Daily Photo – Portobello Musuem

The thing about being so far removed from the rest of the world is that we become obsessed with seeing it, often forgetting our own backyard. Recently, I read about a small local museum in nearby Portobello on the Otago Peninsula. It was at that moment I realised I’m as much at fault as anyone. I’ve been to Te Papa in Wellington many times, and I’ve visited London’s Natural History Museum, yet here was a small local treasure not far from my house that I’d never stepped foot in. I felt slightly embarrassed, almost as if I should write to the curators to apologise. Instead, I decided to go one better and went for a visit.
I had already decided to visit the port town of Akaroa on the Banks Peninsula near Christchurch, and this museum stop would be the start of my trip, on the Otago Peninsula. As a logical travelling route, it didn’t make any sense at all, but I was curious to see the Portobello Museum, and it seemed as good a place to start as any.
The wonderful thing about small, locally run museums in New Zealand is the random, shared nature of what you’ll find inside. It’s like rummaging through a back shed and discovering a long-forgotten antique clock given to you by your Uncle Tony. I mean that in the most affectionate way; I really do.
The Portobello Museum is closed for 165 hours a week, apart from a brief window on Sunday afternoons. On this occasion, it wasn’t a Sunday. Fortunately, you are free to wander the grounds, peering through windows at the collection of wooden buildings, including the community’s first jail and equipment from the lighthouse at Taiaroa Head. For 45 minutes, I was completely engrossed. Walk around Te Papa and you know what to expect, one eloquent display follows the last. This was back to basics: printed and laminated signs, slightly faded in the sun, and objects of no description carefully placed in well-tended gardens. It’s a community museum run by volunteers at its very best, kept alive not by foot traffic, but by local pride.
Standing by the white picket fence, next to an old cannon used as a flagpole base, I took one last look. It was a wonderful insight into early European life. They arrived with next to nothing, built rickety shacks, and had a drink at the end of the day, developing both our national No. 8 wire thinking and our enduring obsession with a cold beverage to finish the day.