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

Waipiata (2)

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Daily Photo – Waipiata (2)

Before leaving on this trip, when a few of my friends had heard what I was doing, the food at the Waipiata Country Hotel had been highly recommended. So highly recommended in fact it was the sole reason I was there. Now, here I was, on the verge of what I’d been told was a culinary feast. I found the hotel with little problem, dumped my gear in my room, spent a moment organising myself and headed straight for the bar! On the way, I spotted a sign that read “We are not able to predict when a social gathering might occur. If your stay coincides with a night when the locals come down from the hills to gather and celebrate we can only apologize for any excess noise coming from the bar. Please feel free to use the earplugs provided – or come out and join in.” I ordered a pint, found a table and sank into the bar stool. I instantly felt at home!

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

Waipiata (1)

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Daily Photo – Waipiata (1)

I left Ranfurly deciding to take a backcountry gravel road to my destination of Waipiata – a short trip of only 10 kilometres, pretty much having the road to myself, apart from the occasional farmer who would pass, creating a dramatic dust storm and a wave of gravel that would rattle against the windscreen. After the onslaught had dissipated, this off course would leave me peering through a film of muck so thick it took a four-step process to clean. Step one (while driving) was to spray the windscreen and flick the wipers, which only turned the dust into a thick brown sludge that would be smeared across the windscreen – briefly leaving me driving blind. Step two was to repeat step one which was required to clean-up the mess created by step one – which helped a little. Step three was another repeat, finally restoring visibility to approximately 80%, and step four bringing things back to clear. At least until the next farmer appeared right on cue in a perfectly choreographed arrival.

It was getting late by the time I arrived in Waipiata, a tiny settlement in the Maniototo. Once a bustling railway stop but now a sleepy village with a pub, a scattering of houses, and the wide open sky for company. The sun and light were starting to fade and an evening chill whistled in from somewhere out on the plains. I went for a short drive around the town, stopping at the local domain which peered out across the plains to the snowcapped peaks on the horizon. I followed a track through the tussock for several minutes that seemed to go nowhere. I stood for a few minutes and listened to the silence, the land stretching away rising gently to meet the blue-grey mountains where the last of winter’s snow clung to the ridges. It had been a long day, but I was pleased I was here. I turned, returned to my car and went in search of some accommodation – The Waipiata Country Hotel, a place I’d chosen specifically for the food. 

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

Ranfurly

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Daily Photo – Ranfurly

It was mid to late afternoon when I came into Ranfurly. The sun was beginning to slip down the sky, casting a long golden light across the Maniototo Plains. I was on my way to Waipiata, but Ranfurly was sitting there in the middle of the landscape looking quietly self-assured, so I decided to make a small detour. Like most New Zealand small towns, Ranfurly seemed to be quietly going about its business while the outer world went hurriedly by.

The Maniototo had been vast and open all afternoon, a place where the sky seemed to take up more space than land. Coming into Ranfurly felt a little like stepping into a pocket of civilization after so much emptiness, if only for a microsecond – a modest town on the edge of a timeless land supporting a surprising amount of character.

Putting its ruralness aside, the first thing I always notice about Ranfurly is the art deco. It’s everywhere: shopfronts, corners, the old post office. Ranfurly owes this quirk to a run of fires in the 1930s, which had cleared much of the main street and forced the town to rebuild. While other places might have chosen a more practical, no-nonsense approach to reestablishing the town, Ranfurly went in a slightly different and quite unexpected direction by giving itself a touch of Hollywood glamour.

The result is a main street with clean lines and curved corners, pastel colours and cheerful facades – the sort of place where you half-expect to find Clark Gable leaning against a doorway in the tearooms. If tourists stopped and asked him for directions he would be able to turn and say, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn! Further down the street outside the pub they could have Humphrey Bogart telling people “The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world” while Gene Kelly could appear every time it rains, singing and dancing – twirling an umbrella.

Of course, all of this isn’t so. Like most New Zealand towns, Ranfurly is built on farming, family, and a strong sense of community. But the art deco architecture gives it a twist – a kind of unexpected pride that sets it apart from its neighbours. You come for the wide landscapes and sharp light of Central Otago, and somehow leave remembering a town that chose style as well as substance. But what really tickled me was the thought that, out here on Maniototo Plains, a town had decided not only to exist but to do so with a certain amount of pizzazz, as if to say, “yes, the sheep are important, but have you seen our curves and pastel trims?”

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

Oturehua

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Daily Photo – Oturehua

I found Oturehua tucked quietly into the heart of the Ida Valley. With a population of a little over one hundred, it felt as though time had politely slowed down just enough for me to notice the hills, the wide skies, and the gentle hum of a quiet Central Otago town.

I arrived at rush hour. Four or five utes were parked outside the Railway Hotel, a family wagon idled off into the distance, a family of five emerged from Gilchrist’s General Store, and a group of cyclists enthusiastically inspected their machinery on a nearby patch of grass – no doubt about to tackle another section of the famed Rail Trail.

I parked and called in at Gilchrist’s General Store, famous for being one of New Zealand’s oldest continually operating general stores. It’s the type of place that time has forgotten, but nobody else has. It’s like a living museum; as soon as you step inside you’re transported back in time, free to rummage through the shelves for all sorts of quirky goods while vintage advertising signs decorate the walls. I wandered around, reading the old signs and enjoying the endearing elegance of a place that has no right to be as charming as it is. Behind the counter stood a ladder, reaching to the higher shelves. It’s wasn’t hard to imagine a whimsical shopkeeper climbing the ladder behind the counter, then pushing himself to the other end of the display, the ladder gliding smoothly along the shelves on its clever wheel runners. Throughout the store, not only are there old signs, tins, and packaging to admire and reminisce over, but the original telephone exchange is still in place. If that isn’t enough, between the 1920s and the 1940s the business also incorporated a bakery that employed up to 12 people.

Yet Gilchrist’s General Store, the Railway Hotel, the Rail Trail, or even Hayes Engineering are not the most remarkable things about this tiny settlement. The real surprise is that, for a town of just over 100 residents, two have won New Zealand Heritage Literary Awards for poetry. The settlement regularly hosts literary and artistic events such as the Under Rough Ridge Writers’ Retreat, and the wider community is home to a remarkable concentration of writers, poets, and other artists. Without the world noticing, Oturehua has become a creative hub in rural Central Otago, far from the country’s urban centres.

I went for a walk up and down the street where the main cluster of buildings stood. I can’t even call them shops, because mostly they weren’t. I don’t mean that in a rude way – just as a statement of fact. Yet the strange thing was, the longer I stayed, the more the place grew on me. It had no right to. There didn’t seem to be enough there. Yet – and here’s the kicker – it was more than enough.

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

The Ida Valley

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Daily Photo – The Ida Valley

From Ophir I headed northwest over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley. A wide, sunlit expanse where the air feels thin and clear, and the land rolls out quietly in front of you. It’s the sort of place that makes you slow down, breathe deeply, and wonder why more people don’t live in valleys like this. Then you realise how special it is and hope it never changes.

As I made my way through the wide-open expanses, the remains of a recent snow drift lay either side of the road, melting in the winter sun. In the distance the Hawkduns loomed – a great, brooding mountain range that dominated the skyline, the kind of mountains that make you feel wonderfully insignificant.

The Ida Valley itself has a curious stillness, as if time slows down. Farmhouses sit low and square against the wind, fences run for miles into the distance, and the road stretches on so far ahead that it seems almost reluctant to end. Out here, there’s a sense that this is a place built on endurance – of people who chose to stay, even when the winters bite hard and the summers bake the earth into cracked clay.

There’s something beautiful about the valley. Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the long shadows cast across the plains, or maybe it’s the knowledge that for decades, this land has seen lives come and go – gold miners, farmers, artists – yet somehow, it has resisted change. You can sense history lingering in the dry air, tucked away in stone cottages and forgotten farm sheds. I pressed on, the road drawing me deeper into the valley, half expecting to meet no one, and quite enjoying the idea.

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

Ophir

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Daily Photo – Ophir

The very small town of Ophir has a delightful post office, a wonderfully creaky old bridge, a charming pub, and for a glorious stretch of time – the claim of being the coldest place in the country. This, of course, was before some mean spirited person decided to rifle through forgotten weather records and unearthed the inconvenient fact that neighbouring Ranfurly had once managed to be even colder. Three degrees colder, in fact. The record was promptly reassigned, leaving Ophir with its post office, bridge, pub, and the rather less marketable distinction of being merely the second coldest place in New Zealand. 

Ophir’s near-record low of -21.6 °C was reached on Monday, 3 July 1995. To put that in perspective, the average temperature at Scott Base in Antarctica – a place where penguins look like they’re regretting their life choices – is a comparatively balmy -19.8 °C. Ophir was so cold that day locals swear livestock froze to the ground, hens had to be prised off their perches, and hypothermia was a very real threat. For years, the town proudly held on to this shivery claim to fame, until 2015 when the past inconveniently caught up with it. Old records were dusted off and revealed that back in July 1903, a site just west of Ranfurly had clocked an arctic –25.6 °C. And just like that, poor Ophir slipped from first place to second – which is a cruel fate for a town that was already small enough to be overlooked on most maps. 

Fortunately for Ophir, the post office is delightful, the old bridge is wonderful, and the pub is charming. I arrived from nearby Omakau in bright sunshine on a fine but chilly afternoon, wandered about the old buildings, and walked across the bridge – which I rather enjoyed. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I walked across it once more. Then, for good measure, I skipped, hopped, and danced my way across as well, before climbing back into the car and slipping over the hill into the Ida Valley.  

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

Omakau

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Daily Photo – Omakau

Just after you leave the town of Clyde – heading towards Alexandra on State Highway 8, there’s a turnoff called Springvale Road. I took this, heading for the town of Omakau. As I did so, a strange thing happened: the sky cleared revealing a stunning winter’s day. It felt almost biblical. One moment I thought it was going to rain, next I was traveling through bright sunshine under a vast and radiant blue sky. This was the weather I’d been hoping for since leaving home, and now at last, here it was – stretching off into the distance, a big blue sky over a timeless land. I couldn’t be happier. 

I’d read somewhere that Omakau is a charming little Central Otago town, a lovely place to stop and stroll around. So that’s exactly what I did. I parked out the former Commercial Hotel and went for a wander, reading signs and inquisitively peering into various shop windows before strolling the short distance down to the Manuherikia River 

Over a hundred years ago, a violent storm swept through the region, bringing a combination of flooding, snowstorms, and blizzards. So unexpected was the weather system, many people were caught unprepared and heavy rain caused rivers like the Manuherikia to swell with one drowning recorded. During the snowstorms that followed, further fatalities were recorded. Thankfully, when I was there the river was in a pleasant and agreeable mood, and looked rather fetching from my vantage point on the bridge. I could almost make out the town of Ophir, which was where I was heading next. For a moment I considered walking there. It was only two kilometres away and the day was warm and fine. What’s more, I was on my own time and in need of a good walk. Just as I was about to set off, a bout of rational thinking kicked in. If I walked there, I’d also have to walk back, and the afternoon would quickly disappear. A decent walk now would mean less time for a beer at the end of the day. I mulled over this quandary for a few minutes … and then headed back to the car.

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

Clyde (2)

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Daily Photo – Clyde (2)

Like a lot of places in Otago and Southland, the town of Clyde got its start in life thanks to the discovery of gold in the region. When that happened, everyone went absolutely bananas and rushed to the goldfields seeking fame and fortune, the epicentre of the mayhem being the town of Clyde – although back then it was simply known as “The Dunstan.” At the height of the gold rush, Clyde was the largest town in the country, and it’s also home to one of my favourite gold rush robbery stories.

At the time of the Otago Gold Rush of the 1860s, the towns of Frankton and Clyde were strategically important hubs in the gold escort network. Located on key routes between Queenstown, Arrowtown, and the wider Otago diggings, shipments of gold often passed through one or the other on their way back to Dunedin. Depending on where the gold originated, it might be staged overnight in Frankton or in Clyde before tackling the next leg of the journey. In July 1870, gold from the local diggings was being held in Clyde’s lock-up, awaiting the Monday morning escort to Dunedin, when one of the country’s most audacious robberies took place, gold and banknotes to the value of around £2,000 at the time were stolen from inside the Clyde gaol.

The robbery occurred on a cold winter’s night in late July 1870, as a hard frost settled over the town. Earlier that day, the weekly gold shipment from the local diggings had been brought into Clyde and stored away in the town lock-up, located inside a cell within the town jail. The next morning, upon inspection, it was discovered that the outer gaol door remained secure, but the larger, heavier, and stronger door inside had been forced open and the gold and banknotes were gone.

After an exhaustive search, with a substantial reward offered to anyone who could help solve the crime, the cash boxes were found empty in a water race just 50 metres from the gaol, while whispers around town suggested a local shoemaker and the constable on duty might have been involved. Local gossip even hinted that the constable had simply unlocked the outer door to let the shoemaker in, yet none of this was ever proven and no one was ever convicted.

The robbery had taken place some time between midnight and 4 a.m. The thieves broke through the inner door by removing heavy screws and manipulating the sturdy iron bolt across it. Once inside, they threw the cash boxes over the gaol wall and made off with the loot – the gold and notes were never recovered, although town gossip suggested they were hidden 50 kilometres (35 miles) from Clyde, somewhere in the rocky Maniototo hills.

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

Clyde (1)

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Daily Photo – Clyde (1)

The drive to Clyde was 20 minutes of scenic beauty along the shores of Lake Dunstan. The weather was in an indecisive mood, with ominous storm clouds gathering overhead, while settled patches of blue sky showed signs of promise far off in the distance. All along the lake there are bays and inlets that are usually filled with people in the summer months; however, today they were empty, as occasional gusts of wind whipped up the lake, disturbing the wintery aqua hues on the lake’s epilimnion. The road was strangely quiet – a welcome surprise, let me tell you – leaving me free to happily gaze out the window, contently singing along to some 1970s Soul Train mix that Spotify had told me was “a vibe I know you’re into,” putting me in a happy and content mood as I pulled into town and parked outside a local bakery.

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

Cromwell

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Daily Photo – Cromwell

A few minutes later, I arrived in Cromwell. It had a sluggish sort of feel. The town was busier than expected, yet low mist and cloud had settled over the place, giving the day a lethargic air that residents seemed to embrace as they ambled between shops at a pace suggesting they had nowhere urgent to be. I drove through the historic precinct, where the original town once stood before the area was flooded and most of its historic buildings were lost forever, eventually leaving via the main bridge at a place called Dead Man’s Point. Here, I joined State Highway 8, with Lake Dunstan coming into view, and carried on towards Clyde.

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

Bannockburn

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Daily Photo – Bannockburn

Just before reaching Cromwell, near Highlands Motorsport Park (a world-class venue that at one point looked doomed for the scrapheap until Scottish-born entrepreneur and racing enthusiast Tony Quinn injected the necessary funds to see it completed) I decided on a whim to detour 5 kilometres to the small settlement of Bannockburn. 

Bannockburn got its start in the days of the Otago Gold Rush and at the height of the gold rush, around 40,000 miners were working claims across Central Otago, with about 10,000 in the Clyde, Cromwell, Bannockburn, Stewart Town area by 1864. Around this time, a story emerged of a chilly spring evening when a handful of miners gathered at one of the numerous watering holes just down the hill from Stewart Town near Bannockburn. After a hard week of sluicing and picking through schist, they were ready to unwind, and as the night grew later, the whisky flowed, the laughs grew louder, and the stories taller.

By the time the last orders came, three miners – let’s call them Jack, Tom, and Bill – discovered that the relationship between their brains and legs had broken down entirely. They began the long stumble back up the hill to Stewart Town in a not-altogether-straight line. As the night deepened, the songs grew louder, the hill steeper, and the gullies all started to look the same. Familiar landmarks blurred in the moonlight. Hours later, the townsfolk woke to faint voices and songs drifting over the hills through the night. At first light, a search party set out and found the trio several kilometres off the usual track, tangled in a scrubby gully, their boots soaked, clothes torn, and nursing hangovers that could floor a crash of rhinoceroses.

These days, all that’s left of Stewart Town are a few crumbling remains on a historic reserve, while Bannockburn itself has a population of around 500 – a number that soars to what feels like 5 billion in summer as holidaymakers flock to Central Otago to enjoy this sun-baked pocket of the country, where golden hills, vineyards, and vast blue skies linger late into the evening. Upon arrival, I drove around for a bit, admiring the remains of old schist buildings that still grace the town, before slipping out across the bridge.

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

Lake Hayes

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Daily Photo – Lake Hayes

At Lake Hayes, the weather was starting to break. The heavy, overcast gloom and constant threat of rain was giving way to still, settled-yet cold-conditions. I pulled into a relatively empty car park and went for a stroll along one of the tracks that followed the shore. The full loop is a picturesque and enchanting 8-kilometre (5-mile), two-hour walk around the lake’s edge. On a different day I’d have embraced the track and set off for a decent walk, but time wasn’t on my side. Instead, I stood by the water’s edge, taking in the near-perfect mountain reflections in front of me.

The lake was still, like a sheet of glass stretching all the way to the distant shore, creating a flawless, crystal-clear mirror image of the mountains across the horizon while wildlife lazily pushed through the reeds near my feet. Only the steady hum of the motorway behind me, with its chaotic rhythm, broke up the tranquillity of this peaceful oasis. It couldn’t last. It didn’t last. Just as I pulled out of the car park and bravely rejoined the stream of traffic, an annoyance of British campervans arrived and began setting up a corral in the very car park I’d just vacated. Hungry and thirsty, I slipped into the traffic flow heading for Cromwell, roughly 45 kilometres (27 miles) away, passing through the wonderful Gibbston Valley and Kawarau Gorge – an ever-changing journey of spectacular mountain peaks, deep ravines, with a striking yet imposing river.

#dailyat6am, Frankton, Jacks Point, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

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Daily Photo – Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

I returned to the car and drove 32 kilometres (20 miles) 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. To the north lay the ever-expanding district of Frankton, a strategically important location during the time of the Otago Gold Rush in the 1860s and the birthplace of WWII hero and flying ace William Hodgson.

I’d read about RAF officer William Hodgson quite by chance before leaving on my trip, wondering if I might be able to find a war memorial in the area with his name on it. Born in Frankton on 30 September 1920, Hodgson joined the RNZAF in Dunedin in 1939, training first at the Otago Aero Club and then at Wigram’s Flight Training School before being shipped off to the United Kingdom in April 1940. Upon arrival, he completed Hurricane training and was posted to the 85th Squadron at Debden in May, becoming involved in the Battle of Britain in August – his squadron being ordered to patrol the skies over Canterbury. From there, he went on to fly close to 150 missions, being officially credited with destroying five enemy aircraft and damaging many others. On 13 March 1941, Hodgson was a passenger in an A-20 when shortly after takeoff, a panel came loose, wrapped itself around the tail fin causing the plane to crash, killing all on board.

My plan upon arrival in Frankton was simple: go for a walk, see if I could find any mention of William Hodgson at the war memorial, have a coffee, and grab some lunch. But that quickly changed when I discovered that traffic was in a state of insane chaos due to a series of never-ending roadworks. Vehicles were backed up in every direction, made worse by airport traffic and tourists who seemed determined to photograph mountains, rubbish bins, or whatever the hell else had caught their fancy. Stuck in this traffic hellhole, I decided that poor Mr William Hodgson would have to wait. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary in such chaotic shambles, so I escaped via State Highway 6 as quickly as possible. Stopping instead at Lake Hayes, which I hoped would be much more peaceful and was only 9 kilometres (5 miles) further on.

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

Kingston

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Daily Photo – Kingston

From Fairlight, the road to Kingston hugged the edge of open farmland before finally giving way to the lake. The weather had slipped into that particular winter moodiness – a low ceiling of grey, the hills brooding under a dusting of snow, and Lake Wakatipu the colour of slate. By the time I rolled into Kingston, it felt as though the clouds had settled in for the long haul.

Kingston’s first claim to fame was, of course, the Kingston Flyer, the old steam train that once flew its way up and down the tracks. But I discovered it had a second claim to fame: it was here that the TSS Earnslaw was launched.

Built in Dunedin, the Earnslaw had been dismantled and loaded onto trains for the journey to Kingston, piece by piece, before being reassembled and launched on 18 October 1912. She set out from Kingston to Queenstown on her maiden voyage that day and has been gliding up and down Lake Wakatipu ever since, a floating slice of Edwardian elegance.

I stood and looked out across the lake, then back towards the town. I’d managed to see the Flyer, stand where the Earnslaw first touched the water, and even exchange a few words with a handful of locals who seemed equal parts curious and amused by my visit. It felt like I’d done Kingston justice – enough history, conversation, and weather to fill a small notebook. With that achievement under my belt, I pointed the car toward the Devil’s Staircase, Carlin Creek, Jacks Point and finally Frankton.

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

Fairlight

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Daily Photo – Fairlight

Leaving Athol, State Highway 6 quickly slips into that familiar Southland habit of stretching out in long, ruler-straight lines, as if the surveyor couldn’t be bothered. Further on, smaller settlements appeared almost apologetically, little more than a handful of houses and a war memorial that looks like it’s been keeping a quiet eye on the place for over a century. Blink, and you’re on your way again.

Further on, I found myself at Fairlight. At first glance, it’s just a station beside the road, 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 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 presumably a few startled sheep watching the spectacle roll past.

The building here today started life as Otautau’s railway station, built around the 1920s, and was hauled over to Fairlight in 1996. Now it serves as the southern terminus of the Kingston Flyer, quietly keeping watch, waiting for the next whistle of steam, and maybe remembering the days of old when the carriages made the ground tremble.

#dailyat6am, Athol, Lowther, Lumsden, Travels in small-town New Zealand, Wild Horses

Lumsden, Lowther & Athol

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Daily Photo – Lumsden, Lowther & Athol

Twenty kilometres beyond Dipton is Lumsden, then the towns of Lowther and Athol. But, I didn’t feel like stopping at any of these places. The rural feel was giving way to mountain passes and ranges with snowcovered peaks, all of which gave an ominous, moody feel to the far off horizon. I was happy to drive and watch the countryside pass me by. Besides, I was deeply engrossed in an Australian podcast called The Crewe murders: New Zealand’s most infamous cold case. In 1970, Harvey and Jeanette Crewe were shot dead in the living room of their Pukekawa farmhouse, their bodies found in the Waikato River three months later. 

When the Crewes’ were first discovered to be missing, their two-year-old daughter Rochelle was found alive and alone at the Crewes farmhouse, having been cared for by an unknown person/s. Local farmer Arthur Allan Thomas was eventually arrested and charged over the murders, the prosecution relying heavily on a spent .22 cartridge case found in the Crewe garden. Thomas was convicted, appealed and reconvicted and spent nine years in prison before it was revealed evidence was planted by police. In 1979, nine years after the Crewe’s were murdered, Arthur Allan Thomas was granted a Royal Pardon by Governor-General Sir Keith Holyoake on the advice of Prime Minister Robert Muldoon, while to this day, the murders have never been solved. 

As I drove with the countryside changing around me, I realised it’s the mystery around the Crewe murders more than the murderers themselves that make the case so fascinating. The actual murders were nothing more than a grisly affair that has happened countless times before. What made these murders so sensational was the sheer amount of unknown intrigue that lasted throughout the case. With the Crewe murders, new evidence doesn’t provide answers, it only raises more questions, and that’s very rare!  

About the time I was whizzing through the small Southland town of Athol, dodging slow-moving cars with Australian bumper stickers that read “I come from the land down under” and “Australian and Proud,” my podcast was ending and I was feeling in a somber mood. I had started the day with the infamous baby farmer Minnie Dean and moved on to the horrific murders of Harvey and Jeanette Crewe. These were heavy topics for 10am and now I was being held up by slow-moving Australians. So, to lighten the mood before arriving at Fairlight, I spent the time trying to remember jokes about Australians.

Question: How many Australians does it take to make chocolate chip cookies?
Answer: Ten. One to make the batter, and nine to peel the M&Ms.

Question: What do you call an Australian in the final of the Rugby World Cup?
Answer: A referee.

Question: Why did the Australian stare at the carton of orange juice?
Answer: It said “concentrate.”

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

Dipton

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Daily Photo – Dipton

Limehills is the kind of place you could easily miss if you blink too long while driving, which is exactly what I did. I’d been hoping to get an early fix of caffeine, my eyes scanning for the tell-tale sign of a café with a chalkboard out front and a name like “Bean There” or “Perky’s,” but the opportunity sailed past without me even noticing. By the time I realised, I was rolling into Dipton, wondering if I’d dreamt Limehills entirely.

Located on State Highway 6 between Invercargill and Frankton, Dipton’s population hovers at just over 2,000 people, who enjoy its tranquil rural feel. The nearby Ōreti River sparkling in the sunshine, all the while surrounded by wonderfully green pastures that seem to go on forever. But this was winter. The pastures weren’t green, the sunshine wasn’t shining, and the tranquillity seemed to have slipped away. A low grey winter cloud hung over the town like an unmade duvet, the nearby paddocks were lined with mud, cows standing about in that resigned way cows do when they know there’s no point complaining.

And yet, there was something oddly comforting about Dipton in winter. The stillness was different; it was more of a sedate winter hibernation. Still, I’m sure locals welcome visitors with all the good graces in the world. I could turn up at the Winter Community Catch-Up in June, attend rock ’n’ roll lessons on a Wednesday evening throughout July, stop off at Bee’s Bites for a taste treat, or join the locals in seeing Nick Hyde live in the Community Hall in September, all the being embraced into the town. Dipton seemed to be the kind of place where locals would tip their hat with a friendly “morn” before moving on with their day.

Dipton wasn’t flashy. It’s not even mildly attention-seeking. It was just quietly getting on with the business of the day. As must I, which is why I headed for Lumsden.

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

Winton (3)

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Daily Photo – Winton (3)

The Larches, a modest property just outside the rural town of Winton, gained a measure of notoriety in the early 1870s as the home of the infamous baby farmer Williamina Dean (better known as Minnie Dean) and her husband, Charles.

The Deans moved there after their hotel business near Riverton collapsed. If that wasn’t enough, a fire at their new home left them teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. With Charles struggling to find steady work, Minnie turned to what was then called “baby farming”, taking in infants for payment from mothers who were unable or unwilling to care for them. Quickly whispers soon began to spread. Several children in her care had died, reportedly from neglect or mistreatment, and the town began to watch her more closely.

Locals noticed a curious pattern: Minnie often travelled alone by train, returning with a child in tow. Then, days, weeks or months later, she would be off again, returning with another child, many of them never to be seen again. On one particular journey, a local reporter saw her board a train carrying a baby and a small hatbox. When she came back, the baby was gone, and the hatbox was unusually heavy and all she carried. Suspicion turned to alarm, and the police were alerted.

In 1895, a search of The Larches revealed a grim discovery: the bodies of two infants and a three-year-old girl buried in the garden. Her trial was swift. Found guilty of murder, she was sentenced to death. On 12 August 1895, at Invercargill Prison, Minnie Dean became the first, and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand.

I found her grave on the edge of the old Winton Cemetery, slightly apart from the others, as though she were still kept at arm’s length from society. Today, Winton likes to be known as a prosperous farming community rather than for Minnie Dean, but the story still lingers in the background.I climbed back into my car and drove through the nearby streets. I drove past ‘The Larches’ where once a ramshackled old weatherboard cottage with a dirt floor once stood,  a faint emptiness settling over me. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, some dramatic flash of history, perhaps, but in the quiet morning hour it all felt strangely anticlimactic in a sad sort of way. Eventually, I rejoined the main state highway, all the while thinking about the life of Minnie Dean. There was nothing else to be said.  

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

Winton (2)

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Daily Photo – Winton (2)

In the morning, I was awake early and sprang out of bed in an enthusiastic mood. After all, it’s not every day you go to the grave site of the first and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand.

I completed my morning ablutions without incident, ate breakfast, and quietly slipped out into the chilly morning air to take in the town of Winton. Immediately across the road stood the old post office.

The previous evening, the old post office building had looked quite splendid bathed in harsh light. A bright orange streetlamp had thrown its starburst glare squarely across the façade, giving the white walls a lovely glow, while a colder blue light hovered to the left like some disinterested moon. Against the inky black sky, the building’s details of arched doorway and windows seemed exaggerated, as though trying to remind passersby of the importance it once held. But now, in the morning light, it had taken on a different complexion. It looked softer, almost apologetic, as though the bravado of the night had drained away and left behind a tired old building simply trying to mind its own business while it nursed a hangover!

I walked up one side of the street and back down the other, taking in the morning. It was only 7:30 a.m., but trucks were already rattling past. I made my way to my car, and soon after I too was on the road, heading for a place called ‘The Larches’ and later the grave of Minnie Dean.

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

Winton (1)

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Daily Photo – Winton (1)

By the time I arrived in Winton, it was already early evening. The light was fading into that blue haze of half-light that comes at sunset. As I navigated the surrounding streets, I was surprised to find that Winton was larger than I’d been expecting. While still on the small side, it was considerably larger than anything I’d seen for some time, so I happily drove around for a bit, taking in the sights and looking for a place to stay.

The town of Winton sprang to life as miners seeking the riches of the central Otago goldfields plodded across the plains from Invercargill to the goldfields of Wakatipu. The steady stream of travellers became so great that a railway was constructed, and Winton quickly became one of the main transit points for local farmers along with those travelling to and from the goldfields. While the town has grown, as I drove around I couldn’t help but feel it kept some of its transient origins. I liked this.

I took a room at the Railway Hotel, a handsome two-storeyed Edwardian-style building that would’ve been a grand place at the time of its reopening in 1910 (the original building having opened in 1861 before being destroyed by fire). I was given a smallish room, spent several minutes exploring it, opening cupboards, testing the water pressure, and trying to turn on the TV, before presenting myself at the downstairs bar, ready for a pint and something to eat.

I stood at the bar for several minutes before a gravelly voice from behind me said, “You’ve got to ring the bell if you want something.”
I looked around to see a man with a long grey beard in a John Deere tractor cap looking at me with a crooked smile. His name was Jim, I was to discover later, and he must not have been a day younger than 150.
“Pardon me?” I replied.
“The bell, you’ve got to ring it if you want service. They’ll be in the other room setting up for the quiz night,” he continued.

A quiz night, I thought to myself? Now this was a stroke of good fortune. I could just see myself enjoying a nice meal before joining a team who might be down a member. It just so happened that I had recently been part of a champion-winning quiz team, and feeling in a somewhat confident mood, I inquired if anyone could join in. My mind whirled in thought, maybe I could enter on my own. I’d go down in local folklore as that stranger from out of town who whistled in on the breeze, won the local quiz night, and disappeared as quickly as he arrived. However, my daydream was shattered when I was told by a lady behind the bar, “All the teams are full. We’re expecting quite a turnout tonight.”

With this, I slunk to a table, menu in hand, and set about ordering some dinner.
“Besides, the questions are probably all about farming and not nearly as challenging as the local Kindy fundraiser that I’d been part of the winning team in,” I muttered to myself as I surveyed a menu that was about five pages long and had dishes from every major continent on it. For a moment I considered ordering a Greek kebab with a side order of pork bao buns and margherita pizza, just to give the night a truly international flavour. However, I decided to go with a steak and order another beer.

I finished my meal and ordered another pint, with the pleasant sounds of poker machines whittling away in the background. Occasionally Jim, my new best friend, would come over and we’d engage in short conversation before he too became lost to the dazzling lights and sounds of the pokie machines. Eventually, I looked at my watch. It wasn’t late, but I was tired. It had been a long day and my eyes were beginning to droop.

I went outside and looked at the town of Winton under the night sky. The trucks were still bowling past; they had been all day. I retired to my room, read a few pages of my book, and listened to the soothing sounds of laughter coming from the quiz. I bet the questions suck, I thought to myself as I drifted off to sleep. 

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

Nightcaps

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Daily Photo – Nightcaps

The town of Nightcaps was a disappointment.
As a garment (please stick with me here), the nightcap dates back to around the 14th century Northern Europe where indoor heating was absent and caps were worn in bed to keep the head warm. 

Back when I was planning this trip and I spread out a map of the South Island on the living room floor, Nightcaps was one of the towns that caught my eye. Naturally, I’d assumed the residents of the town had chosen the name as a way to celebrate the famed piece of night attire, and that it would be written into the town charter that all local residents had to wear one, day or night. So, you can imagine my disappointment when upon arrival not a nightcap was to be seen. There were plenty of swandries, red-band gumboots, utes covered in mud and working farm dogs noisily yapping away, but not a nightcap to be seen. For a moment, I speculated that the name might be because all the town’s residents get up at midnight, have a belt of whiskey and return to bed. However, I wasn’t prepared to hang around for seven or so hours to confirm my suspicion so I pressed on.

The town was pleasant and had all the facilities you’d expect to find in a small rural town. As I passed through I imagined it being delightful, slowly moving and charming in the height of summer. Unfortunately, it wasn’t summer. It was the middle of winter on a cold and gray Thursday evening.

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

Ohai

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Daily Photo – Ohai

I continued on to Ohai, an even smaller town than Tuatapere. According to Statistics New Zealand as of the 2023 Census the rural town had 288 residents. However, in more recent times the place has experienced somewhat of a ‘boom’ as people from bigger cities have decided they rather like being able to buy a decent house for under $300,000 or a quarter-acre section $60,000.

Once a bustling coal town, life in Ohai appeared to be on the quiet side as I slowly rolled through the town. Just as I was passing through what I assumed was the beating heart of central Ohai, two teenagers came into view, slouching their way down the middle of the road, kicking a can. I kid you not. There they were, just ambling along the centre line, taking it in turns to kicking a crushed and faded tin can down the middle of the street. Occasionally one of them would stop, pick-up a stone and whirl it away in the distance to nothing in particular. Oh what it must be like to be a teenager in a rural, northwestern Southland town. 

Beyond the town the Tākitimu Mountains and Fiordland’s Princess Mountains were visible in the distance and gave the place a semi-alpine feel. The afternoon was pressing on, the light was starting to dip ever so slightly while heavy clouds once again hung overhead. On the outskirts of town a sign pointed back towards the town that read “Ohai Ohai”, so I said “goodbye, goodbye” and carried on to Nightcaps. Or, should I say ‘Nightcaps Nightcaps’.

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

Tuatapere

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Daily Photo – Tuatapere

When local Tuatapere sausage guru Leo Henderson came up with a new recipe in the 1980’s, little did he know he was creating what is now arguably the country’s best sausage. At the time of creation his friends and neighbours were so impressed and filled with pride that whispers quickly spread: the local ‘snarler’ produced by the well-known butcher from the high street was the best in the land. Thus, over time, word spread that the local delicacy from the countries most south-western town (with a population of approximately 560 people),  was so good that Tuatapere became known as the “Sausage Capital of New Zealand”

It only occurred to me later that day, as I was looking at an abandoned farmhouse being slowly swallowed by sheep, that I should’ve stopped and brought some of the famous local product. I sighed in disbelief. I couldn’t believe I had been so stupid! For a moment I considered going back, but it was getting late and I didn’t have time. There I was, driving through the sausage capital of New Zealand, and I DIDN’T stop and buy any to take with me. I could’ve kicked myself! I did kick myself and vowed ‘never again shall I make such a monumental blunder!’ Well, not for the next 72 hours at least! 

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

Orepuki

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Daily Photo – Orepuki

I was heading for Tuatapere, the “Sausage Capital of New Zealand.” A bold claim really – especially in a country where around 400 million sausages are eaten every year. 

On the way, just outside a place called Orepuki, the weather started to turn. The drive had been long and winding, twisting its way out of rolling farmland and into something altogether more coastal. The paddocks gave way to rugged beaches that looked quiet and pristine in the afternoon light. Out on the horizon, across the bay, dark clouds were gathering with all the pleasantry of a grumpy bus driver. Things were starting to look ominous.

A little further on, I passed a sign that read “Gemstone Beach.” I’d read about this place before. Apparently, all sorts of rare and colourful pebbles are washed from Fiordland via the Waiau River, eventually ending up on the shoreline. It’s a fossicker’s paradise. For a fleeting moment, I considered pulling over for a poke around. But the afternoon was ticking on and I wanted to see our nation’s sausage capital. Priorities.

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

Riverton

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Daily Photo – Riverton

In the time that it took me to drive to Riverton, the entire Romanov dynasty in Russia collapsed and Bolshevism took over. When you think about it, that’s a lot to happen in 20 minutes. In actual fact, it took more than 20 minutes. It took about 300 years, but it’s amazing how history can be condensed into a podcast, and how consuming it can get while you’re driving.

So, while I listened to the tale of how the last Tsar of Russia (Nicholas II) and the rest of his family were being shot in a cold basement somewhere in Russia during 1917, I was rolling into the small Southland town of Riverton. A town that proudly claims itself to be the “Riviera of the South.” A splendid place it is too.

Like most New Zealand towns it has a single long main street, with all the major shops branching off it. It also used to have an oversized paua shell that greeted visitors on their way into town, but upon my arrival I discovered it had been moved – to the far end of town overlooking the river. Rather fetching it was in its new home. Mind you, if I’d paid $30,000 for an imitation marine mollusc to be repainted, it better be dazzling as all hell! 

The last time I was in Riverton I filled the afternoon by wandering around the paths that flanked the river and realised two things. Firstly that Riverton is a charming town and the second that it had occurred to me while walking across the town bridge, that I didn’t have any particular reason to be there. So, on this occasion, as I crossed the town bridge, I took a moment to park my car and look back across the estuary to the town. It really was a nice little place!

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

Wallacetown

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Daily Photo – Wallacetown

I left Invercargill with a strange sensation, and I don’t mean a tingling between the toes that might be a touch of an athlete’s foot. I was leaving the city with an idea of what I might actually do when I returned. That was a new feeling for me. Usually, when I leave Invercargill, I don’t give the place a second thought, but this time was different. 

As I rolled out of the inner city, I thought about the Classic Motorcycle Mecca, Transport World, and Queens Park – all I could come back and visit. I was still mulling over these options as I passed through Avenal, then Waikiwi, then Lorneville, and then I was passing open farm fields, having completely missed my destination of Wallacetown. 

By the time I realised this, I was someway down the road. Recutalant to retrace my steps just to poke around the town, I decided to push on another twenty minutes to Riverton.

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

Invercargill

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Daily Photo – Invercargill

The drive from Bluff to Invercargill was 26 km (16 miles) of pure anticipation. I felt I’d been a bit harsh on one of the world’s most southern cities, so I decided to approach it with an open mind and a sense of expectation. But it’s hard not to prejudge a city that’s been called “the arse end of the world,” or a place where “people only smile when it’s windy because their lips are frozen to their teeth.”

Instead, I chose to focus on a slightly more optimistic description: “a promising settlement that was progressing satisfactorily.” Mind you, that was in 1857, when the town had grown in just a year from two houses and a few tents to a village boasting fourteen houses, two inns, and three stores. Progress, indeed.

Yet, despite my reservations, I arrived with a newfound sense of hope. After all, a place that produced New Zealand motorcycle legend Burt Munro can’t be all bad. Can it?

I completed an uneventful drive into the heart of Invercargill, parked near the well-known Boer War memorial, and went for a wander. I strolled a short distance to the Otepuni Gardens before detouring through the surrounding city streets, eventually arriving back at my car.

The place was pleasant. A steady stream of shoppers hurried about and the weather agreeable. Then, it suddenly dawned on me, there wasn’t a hill to be seen. Invercargill it turns out, is as flat as a pancake. This was something I’d never noticed. At the time I was having this revelation, it also occurred to me that here was a city with no pretence. No trying to be something it wasn’t, Invercargill just was. Quietly doing its thing at the bottom of the country, and maybe that was enough.

I left with an open frame of mind.

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

Bluff

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Daily Photo – Bluff

I like Bluff. It’s got a sign that points in twelve directions at once, a graveyard for ships, and a lighthouse. Also, it’s not Invercargill. That alone is worth celebrating. There’s even an enormous painting of what can only be described as an underwater steampunk chicken lounging in a copper bathtub. Why? Who knows. Bluff doesn’t need to explain itself.

There used to be a house where every inch of the inside was covered in paua shells which is long gone unfortunately. Mind you, they do have a food truck that is frankly, far better than they have any right to be. Last time I visited, it was bucketing down with rain. They actually wrote down my licence plate and brought my food out to me in the car. Now that’s service. I know places that can’t even remember my order while I’m standing at the counter, let alone tracking me down when I’m hiding in the car.

This time, I just drove around and admired the port from various angles, finishing with a view from up on the hill. It looked like a giant, moving jigsaw puzzle I couldn’t solve and certainly didn’t understand. Out on the horizon, Invercargill loomed in a faint grey haze. That was my next stop. Lucky me.

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

Mokotua

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Daily Photo – Mokotua

So, I drove on from the small settlement of Tokanui to the even smaller Mokotua. Smaller by 33%, to be precise. The drive lasted under 30 minutes, I passed rivers and streams that dissected the farmland on either side of the long, straight roads. Passing through an area called Gorge Road (about halfway between Tokanui and Mokotua), I realised I had the road to myself. I tried to think of the last time I’d seen a vehicle. Tokanui, perhaps? I couldn’t for the life of me remember! Out here, there was no need to worry about following distances or getting stuck behind someone who treats the accelerator like a suspicious red button not to be pushed. Not that I’m impatient, of course, I just prefer not to grow old waiting for someone to reach the speed limit.

Since I had the road to myself, to fill the time, I switched from listening to music to a podcast that I’d downloaded earlier to keep me company. I’d been following the trial of Erin Paterson, a lady from East Gippsland, Victoria, Australia, who had been accused of murdering her in-laws after they died eating death-cap mushrooms that were found in the Beef Wellington. She’d recently been found guilty of murder, and in the wave of media coverage that had followed in the preceding days, I’d fallen behind in my listening. Of all the things mentioned in the trial, the one thing I found strange was this: guilt or innocence aside, if you had ‘explosive diarrhoea,’ would you wear white pants? If my lower half had declared independence and were having less of a bowel movement and more of a plumbing crisis, white certainly wouldn’t be my first choice in colour.

After that thought, I decided mushrooms (and anything wrapped in pastry) might be off the menu for a while. The road ahead lifted and dipped like a lazy rollercoaster, disappearing over each rise before spilling into the next stretch of farmland. Power lines marched beside me, the only company apart from the occasional flock of sheep. Mokotua flickered past almost unnoticed, a scatter of paddocks and a store before vanishing behind me. Beyond each crest, I felt closer to Bluff, New Zealand’s southernmost town, one of the country’s oldest European settlements, home to the iconic Stirling Point signpost and the world-famous Bluff oysters.

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

Fortrose

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Daily Photo – Fortrose

When you’re driving, you have lots of time to think and consider things. Time to let your mind wander and contemplate issues that fill daily life. Things that you don’t otherwise have the time to pay attention to. Important things, such as ‘what was in that chorizo risotto I liked the other night, what are the opening lyrics to Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody’ and ‘is now a good time to sort the glove box!’ On one occasion, I passed a sign that said ‘200m Fortrose Cafe Coffee Food 24 Fuel’ – yet we can’t punctuate, I thought to myself. I left the town as quickly as I arrived. Yet, as I did, I began to wonder about the Fortrose Cafe.  Were they selling three separate things or was ‘coffee food fuel’ some sort of all-in-one super-snack for a desperate road-tripper, designed to keep them awake for 36 hours straight?

The fog, fine mist and rain of South Otago along with the gloomy overcast conditions of The Catlins were now starting to give way to pockets of high broken cloud and patches of blue sky. The drive from Tokanui to Fortrose had taken less time than it did to play The Doors twelve minute epic The End. Which, funnily enough is where The Catlins region ended and I rolled into Southland. As the final bars of the song were fading into the background and Toetoes Bay and the mouth of the Mataura River came into view, under a clearing, yet moody sky, I was happy in the knowledge that in Fortrose, you can get your coffee, lunch, and petrol all in one cup. Just don’t light a match near it!