The Banzai Pipeline Stunt

Action Park

Looking for a good Waterslide documentary? Checkout Class Action Park: a 2020 documentary film about the American amusement park Action Park, which was located in Vernon Township, New Jersey.

Daily Photo – The Joy of the Waterslide

I like to think the worlds first waterslide was invented on a fine, sunny day by two blokes on a particularly steep hillside. I imagine one, with a red, oil covered baseball cap and a large handlebar mustache whose name is something like, Hank, putting down his beer, turning to his friend Jerry, and saying:
“Hey, here’s an idea. If we make a long steep ramp and shoot water down it really fast like, into that pool of water at the bottom, we might really have something. We could even sit in things and leave our fate up to gravity.”
To which Jerry replies, “Yeah, we could invite our friends and charge people money!”

This random train of thought got me thinking that of course, not every waterslide adventure ends in fun and in my reading, I found some alarming statistics. In March last year, a study in Texas found that the most common water park injuries were slips and falls, traumatic brain injuries, spinal and neck injuries and near-drowning. Across the pond, our friends in the United Kingdom found in a similar study that more than half of injuries affected the face and head, 29% happened on landing, and 24% were caused by slipping. And here in New Zealand, in the year from 2021, we spent roughly $3 million treating injuries. Clearly, water slides are fun, though not entirely without risk – and not immune from acts of stupidity, like The Banzai Pipeline Stunt in California.

In June 1997, a group of graduating High School seniors were at Waterworld USA, location of the popular Banzai Pipeline water slide. On this occasion, ignoring both the lifeguard and park official warnings, the seniors attempted to pile over sixty people onto the one-person ride. The colossal, unexpected weight caused the elevated fiberglass to snap with a groaning collapse. The pipeline sheared apart, plunging the screaming, interlocked students three stories down onto the hard concrete deck below with over thirty severely injured.

Now, I have absolutely no idea who invented the world’s first waterslide, when it happened, or why, but my guess is they were American – and either extremely confident in their mathematical calculations or had been drinking a whole lot.

Burns House – a Kind of Mathematical Poetry

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Daily Photo – Burns House – a Kind of Mathematical Poetry

There’s something oddly beautiful about buildings like this, all rhythm and repetition, concrete and glass, each window framing a tiny world. From a distance, it looks almost like a giant puzzle, oddly precise and orderly with small irregularities, a curtain half drawn, a light left on or a reflection that doesn’t quite fit the pattern. That’s the charm of it. What was once just another office block now feels almost nostalgic. There’s a kind of mathematical poetry in its plainness. In fact, if you stare at it long enough – it almost becomes an optical illusion.

Chicago Skyscrapers & Edwardian Elegances

Daily Photo – Chicago Skyscrapers & Edwardian Elegances

In December 1909, when the first tenants moved into the New Zealand Express Company Building (now Consultancy House) in Dunedin, what excitement there must have been. People stopped in the street, craned their necks skyward, and gasped in awe at the imposing edifice stretching up towards the clouds. It was unlike anything the city had seen before. Here was an amalgam of Chicago skyscraper and Edwardian elegance at its very finest, seven storeys of groundbreaking architectural wonder.

The soaring colossus that had risen from the ground in Dunedin’s Bond Street in a little over two years was a triumph of modern engineering. To create such a towering structure took around 400 tonnes of steel, over 500,000 bricks, and approximately 1,000 cubic feet of Oamaru stone. Add to that the kauri and rimu timber for floors and doors, the pressed-metal ceilings imported from the United States, and the marble stairs and tiled entryways, and it’s easy to see why Dunedin was proud. It was the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere, its view said to be unsurpassed anywhere else in the city, and its form of construction, as one newspaper noted, “had so far not yet been adopted anyway in the colonies.” This was one impressive building! Even more remarkable was the staggered occupation that took place upon opening, uncommon at the time, especially for large commercial buildings such as this. When the first tenants moved in towards the end of 1909, five of the seven storeys were complete, while work continued on the upper floors until final completion in 1910.

I mention this because the other day I happened to be near Consultancy House, not far from a new building recently opened in a style I like to call pointy and angular, a perfect example of what happens when architects are given a ruler, a lot of money, and far too much confidence. It looks like someone wrapped an office block in a giant, golden Venetian blind. No doubt it’ll take a team of highly paid specialists to fix it the moment a bird so much as sneezes on it. It’s not that I dislike the new four-storey, $45 million ACC Ōtepoti development, it’s just that I much prefer a little grand Victorian or Edwardian elegance, with an ornate façade in my buildings.

Dunedin Railway Yards

Daily Photo – Dunedin Railway Yards

At its peak, Dunedin’s railway yards were incredibly busy. From the late 19th century through to about the 1950s, they were among the busiest in the country. The station wasn’t just a passenger hub; it was the operational centre for the entire Otago region. Hundreds of workers were employed in the yards, long trains loaded with wool, timber, livestock, coal, and manufactured goods constantly came and went, connecting Dunedin to the port at Port Chalmers and to inland towns as far as Invercargill and Central Otago. The smell of coal smoke, the clang of metal, and the hiss of steam were part of the city’s daily life with up to one hundred trains passing through the station each day at its peak.

Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula

Daily Photo – Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula

Earlier in the year, I took a walk down to Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula. The idea came to me one evening when, having a few days spare, I decided I would put it to good use and get in some physical exercise. This was at odds with my initial plan, which had been to lay on the couch and watch Major League Baseball, moving only to go to the toilet and gather more snacks that I would inevitably accumulate in a large pile in front me! So, after a heated debate with myself, I eventually settled on the walk and the next morning I headed out the door with an eagerness in my step, a spirited sense of adventure, and a bag full with camera equipment. 

Once upon a time, access to Boulder Beach was possible via a well-maintained and signposted track that led down to the beach. Along the way, walking tracks branched off through the dunes and up over the nearby hills. You could spend an entire day exploring them, and never walk the same track twice. Now, all those paths are a distant memory, and for good reason – it is a protected wildlife area. You see, it is often visited by fur seals and sea lions, and is a favoured nesting spot for yellow-eyed penguins. In fact, the beach is so popular with these shy, nesting birds that the track is closed to the public from November to February during the breeding season.

I walked down to the beach. The farm road was longer and steeper than I remembered, and the nearby sand dunes had collapsed, resulting in an unexpected excursion through newly formed valleys, overgrown and heavy with dune. Reaching the bottom of the hill, I pushed my way through dense bushes tangled with vines. Every so often, the path would disappear—only to reappear moments later.

Eventually, after much swearing, I stumbled upon the isolated, wild, windswept beach. Golden dunes spilled to the shoreline, while large mounds of dark, smooth stones stretched along the beach and into the distance. The air was rich with salt, and the rhythm of waves rolling beneath the endless blue sky. Quiet, peaceful, and serene.

Sunset in Palmerston North

Daily Photo – Sunset in Palmerston North

I found my way to Palmerston North. My initial plan had been to head to Taranaki and New Plymouth however, cyclone warnings had popped up all over the North Island, meaning a change in direction was required. So, I ended up in Palmerston North. 

Surprisingly, I arrived under bright sunshine, something I hadn’t seen in some days on my trip through the North Island. After leaving a place called Waiōuru I drove through places called Taihape, Mangaweka, Cheltenham and Fielding, arriving in Palmerston North in the mid to late afternoon where I called in at a spot called ‘The Square’ and went for a walk around. Located in the very centre of the city, The Square is 17 hectares of land that features monuments, fountains, art work and picnic areas. At one end was a large Plaza while the other end featured the usual arrangements of shops that you might expect to find in a city centre. It was large with small pockets of people scattered around enjoying the warm, sunny day. For a long time, I couldn’t work out what it was, however something didn’t seem right. Then it struck me, that was exactly what was wrong. It was large and open but there simply wasn’t anyone there! In a larger city, it would be filled with people but here in Palmerston North it almost seemed too big. Almost as no one was really sure what to use it for. 

For a short time I walked the streets looking at the sites that the locals see everyday. Then, once that was done, I went to find some accommodation, a bite to eat and a drink. However, not necessarily in that order!

Observation Point in Port Chalmers

Daily Photo – Observation Point in Port Chalmers

If there’s one thing to be discovered at Observation Point in Port Chalmers, it’s the view. I know that might sound a little obvious, but it’s the very view that the famous New Zealand artist Ralph Hotere drew inspiration from – and it’s amazing! It’s not hard to see why he loved it so much, or why he fought so fiercely to keep it.

In the 1970s, Hotere bought a four-room cottage near Observation Point and turned it into his first studio, transforming it quite a bit along the way. When a near-derelict stable next door came up for sale, he was desperate to get hold of it. Not only were the stables rumoured to have once housed Captain Robert Scott’s ponies on their way to Antarctica, but they also offered stunning views right down Otago Harbour – and they did not disappoint.

Once settled, Hotere produced some of his most famous works there and was content enough until the early 1990s, when Port Otago moved to reclaim the land for a port extension. Logging exports to Japan were booming, and to keep up with demand, the port needed to expand its operations, which meant they needed Hotere’s land. The problem was, he wasn’t about to move. What followed was a long, very public dispute between the artist, local authorities, and the community. Eventually, though, Hotere reluctantly agreed to sell, allowing the port’s expansion project to finally go ahead.

When he gave in, many who had supported him felt a way of disappointment. No one’s entirely sure what prompted his change of mind, perhaps he simply grew tired of the fight and decided to move on. Whatever the reason, when the dust settled, Hotere donated the proceeds from the sale to the Frances Hodgkins Fellowship Trust Fund. Today, the Hotere Garden Oputae stands on the site where his studio once was. It opened in 2005, marking the return of four of his sculptures to the hill that inspired him for so many years.

Oamaru’s Heritage Precinct

Daily Photo – Oamaru’s Heritage Precinct

I’d driven up to Oamaru for the day and, as always, ended up wandering through the town’s remarkable heritage precinct. It’s one of those places that makes you feel as though you’ve stepped into another century, all creamy limestone facades, iron railings, and a faint whiff of coal smoke in the imagination.

Eventually, I found myself on Harbour Street, the heart of it all, and honestly, it was just lovely. The buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, each one a relic from the town’s glory days, now home to art galleries, antique shops, and cafés that sell tea in mismatched china.

But here’s what I don’t understand: why on earth is the street still open to traffic? It’s narrow, charming, and practically begging to be pedestrian-only. Nothing quite spoils the mood of admiring Victorian architecture like dodging SUVs and utes crawling past at two kilometres an hour. It made no sense at all, I pondered this for some time. Eventually giving up and headed for an Art Gallery then maybe a cup of coffee and biscuit.

Brighton

Daily Photo – Brighton

If we go back in time to the 1940s, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot and connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway. 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.

Spring Snow in Dunedin

Daily Photo – Spring Snow in Dunedin

Overnight the temperature dipped, and by morning Dunedin had slipped back into winter, despite the calendar insisting it was spring. A thin dusting of snow lay across the city, settling on rooftops and lawns, as though someone had quietly shaken icing sugar over everything while we slept. It wasn’t enough to cause any trouble, just enough to raise eyebrows, especially from those who had already swapped coats for lighter jackets.

This is one of the curiosities of living here: the seasons are more suggestion than certainty. Spring might well bring daffodils, blossom, and lambs in the paddocks, but just as quickly it can deliver a southerly front that chills you to the bone. And yet, far from being an inconvenience, these sudden turns in the weather feel almost like Dunedin showing off. A reminder that it can shift moods overnight, and in doing so, make even the familiar look quietly extraordinary.

Fairlight (2)

Daily Photo – Fairlight (2)

I found myself at Fairlight. At first glance, it’s just a station beside the road, the sort of place you could drive past without a second thought, but this patch of ground was once “The Ten Mile,” a staging stop for horses and travellers in the pre-railway days. Then came the 10th of July, 1878, when the first train rattled through on the newly completed Athol-to-Kingston line. Invercargill marked the occasion with a celebration excursion – five engines, twenty carriages, and, no doubt, a few startled sheep watching the spectacle thunder across the paddocks. For the locals, it must have been a very big day indeed. 

The building here today wasn’t even born at Fairlight, it began life as Otautau’s railway station, built in the 1920s, before being uprooted and hauled south in 1996. It now serves as the southern terminus of the Kingston Flyer, that proud survivor of New Zealand’s steam age. In its heyday the Flyer was no ordinary train but a working lifeline, hauling passengers and goods along the lakeshore. When it was resurrected as a tourist service in the 1970s, its vintage engines and green-and-cream carriages drew visitors from around the world, offering them a taste of travel as it once was, unhurried, dramatic, and full of character.

Today, the Flyer runs only occasionally, a reminder of both the grandeur and difficulty of keeping steam alive in modern day Aotearoa.

Aberafon Street, Middlemarch

Daily Photo – Aberafon Street, Middlemarch

One of the great things about museums is finding things you never expected. For example, you don’t expect to find a submarine 80 kilometers from the coast in a small Otago town. In fact, when you do, it feels a bit like a practical joke. There it sits, stranded in Middlemarch, a vessel that never touched the sea, looking less like a cutting-edge machine and more like a mislaid water tank – which, at one point, it actually was.

The story is simple enough: two men convinced themselves there was plenty of gold lying on the wild riverbeds of Central Otago and the best way to get at it was with a submarine. Only in New Zealand could such a thought be entertained with such seriousness. Elsewhere, there would have been committees, diagrams, and several university studies explaining why it was impossible. Here, they just built the thing.

That it didn’t work seems almost beside the point. The Platypus isn’t really a wonderful failure –  it’s proof of that casual, can-do optimism that bubbles away in this country. A submarine eighty kilometres inland may not be practical, but it is gloriously, stubbornly imaginative. And somehow, standing here beside it, you can’t help but admire that more than if it had ever struck gold.

Eton Street and Woburn Street, Hyde

Daily Photo – Eton Street and Woburn Street, Hyde

Driving into Hyde, I wasn’t expecting much more than a quiet town, a few cyclists and a scattering of houses. Then, through a break in the trees, I saw a small church with bright red doors, sitting there looking lonely and once loved. It looked almost shy, tucked among the surrounding pines, the morning light catching its stone walls in just the right way.

These are the kinds of discoveries I love most about wandering around New Zealand. You’re not searching for them; they simply appear, part of the everyday landscape. To locals, this church is just another building that has always been there. Yet, it felt like I’d stumbled across a story from another age, one where miners crowded into makeshift halls, and later, farmers scraped together enough to build something special and permanent.

There’s nothing grand about the Sacred Heart Church. No soaring spire, no rows of polished pews visible from the road. But that’s the charm. It’s modest and enduring, standing quietly among the trees, far from the bustle it once knew. And as I stood there, I couldn’t help but think: these are the moments that make road trips memorable, not the destinations you plan for, but the little surprises that simply appear.

Hamilton Road, Bluff

Daily Photo – Hamilton Road, Bluff

One of the truly lovely things about driving around New Zealand is all the incidental things you come across that speak of daily life. And what’s more, to New Zealanders it’s nothing out of the ordinary, but to everyone else it’s just plain strange. At any moment you can find yourself passing honesty boxes selling fruit, vegetables, or any other manner of homegrown produce; hand-painted signs advertising horse poo for sale; or a row of second-hand lawnmowers neatly lined up at the roadside. Sometimes you’ll pass an old, weather-beaten shed that doubles as a bus stop and a meeting point, its walls scrawled with generations of initials. Other times it might be a letterbox shaped like a cow, a jet boat, or a microwave.

These small, unassuming details are what catch you off guard. They’re not staged for tourists or polished for effect. They just exist, part of the fabric of daily life – so ordinary to locals they hardly notice, yet to an outsider they feel like discoveries, the kind that make you slow down, smile, and wonder what else the road ahead might casually reveal.

Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

Daily Photo – Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

I returned to the car and drove along a glorious, yet winding road to Jack’s Point, a resort on the edge of Lake Wakatipu framed by the dramatic, snow-covered peaks of the Remarkables on one side and rocky tussock covered hills on the other. Driving past these mountains, I couldn’t help but think how New Zealand manages to pull off grandeur with an unconcerned casualness that suggests it couldn’t care less. Here there are cliffs and ridgelines that in any other country would be accompanied by large neon signs, a theme park and a small gift shop selling cheap nic nac’s at alarming prices. Yet in New Zealand, you get a faintly apologetic lay-by with enough space for three cars and a weather-beaten sign that says simply Scenic Reserve. It’s the understatement that gets you.

The mountains rise with a nonchalance look of indifference – dark peaks climbing skyward, capped with a magnificent sweep of white that lingers well beyond winter and deep into spring. Below, sheep graze, blissfully unaware they’ve been granted one of the finest views on earth.

And here’s the curious thing: New Zealanders will politely nod at this magnificence, then tell you that the real treat is a pie from a family run bakery just down the road. That’s the enduring charm. In a land where the scenery can reduce you to stunned silence, the locals carry on, unimpressed – somehow making it more enduring

Cromwell

Daily Photo – Cromwell

A few minutes later I rolled into Cromwell. The town had a sluggish sort of feel, as if the mist and cloud that hung over it had become part of daily life. People wandered the streets at half pace, ambling between shops with the air of folk who had nowhere urgent to be, and no intention of getting there quickly. I steered through the historic precinct, a curious little corner where remnants of the old town survive – a fraction of what once stood here before the dam swallowed most of it, the rest now lying beneath the waters of Lake Dunstan. Crossing the bridge at Dead Man’s Point, I joined State Highway 8.

Here the lake appeared, wide and blue, holding the light in a way that made the surrounding hills and clouds seem doubled, their reflections stretching into the depths. The water had a calm stillness, broken only by the occasional ripple of a bird. Beyond the shoreline, the mountains rose, their snow-dusted tops hazy and remote, like they belonged to another world altogether. I slowed, not so much to admire the view as to let it sink in, the lake running alongside the road like a ribbon, guiding me towards Clyde.

Fortrose

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.

Lake Waihola, Waihola

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.

Waipiata-Kyeburn Road, Kyeburn

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.

Factory Road, Waipiata

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.

Great North Road, Winton

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.

Dover Street, Orepuki

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.

Hirstfield & Garfield

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.

Inn Street, Owaka

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.

Hasborough Place, Balclutha

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.

Aberafon Street, Middlemarch

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.

Coat Pit Road, Ida Valley

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.

Lake Hayes Junction, Lake Hayes

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. 

Papatowai Road, Ratanui

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.

Hyde-Middlemarch Road, Straw Cutting

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.