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.
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.
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.
Lovingly restored over a number of years, the old two room stone building appeared in superb condition on the outside and I was delighted to find both rooms unlocked so visitors like myself could have a poke around. The first room I went into contained old leather and heavy dark metal harness gear hanging from the walls, not far from where these were framed pictures that told the story of the cottage. The most prominent feature was an old large, old fireplace, oven, or forge made of stone and built-in to the wall beneath the chimney in the corner of the room.
The second room was much the same, bare but for a few horse shoes hanging on the far wall from the door. The floor closest to the door was concrete and moving further back, the floor transitioned to packed earth that extended to the base of the walls. Thoughtfully, a hole had been cut in the wall so you could peer between rooms which proved to be extremely useful for taking photos. I walked back and forth between rooms for a while. I stood and looked around each room and one thing bothered me. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out how they’d managed to find the room to excavate underneath the to make room for an illegal whisky distillery that was rumoured to be hidden under the floorboards. Not only that, I wouldn’t know where to start! Either way, it was a very impressive effort, and rather clever.
I drove through heavy mid-morning rain. Here and there, the road dipped into large muddy puddles that I bounced in and out of, spraying water and loose gravel across the car as I did so. Berwick Forest is only a forty-minute drive from Dunedin, and I’d been there on an errand which also provided the opportunity to go on a longer drive, away from the usual motorways, streets, and footpaths that I frequent over the course of a typical week.
Earlier that morning I had passed through small rural settlements with names such as Outram, Woodside Glen, and Berwick. I had it in mind to take a different route home, just to keep things interesting and the mind active. The surrounding countryside gradually became more hilly and disappeared into thick white clouds. Large pools of water were forming into new streams that cut through paddocks and ran down across the road. It had been years since I’d driven this particular road, so I spent the time looking out the car window as I bounced along, identifying possible photographic subjects with a sense of joy and intrigue. Every so often being reminded that I was in charge of a 1,600 kg (1.6 tonnes) motor vehicle, as a stone ricocheted off the windscreen.
At some point, between splashes of water and sprays of stones, I came across one of those road signs that indicate places of interest or historical significance. This one read: “McDonald’s Historic Cottage 2 km.” I thought that sounded like a nice place to drive past, and it was.
I found it thanks to a large blue sign hanging from a fence that told me the wee stone cottage was built in 1860 by the McDonald family. The building was a nice place – small, quaint, but remarkably pleasant for a two-room stone cottage sitting on somebody’s front lawn. Its approximate area being 33 m² (I did the math). Once a two-room dairy and bakery, it also had an illegal whisky distillery hidden under the floorboards.
A bit of a change in direction today and a break from the usual travelogue …
Daily Photo – Lan Yuan
Why This “Quiet” Photo Was a Technical Battle
Every now and then, you take a photo that looks like it should be the easiest thing in the world. It’s a beautiful scene, some tranquil garden, maybe, or a quiet street. You look at the raw file (that top image, the one with all the orange marks) and think, lovely. You look at the final image (the bottom one), and you think, perfect.
But what’s the distance between lovely and perfect? That’s where the work sits. And in a photo like this, that work is all down to one of the most stubborn issues a photographer faces when shooting architecture: converging verticals.
The Problem with the Real World
The buildings in this shot that surround the Dunedin Chinese Gardens are meant to stand upright, proud, and square. But because of the lens, the height and the angle the camera lens did what it does best: it lied.
If you look closely at the raw file, you can see how those vertical lines, the edges of the walls, the pillars, the windows are all leaning into the centre. They look like they’re about to fall over, or maybe they just had a long night. It’s that classic “keystone” effect, and it immediately breaks the serene feeling of the place.
Now, this isn’t just one building. This is a complex arrangement of walls and corners, all at slightly different distances and angles. It’s a technical nightmare in the editing suite because correcting one set of lines perfectly often makes the adjacent set of lines look completely warped. It’s like trying to untangle one knot on a fishing line only to find you’ve created three more.
The Grunt Work in the Post-Processing Darkroom
There’s no magic button for this. Getting from that leaning, slightly chaotic raw file to the balanced, final image was a process of very fine adjustments, the kind that requires a cup of coffee and a lot of quiet concentration.
I had to put on my architect’s hat and methodically tackle the geometry:
Transform Tool, Not Magic: This involved manually adjusting the perspective and vertical guides both Lightroom and Photoshop. I wasn’t just pulling a slider; I was nudging it, checking the highlighted lines (the ones I’ve marked in orange), nudging again, checking the opposite side, and then nudging again until the eye accepted the view as naturally straight.
Fighting the Stretch: When you correct converging lines, you stretch the image. You have to be mindful that the proportions of the elements, the windows, the roof overhangs don’t become too tall or too thin. It’s a constant trade-off between straight lines and believable shapes.
The Final Layers: Only once the structure was sound and once the buildings looked like they were firmly anchored and not listing like a rusty ship could I move on to the easier, more enjoyable work of bringing the whole scene to life.
In the end, what looks like a simple, polished photograph is really a technical triumph over the lens’s distortions. It’s proof that sometimes, the most peaceful scenes are the ones that demand the most time and technical fussing to get right.
It’s that quiet satisfaction, the one you get from fixing a complex problem without leaving a trace of the effort, that makes the whole process worthwhile. It’s also a reminder to work slowly, and look carefully.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Has anyone else had a deceptively difficult image like this? Share your perspective battles below.
Before I left home on this trip, I’d decided that when I returned, it would be an ideal opportunity to look at Dunedin from a different perspective, to view the city as a tourist might. So, when the hills of the peninsula eventually came into view, with the harbour stretching out into the distance and the city centre neatly tucked on the far shore, I paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air and the familiar, distinctive coastline. I quickly discovered that I’d set myself an impossible task – I was far too invested. You see, having called Dunedin home for 98% of my life, I couldn’t look at it any other way. It was home.
Still, not wanting to give up completely on the task I’d set myself, I had a flip through a few well-known travel guides to gain a foreigner’s perspective, an honest attempt to see the place through a different set of eyes, if you will. Eventually, after much reading (and let’s be honest here, most travel guides are pretty dull) and a few false starts, I was able to cobble together some kind of semi-coherent consensus. The overall opinion seemed to be that Dunedin is a place where history, creativity, and nature meet. With its heritage architecture, lively arts scene, and easily accessible wilderness, it comes across as charming, quirky, and environmentally blessed. Added to which Dunedin is a UNESCO City of Literature, and in the heart of the Octagon you can even follow a literacy walk, stopping at plaques commemorating writers of note and literary milestones.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against these publications; they are, in fact, very useful. I’ve even used one myself in a moment of poor judgement and indecision. It’s just that you could easily apply that description to almost any major city in the world – some minor cities as well, come to think of it. What I wanted was something unique, something you couldn’t say about any other city in the world. Then, just when I was about to give up, just when I was thinking Dunedin would fall into the vast well of nondescript cities, I happened to stumble across notable New Zealand poet Peter Olds and a quote that I absolutely love when he so eloquently said: “I fell flat on my face, drunk in the Octagon: right on top of a plaque with my name on.” There, in that single unvarnished sentence, Dunedin is captured quite beautifully.
I left Brighton heading for Dunedin. I’d decided to take the Southern Scenic Route, a 610-kilometre roading network that connects Queenstown, Fiordland, and Dunedin via The Catlins, Invercargill, and Bluff. Created in the 1980s as a way to boost tourism, the drive gives you an entirely new perspective on New Zealand and the joys that can be found along its coastline.
I took a section of the Southern Scenic Route now, as I approached the city of Dunedin. Having left the township of Brighton and passed the Kaikorai Lagoon, I turned right onto a stretch of road known as Blackhead. The name comes from the headland, a mass of dark volcanic basalt formed by the Dunedin volcanic field some 10 million years ago. This is a wonderful and distinctive part of Dunedin’s coastline, with beaches well known for their surf, a steadily returning sea lion population, historic walking tracks, and a hidden cove tied to Dunedin’s earliest days.
I drove along Blackhead Road and paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air as I looked out over the beach. Then I carried on, climbing over the hill into the suburbs of Corstorphine and St Clair. Ahead of me, Dunedin slowly came into view, the harbour, the peninsula, the eastern coastline, and the central city all unfolding in front of me. It was good to be home.
When I’m not listening to Spotify or Podcast, then I’m on audible listening to books. Audible is amazing and it really is mindboggling how many titles are on there! You can find it here: https://www.audible.com/ep/audiobooks
Daily Photo – Afternoon wandering in Dunedin
The other week, I was wandering through central Dunedin late on a sunny winter’s afternoon. There was some crazy afternoon light hanging over the city, and not much traffic, which made a nice change, so I had plenty of time to line up the shots I wanted. In fact, to get a bit of elevation in this image, I had to stand on a narrow stone wall, which required a decent balancing act. If I’d fallen forwarded, I’d have toppled over a metal rail and spilled out all over the street. Fortunately, back in the day when the church was constructed, they made things pretty solid, and wide!
Titanic – Ship of Dreams: This is currently my favourite podcast. Over 14 eposides you follow the ship’s journey from Belfast across the Atlantic, through to the tragic collision with the iceberg and after. Spoiler alert, the shipsinks! Not only do you hear amazing stories from victims and survivors, but you discover how the extraordinary conditions on the ocean that night only added to the confusion. You can find it here: https://www.noiser.com/titanic-ship-of-dreams
Daily Photo – Dusk on a winters evening
So I’ve started another video project featuring Dunedin and lots of my images. It’s been rattling around inside my head for a while and it’s about time I did something about it. Some of the images are recent while others come from the last two to five years so it’s a bit of a mixed bag. Unfortunately, it’s not the type of project that’ll be finished quickly, but I can share with you an image that’s making the final cut – dusk in Dunedin on a winter eveing.
Alec Soth is a well-known American photographer from Minneapolis, who is recognised for his large-format, documentary-style work that captures life in the American Midwest. In a series called Room 303: Alec Soth’s Visions of Venice, he shot a series of images from Hotel Danieli in Venice, inspired by early color images by fellow photographers Dennis Stock and Erich Hartmann. It’s well worth a look. Room 303: Alec Soth’s Visions of Venice
Daily Photo – Life on Mars?
Lightroom presets have been around for a long time now. In fact, since 19th February, 2007 (I looked it up!) with the re-release of Adobe Photoshop Lightroom 1. The re-release of Lightroom gave users the ability to save and apply presets when editing photos. The saved settings could then be applied to other images. Now, 18 years later they are still as much fun to play around with as they ever were. I’ve got loads of presets saved in my version of Lightroom, all with weird and wonderful names. This photo was edited with a preset called ‘Life on Mars?’
The Tūhura Photography Exhibition is on again at Otago Musuem in Dunedin until the 12th October. It’s always a fantastic competition with stunning images featuring entries across four categories: Wildlife, Botanical, Landscape, and Natural Abstract. There’s video presentations, hands-on family activities, rare wildlife specimens, and you can even vote for your favourite in the People’s Choice Award. Best of all – it’s free!
Daily Photo – Venedin
There’s been a bit of rain around Dunedin lately – so much in fact, that a few of the areas around town started to look a bit like Venice, with large puddles spilling over across the streets. While the regular traffic flow around the city was disrupted, the upside was that puddles are great fun to splash around in. They also make great photo opportunities, particularly when coupled with a historic building or two!
Let’s rewind the clock around 15 million years, and we’d find ourselves in a very different version of Dunedin. For starters, the scenery would be dominated by a restless volcano that had a habit of erupting with little warning. During one of its more dramatic outbursts, lava spilled out across the land. As it cooled, it contracted and cracked, creating striking hexagonal basalt columns. These natural formations can still be seen today in spots like Lawyers Head, Blackhead, and the Pyramids at Okia Reserve on the Otago Peninsula. Over the course of millions of years, wind, rain, and time itself have sculpted the land, slowly shaping features like the Organ Pipes into the rugged forms we now recognise, and many of us enjoy clambering over on a sunny afternoon.
Once again we have the metaphor of lines dissolving into the horizon in my work. Only this time the road adds another element. Here, the fence line draws the eye through and intersects with an old gravel road, both threading into the brooding grey sky. In moments like this the land seems to pause, as though waiting. There’s a tension between what is visible and what remains just out of reach and beyond. The light was heavy, with only wire, grass, and sky, but that’s all that’s needed.
Late in the evening, I stepped out onto the St Clair Esplanade, greeted by a thick sea fog that had rolled in silently over the last hour. I’d been tucked away just around the corner at a bar called Salt, enjoying the comforting heaviness of a burger, the sharpness of pickles and charred beef softened by a few leisurely pints. Inside was warm, bustling with catter and the clink of glasses; outside, the night was taking hold.
Streetlamps glowed like lanterns in the mist, casting soft, hazy light that stretched down the esplanade in a procession. I could hear the ocean breathing somewhere just beyond the railings. The fog had a way of absorbing sound and scattering light, wrapping everything in stillness. I wandered slowly, past the old signpost pointing to far-off places and the poem stencilled along the sea wall. For a moment, I had the coast to myself—just the hum of distant waves, the glow of lamps, and the heavy quiet of the fog.
Having parked on Dowling Street sometime around 5am, I stepped out into a city still half-asleep. All the late night bargains had long since been struck and at this early hour a light rain was falling, soft enough to hear and just enough to give the pavement that glassy, reflective sheen. I wandered slowly up Princes Street toward Moray Place, the streets almost entirely empty.
At that hour, traffic was rare, just the occasional car slipping past, leaving a quiet trail of red or white light behind it. The city felt like it was waiting. The wet road turned everything into a mirror. Streetlights flared, traffic signals shimmered, and colours stretched out in long lines across the ground. I set up briefly in the middle of the street, camera ready, letting long exposures pull light out of the darkness.
For a few minutes, it felt like the city to myself. Peaceful, quiet, and still. A moment between night and day.
It was just after 8:00pm on an early winter’s night and the street was quiet, slick after the evening rain. Somewhere down South Road, a muffled hum of tyres approached, rising like a tide and receding just as fast. The local shops lit in glowing pastel of blues and purples, like some kind of retreat in a sea of black. It was cold. Not quite bone-deep cold, but enough that you kept your hands in your pockets and your shoulders hunched against it.
In the dark, the streetlights stretch like starbursts, the reflections glinting off wet asphalt, and the long streaks of red and white from passing cars that blur time in a single frame. Earlier in the day, it hadn’t seemed like much, just another row of low shops, a street lined with parked cars and bins tucked against fences. But now, with the city mostly tucked in for the night, it had a kind of eerie beauty. The kind that only reveals itself when no one’s really looking.
I could’ve been home. Warm. Dry. Probably halfway through a movie and a cup of tea. Instead, I was crouched on a street corner in Dunedin, camera balanced, breath fogging, waiting for headlights to draw silver and gold lines across the road. Waiting for the shutter to catch the passing of time.
Daily Photo – Echoes in the empty seats and whispers in the wings
If there’s one truth about theatres, it’s that they’re riddled with secrets. Behind every heavy door, down each narrow stairwell, and beyond dimly lit corridors lie forgotten spaces and hidden corners that whisper stories of performances past. Just when you believe you’ve uncovered every inch, a shadowed hallway appears, one you swear wasn’t there before and leads you to a part of the theatre shrouded in mystery. And there’s nothing quite as haunting or spellbinding as standing alone in the silence of a grand, empty auditorium with 1600 vacant seats staring back at you. It’s a moment that stirs something deep in your bones.
Ross Creek Reserve is truly a gem, an absolute delight to explore. I always find great joy in wandering the network of tracks that weave through the area. With several entry points, the trails lead you up into the hills, down through peaceful valleys, and alongside one of New Zealand’s oldest water reservoirs and historic dams. The reserve also connects with other nearby trails that climb higher into the Dunedin hills, winding past tranquil water features and through bush alive with birdsong. It’s a place full of charm, natural beauty, and quiet wonder.
It was a quarter past five in the morning and it was cold. Somewhere in the warmth of my car a thermometer on the dashboard was reading 3°C (37.4°F) while standing outside, near The Terminus building I could not only see my breath, but feel the chilly morning air slapping me hard across the face. The few cars out this early left trails of mist, steam and fog. I was tired, hardly awake and questioning my sanity, choosing to stand near a closed group of shops waiting for cars to drive past.
The previous evening after a few beers, it’d been suggested to me that the corner of the former Terminus Building and Presbyterian Church would be a good photo location as cars pass by in predawn darkness. At eleven o’clock at night it had seemed a capital idea. But now, standing in the early morning chill, waiting for cars to drive past, I realised I could still be in a nice warm bed.
A few hours later I arrived in Dunedin. The sky had long since darkened, and the city lights shimmered in the night air. I pulled off near the Southern Motorway to photograph the ribbons of light that danced along the road with white and red streaks, the trails of headlights and taillights captured in a long exposure. The rush of cars passed unseen, but their presence painted the scene in motion and colour. The streetlamps hummed overhead, casting soft amber pools of light that barely cut through the encroaching night.
The chilly air clung to cheeks and hinted at a lazy morning frost soon to settle on the nearby rooftops and roads. It was the kind of night where your breath lingered in front of your face before disappearing into the dark. I stayed a little longer, letting the camera finish its work, and watched the city lights sparkle in the distance – Dunedin glowing quietly at the end of the road.
I found this sign while out on the Otago Peninsula. There’s something about it that seems to say so much about rural life on the Otago Peninsula. It points to roads that feel like they’ve been forgotten about. Where there’s wind-bent grass, broken fence posts and long silences. Occasionally a local passes in a ute with a friendly wave, birds hover over ahead, and the weather changes quickly.
Much to everyone’s surprise, I didn’t go out chasing the spectacular Aurora Australis show the other night. I simply enjoyed it from my front garden. I was tempted, however I’d already been out and about shooting over most of the weekend and by the time it was hitting, I was nicely settled in for the evening. Lazy I know. I did however capture the tail end of the sunset from Layers Head on the way home. Not quite as stunning as an Aurora, yet full of colour nonetheless.
Daily Photo – Dunedin Law Courts & Anzac Square Gardens
There’s something really rather peaceful about wandering a city with no real plan, especially on a quiet, chilly Dunedin afternoon. I found myself strolling near the Railway Station, with its imposing grandeur built from basalt and Oamaru stone, when I drifted toward the Law Courts. No destination in mind, just following the quiet.
As a building, I’ve always liked the Law Courts with its dark stone, turrets, and the gothic feel—it’s the kind of architecture that makes you pause. I wandered up to the entrance and read a bit of history from the board out front. Turns out, Dunedin’s first permanent Courthouse and Prison were built here back in 1859, right on a narrow strip of reclaimed land at the foot of Bell Hill. Back then, the harbour came right up to the base of the old jail.
These buildings were part of the first wave of public infrastructure as Dunedin grew from a struggling settlement into a proper town. The current Law Courts and the neighbouring Police Station were designed by Government Architect John Campbell and built between 1895 and 1902.
Funny how a slow walk can take you through history, without even trying. Just you and a cold afternoon breeze.
Then, a few mornings later I found myself chasing a sunrise along the hills on Otago Peninsula not far from Harbour Cone. It was early, painfully early, but as the sky caught fire with orange and crimson, any hint of tiredness vanished. A lone cabbage tree stood silhouetted against the light, like some timeless sentry watching over the land. The harbour below shimmered with colour as the first light of day spread across the hills. That’s the beauty of this place, there’s always something to discover and no two views are ever the same, and each step feels like an adventure.
While wandering the Dunedin Art Gallery, I stumbled upon an exhibition titled ‘this is NOM*d’, a local fashion label that’s apparently been shaping New Zealand style since 1986. Now I know almost nothing about fashion, both New Zealand’s or anyone else’s—and have even less fashion sense. But somehow, it was fascinating. Of course, I didn’t understand a single thing I was looking at, but I nodded anyway in a profoundly wise manner, as if I always appreciated layered dresses, bright coats and ribbed sleeves that look like they’ve been through a lawn mower.
It was while I was out exploring the tracks around the Hereweka property near Larnach’s Castle that I came across these ruins. I’d spent a good portion of the day walking up and down hills, climbing over and under things, taking wrong turns, stepping over and in sheep poo and generally rather enjoying myself. Before heading home, I came across this derelict building on the Larnach estate. It looked to be an old cottage of some description going by the layout, room sizes and fireplaces, maybe to do with the farm that was operating at the time when Larnach occupied the property. But then again, this is just an assumption. Either way, it was fun to explore and photograph.
I was going to visit Dunedin’s famous Tunnel Beach when I realised the track is currently closed and has been for the last seven months. Severe rain in October 2024 caused numerous slips and significant damage along the track, forcing its closure until major repairs (including a geotechnical investigation) are carried out. Apparently the Department Of Conservation are now prioritising the restoration in the coming months, making access to the hidden beach possible once again.
