#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Fortrose, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Fortrose

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Set yourself up in Dunedin, and you’ve got the perfect launchpad. From here, the road leads to all sorts of places – unique, surprising, and sometimes downright breathtaking. Take a day trip if or linger a little longer and stay the night. With so many locations to choose from, these spots are a great starting point and have a way of rewarding anyone who takes the time. 📸 🚗

Moeraki Village – stop and get some of the best fish n chips around.
The Pigroot – experience the wonder of this other worldly landscape.
The Maniototo – enjoy the wide open spaces and big skies.
Sutton Salt Lake – wander around a completely unique and surreal lake.
The Catlins – there are so many great walks to choose from.

Which would you visit first? 🤔

Daily Photo – Fortrose

Fortrose feels like the sort of place you stumble upon rather than arrive at. I came in from Tokanui, the road rolling gently down to where the Mataura River opens into the sea, and paused at what is proudly billed as the southern gateway to the Catlins Coastal Route. It’s a peaceful spot now, but you only need to scratch the surface to find echoes of a much busier past.

From 1834, whalers set up camp here, their station short-lived but the beginning of Fortrose’s European story. Later came sawmills, blacksmiths, and the shipping trade, the little township booming around its 200-foot jetty. At the turn of the 20th century, Fortrose was buzzing with trade, schools, and churches. Then progress, as it often does, took a sideways swipe: the railway bypassed the town in 1911, the sea lane choked with sand, and traffic drifted to larger centres. Time weathered the buildings, and Fortrose shrank into quietness.

There are reminders if you look – a memorial to the locals lost in two world wars, the wide mouth of the Mataura itself, and the sense of a place that once mattered greatly. I left heading toward Mokotua.

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Lake Waihola, Waihola

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Daily Photo – Lake Waihola, Waihola

The risk of success and failure in business ventures across Otago in the late 19th Century aren’t better illustrated than in the tale of Mr John Harris and the so-called the Clarendon project. 

Born in Deddington, England, into an aristocratic family, John Harris seemed to have always had high ambitions – after all, he could trace his lineage back to the first Earl of Clarendon. So, it’s hardly surprising that he trained in law before emigrating to Otago, where he arrived in Port Chalmers in 1850. Within a few years, he had married the daughter of one of Dunedin’s founding fathers, Captain William Cargill, and went on to hold numerous high-profile public roles. He served on the Dunedin Town Board, was elected Otago Superintendent, became captain of the Otago Light Horse Volunteers, presided over the 1865 Dunedin Exhibition, and was a University of Otago councillor. If that wasn’t enough to fulfill his illustrious pedigree, he was also considered one of Dunedin’s merchant elite and invested heavily in land – including near the town (and lake) of Waihola in what became known as the Clarendon project. 

With illustrious dreams of wealth, honour and prestige, Harris purchased a large block of land at the head of Lake Waihola, subdividing it into sections that went on sale. The idea being that the town would be called Clarendon, people would snap-up the sections, he would make a substantial profit and at the same time impress the Dunedin elite. Unfortunately for Harris, he got it disastrously wrong. The sections didn’t sell, and he lost staggering £28,000 on the deal. He was declared bankrupt and imprisoned 1885 for debts owed. He died a year later, his estate was worth just a mere £100.

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Waipiata-Kyeburn Road, Kyeburn

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Daily Photo – Waipiata-Kyeburn Road, Kyeburn

To call Kyeburn a settlement is stretching things a little. Technically true, geographically accurate, but a touch misleading. Look it up on the map and you’ll find it tucked along State Highway 85 in Central Otago. But drive through, and you quickly realise it’s more an idea than a town. You pass a lone house here, a weathered cemetery there, the occasional gravel driveway leading past the crumbling remains of long-abandoned buildings. And then, just when you think the land is empty, the Central Otago Rail Trail threads its way across the Maniototo – a reminder that people do, in fact, come this way, though maybe not in droves.

But that’s the delightful thing about Central Otago, and in particular the Maniototo region: it’s the lack of anything at all that makes it so wonderful. You don’t arrive in places like Lauder, Becks, Waipiata, Ranfurly, Wedderburn, or Kyeburn and immediately start looking for a Westfield Mall to get your nails done or replace your phone battery. Instead, you slow down, breathe in the crisp air, watch the light shift across the tussock, and let the quiet, wide-open spaces do their work. Kyeburn is the kind of place where you spot a track and think, “Now I wonder what’s down there,” and off you go with little more than a jersey, sturdy footwear, and an inquisitive mindset – and that’s exactly what I did.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Waipiata, Wild Horses

Factory Road, Waipiata

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Daily Photo – Factory Road, Waipiata

Located approximately 220 kilometers northeast of Winton, in the heart of Central Otago is the town of Waipiata. Just like in Winton, the railways played an important part here too. But while sheep and cattle were the main animals shipped by rail through Winton, in Waipiata it was a different kind of animal that became the primary export: rabbits. Or, to be more precise, hundreds of thousands of tinned and processed rabbits.

The wide open plans of the Maniototo isn’t a native home for rabbits, but when they were introduced to it in the 1860s by European settlers, they found they liked it very much. So much  in fact that the dry tussock country proved an ideal habitat, and with no natural predators their numbers exploded. Within a decade they went from being a useful food source to becoming one of Otago’s worst pests. 

When the residents realised what they had done, measures were taken to control the irritant. Rabbit-proof fencing was built, poisoning was introduced, and the government passed the Rabbit Nuisance Act (1876), forcing landowners to control rabbits on their property. None of which really worked. Then, enter into the developing crises the McAdams Rabbit Factory. They took advantage of the freely available pest and began skinning the things for their pelts, and producing canned and frozen meat for export. So successful was the enterprise that a large factory was established in Waipiata to take advantage of the nearby railway. Within ten years the factory employed around 60 men and handled up to 10,000 rabbits a day. 

So, thanks to the McAdams Rabbit Factory the little town of Waipiata throbbed with the noise, smell and steady industry of rabbits and the whole community got involved. All over the countryside, rabbits were trapped, gutted where they fell, and strung like bunting along wire fences waiting for a lorry from the factory to come clattering by to collect them. Once the trucks rolled up to Waipiata, the carcasses were weighed, sorted and inspected. Diseased or spoiled animals were biffed aside, the rest carried on inside where workers with sleeves rolled and knives sharp, set about the grim business of first skinning the rabbits for pelts (which it seems were worth more than the meat, bound for the hat-makers of Britain who turned New Zealand rabbits into fashionable headwear). After that, the meat would be cut down – either frozen in bulk or stewed, spiced and sealed into tins for export to places like Britain where canned rabbit was a working-class staple, cheap and plentiful. 

Even the scraps weren’t wasted. Fat and offal were boiled into tallow and stock food. Blood and bones ended up as fertilizer. This was real nose to tail cooking. The finished products were then taken to the railway wagons at the nearby station, ready to take bundles of dried pelts, crates of canned stew and frozen carcasses down to Dunedin and out into the world. For a few decades, it really was an economy run on rabbits, and everyone benefitted. Then, as the great depression hit and markets slumped in the 1930s, the factory closed, leaving only its buildings and a faint whiff of memory behind.

Having spent the night in the charming town of Waipiata, I’d gone to bed reading about the efficient operation of the once nearby factory. The next morning, standing in the frosty air, my toes curled against the cold rising from the ground, I tried to imagine the dawn-to-dusk hum of industry, or the smell that must have hung over the town in the heat of late summer, attracting thousands of flies. It was hard to picture – the town seemed so peaceful, still, and sedate.

When I was younger, visiting places like this always puzzled me. My nine-year-old self couldn’t fathom why anyone would live here. There was no Pizza Hut, movie theatre, or swimming pool. No playground, BMX track, or local sports team to follow. No shops selling ice creams or lollies. Not much of anything really. Yet forty years later, standing in a frozen field, hoping my car had defrosted, I found I could have easily stayed a few more days. I’d wander on longer walks, sit and read, photograph the surrounding scenery, and get to know the locals over a beer. I could even check whether rabbit was on the menu – “Oh bother,” I muttered to myself, realizing I’d forgotten to check. Oh well. I’d do that next time. There would be a next time, that much I was certain of.

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses, Winton

Great North Road, Winton

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Daily Photo – Great North Road, Winton

The last time I was in Winton, I arrived late in the afternoon. I found my accommodation, had a couple of beers, was declined as a solo-entry to a team quiz night, had tea and slept reasonably well, In the morning I checked-out, went for a walk and headed for the town of Limehills.

The funny thing about Winton is that while State Highway 6 runs directly through the middle of town, the west side is packed in with shops, houses, and all the busy stuff, while the east side looks like it started with good intentions, put up a few shops, and then quietly gave up. At first glance it feels like an odd way to arrange a town, but really it all comes down to the trains.

Back when the railways were snaking their way across Otago and Southland, Winton found itself sitting neatly at a junction. People, freight, stock, and opportunity rattled in and out of town on a daily basis. The railway was Winton’s beating heart, and right alongside the tracks sprang up the shops, banks, pubs, and services that gave the place its sense of being a proper wee hub. For a while, it worked brilliantly.

The trouble with railways, of course, is that once they stop being useful, they have a habit of disappearing altogether. The trains slowed, then stopped, the tracks were ripped up, and the land became something else entirely. What remains is this slightly lopsided arrangement: the west side bustling and snug, the east side stretched into parks, gardens, memorials, and wide community spaces where the train corridor used to be. It gives the place a kind of balance, half busy little town – half wide-open space which, in its own way, feels rather fitting for Southland.

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Dover Street, Orepuki

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Daily Photo – Dover Street, Orepuki

The strange thing about all of this, is that not an awful lot is known about old James Kirkton at all. Very little is known about his personal life, history, or what became of him after he spotted that yellow flake of gold among the black sand. It’s almost as if he disappeared in the annals of time completely. What we do know is that his discovery started a boom town that in its day, peaked with a population of some 3000 residents. As the town grew more services were required and so more buildings were added till eventually the residents of Orepuki could proudly boast about their hotels, banks, schools, churches, a courthouse, police station, jail, railway station, community hall, general store and any other establishment you might expect to find in an upstanding, populous rural town that had recently experienced a surge in rapid urbanization. 

Over time, more industries sprang up – a sawmill, coal mine, shale works, smelter, flax mill, and of course, farming. It all looked promising for a while, but the problem with non-renewable materials is that eventually they run out, and run-out they did. The gold disappeared, the coal seams thinned, the mills and mines shut their doors, the trains stopped running, and people drifted off to find work elsewhere. I guess if you weren’t a farmer there wasn’t much reason to stay.

As the slow decline in population in Orepuki rolled over, year after year – before leaving – former residents did one very thoughtful thing. They left many of the buildings to simply stand and battle the elements, creating what is known as a semi-ghost town. That’s not to say the place feels abandoned, or that the people who remain are unhappy. Very far from it. I’m sure they like the place very much. Like most small New Zealand towns, Orepuki has a quiet, rural rhythm, with locals going about their daily business at an unhurried pace. There’s a pub, a bowling green, a community hall, and a rural fire service – all the essentials, really. 

Today, Orepuki has a population of around 100 residents and as I drove through the town I could help but enjoy myself in a peculiar, I don’t know why sort of way. I stopped and looked at the old buildings that stood – the General Merchant Store and the Drapers and Clothes Store, I visited the Orepuki War Memorial Gates and followed Oldham Street to where it ended abruptly, as if someone had simply run out of tarseal one afternoon and decided to call it a day. I weighed up whether to use the public toilets, debated if I had time to detour to Gemstone Beach, and eventually, on my fourth lap of Dover Street, concluded that I’d probably seen most of what Orepuki had to offer without playing a game of bowls, venturing into the pub, or down to the sand. So, with a sense of modest achievement, I eased the car back onto State Highway 99 and set off, in what I assumed was a southwest direction.

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Hirstfield & Garfield

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Daily Photo – Hirstfield & Garfield

In the year of 1865, on the black sands of a Southland beach, an Australian prospector spotted something among the stones, shells and sand at his feet that seemed oddly out of place. It was ​​soft, dense, and if he had exposed it to heat it wouldn’t have tarnished, rusted, or corroded. In fact, if he had heated it up to 1,064°C (1,947°F), he could have watched it melt and made it into a nice ring or necklace. The man’s name was James Kirkton, and what he’d discovered was gold. While there can be no-doubt that Kirkton would’ve got awfully excited by his discovery, unlike other gold finds around the country, his didn’t lead to an instant influx of lawless yobs who had forgotten all common sense in the search for fame and fortune on the country’s gold fields. Very far from it – Kirkton’s discovery was unique in that the gold was very fine, difficult to extract, and access to the area was extremely limited. 

Needless to say, as tends to happen in these situations, word eventually spread about Kirkton’s find, and prospectors starting flooding the area with tents and other portable makeshift dwellings. Thus a small town they called Hirstfield was born. For the next two decades or so, things went well for the town of Hirstfield, so much so that permanent establishments were added to the landscape and the population steadily grew. While all this was going on, a few kilometers inland, among the surrounding hills and gullies, a pocket of alluvial gold was discovered, and once again the cycle repeated itself. Everyone went absolutely bonkers and scrambled to the new location, desperate to get a piece of the action. This meant, by 1882 a second township not too far away had been created – this time called Garfield. The problem with this hurriedly erected metropolis was that nobody stopped to think where the gold actually was, and the miners soon realized that the valuable vein of gold ran directly underneath the town. Faced with a curly predicament, the residents took a vote and decided upon the only rational course of action, they’d move the town back to Hirstfield. So, in what must have been a logistical nightmare, a grand display of community spirit and a lesson in motivation, by 1885 the entire town had moved – school, community hall, hotel, houses, tables, chairs, pots, pans, Mrs. Higgins’s three prize-winning hydrangeas – everything had been taken back to where they started – Hirstfield. 

The year of 1885 proved to be an important milestone in our story, not only had the residents of Garfield returned to Hirstfield with their tails between their legs, but the arrival of the railway in the area cemented the merged towns as a permanent location. Now, as we all know, a new town needs a new name, and instead of choosing to name it after some British aristocrat who didn’t know where the hell New Zealand was, or have any idea that the lower South Island even existed, they did a remarkably sensible thing – they turned to local Māori for inspiration and called the new town Orepuki.

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Inn Street, Owaka

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Daily Photo – Inn Street, Owaka

Question: What happened to the Owaka gunpowder factory? 

Answer: it blew up! 

Back in the mid to late 1800s, the Owaka region had become a popular spot. This was mainly  thanks to the whaling and sealing industries, which the Europeans had discovered provided rather useful oil and fur. Once that industry died away, attention quickly turned to the surrounding native forests and a sawmilling industry was established to supply timber to the growing settlement of Dunedin. By the 1870s and 1880s, the farming trade was on the rise and more bush was cleared, meaning the town of Owaka became the hub for supplies, trade, and services in the district. As the population grew, services were added like a post office in 1867, a telegraph office arrived in 1879, a bank in 1880 and a gunpowder factory by 1880 – I kid you not! 

These days, a gunpowder factory in the small settlement of Owaka seems quite absurd, but when put into context it is actually rather clever. You see, the factory supplied gunpowder to the timber trade, who used it to split the wood, which was then shipped off to other centres. 

The factory came to life around 1880 when Englishman John Mackley and a Swedish-born chemist C.G.V. Leijon founded Mackley and Leijon’s Owake Mills Tower Proof Gunpowder – and doesn’t that name have a ring to it! The pair were quickly successful in the new enterprise, gaining a medal at the New Zealand International Exhibition in Christchurch in 1882. With the product proving popular throughout the region, they located their factory near the Owaka River (about 1.5km from the current town centre), so a log dam could provide water to drive the factory’s grinder. This then processed Hinahina Wood which was used to create charcoal, one of the main ingredients of gunpowder when mixed with sulfur and saltpetre. The powder was then sent to the milling industry and exported around the region for other uses. That was, until the factory exploded – on three separate occasions none the less, until its closure in 1884. The final blast was so impressive that it completely destroyed the factory and was heard almost 40 kilometers away in the neighboring town of Kaitangata. The factory wasn’t rebuilt, thus ending the Mackley and Leijon’s Owake Mills Tower Proof Gunpowder business.

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Hasborough Place, Balclutha

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Daily Photo – Hasborough Place, Balclutha

Arthur Strange Reserve sits on the northern side of the Clutha River, just before you cross the Balclutha Bridge and enter the town itself. I wanted to like Balclutha, I really did. It’s the gateway to the south after all, with the mighty Clutha River – the largest by volume in New Zealand – flowing right through its heart. But on the day I arrived, the town wasn’t showing me its best side. A grey blanket of cloud hung low, pressing down over the streets. The river ran high and heavy beneath the bridge, its wide surface reflecting the same dark and moody tone that lingered in the sky above.

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Aberafon Street, Middlemarch

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Daily Photo – Aberafon Street, Middlemarch

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.

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Coat Pit Road, Ida Valley

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Daily Photo – Coat Pit Road, Ida Valley

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.

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Lake Hayes Junction, Lake Hayes

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Daily Photo – Lake Hayes Junction, Lake Hayes

At Lake Hayes, I had pulled over to escape the steady stream of traffic heading to and from Frankton and Queenstown in one direction, and the Gibbston Valley, Kawarau Gorge, and Cromwell in the other. The water was still, a smooth, glassy surface reflecting the peaks of the surrounding mountains, indifferent to the human chaos behind me. Yet even here, it was impossible to ignore the changes to the Queenstown-Lakes District.

In my day Frankton was a separate settlement from Queenstown, on the drive you’d pass through Frankton, a motel famously made out of bottles, trees, mountains and views of the lake. Eventually, you’d spot the Skyline Gondola high on the mountain side, then Queenstown itself. Nowadays, Frankton is a suburb of Queenstown, with the drive being a slow procession of cars, boats, trailers, trucks and campervans passing an endless stream of motels, hotels, houses and lifestyle blocks where majestic views of the lake used to be. When people buy property or develop land, I don’t think the environment comes into it very much. The focus seems to be on capitalising on the property boom and gaining resource consent than maintaining the natural environment. When a study into population growth in the area was carried out it found that between 2013 and 2018, the population jumped from 28,224 to 39,153 – a startling 39% increase. It was then carried out again in 2024 where it had climbed again to 52,400. That’s a staggering population increase of nearly 25,000. I would scarcely have believed these figures, I had not seen the ongoing development for myself. Driving from Frankton to Lake Hayes, the road passed new subdivisions, rooftops, and roads that seemed to sprout suddenly from nowhere. How do people look at all this development and still see the charm that made people fall in love with the place? I don’t know the answer, but I suspect it’s a mix of necessity and ambition – more people, more houses, more infrastructure, more money to be made. For all I know, developers are trying their best, but it often feels like all the development is spoiling the very scenery people are coming to see. 

What I can tell you is that having driven through the area, you spend more time looking at the scenery than being in it. Yet, amid the chaos, the landscape remains a spectacular draw for people around the world. If only they left footprints, not foundations. 

#dailyat6am, #fromtheroad, Ratanui, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Papatowai Road, Ratanui

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Daily Photo – Papatowai Road, Ratanui

I left Owaka coffee-less. Instead, a short time later I lingered at an old pier I found that was jutting out across the water toward the upper estuary of the Catlins River, something far more peaceful and rewarding. I was following the Southern Scenic Route through The Catlins, a drive of wondrous beauty, with timeless and almost mystical overtones and having left Owaka, I was now heading deep to the region. 

Having explored the pier, I’d left it, rejoined the road and it wasn’t long before I reached the Catlins River Bridge, which I crossed before spotting a sign that read “Purakanui Falls.” For a moment, I considered turning left onto Purakanui Falls Road and heading for the falls which are located at the end of a rather pleasant bush walk.. It was tempting, very tempting, but I didn’t have the time.

For the next twenty minutes, I continued along the Papatowai Highway toward Papatowai, following the Catlins River and the nearby gullies, still holding remnants of native bush: rimu, tōtara, kahikatea, and southern rātā – much of it felled for timber or cleared for farmland in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

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Hyde-Middlemarch Road, Straw Cutting

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Daily Photo – Hyde-Middlemarch Road, Straw Cutting

By the time John Corcoran pulled his train into the Ranfurly Station, it was already an hour late. Scheduled to arrive at 2:30 a.m, it wasn’t until 3:30 a.m. that the train finally ended its run for the day. With trains running to tight schedules and a shortage of experienced engine drivers, crews were often pushed hard while a lack of track maintenance had left the line in poor condition. Whenever they did get downtime, it was vital to rest properly so they could remain alert and able to work at full capacity – despite the hectic rosters. John Corcoran was no exception.

That Friday morning in June was particularly cold, with a heavy frost covering much of the Strath Taieri. The temperature barely rose above 3 or 4 degrees, and the hard frost lingered well into the day. Earlier, Corcoran had brought a goods train from Dunedin, arriving in Ranfurly an hour late at 3:30 a.m. He signed off duty and walked to the Ranfurly Hotel, where he had a room booked. He rose by 10:30 a.m, had a drink with an old friend in the hotel bar, ate a pie for lunch, and then walked the short distance to the station to take charge of the Ab782 for the homeward run to Dunedin. The train left Ranfurly ten minutes late, at 12:48 p.m.

By then, Corcoran had been off duty for a little more than nine hours. In that time, he had managed less than six hours’ sleep, had a drink at the hotel with a friend, eaten a pie for lunch, and was now under pressure to ensure his train – already late leaving – arrived in Dunedin on time on a line that was in poor condition. Later that day, passengers who survived reported that the train had seemed to be travelling much faster than usual, lurching violently from side to side. At 1:45 p.m, at a bend known as Straw Cutting, the train derailed at excessive speed, killing 21 people.

Help from Dunedin would take time. In 1943, the road from Outram through the Strath Taieri to Middlemarch and Hyde was narrow, unsealed, and still followed the winding course of the old bullock wagon trails. Any motorised assistance faced a long, difficult journey, bumping over rough roads in the dark before reaching the scene.

That left those at the scene or nearby needing to act quickly. Members of the Gimmerburn Football Team, travelling in one of the rear carriages, rushed to help where they could. The Maniototo Battalion of the Home Guard from Ranfurly was mobilized at 2 p.m. and were also among the first on the scene. Doctors and nurses from Middlemarch, Ranfurly, and Waipiata soon arrived to assist. In the days that followed, local hotels in Hyde and Middlemarch kept extended hours and exhausted local supplies providing blankets, meals, and accommodation for rescuers and railway workers who laboured to clear and repair the track.

Following the disaster, the derailment was proven to have been brought about by excessive speed and lack of judgement on the part of a tired driver who had had little sleep and inadequate food during the previous 24 hours. Yet, it seems a little striking and hard on Corcoran that nothing was said about the tight scheduling, the lack of adequate rest between shifts, or the poor condition of the track itself.

At the time, it was New Zealand’s worst railway disaster.

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Henley Road, Henley

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Daily Photo – Henley Road, Henley

From Mosgiel, I passed through East Taieri and Allanton before going some kilometres out of my way to take the scenic road alongside the Taieri River to the small settlement of Henley, which was picturesque in its own unique way. It wasn’t scenic like Milford Sound in Fiordland or the Great Ocean Road in Australia, but carried its own beauty in a slow, overcast winter’s day kind of way. Like many small towns in New Zealand, Henley carried its own quiet version of charm.

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Ida Valley-Omakau Road, Ida Valley

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Daily Photo – Ida Valley-Omakau Road, Ida Valley

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.

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Dunedin (2)

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Daily Photo – Dunedin (2)

Before I left home on this trip, I’d decided that when I returned, it would be an ideal opportunity to look at Dunedin from a different perspective, to view the city as a tourist might. So, when the hills of the peninsula eventually came into view, with the harbour stretching out into the distance and the city centre neatly tucked on the far shore, I paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air and the familiar, distinctive coastline. I quickly discovered that I’d set myself an impossible task – I was far too invested. You see, having called Dunedin home for 98% of my life, I couldn’t look at it any other way. It was home.

Still, not wanting to give up completely on the task I’d set myself, I had a flip through a few well-known travel guides to gain a foreigner’s perspective, an honest attempt to see the place through a different set of eyes, if you will. Eventually, after much reading (and let’s be honest here, most travel guides are pretty dull) and a few false starts, I was able to cobble together some kind of semi-coherent consensus. The overall opinion seemed to be that Dunedin is a place where history, creativity, and nature meet. With its heritage architecture, lively arts scene, and easily accessible wilderness, it comes across as charming, quirky, and environmentally blessed. Added to which Dunedin is a UNESCO City of Literature, and in the heart of the Octagon you can even follow a literacy walk, stopping at plaques commemorating writers of note and literary milestones.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against these publications; they are, in fact, very useful. I’ve even used one myself in a moment of poor judgement and indecision. It’s just that you could easily apply that description to almost any major city in the world – some minor cities as well, come to think of it. What I wanted was something unique, something you couldn’t say about any other city in the world. Then, just when I was about to give up, just when I was thinking Dunedin would fall into the vast well of nondescript cities, I happened to stumble across notable New Zealand poet Peter Olds and a quote that I absolutely love when he so eloquently said: “I fell flat on my face, drunk in the Octagon: right on top of a plaque with my name on.” There, in that single unvarnished sentence, Dunedin is captured quite beautifully.

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Dunedin (1)

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Daily Photo – Dunedin (1)

I left Brighton heading for Dunedin. I’d decided to take the Southern Scenic Route, a 610-kilometre roading network that connects Queenstown, Fiordland, and Dunedin via The Catlins, Invercargill, and Bluff. Created in the 1980s as a way to boost tourism, the drive gives you an entirely new perspective on New Zealand and the joys that can be found along its coastline.

I took a section of the Southern Scenic Route now,  as I approached the city of Dunedin. Having left the township of Brighton and passed the Kaikorai Lagoon, I turned right onto a stretch of road known as Blackhead. The name comes from the headland, a mass of dark volcanic basalt formed by the Dunedin volcanic field some 10 million years ago. This is a wonderful and distinctive part of Dunedin’s coastline, with beaches well known for their surf, a steadily returning sea lion population, historic walking tracks, and a hidden cove tied to Dunedin’s earliest days.

I drove along Blackhead Road and paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air as I looked out over the beach. Then I carried on, climbing over the hill into the suburbs of Corstorphine and St Clair. Ahead of me, Dunedin slowly came into view, the harbour, the peninsula, the eastern coastline, and the central city all unfolding in front of me. It was good to be home.

#dailyat6am, Brighton, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Brighton

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Daily Photo – Brighton

One moment I was stuck in a heavy line of traffic on State Highway 1, the next I was heading over Scroggs Hill on a winding gravel road, free of traffic, towards the seaside community of Brighton.

It was here that New Zealand’s most successful defence lawyer, Dr. Alfred Hanlon, spent his last years. Having spent the best part of his life defending accused murderers such as Minnie Dean, Alexander McLean, and Mina McKellar, when he finally retired in the 1940’s, deciding he wanted a quieter life, he chose the peaceful surrounds of Brighton and nearby Ocean View.

In those days, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot, connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway, and in many ways, not too dissimilar to what it is today. Brighton is the kind of place that comes alive in summer. During winter, it slips into a sort of semi-hibernation as the southerlies bite, but once spring arrives, the colours return and the days slowly warm, leading into the long weeks of summer. That’s when Brighton is at its best.

There’s the annual gala day to look forward to, or you can simply wander into the local dairy for the essentials of a Kiwi summer: a classic ice cream cone, a piping-hot pottle of chips with sauce, a pie, or a thick milkshake. You can hire paddle boats and drift lazily around the estuary, watch local kids leap from the town bridge into the river, clamber over the nearby rocks exploring rock pools, or spend time with the ever-growing sea lion population. And, of course, you can always just stretch out on the beach and let Brighton do what it does best – let you enjoy summer.

So you can perhaps imagine the sense of joy that came over me as I drove over the crest of a hill to find Brighton covered in sunshine. I wound my way down the hill through a series of suburban streets that looked lovely in the sunshine and were scattered with boats, surfboards, kayaks and other assorted items that suggested the owners spent a lot of time in the sea. 

I stopped at a t-junction and found a park close to a nice grassy clearing where I intended to soak up the relaxing atmosphere and inviting sunshine. This I did, before moving on my way. And, just  like that I was heading for Dunedin. 

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Hindon

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Daily Photo – Hindon

The drive to Hindon can’t be described as a sedately, peaceful trip through the wide spread scrub of the Silverpeaks Range. It’s more like a strenuous ordeal that’s an adventure in itself. The road is unpaved, steep, narrow and winding that includes passing over a shared road/rail bridge with sections that have sharp bends and steep drop-offs. In a sense, it’s scenic but challenging.  Fortunately, I’m a wonderful driver and was able to expertly navigate my way through to Hindon. In fact, I was navigating the road so well, a local who was tending his garden took the time to yell, scream and wave at me in the most dramatic fashion. I acknowledged his friendly one arm jester with a wave, and returned to the spectacular scenery that provided views of the Taieri River, dramatic rock formations that disappeared into the distance, and the tracks of the Taieri Gorge Railway far below. 

To be fair, there isn’t actually a lot to do at Hindon apart from look at the scenery, read an information board, sit by the river or throw stones off the Hindon Road and Rail Bridge. Sitting by the river is fine if you want an afternoon of serenity in the summer sun, but this was the middle of winter and there was rain in the air. So, before I went to find a few good stones to hurl off the bridge into the river far below, I took the time to read the information board – something I always feel compelled to do. Later, having propelled some mighty fine stones off the bridge that landed in the river with a satisfying crash, I also discovered that the Hindon Railway Station not only served as a passenger stop, but it was a refreshment stop, a post office, and a school – quite the CV for a tiny building in the middle of nowhere. 

With that, my duties in Hindon complete, I returned to the car and began the steep ascent back to paved roads where there’s at least room for two, and no need for nervous prayers.

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Outram

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Daily Photo – Outram

I left Clarks Junction and continued on State Highway 87 towards the southeast until I reached the small junction town of Outram. A drive that was 26 kilometers of quiet, peaceful bliss. The whole time, I didn’t see a single car, truck, campervan (thank goodness), tractor, or anything else that annoys me on the road. It was as if everyone else in the world had suddenly vanished. That was, until I descended from the higher elevation plains of Clarks Junction, Lee Stream, and Lake Mahinerangi to the Taieri Plains where Outram is located, and I found a steady stream of traffic milling around the town.

The journey is certainly much more pleasant than it used to be. Back in the 1860s when everyone lost all common sense and went completely crackers over the discovery of gold, the route (The Old Dunstan Road) I had just driven was close to the same one used by the miners to get to the goldfields. Outram was a key starting point for the original Dunstan Road. Travelers would start their journey from Outram and make their way up to Clarks Junction, where the more rugged and arduous part of the journey took miners high between the Lammermoor and Rock and Pillar Ranges to the goldfields. While it was possible to make this journey by horse or coach, many went on foot. This was an immensely difficult trip. Miners, with their heavy swags, would often be exhausted and starving. Some became so desperate for food and water they would trade gold for a loaf of bread, or they would eat the fat from a freshly killed sheep’s tail. The lack of provisions and the extreme weather, including snow and bitter cold, led many to be near death from starvation and exposure.

Having arrived in Outram, I parked outside a bakery that was conveniently located near a petrol station – this pleased me as I needed both food and petrol. Afterward, I went for a stroll around the town. Locals were casually going about their daily routines and ignored me as I poked around. I walked to one end of the street where the road heads out of town towards the Taieri River and further on to Mosgiel, while at the other, I found houses with connections to the earlier days of the town, such as the old Blacksmith’s house, the former Bank of Otago building, and a Watchmaker’s shop.

I returned to my car, pleased with the fact I wasn’t making the journey on foot carrying all my worldly possessions on my back. As I pointed the car towards the coastal suburb of Brighton, I noticed the time. It wasn’t nearly as late as I thought it was. Back in Sutton, when I decided to skip the Salt Lake, I had thought to myself, “If there’s time, I could detour from Outram to Hindon before continuing on to Brighton.” This seemed to me a capital idea, so pleased that I had the time to put the plan into action, I headed to the tiny settlement of Hindon.

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Clarks Junction

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Daily Photo – Clarks Junction

Leaving Sutton’s Salt Lake behind, I carried on along State Highway 87 towards Clarks Junction. Highway 87 peels off from State Highway 1 and Dunedin’s Southern Motorway south of Mosgiel, running through the Taieri Plains, past the Maungatua Range and into the Strath Taieri valley, before finishing at Kyeburn. It’s 114 kilometres of open road that rises and dips with the wide spaces it passes through, a road where the most daring thing you’ll encounter might be a lone sheep – lost and hungry. Once you leave the soft, green pastures of the Taieri Plains, the highway threads through the undulating country around Lee Stream before dropping into the Strath Taieri. Here the horizon suddenly stretches into the far distance, anchored by the Rock and Pillar Range, which carries snow in winter and shimmers like an oasis in summer.

This is a landscape whose vast, open spaces and dramatic landforms have drawn the attention of famous New Zealand artists. Colin McCahon found inspiration here, as did Grahame Sydney, Marilynn Webb, James K. Baxter and Brian Turner. There’s something about this country that demands a response through paint, poem, or photograph – it pulls you in. 

The land itself shifts almost without warning. One moment I was passing lush paddocks edged with trees, the next, tussock, scattered trees, and piles of schist as far as the eye could see. The hills in the distance rise under a vast sky, and you realise you’ve crossed into a country that is both stark and strangely beautiful. It’s like another world, empty, exposed and completely stunning. It was here that I found Clarks’s Junction. I pulled the car over and went for a walk. 

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Sutton

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Daily Photo – Sutton

Having marveled over New Zealand’s only submarine, I headed in a southeasterly direction toward Clarks Junction, a small rural crossroads settlement where State Highway 87 meets the Old Dunstan Road, a route goldminers once took from Dunedin over the Rock and Pillar Range to the Central Otago goldfields.

On the way out of Middlemarch, I passed a sign that said “Sutton Salt Lake.” I considered making a quick visit, but I knew it wouldn’t be quick, and I really didn’t have the time. Access to New Zealand’s only inland salt lake is via a 3.5-kilometre walking track through the wide-open spaces of the Strath Taieri. I had visited earlier in the year and had the whole track to myself. I spent a leisurely morning walking past schist towers that rose from golden tussock and dry shrub, scattered across a quiet plain. The sky stretched endlessly above as the ground crunched underfoot. It was a stunning day, the vast blue sky broken by a few rolling clouds over the Rock and Pillar Range in the distance.

The Sutton Salt Lake is a hidden treasure in the heart of New Zealand. A place of rare ecological importance and significance, it is the nation’s only inland salt lake, formed by rainfall, evaporation, and mineral-rich schist. Its fluctuating saltiness creates a fragile environment where only specialised plants survive, making it a living laboratory of adaptation. Surrounded by the stark Maniototo landscapes, it offers a striking glimpse of nature’s resilience and rarity in Central Otago.

I know a salt lake doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it really is a special place. Exploring the lake and surrounding landscape is like finding a white peacock in the wild, seeing the Sea of Stars in the Maldives, or watching Aston Villa win on Boxing Day. It’s like experiencing the Boston Red Sox win the World Series, or Charlize Theron herself – a rare and beautiful thing.

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Middlemarch

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Daily Photo – Middlemarch

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.

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Straw Cutting

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Daily Photo – Straw Cutting

For ten years, the Hyde railway disaster held the title of New Zealand’s worst rail tragedy, until it was overtaken by Tangiwai in 1953. Having visited both, you couldn’t find a sharper contrast. Tangiwai is moody and sombre, with carefully constructed boards that guide you through the events leading up to, during, and after the tragedy. There are graves, multiple memorials, and a well-signposted track that draws you to the site itself. Once there, the information repeats in a way that allows you to pause, reflect, and imagine how horrific that Christmas Eve night must have been. It’s a poignant reminder of a tragic day in New Zealand’s history, and almost impossible to miss as you drive past. Hyde, on the other hand, is a different story entirely, it consists of a recently erected memorial that is 500 metres from the actual site and a lonely information board in the middle of a paddock politely advising you to head eight kilometres back up the road if you’d like to know more.

I was on my way through the Strath Taieri heading for Middlemarch when I reached a sign on the side of the road that encouraged me to see the Hyde Rail Memorial and that’s exactly what I did. I parked in a makeshift car park, spent a few minutes viewing the memorial – reading the names of those that lost their lives, then set off down the track for the crash site. I didn’t know what to expect but suspected it wouldn’t be much, after all, nothing along the way suggested I was even walking in the right direction. Sure enough, after about 500 metres I reached a curve known as Straw Cutting, where the old railway once ran. This, it was clear, was the site. At the top of a bank stood a modest board with just over a hundred words on it, none of which told me anything new. Quite frankly, it was a little disappointing. I wasn’t expecting a theme park selling novelty souvenirs, but I had hoped for a few stories about the survivors, or information about the crash. It seemed only logical: if you’re standing on the site of a disaster, that’s where the story should be told. You don’t go to a museum, stand in front of an exhibit, and then get directed three blocks down the street to read the details. Here I was, at the site of New Zealand’s second-worst railway disaster, and all I got was a reminder to put my rubbish in the bin (though there wasn’t actually a bin to be seen).

For the record, the Hyde railway disaster happened just after 1:30 pm on June 4, 1943. A passenger train was rattling its way from Cromwell to Dunedin, carrying 113 people, many likely heading for the Dunedin Winter Show. The driver, under pressure to make good time, had taken the train well beyond the safe speed limit. As it careered into a sharp bend near Hyde, the inevitable happened – the carriages left the track, crashing and rolling in a scene of devastation. The wreckage stretched across the countryside, leaving survivors to clamber free and search for loved ones amid the chaos. Twenty-one people lost their lives, many more were injured, and Hyde (along with Straw Cutting) became one of those quiet country places forever marked on the map by tragedy, its story, much like the Tangiwai disaster, retold with a mix of sorrow and disbelief.

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Rockvale

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Daily Photo – Rockvale

I returned to the car and drove fifteen kilometres along yet more slow but lovely roads to Hyde, the way winding past sheep paddocks, willow groves, and the occasional farmhouse that looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a decade or two. The frost clung stubbornly to the verges as the sun began the day’s slow defrosting process. To the west, the Kakanui Mountains rose in a long, rugged line, their slopes catching snow in winter and dust in summer. To the south lay places with names like Fairleigh, Newton, Rockvale, Rock and Pillar, and Middlemarch. It was this last place I was heading to next – though on the way, I had a famous crash site to visit.

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Kokonga

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Daily Photo – Kokonga

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost. Having settled overnight, it stretched across the fields as far as the eye could see, and by the time I reached Kokonga, it seemed even more bitter.

A few kilometres before the small settlement, I had passed through the Maniototo in the early morning. The hills lay flat and peaceful, like sleeping animals. Scattered farms stood distant and isolated; fields climbed up to the rolling hillsides, giving the valley a far-flung feel. The sun had yet to take hold of the day and, for the meantime, remained tucked away behind dark, puffy clouds. On a short stretch of road beside a frozen field, I passed a sign that read “Railway Road – No Exit”, the track itself running only a short distance up into the hills. I pulled over beside an old, forgotten fenceline and got out to look around. There was no one about. Presumably, the people of Kokonga were still sensibly tucked up in bed, warm and cosy.

I wandered past a house with a neatly kept garden – no sign of life – and then along the former railway line, now part of the Central Otago Rail Trail. I stopped where the view opened over a scattering of caravans and huts that sat in the frost-stiffened grass, paint peeling, windows squinting out at the day as if half-asleep. Behind them, the hills rolled away into the distance, capped with snow and looking noble and grand, as mountains often do. The whole scene lay under a pale winter sky, stark, cold, beautiful in a way that makes you wonder if the people living here are brave, mad, or a little of both. I pondered that notion for a bit, not reaching a conclusion as my feet crunched their way back to the warmth of my car.

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Kyeburn

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Daily Photo – Kyeburn

Of all the things to come out of Kyeburn recently, by far the most remarkable happened in March of 2019, when a local discovered a series of moa footprints in the Kyeburn River. Experts from Tūhura Otago Museum were altered, the river diverted, and the footprints carefully removed to Dunedin. After study, the fossilised trackway was confirmed as the first of its kind known in the South Island and the second-oldest evidence of moa in New Zealand, dating back around 3.6 million years. 

Just think about that for a moment. Some 3.6 million years ago, a heavy-footed moa clumsily wandered across soft river mud, leaving footprints at just the right moment when the ground was firm enough to hold them. By sheer luck, nature quickly covered them with a fresh layer of sediment, shielding the prints from rain, wind, and any other wandering feet. Over millions of years the mud hardened to stone, only to be revealed by the river, just in time for a man named Michael to stumble upon them while walking his dog. Practically speaking, the chances of that happening are astronomically low. 

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost.

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Waipiata (4)

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Daily Photo – Waipiata (4)

In the morning, breakfast was a generous affair of fruit, muesli, toast, coffee, and orange juice – the sort of spread that convinces you a second helping is simply good manners. After several rounds and feeling suitably fortified, I gathered my things and attempted a dignified exit, slipping quietly out the back door so as not to disturb the other guests. This worked perfectly for all of three seconds, until I tripped over a rubbish bin that clattered to the ground and promptly woke the neighbour’s dog, which then woke the rest of the neighbourhood. So much for subtlety.

The morning was cold, properly cold. Everything, and I do mean everything, was frozen solid. Since de-icing the car wasn’t going to be quick, I set off for a walk. Each step landed with a satisfying crunch on the frost, my breath hanging in the air like a thin city fog. Smoke curled lazily from a few nearby houses before dissolving into the washed-out colours of a Maniototo morning.

I’d been following a dirt road, but as the sun began rising over the hills I turned back toward the car, the new light dragging long shadows across the gravel roads and paddocks. I followed them for a while until I reached a frozen stream pressed against a fence line, glinting in the pale sun. I stood there for a moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of a world not quite awake, not yet anyway. 

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Waipiata (3)

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Daily Photo – Waipiata (3)

To be honest with you, the first pint didn’t touch the sides and the second didn’t last much longer as I carefully surveyed the menu. It had been a long day, I was tired, hungry, thirsty and before I knew it I was happily devouring a delicious Lamb Shank Pie with mash and veg. I know it doesn’t sound that spectacular but it really was. I loved every mouthful, it was so good I considered ordering a second, but I knew I couldn’t possibly manage it. I washed it all down with a beer and happily sat there full, content and musing over how correct people had been. The food was nothing short of delicious and what’s more, there seemed to be delivery parcels of takeaway meals coming out of the kitchen every few minutes. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where all the food was going, I didn’t think enough people lived in the area to sustain so many orders but clearly I was wrong. By the time I was ordering my fourth pint I had firmly decided on several things. Firstly, I too would soon be raving to people about the food at the Waipiata Hotel and secondly, it wouldn’t be long before I would be heading to bed.