Daily Photo – The Aramoana Boardwalk and Saltmarsh

I was aiming for the Aramoana Boardwalk, the start of which I found at the local domain. In a matter of minutes, it took me through the Aramoana Ecological Area, with its native dunes and saltmarsh vegetation, to a viewing platform that sat over the wetlands. If ever there’s a place with too much history for its size, it’s Aramoana. A tiny village that has been the site of a massive industrial war, a national tragedy, and a silent ecological victory.

I stood on the platform and tried to imagine what the place would have looked like if the Aramoana aluminium smelter project from the 1970s had gone ahead. It would have been an unthinkable tragedy to build such a monstrosity of industry in such a lovely place. My eyes drifted from the ghost of the failed aluminium smelter to the memories that silently linger from the Aramoana massacre in the early 1990s, when an unemployed resident shot and killed 13 people before he too was shot dead by police. Standing on the platform, I looked in the other direction, to where the birdlife was flourishing in the quiet beauty of the surrounding tidal flats, one of the most important habitats for wading birds in Otago, yet entirely unaware of the horrific tragedies that had once occurred. I could help but compare the contrast between the effects of human activity and the natural environment, as the clouds passed overhead it seemed a lot to take in.  

From the boardwalk, I ventured past the memorial that stands for the 1990 tragedy and, in the ringing silence, read the names that live on in people’s memories. I drove out to where the mole, or breakwater, sits, stretching out into the sea, continuously battered by the hypnotic rhythm of the waves. On any given day, a walk along the mole or the beach can result in spotting wildlife that ranges from the usual population of birdlife to penguins, seals and sea lions. 

I didn’t have time to walk out along the mole or along the beach. So, I stood in the light breeze for a few minutes, returned to my car, and left Aramoana behind, a place that has earned its right to be left in peace.

Daily Photo – Murray’s Boat in Hamilton Bay

On the way to Aramoana I passed bays with the names Deborah, Hamilton, Dowling and Waipuna. Just like in Port Chalmers, there were more weathered boat sheds, wonky-looking garages, gravel driveways and vessels of various shapes and sizes at anchor. At one point I stopped to watch a lone dinghy drifting in a still, sheltered bay. There was something quintessentially Kiwi about it, a boat that had clearly surrendered to the elements but refused to actually sink. It sat there with the stoic, mossy dignity of an abandoned garden shed that had somehow wandered into the tide. One gets the sense that its owner, a man probably named Barry or Murray almost certainly has used it every weekend since the 1980s, at the same mooring line, with a devotion usually reserved for religious relics or a local sports team. It is a masterclass in our ‘she’ll be right’ attitude, a vessel held together by hope, algae, duct tape and the stubborn refusal to buy anything new while there is absolutely nothing wrong with the current one.

Daily Photo – Goat and Quarantine Islands near Port Chalmers

Right on cue, as I arrived in Port Chalmers, the weather changed. The wind picked up and steadily blew down the harbour between nearby Goat and Quarantine Islands. The warm sunshine had given way to high cloud, but nevertheless there’s something about Port Chalmers that I find very likeable. It persists with a unique, isolated connection to the rest of the city and has a history that is rarely spoken about, almost as if it’s slightly embarrassing to talk about.

Long before European arrival, the area was a significant food-gathering site for Kāi Tahu and Kāti Māmoe iwi. When the first European settlers did arrive, this was the spot where they landed. The port made international history in 1882 when the first shipment of frozen meat departed Dunedin for London. It was also the final port of call for the ill-fated journey to the South Pole by Captain Robert Falcon Scott and his band of Antarctic explorers aboard the Terra Nova in 1910. This was the home of Ralph Hotere, widely considered one of New Zealand’s most important contemporary artists, the once popular Chick’s Hotel was arguably the most famous small music venue in New Zealand, and for a long time it was the gateway to Dunedin and the rest of Otago.

Upon arrival, I decided to detour from the main road through town and drove around the promontory that runs behind the wharf and eventually looks out over Sawyers Bay before leading back into town. I passed boats tucked into sheltered bays and old, weather-beaten boat sheds that sat beside the road, partially hidden by overhanging branches and vines that provided both protection and camouflage. I stopped on the side of the gravel road near a plaque commemorating the sinking of the Pride of the Yarra, which, in 1863, collided with another vessel called the Favorite just off the point where I was now standing. Thirteen people died. The subsequent inquiry and Supreme Court trial revealed that both vessels were travelling at speed in dark, foggy conditions, and that the Pride of the Yarra lacked proper lighting. This led to the acquittal of the Favorite’s crew on manslaughter charges and the implementation of stricter maritime safety regulations in Otago Harbour.

I watched the clouds roll in and the tide battle against the breeze. A car rolled past, the driver giving a friendly wave before disappearing over the rise. I returned to my vehicle and headed for Aramoana.

Daily Photo – Dunedin city across the harbour

From Portobello on the Otago Peninsula, I was heading for the harbour settlement of Port Chalmers on the opposite side of the harbour. I was travelling by car, and since it was such a lovely day, I decided to take what we locals call “the bottom road” to the city. The alternative route is the “top road”, which passes through the rolling farmland of the peninsula, divided by long stone walls built in the nineteenth century. The bottom road, by contrast, snakes its way around the base of the peninsula, eventually linking up with the central city.

At just 18 km, it’s a narrow, winding road that leaves little margin for error, with the cold lap of the harbour tide ever present close by. Every other month, a vehicle has to be salvaged from the harbour after a moment’s distraction results in a watery end. Unless, of course, you travel with a local. Then it’s a daring drive where every corner and porthole is known intimately.

As I drove, the weather was fine, the harbour still, and the traffic light. Across the water, the city sparkled in the warm, mid-morning sun. It was all rather fetching.

Daily Photo – Otago Harbour in Scattered Sunlight

There are moments along the Otago Harbour when the world seems to quieten itself, as if it has paused to take in the light. Walking the shared cycleway near Glenfalloch, I found myself stopped by the sight of sunlight scattered across the water. It shimmered in a way that felt almost theatrical, each ripple catching the sun and tossing it back like a handful of tiny stars.

I had only planned a short wander, the sort where you tell yourself you will keep moving, but the harbour had other ideas. There was something soothing about the gentle slap of the tide against the rocks and the steady rhythm of bikes passing behind me. The city was just across the water, close enough to feel familiar, yet from that spot it might as well have been a world away. Standing watching the water glitter, I was reminded that some of the best moments arrive quietly, asking only that you stop long enough to notice them.

Daily Photo – Dowling Street in Dunedin

I had an enjoyable, meandering amble through Dunedin’s Octagon and around the streets that sit above it, where I joined a series of paths that led me back down into the city. That is where I came across a smallish street called Dowling Street. A short but steep two-block street in central Dunedin, its finest feature is the way it manages to encapsulate a multitude of layers from the city’s past. It is, I suppose, about 400 metres in length and lined on one side with a steep bank where the road was cut through a hill, while on the other stands an assortment of buildings of various ages. Further on, the street crosses the main thoroughfare of Princes Street and is surrounded by everything from office blocks to art galleries.

At first glance it doesn’t appear unique, but it is very much a living slice of history. Many of its buildings are heritage listed and their uses have evolved over time, which gives the street a layered feel. You can sense the old industrial-Dunedin, even as people live, work and create there today.

This small street has seen everything from industrial clothing manufacturing to decline after boom times to the revitalisation of art and culture. Its steep, narrow contours and worn stairway remind you of how much the city had to be reshaped, yet the area is creative and alive with galleries, studios, small businesses, creative energy and busy foot traffic. As far as streets go, it is not particularly handsome, yet it doesn’t need to be.

Daily Photo – Long Grass in Summer

If there’s one thing this photo reminds me of, it’s how quickly summer settles around here. I took it near the Marine Studies Centre in Portobello on a stunning Sunday afternoon, the kind of day when the heat shimmers off the dry grass and you realise the season has truly arrived. Here in Dunedin, the daylight feels endless and the city has relaxed into what is hopefully a long warm-weather rhythm. Even the simplest scene, like these sunlit grasses, seems to hum with that easy summer energy. It’s a gentle reminder that this is the time of year built for slowing down and soaking it all in.

Daily Photo – Early Morning on George Street

I was up early. I don’t know why, I just was. So, with time to spare before I had to be anywhere of note, I went for a walk in the city centre. I’d half expected it to be filled with delivery vans coming and going from the various establishments that lined the main street, while baristas and bakers prepared for an early morning onset of locals wanting a fix of coffee and something made of pastry to start the day. But I was wrong. There was hardly a soul around. A few enthusiastic souls passed on their way to a nearby gym, moving with that purposeful stride, yet apart from them, the city was remarkably quiet. The entire place had the look of a place that wasn’t sure it wanted to be awake yet, as though it had been nudged from a perfectly good dream and was now blinking at the day in mild protest.

As I moved down the street, the sun began to peek over the rooftops, sending soft, warm light across the buildings opposite. It caught the glass frontage of the Wall Street Mall, and the pale façades along the street glowed gently, their details becoming clearer as the light moved down the walls. There was a calmness to the place. Shop windows stood still and silent. Even the plants along the street seemed to be taking their time. It felt like a small moment of peace in the middle of the city, a reminder that some of the best views happen long before the crowds arrive.