.
I found myself lingering longer than expected, not drawn to any one feature but to the feeling of the place as a whole. It has a stillness that invites you to slow down, to look a little closer, and to imagine what it must have been like when all of this was in motion.
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 – Navigating Te Komititanga Square in the Rain
To escape the heavy rain, I’d been at the New Zealand Maritime Museum in Auckland, located adjacent to the Viaduct Basin, and I was now heading back to my hotel. As the rain continued to fall, I came across Te Komititanga square where, among other things, stands the grand and ornate former Chief Post Office.
The building operates as a train station servicing the greater Auckland area, but it began life as one of the most important buildings in the country when it was officially opened in 1912 by then Prime Minister William Massey in front of a crowd of 8,000–10,000 people. The fact that it was located next to the harbour ferries, railway station, tram terminus, and commercial wharves shows just how important the postal service was at that time.
I’d read that it was recently transformed to service part of the Auckland train network; inside, you can see the original century-old stained-glass domes along with a massive 14-metre-long hand-blown glass chandelier that hangs in the main space, which really is quite impressive. The area immediately outside the building has been turned into a large pedestrian plaza that acts as a connection to the city, as people come and go from the station and head into the city and surrounding business and shopping areas or link up with the ferry terminals at the nearby wharves.
It also acts as a spot where you can take photos while standing in the rain, getting odd looks from people as you get extremely wet and then re-orient yourself to work out in what direction your hotel might be!
For those of you who like precise detail, this photo was taken at 7:09am on a Thursday morning with my iPhone. If you’re after something a bit more historical, I can tell you it was taken from the very spot where a helipad sits, which used to be the location of a hovercraft that ran tours of Otago Harbour. Go back a further and you’ll find a ferry passing not too far from this exact point. Finally, if you were hoping for something a bit more poetic, I’ll leave you with Dylan Thomas: “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower.”
As I dived further into the unknown and further away from my area of expertise, I tried to stay ahead of a large gaggle of ladies at the Melbourne Diva exhibition. Before I stepped out of the building and back into a familiar world, the last display was this one and thanks to the information card I can tell you all about it.
In 2007, at age 70, Dame Shirley Bassey played a 45-minute set at the Glastonbury Festival in Britain, wearing this pink dress designed by Julien Macdonald and diamanté wellingtons as she performed some of her classic hits.
Daily Photo – Sky Reflection along the Silver Stream
It was one of those quiet, midweek afternoons with nothing much out of the ordinary happening, and I found myself near the Silver Stream River, which flows close to the suburb, or town, of Mosgiel. I parked the car and set off along a path that followed the river with an easy sort of confidence. In the still of the afternoon, the sky reflected in the river as it gently ambled past lush paddocks, farm machinery, and the Maungatua Range in the distance.
Now and then I’d cross paths with another person out for a wander, and we’d swap a “hello” before continuing on our separate ways. Aside from that, it was just me and the quiet, taking it all in. I kept moving, occasionally stopping for a closer look at something that caught my eye, or for the odd short conversation along the way. It was an unhurried sort of stroll, the kind that doesn’t demand much from you at all. In time, though, the daylight started to slip away, and I figured it was probably wise to turn around and work my way back to the car.
I ended up at Nicols Creek Waterfall without much of a plan, which is usually how these things happen. The track felt longer and steeper than expected, damp underfoot and just uneven enough to keep you paying attention. When the waterfall finally showed itself, it was a narrow ribbon dropping through thick green bush. Everything around it felt dense and slightly overgrown, like it had been left alone for a while. I stood there for a bit, listening to the water more than looking at it, thinking it was quietly better than the walk in had suggested.
I wandered down to St Clair Salt Water Pool one morning, though I couldn’t tell you which one. It was early enough that no one else, bar the very committed, had bothered yet, aside from a few seagulls who looked far more settled than I was. The light came in low and sideways, catching the railings and making the whole place feel more deliberate than it probably is on a normal day. The sea rolled in gently while the light slowly crept across the water. I stood there longer than expected, thinking it was better than it had any real right to be.
Daily Photo – Dress, coat and mitre worn by Rihanna for the Met Gala, 2018
I’d spent the morning riding free trams and trains across the city of Melbourne and on more than one occasion I’d seen a poster advertising something called the ‘Diva Exhibition’. Not at all sure what it was, I’d discovered through a bit of research that it was a collection of famous dresses and costumes worn by some of the most famous women in the world from throughout history – accompanied with photos and information from their performances. Well, all I can say is that curiosity got the better of me and thinking it might give me an opportunity to play with a few new settings I’d recently discovered on my iPhone camera, I decided to take a look.
Knowing this wasn’t my usual area of expertise, I nervously shuffled in behind a gaggle of ladies and spent the next 45 minutes making my way through a series of darkened rooms feeling quite bewildered. There were names I recognised, like Olivia Newton-John, (featuring a custom-made, rhinestone-clad biker jacket for her “Summer Nights” Las Vegas residency,) and Kylie Minogue, (with the bright red outfit from her Padam Padam video with a skin-tight bodysuit, a flowing cape, and thigh-high boots.) all of which I really didn’t know anything about.
The deeper I went, the more elaborate things became. There were pieces worn by Marilyn Monroe, Shirley Bassey, and Elton John. The names kept coming, from Maria Callas, Judy Garland, Cher and Lady Gaga through to Rihanna, Beyoncé, and Billie Eilish. Without knowing who wore what or why it mattered, I wandered around waiting for large groups of ladies to finish standing in elaborate poses next to each garment before I could read the extremely helpful information boards, which without, I would have been quite lost. For example, without them, I couldn’t tell you that the outfit worn by Rihanna at the 2018 Met Gala was designed by John Galliano for Maison Margiela. It featured layers of fabric, metal, and crystals, all put together with a level of precision and expertise that really was quite startling. What struck me most, beyond the incredibly thin waistlines some of these ladies had, was that I’d never once thought about the meaning behind these outfits. Walking through the exhibition, it became clear that they’re something else entirely: storytelling, identity and statements.
Later on that evening I was to discover that not only are Rihanna and Beyoncé two different people but the outfit Rihanna wore at the 2018 Met Gala was groundbreaking. It challenged symbols of ancient, masculine power and reinterpreted them through the lens of a modern woman and is considered a defining moment. I then typed into Google “What is the Met Gala?”
If you’re familiar with the geographical make-up of Dunedin city, you can probably afford to skip the next few sentences and skim further down the page. For the uninitiated, Mosgiel is a suburb roughly 15 kilometres from the city centre, a place that sits somewhere between suburban living, retirement homes and a country town. It was here that I found myself on an idle Tuesday evening.
I can’t say I’ve spent much time in Mosgiel, apart from the occasional visit to the rugby ground or a quick stop at the supermarket or takeaway, so I decided to take a stroll along the Silver Stream. It was autumn, and over the previous few days the afternoons had taken on a noticeable chill as the light lingered into the evening – perfect walking weather.
If you’re feeling adventurous, there’s Silver Stream walk that’s classified as “hard”, described as covering rough, uneven ground with partly cleared vegetation, the odd marker to guide the way, and short stretches where the track becomes steep. As I wasn’t evening adventurous, on this occasion, I opted for something far more sedate, a gentle walk along the floodbank on the edge of town. Having identified a likely starting point, I parked the car and set off along a path that followed the river with an easy sort of confidence.
Every so often I passed a fellow walker and we’d exchange a casual “hello”, but otherwise I was left to quietly take in the surroundings. Lush paddocks stretched out on either side, farm machinery sat idle in the distance, and beyond it all rose the outline of the Maungatua Range. I walked on and on, sometimes stopping to look more closely at something, sometimes pausing for a brief chat. It really was a most pleasant sort of walk, the kind that asks very little of you. Eventually, though, the light began to fade and it became time to retrace my steps and remember the way back to the car.
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 arrived at Queenstown Airport realizing I knew neither my flight number nor the address of where I was staying – both of which, I decided, might be useful pieces of information to know.
The growth of Queenstown Airport truly is staggering. Back in 2010, around 250 planes a week arrived and departed, connecting to hubs like Auckland, Christchurch, and Sydney. Now, 16 years later, it handles upwards of 450 flights a week and has become a major gateway for Australian destinations, including Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane, and the Gold Coast. The transformation is immense: the airport went from handling roughly 880,000 passengers in 2010 to over 2.7 million by the start of 2026.
As impressive as those numbers are, the reality is that all those passengers need to go somewhere. More often than not, they head straight into Queenstown expecting a hotel room overlooking Lake Wakatipu, ideally within a short walk of the local bars and restaurants. Consequently, the town has become overpriced, a nightmare to navigate, and nearly impossible for finding a parking spot. Turn up on an idle Saturday afternoon with the intention of having a casual wander and doing a little shopping, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.
I don’t mean to be hard on the place; it’s just that, as a town, it could be so much more. But then, you look up. You catch the sun hitting the Remarkables or the deep turquoise of the lake, and suddenly the traffic and the crowds don’t seem to matter as much. For all its growing pains, the scenery really is quite spectacular.
Daily Photo – Navigating Albert Street in Auckland
In the morning I felt like going somewhere indoors, a museum perhaps, or anything with a roof for that matter. It was still raining, and the drenching I had received the previous day had left me with a limited selection of dry clothing. What I had on felt like an asset worth protecting. I went into the Strand Arcade, tucked between Queen and Elliott Street in central Auckland. It was long and thin, with polished tiled floors, narrow shopfronts pressed close on either side, and a high glass ceiling from which banners and an old-fashioned lift hung. The place carried the feeling of a slightly faded but dignified slice of a bygone era. I ambled around slowly for a while, but with nothing to hold my interest, I headed back out onto Queen Street, which, frankly, was a disappointment.
There was a time when Queen Street was the place to be, the social and commercial spine of the city. If anything was happening, it was happening here. Heavy traffic flowed past crowded footpaths, and the street carried an energy that is now difficult to imagine. These days, the crowds have drifted elsewhere. The pull of the suburbs and their sprawling malls has drawn people away from the city centre, leaving behind stretches of empty pavement, buildings sitting idle, and a place that feels in need of a good spruce-up. Perhaps it was the rain, but there was a sense of something slipping, quietly but steadily, into decline. I kept walking until I reached the Viaduct Basin, and the contrast was immediate. Here, the city felt awake again. There was movement, noise, and a sense of purpose. Cafés and bars hummed with activity, and people hurried along the waterfront in small groups, trying to avoid puddles and the bursts of sea spray whipped up by the wind. I carried on until I found myself outside the Maritime Museum at the Viaduct Basin and decided to take a look. This was not born of any deep passion for sailing, but rather a practical need for shelter. I spent several hours wandering through the exhibits, leaving a faint trail of small puddles wherever I went.
When it came time to leave, I stood in the foyer, watching the rain bounce off the pavement. Just as I was considering my next move, I noticed the café was open, so I decided to linger a while longer, sitting by the window, sipping coffee, and watching the rain strike the glass as if it were being sprayed from a garden hose.
I stood in the museum foyer near the entrance, watching the rain bounce off the pavement and wondered what to do. The wind rocketed off the harbour and swirled between the buildings, driving the rain at odd and unexpected angles. Along the footpaths and streets, it had gathered where the gutters were blocked, forming large puddles that stretched across everything, creating a kind of liquid obstacle course that I was now faced with. Looking out into the damp, windblown murk that hid the city, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t put it off any longer. I zipped up my vest, took a deep breath, stepped out into the watery chaos, then sprinted across the street to the first covered shopfront I could find.
From there, I spotted the next dry patch and made a dash for it, stopping briefly to reassess. I continued this zigzagging pattern up the street for some time, pausing at traffic lights where heavy traffic sped through puddles, sending sheets of water onto the footpath, right where I stood.
After several minutes of this, I came to a large, busy intersection. On the opposite corner, diagonally across from me, stood St Matthew’s Church, which just happened to be open. I dashed across and ducked inside, not for any religious purpose, but simply because it was open, it was free, and it gave me a chance to dry off before continuing my slow assault up the street.
Daily Photo – The Impressive Colours of Lake Tekapo
Here’s a statistic for you: Lake Tekapo is roughly 83 square kilometres in size. I know this because I read it. Although I can’t remember where. While I was checking to see if this was correct, I also discovered that it sits at an elevation of approximately 710 metres above sea level and reaches a depth of close to 120 metres. Although that is not what it is most famous for, its most legendary feature is the famous turquoise-blue water. This is thanks to the nearby Southern Alps.
When summer hits, the meltwater flows into the lake, carrying with it billions of particles of this glacial flour. Along the way, these particles remain suspended in the water until it reaches the lake. Then physics takes over. These suspended particles absorb the drab, boring, sensible colours of the spectrum and scatter colourful blues and greens with great neon enthusiasm. The result is a body of water that looks less like a natural feature and more like someone has accidentally emptied several thousand gallons of Gatorade into a mountain basin. It is a shade of turquoise so vivid and startling that your brain almost refuses to accept it as a legitimate colour of nature.
Nature of course is always subject to change, and this scientific process is entirely dependent on the season. In summer, when the glaciers are feeling particularly productive, the lake’s colourful display is more intense. When the mountain runoff slows in winter to a trickle, the water clears into a more traditional blue.
All of this is rather clever really. It’s the sort of grand geological overachievement that makes you feel deeply impressed that nature has found a way to make a physics lesson look so much like a postcard.
If there’s one thing to be said for modern buildings, it’s that they are incredibly interesting to photograph. You can always find an odd angle or a strange arrangement of glass or tiles that sticks out in an altogether unexpected way and gives your photo a bit of intrigue.
I mention this because one of the newer buildings in Dunedin is done in a style I like to call pointy and angular, and it’s a perfect example of what happens when architects are given a ruler, a lot of money, and a lot of confidence.
I stood across the street for a moment, trying to make sense of it. From one angle it looked sharp and deliberate. From another, it felt like it couldn’t quite agree with itself. The light didn’t help much either. It caught one edge, missed another, and reflected everything except what I was actually trying to photograph. Still, I took a few photos. Modern buildings, if nothing else, always give you something to work with, even if you’re not entirely sure what that something is.
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.
error: This content is protected by copyright. If you wish to use an image you are required to make a purchase through the galleries.
