#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! 

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

Tokanui

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Daily Photo – Tokanui

I was driving to Tokanui, a distance of about 50 kilometres (30 miles) from Paptowai, located in the southeastern corner of the South Island. The population of the small settlement stands at roughly 150 (give or take a few families) and passing through it you’d never guess this sleepy little spot was once the proud terminus of a government railway line. Not that it went anywhere mind you – it stopped, quite literally in the middle of a paddock. 

The Tokanui Branch line opened in 1911 with talk of eventually linking through the Catlins and on to Otago. A grand vision and plan that, on paper at least, made it look like Southland was about to ‘boom’ and Tokanui would become its beating heart.  

But, the extension of the Tokanui line never came. The Catlins’ timber trade went bust, the farming population didn’t ‘boom’, and the government shelved its plans. This left the branch line finishing, exactly where it was, in the middle of a field. For the next fifty years, trains to Tokanui from Winton, dropped off supplies, picked up livestock and wool bales, then turned around at the lonely little station in the middle of nowhere on the edge of the world. 

I had read that the last train left in 1966, and while the tracks are long gone, you can still spot the odd bit of line and raised bank where a railway line might have gone. There wasn’t much, but then again, neither was the railway.

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

Papatowai

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Daily Photo – Papatowai

Around 30 minutes after leaving the town of Owaka, I arrived in the even smaller settlement of Papatowai. The drive had been pleasant, taking me past forests, estuaries, scenic lookouts, beaches, and waterfalls. I could easily have spent several days exploring everything along the way, but that simply wasn’t possible.

My plan had been to take an amble through a disused railway tunnel before grabbing a cup of coffee in Owaka and wandering around the local museum. However, this was thwarted by a slow-moving annoyance of campervans, an unmoving coffee queue, and a closed sign. Lacking the anticipated injection of caffeine, I instead pulled into Tahakopa Bay at Papatowai and went for a walk along a path called The Old Coach Walkway.

It was a short, easy track through lush native bush, with mossy forest, ferns, and occasional glimpses of the Tahakopa River. The path was relatively flat and easy-going, though a tad damp and muddy after the recent rain. When I reached a lookout point over the river, I paused and took in the scene before me. Like so many places I’d visited, I could have lingered longer, but time was moving on and so did I. After one last look at my surroundings, I made my way back to the car and rejoined the Chaslands Highway.

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

Catlins Lake

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Daily Photo – Catlins Lake

I didn’t get a cup of coffee in Owaka, nor did I wander around the museum. I’d read the museum was open seven days from 8:30am till 5:00pm, except if it was open, they were doing a remarkably good job of making it look closed. As for coffee, I only found one place that was open, and it was so packed that the last thing I felt like doing was standing in a queue, slowly losing the will to live as the line crept forward at a pace that would make a glacier impatient – all the while listening to someone debate the merits of almond milk versus soy for their flat white. Instead, a few minutes down the road I stopped at Catlins Lake and took in the view – an old pier jutting out across the water towards the upper estuary of the Catlins River. Something that was far more peaceful and rewarding.

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

Tunnel Hill

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Daily Photo – Tunnel Hill

Here’s the thing about travelling in New Zealand. No matter where you go, you’ll either find yourself completely alone, or surrounded by a convoy of tourists in campervans. You can always spot them on their slow pilgrimage around the country – they park at odd angles until joined by fellow travellers, when they create a circular formation that resembles an impenetrable fortification you might see in a wagon train heading west across the American desert. 

They never travel light either. They have so much gear with them they look like they are either preparing to invade a country or go in search of weapons of mass destruction in a bio-contaminated area. Having left the seaside village of Kapa Point, I came across a slow moving annoyance of campervans who had taken up residents in a carpark at a place in the Catlins called Tunnel Hill. When I arrived, they were hurriedly going about their business setting up an outdoor version of London’s Savoy Grill inside their fortified circle while others seemed to be holding an annual AGM. They were British of course. They had to be British! Only the British would take a 5 minute walk to an old railway tunnel this seriously. For a nano-second I considered joining them, but then I decided I’d rather have my wisdom teeth removed with a circular saw and instead opted to stop in Owaka for a cup of coffee and a wander around the museum.

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

Kaka Point (2)

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Daily Photo – Kaka Point (2)

The marriage of Percy Redwood and Agnes Ottaway had been the talk of the region for weeks. Yet, even as the festivities wound down, there was an undercurrent of unease among some of those present. It was quietly noted, that none of Percy’s relatives had appeared, and there were many unpaid bills

By the following morning, the whispers became serious talk. Agnes’s parents and several close friends of the family met with Percy, confronting him over the unpaid debts. They agreed to grant a week for the accounts to be settled, but until that time, the planned honeymoon would not proceed. Still uneasy, a handful of the Ottaways’ friends began making private inquiries, determined to ensure that Agnes had not been misled. Their suspicions only deepened as conflicting stories emerged about Percy’s background, prompting them to turn to the police for assistance.

It was then that the truth began to unravel. A local detective, well acquainted with the exploits of a fraudster named Amy Bock, was shown a photograph of the groom. Percy Redwood was then identified as well known con-artist Amy Bock. Three days after the wedding, Bock was arrested, went to trial and was sentenced to two years of hard labour and declared a “habitual criminal.” 

I’d first heard the story of Amy Bock many years ago and I’d come to Kaka Point hoping to track down the old boarding house or its location, but I couldn’t. After driving up and down the streets a few times, I eventually gave up and parked by the beach. Staring out at the sea, I said to no one in particular, “How does a lady born in Hobart end up being arrested as a man for impersonation, forgery, and theft in Kaka Point, of all places?” Of all the spots in the world she could have chosen, she picked here. I think that’s just swell.

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

Kaka Point (1)

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Daily Photo – Kaka Point (1)

In early February 1909, a man by the name of Percy Redwood disembarked at the busy Romahapa Railway station, eventually arriving at the popular seaside settlement of Kaka Point on The Catlins coast, a short time later. The wealthy farmer from South Canterbury, had come to the region via Dunedin, where suffering from ill-health, a Doctor had advised him to get plenty of rest and relaxation by the sea. Short, but well presented in his forties, Percy, who came from a middle-upper class family with plenty of money, presented himself at a local boarding house where he stayed over the next few weeks. During this time, he endeared himself to the locals with his outlandish tales and lavish spending, while at night he would entertain with his musical talents. In fact, so popular was the eligible Mr Redwood that many of the families started to view the charming man as a fine match for the young, unmarried ladies in the area. So, when Mr Redwood approached Mr George Ottaway – the owner of the boarding house and asked permission to marry his daughter Agnes, both George and his wife Martha were delighted.

At the time, it was noted by locals that Percy did seem to owe a number of people in town money. However, on occasions he would disappear to Dunedin for business, reappearing a few days later settling most of his bills. However, before a wedding could take place, George Ottaway, wanting to make sure his daughter Agnes would be well cared for, wrote to Percy’s mother asking for assurance on financial matters and was delighted when the reply arrived, confirming that Percy was a man of considerable financial means. He had savings of fifteen hundred pounds, a further fifteen hundred pounds invested in his uncle’s farm, an income of one hundred and fifty pounds per year and was to be given a furnished house to the value of one thousand pounds when married  

With Percy being such a good catch for an unmarried young lady, a lavish wedding was planned with all the businesses in town (and the local area) receiving vast orders to ensure the large crowd would be well catered for. The finest material was ordered to suit the groom and dress the bride – who delighted in showing off with pride the ring with five diamonds her fiancé Percy had bought her. 

When the big day arrived, the ceremony was an enormous affair, the only disappointment being that none of Percy’s family could attend, due to another family wedding taking place on the same day. So, the marriage between Mr Percy Redwood and Miss Agnes Ottaway was held in Kaka Point on April 21, 1909. 

The problem with all this was that Mr Percy Redwood didn’t exist. Mr Percy Redwood was actually a lady named Amy Bock.

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

Balclutha

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Daily Photo – Balclutha

I’d left the heavy cloud cover behind and near a place called Stony Creek I found myself pushing through a dense layer of fog. As I approached the town of Balclutha, the morning fog became fine mist, the mist turned to drizzle, and then hard rain – before the murk suddenly cleared, leaving an overcast, gray blanket hanging low over the town where the sky used to be. 

I had it in mind to get a photo of the Balclutha Bridge from up on the hill with State Highway 1 winding its way down the gentle slope to meet the bridge, the rural town neatly placed on the other side. However, this proved impossible as both the slope of the hill and the layout of the road were different from what I remembered. Either that, or in the last couple of months they’d excavated the hill, moved the bridge and realigned State Highway 1. Something that seemed a tad unlikely, even with a progressive town council. 

Instead, I pulled into a spot called Arthur Strang Reserve. The rain had left the ground muddy, with small puddles merging on the edge of the walkway. I wandered to the edge of the Clutha River, watched the river flowing under the town’s main feature, the Balclutha Bridge. Built in the early 1930s, the bridge is a sort of make-shift landmark once described as majestic, handsome and a joy forever. Mind you, they said something similar about the Beehive in Wellington, and that’s just an oversized wedding cake dropped on a lawn. A bridge for the town came into existence when the locals got sick of having to cross the swift river by way of ferry, that was until the wooden structure was swept away in a flood, not more than ten years after it was built. Its replacement also appears to have been somewhat lacking, as it was not considered to be completely sound, safe or sturdy before it too was replaced by the current concrete structure which greets (or farewells) visitors to the rural community. On a fine day it’s an impressive and beautiful landmark. This wasn’t a fine day! 

I wandered back along the path toward the car, hopping over puddles as I went. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an empty Durex packet, half a dozen crushed Woodstock bourbon cans, and a crumpled Mrs Mac’s Beef, Cheese and Bacon Pie wrapper. Clearly, some people find ninety-year-old concrete structures far more exciting than I do, I thought. Either that, or I’d just innocently strolled through the local teenage pickup spot – probably dubbed ‘copulation point’ by the youth of Balclutha. Either way – it looked like some people had been having a very good time – something that can’t always be said about Balclutha in the middle of winter. 

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

Lovells Flat

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Daily Photo – Lovells Flat

It wasn’t long before I was once again on the move, heading for a place called Lovells Flat. A light sheen lay on the surface of the quiet road from the recent rain that had been falling. Occasionally a truck or ute would pass me from the opposite direction, momentarily kicking over a small cloud of spray as it disappeared in the rear view mirror. I travelled a while, listening to a random collection of songs on the stereo, the views were clouded, occasionally parting to reveal far off scenes of farmland as far as the eye could see. 

As I reached the brow of a hill, the cloud began to fade and on a straight stretch of road, an old sod cottage, partially hidden by trees came into view. I pulled the car over, got out and went for a slow walk around the grounds. The ground was wet and full of puddles, all of which I very narrowly avoided missing, before having a peek inside. A double fireplace, a table, a few chairs, a bed, some cabinetry, a few personal items and that was about all that sat in the single room dwelling. 

Built in the 1860s by a man named Hugh Murray, the cottage now stands as one of the few surviving physical links to mid‑19th-century settler architecture in South Otago. Yet, between 1865 and 1939 the cottage served as a store, a stopping place for miners, a bake house, a school, a Sunday school classroom and post office. 

Of all the tales about the Old Sod Cottage, the most intriguing is the story of its last overnight inhabitants. In the winter of 1939, two local brothers decided, for reasons that can only be described as either admirable or foolhardy, to travel through the region during a heavy snowstorm. Predictably, the snow soon became impassable, their vehicle became stranded and the pair were forced to spend the night in the cold cottage without heating or food, before continuing their journey the next day. 

I took one last slow lap around the grounds, gave the cottage a final, respectful nod, and considered its place in the region’s past, a neat little monument to everything from pioneer life and the gold rush to local schools, churches, wartime memories, and the rise (and quiet demise) of the post office and railway.

Then, satisfied, I got back in the car, aimed it toward the distant fog, and rejoined State Highway 1 heading for the far off town of Balclutha.

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

Milton

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… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand

… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand is a delightful jaunt around the backroads and towns of Otago and Southland. Rediscovering and exploring the quirks, charms, curiosities and forgotten points of interest of small-town Otago – Southland.

Daily Photo – Milton

I rolled through the town of Milton just as the clouds turned an ominous shade of grey and threatened rain. The place was quiet, with people hurriedly moving between shops, dashing from vehicle to shop and back again. At the far end of the main street, I could see a long traffic queue had formed due to distant roadworks. With traffic at a standstill, I pulled over and walked a short distance down the street, observing life in a small country town.

Generally speaking, most New Zealand towns are made up of a single long main street, with all the major shops branching off it. The main street also doubles as the highway, so in most cases you’re forced to drive through the centre of town, which is rather clever when you think about it.

There are several things you can guarantee every town has: namely a pub, a grocery store, a disused post office or bank, and a petrol station that is also home to the local mechanic – whose name is probably Barry or Scottie and who will no doubt have a faded Playboy centrefold from the 1980s or 1990s hanging in a not-too-conspicuous position somewhere inside the workshop. There’ll be a store of some description that sells and services large farm machinery, and some other completely random business called Arthur’s Antiques, Helen’s Haberdashery, Katie’s Knitting & Yarn Boutique, or Tim’s Terrific Trades for Trash.

The interesting thing about Milton is the famous dog-leg that runs about halfway along the main street. The funny thing is, nobody is completely sure why it’s there. What it proves is that it is indeed possible to fail at building a straight road on a completely flat piece of land with no immediate obstacles – while surveyors stand at each end to mark out a straight line. Either that, or the person drawing up the plans did so from thousands of kilometres away, had no idea of the surrounding landscape, and mistook a crumb on the map for a land feature that needed to be avoided.

Whatever the reason, it provides the town with an interesting talking point, something I was to discover other towns could well do with.

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

Wahiola

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… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand

… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand is a delightful jaunt around the backroads and towns of Otago and Southland. Rediscovering and exploring the quirks, charms, curiosities and forgotten points of interest of small-town Otago – Southland.

Daily Photo – Waihola

My next stop was Waihola, a township that lies roughly 40 km south-west of Dunedin and sits on the edge of a lake with the same name. While small in stature, the town has a steady stream of visitors thanks to the State Highway network running direction through the middle of the town, and people stopping off to see the lake or to link up with the Clutha Gold Trail Cycle network – a 135 kilometer cycle path that follows the route once used by gold miners during the 19th-century gold rush, seeking  fame and fortune on the gold fields. I stood and looked out across the lake and over to the start of the cycle network that ran its way to the far off Central Otago towns of Lawrence and Roxburgh. Apart from a nearby truck, the place was empty, the cycle path unused but for the local bird life that had taken up residence on the boardwalk. It was all very picturesque, in a dull, moody sort of way. 


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

Henley

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… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand

… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand is a delightful jaunt around the backroads and towns of Otago and Southland. Rediscovering and exploring the quirks, charms, curiosities and forgotten points of interest of small-town Otago – Southland.

Daily Photo – Henley

On my way out of town I had intended to stop at Mosgiel, a suburb on the outskirts of the city. That was before my departure was delayed. I had carefully picked out a photographic location high on a bridge overlooking the motorway. My intention was to capture a long exposure of vehicle lights disappearing into the distance as the town quietly woke from its slumber in the early morning light.

However, I was now running late. So, I parked these plans to one side, saving the idea for another time, and detoured to the small riverside village of Henley, a place that actually does have more sheep than residents, is prone to flooding, and is a delightful spot for a riverside picnic on a warm and lazy summer’s afternoon.

I paused for a moment beside the river. It was still, sedately ambling its way past the village. I got out and walked across the bridge, disturbing a raft of ducks as I did so. They noisily appeared from the reeds, splashed across the top of the water for a moment, and disappeared into the distance. It was starting to rain, and moments later I was back in my car and had rejoined State Highway One, heading south.

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

Travels In Small-Town New Zealand (ii)

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… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand

… from a Small City: Travels In Small-Town New Zealand is a delightful jaunt around the backroads and towns of Otago and Southland. Rediscovering and exploring the quirks, charms, curiosities and forgotten points of interest of small-town Otago – Southland.

Daily Photo – Travels in small-town New Zealand (ii)

My departure the next day was delayed. This was due to a drip in the shower that had started several days earlier. It began as nothing more than something that could happily be ignored. However, over the preceding 24 hours, it had gone from a minor drip to a continuous dribble, and now was a steady trickle.

Here, in the clear light of morning, summoning all my limited plumbing knowledge, I deduced three things. Firstly, that it would need to be fixed. Secondly, that it was beyond my very limited capabilities. And finally, that it would require the services of a plumber. Within the hour, a guy named Phil or Greg or something arrived, inspected the shower, and within minutes was pulling all sorts of fancy tools out of his truck (muttering to himself, ‘This could get gnarly’), taking off the mixer and opening up some of the pipework in the wall.

This pleased me, as it confirmed that this wasn’t something I should be attempting myself. I learned this lesson some years earlier when the ballcock on our header tank, which sits in the roof, seemed to be constantly running. Thinking this would only be a matter of making a small tweak, I went and investigated, making some minor adjustments. I was so pleased with my efforts, I informed my wife that I would show off my handiwork to a plumber. He arrived and was equally impressed, so impressed he looked at it for hours, finally making me promise to both my wife and himself that I would never touch anything involving plumbing or electricity ever again. And I never have.

While all this was going on, I filled the time by making cups of coffee, read the newspaper, studied my map and pretended to understand I knew what he was talking about. 

Eventually, after much muttering, clanking, and rummaging through tools that looked like they belonged in an operating theatre rather than a bathroom, he announced that the job was done. The leak was no more. He packed up his gear, gave me a cheerful nod, and drove off, leaving me standing there feeling oddly triumphant, despite having contributed absolutely nothing to the process. 

I didn’t hang around. Instead of quietly slipping my car out onto the Dunedin streets in the early morning hours as intended, I hurriedly dumped everything on the backseat and made car-tyre screeching sounds as I set off for State Highway One, heading south.

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

Travels In Small-Town New Zealand

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Daily at 6am

Join me here on my photoblog, daily at 6am. https://fromasmallcity.nz/

Daily Photo – Travels in small-town New Zealand

Tell people you’re spending the night in Queenstown and you generally get a look of indifference, usually followed by a prolonged state of apathy. There’s no follow-up question or lengthy discussion, you become another person visiting the resort town that calls itself (with more than a touch of self-indulgence) ‘pure inspiration’. On the other hand, tell people you’re spending the night in Winton and people get curious, they ask all sorts of questions, usually starting with – why? 

Recently on a drive along the Otago’s Peninsula it struck me as I wound my way along twisting turning roads, bouncing out potholes and splashing through puddles that I was in need of a change of scenery. I had grown tired of the same familiar surroundings that make up life in a small city, I wanted to see something different, something fresh, something new. Well, maybe not new, but at least something I hadn’t seen on a weekly basis over the last six months! It occurred to me, as it just so happened, I was soon having a few days off – an ideal time to get out and hit the road, to once more see my own backyard as it were. 

Over the next few weeks I began plotting possible itineraries that would both take me around the South Island and yet be manageable within three to four days. What quickly became evident was that I wanted to avoid the major tourist locations and cities. Stopping in places like Queenstown and Wanaka held little to no appeal. Where once they were the goose that laid the golden egg of New Zealand holiday destinations (and let’s be frank here) that egg was well and truly cooked years ago. I didn’t want to stand in long queues for overpriced food and beverages, or sit in endless traffic jams thinking ‘gee, don’t those mountains look lovely’, I wanted to drive along back country roads and through small forgotten towns. I wanted to visit places that had more sheep than residents, where traffic is blocked by farmers moving their flocks and see livestock grazing in a frosty winter paddock of rolling Southland farmland, bathed in the soft light of early morning.  

I wanted to go back to places I’d visited years ago and had long since forgotten about, to Tautuku, Nightcaps and Dipton and see if I could remember them. I wanted to hear the long silence that fills the Ida Valley on a cold and chilly winter morning with the road vanishing into the Hawkdun Ranges far off in the distance. 

I wanted to see quiet country towns with quirky bits of history, to read and listen to stories involving strange, shady, controversial characters from New Zealand’s past. I wanted to drive around and see small towns in-out-of-the-way places. I wanted to get out of cities and tourist hotspots and travel through small-town New Zealand. 

Feeling inspired, one evening, having acquired a map of the South Island which I spread out and studied on the living room floor. I drew a circular itinerary following roads and towns that would take me all over Otago and Southland, writing various notes and scribbles beside selected places for later reference. And so, one July evening, as the fire blazed away beside me in my warm, cozy lounge, I made careful and considered preparations to depart through the quiet Dunedin streets, early the next morning.