Daily Photo – Early Morning in Oban

Destination: Oban from a Small City

Geographically, Stewart Island – or Rakiura, if you prefer its original name – feels like the forgotten child of New Zealand. Everyone knows it exists. Everyone agrees it is important. Yet ask why, or if they’ve actually been there, and you will usually be met with a polite shrug or an embarrassed shake of the head. Most New Zealanders will speak of its beauty with great authority, despite never having set foot on its soil.

Sheltered inlets curl gently into the land, forested hills rise and fall without fuss, and rugged coastlines keep the Southern Ocean at arm’s length. It is a place where quiet beaches give way to dunes and walking tracks that vastly outnumber roads. Stewart Island is covered in roughly 20 kilometres of roading and around 245 kilometres of walking track. There are not many places left where that particular ratio still exists, and it tells you almost everything you need to know.

The main settlement, Oban, sits beside Halfmoon Bay and is home to most of the island’s population, which hovers around 400 people. Long before Europeans arrived, Māori knew the island as Rakiura, the “Land of the Glowing Skies” – a name that makes complete sense once you have seen dawn or dusk there. Later came sealers, whalers, sawmillers, and fishermen, all leaving their mark in ways that still linger quietly rather than shout for attention.

I landed late in the afternoon, found my accommodation, and went for a brief evening stroll. After a bite to eat, I found my way back to my motel and was quickly asleep. The next morning, I was up early to take advantage of the still, quiet streets as dawn was breaking over the bay. Usually, at that hour, you will spot at least one other person who has made similarly questionable life choices, but there was not a soul. I could have walked completely naked down the main street and no one would have known. It felt like a town temporarily loaned to me: peaceful, still, and slightly unreal. I enjoyed the silence as long as I could, but eventually, hunger won out. I had breakfast, packed a lunch and a book, and set off for a delightfully long walk through the bays.

Later that day, tired but satisfied, I called in at the South Seas Hotel. Inside was a cosy bar with a dozen or so people seated along an old wooden counter, talking easily with the bartender in the way you do with someone you’ve known a lifetime. The place had that reassuringly worn-in feel that only genuine local pubs ever manage. However, I soon noticed that everyone seemed to be staring at me. It was slightly unnerving until I realized the cause: I was the only person in the room who didn’t look like they had just emerged from several days in the deep bush. In my faded shorts, t-shirt, and hoodie, I was decidedly overdressed. I stayed much longer than planned without any particular reason, which is usually the sign of a good pub.

A reliable metric of quality town planning is how many steps one must take to get from a pub to a takeaway outlet offering grease-fired food for the semi-inebriated. In this regard, Oban scores well. Not far from the pub sits the Kai Kart, a caravan quietly producing what many believe are the best fish and chips in the country. There is nothing fancy about it; the secret is simply good food, done properly, and eaten outside while looking over the water.

My remaining days were a blur of walking tracks and hidden bays. On my second afternoon, I came across an old Ford bus that had clearly not moved in some time. Painted on its side were the words “Sam and Billy the Bus, take a scenic tour,” followed by a phone number. It was both charming and intriguing. You do not see many buses of that vintage anymore, and you see even fewer advertising tours in such an unassuming way. I later learned that Sam was a much-loved local who spent more than twenty years taking visitors around the island in his bus, Billy. Knowing that made the bus feel less abandoned and more like it was simply resting between stories. On the third day I walked to Ackers Cottage in Harrold Bay on the Southern side of Halfmoon Bay. The stone cottage is the earliest stone house in the area and was built by Lewis Acker who started life in New England, America and went to sea which brought him to the shores of Aotearoa as a 16 year old. Several years later he returned as part of the sealing and whaling industry eventually purchasing 600 acres of land in Harrold Bay on Stewart Island. In the small bay he built a remarkable stone, one room, two windowed house where he lived with his wife Mary Pi and eight children until they moved back to the mainland. He spent time working in the sealing and whaling industry, he built boats, ran a sawmill, was a river boat pilot and also ran a farm. At the time of his death in 1885, aged around 70 he had been married twice and was father to 14 children, having outlived six of them. The thing is, it’s not until you actually see the cottage and its location that you realise how remarkable, and difficult, life must have been. 

On my final evening, I decided to make my way up to Observation Rock before sunset. The name had led me to imagine a long and heroic climb into a remote wilderness, an adventurous, rewarding way to end my time in Oban. In reality, it was a steep but manageable twenty-minute walk from town. The reward, however, was no less grand: a sweeping view over Thule and Golden Bay, and out across the deep blue of Paterson Inlet. It is one of those places where you arrive slightly out of breath and immediately forget why you were complaining.

Before leaving the next morning, I took one last walk along Lee Bay beach and came to a simple conclusion. I like Stewart Island. Not because it tries to impress you, but because it doesn’t have to. It is quiet without being dull, remote without being inaccessible, and rich in stories that do not demand your attention. Stewart Island does not shout. It waits. And if you take the time to listen, it is remarkably generous in what it gives back.

Daily Photo – Summer Evening in Russell

I like Russell. I really do. 

It reminds me of Arrowtown in Central Otago, though not in any obvious way. What they share is a feeling. A sense that time has slowed down, or at least taken a seat on a bench and decided to watch for a while.

In Arrowtown I often catch myself expecting a bedraggled miner to appear from the hills, boots worn thin and beard thick with dust, clutching a small fortune in gold. In Russell, the same trick of the imagination happens along The Strand. Walking its length beside Kororāreka Bay, it’s easy to picture sailors from half the known world sprawled on the pebbly beach, sleeping off a night they would only half remember.

I had been in Russell for four days by then and had fallen into the town’s sleepy rhythm with surprising ease. The fifth morning was like all the others, bright and clear. The sky was a crisp, pale blue and not a breath of wind to speak of. It was going to be what is commonly known as  “a scorcher”. Thinking ahead to the rest of the day, I had nothing in mind but to simply wander the local streets and bays and Russell rewards wandering. Streets slope gently toward the water, houses sit back behind hedges and trees, and every so often the bay reveals itself between buildings like a reminder of why you came in the first place. As the morning evolved, I found myself walking with no real destination, pausing whenever something caught my attention, which was often.

New Zealand is young, and Russell wears that youth lightly. I was thinking about this while sitting in the shade, comparing it to places overseas where history feels dense and heavy. In Britain, you can drink in pubs that were already old when Cook first set sail. Here, our oldest pub is The Duke of Marlborough, opened in 1827, and it sits calmly on the waterfront as though it has always been there and always will be.

Earlier in the week I’d wandered past it more than once before finally stopping in. The building feels settled, comfortable with its own story. It is easy to forget that this town once carried a reputation so unruly it made visiting sailors blush. And, it’s a reputation that’s impossible. Kororāreka, as Russell was once known, was infamous. When ships arrived in the early 1800s, they brought trade goods and opportunity, but also grog, gambling, and trouble. Sailors with time on their hands and money in their pockets rarely end well, and this place was no exception.

My plan was to head to the far end of the bay to see an old pā site, before heading back through the town to the historic Pompallier House. As the sun rose in the sky, I followed the road north toward Tapeka Point, a walk that climbs and narrows in places, forcing you to slow down and pay attention to where you put your feet. The views, when they open up, are spectacular. The Bay of Islands stretches out in front of you, calm and deceptively peaceful. It is hard to reconcile the serenity of the scene with the chaos that once played out along its shores.

Standing there, I tried to imagine what it must have looked like when the bay was full of ships, their crews restless after months at sea. It was little wonder that Kororāreka earned the title “hell hole of the Pacific,” a phrase Charles Darwin himself used after visiting in the 1830s.

As the town’s reputation grew, so did efforts to tame it. Missionaries arrived, part spiritual mission, part damage control. I walked back toward town and made my way to Pompallier House, built in 1842. It sits quietly now, tucked slightly away, but its influence once reached across the country.

Inside, texts were translated from Latin into te reo Māori, printed, bound, and sent far and wide. Around 40,000 books were produced here, a remarkable number given the circumstances. Standing outside, it struck me how often the most influential places look entirely unremarkable from the street.

From there, it was a short walk to the church on the corner of Church, Robertson, and Baker Streets. It is the oldest surviving church in New Zealand, and it feels it. The grounds are peaceful, the kind of place where your voice naturally lowers. As I walked around, I noticed the bullet holes still visible in the walls, quiet scars from the Battle of Kororāreka in 1845. Graves of Māori leaders, sailors, and settlers sit together, names and dates offering only hints of lives lived in turbulent times. It is a place that rewards unhurried attention.

By the time I wandered back toward the waterfront, the day had warmed considerably. People sat outside cafés, boats moved lazily across the bay, and Russell felt like it had fully settled into its modern role as a place to slow down rather than stir things up.

Later that day, I found myself back at The Duke of Marlborough as the afternoon slipped along. There’s something deeply satisfying about sitting in the sun, doing very little, and feeling as though you have achieved something meaningful to have earned a drink by mid-afternoon.

Daily Photo – Miners’ Cottages in Arrowtown

Destination: Arrowtown from a Small City

Geographically, Dunedin is in a rather odd place. Due to the fact that it is surrounded by hills, if you want to go in any direction by vehicle, you have two options. Let me explain! If you want to travel north, you have to head north along the Northern motorway. If you want to head south, you have to travel south along the Southern motorway. If you want to head west, you have to first travel north or south for 55 kilometers (35 miles) before turning west, and if you want to head east then you need to get a boat. As I was driving inland to Arrowtown, in a kind of west by north-west direction (some 270km away), I could either first head north or south before pointing the car inland. So, with the flip of a coin, on a cold and wet Dunedin evening, I headed south. 

An hour was spent in Friday evening traffic that traveled at a brisk but uneventful pace. I stopped and ate at a Subway restaurant in Milton, I listened to a podcast and generally tried my best to not become a statistic of the long weekend road toll. I drove through places like the Manuka Gorge, Beaumont, Rae’s Junction, Judge Creek, Benger Burn and Slaughter House Creek, where there was occasional drizzle, some wind and a Lexus driver that didn’t seem to know the give way rule, or how to calculate a safe following distance while traveling at speeds in excess of 100km per hour. I stopped and looked at stars at Lake Dunstan, discovered newly formed round-abouts in Cromwell and watched the temperature drop by 10 degrees to -1 at my final destination, Arrowtown. Arriving just in time for a beer and a short walk in the chilly night air. 

The next morning I awoke to the sound of birds chirping and a temperature gauge reading -2. So, after sorting myself for the day which included donning the thickest pair of socks I had, I headed out into the crisp morning air. It was early enough that most people were still tucked up somewhere warm, so the streets were all but empty and it wasn’t long before the shops came into view. I crossed at the corner of Centennial Ave and Bedford Street when suddenly I found my feet involuntarily giving way beneath me and I was no longer in control of my own equilibrium. Doing my best to imitate a drunken giraffe on roller skates, I eventually came to rest beside a conveniently placed handrail. Turning to view the sparkling patch of ice that had broken my stride, I found that my balancing act had been witnessed by a small group of early morning walkers. As they generously applauded my efforts, in return I assured them that yes, I do in fact do my own stunts! 

A while later and back in the warmth of the cottage, armed with the morning paper, coffee and deliciously fresh croissants I sat down to examine the state of world affairs. Sometime later, I noticed the plants outside were defrosting as the sun peeked over the surrounding hills. This, I took as my cue to leave as I had to stop by Pak n Save Supermarket (something I was not looking forward to) and I was also wanting to see the former Lower Shotover Bridge. 

I have a history with supermarkets which means that I am rarely allowed to go in them without supervision. The sum total of my shopping experiences up to this point in my life have led me to form the opinion that life can be tough, being a modern male. It all starts by being expected not to yell at morons who have forgotten how to drive in car parks and insist on holding up traffic for ten hours while they wait for a car to leave a parking space, just because it’s three spaces closer to the shop’s main entrance! Then, we have to remember reusable shopping bags, shopping lists, maneuver shopping trolleys without pretending they’re race cars, workout where the hell they’ve moved the alcohol section too. Yes, it’s fair to say that as my age increases each year, my tolerance for Supermarkets diminish. Still, on this occasion, apart from making a few wheelie noises as I was going around the corner of the biscuit aisle and remembering that I had forgotten a list, I survived the Frankton Pak n Save somewhat unharmed. It must have been something to do with the mountain view. If there is a more picturesque location for a Supermarket, I would like to see it. Every time I turned down a new aisle and felt my frustration levels rising, I would happily gaze out the windows to the mountains. Eventually I successfully escaped the Supermarket, and the carpark for that matter with my carefully selected items safely tucked away and headed off to find the Old Lower Shotover Bridge. Tracing my steps back towards Arrowtown for a distance, I turned off the main road until 300 meters down a side road I came across a car park with a sign that read “Carpark for Old Lower Shotover Bridge.” I guessed this must be the place. 

I’m not usually that curious about bridges, however I had driven past this one many times and so I was very intrigued to see it up close. The original Shotover River bridge was built in 1871 so farmers, miners and merchants could access the Wakatipu area however it survived a mere 7 years before it was washed away by flooding in 1878. A new bridge was then erected before the building of the current structure was completed in 1915. This bridge then lasted until 1975 when it was decided that it no longer met requirements and so a new bridge (a forth) was built further downstream. It was the 1915 structure that I was now standing on as following years of neglect it was restored to its former glory in 2003. 

Nowadays, the very fine bridge is enjoyed by walkers, runners and cyclists who take in the sweeping views of The Remarkables to the South, Coronet Peak to the North and the river below. I spent some time looking both up the river and down the river. For a few moments, hypnotized, I watched the river pass below me before walking back to my car. 

The rest of the day I spent wandering beside streams, walking in leaves, strolling through the local museum (which is quite lovely may I added although a tad expensive at $10) and looking at old buildings. I dined at the New Orleans Hotel where I fought with the visiting ‘Vocal Collective’ (whoever they are) for a table and read my book before walking back to my cottage guided by street lights, in a not altogether straight line.