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

Dunedin (1)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Dunedin (1)

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.

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

Brighton

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Brighton

One moment I was stuck in a heavy line of traffic on State Highway 1, the next I was heading over Scroggs Hill on a winding gravel road, free of traffic, towards the seaside community of Brighton.

It was here that New Zealand’s most successful defence lawyer, Dr. Alfred Hanlon, spent his last years. Having spent the best part of his life defending accused murderers such as Minnie Dean, Alexander McLean, and Mina McKellar, when he finally retired in the 1940’s, deciding he wanted a quieter life, he chose the peaceful surrounds of Brighton and nearby Ocean View.

In those days, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot, connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway, and in many ways, not too dissimilar to what it is today. Brighton is the kind of place that comes alive in summer. During winter, it slips into a sort of semi-hibernation as the southerlies bite, but once spring arrives, the colours return and the days slowly warm, leading into the long weeks of summer. That’s when Brighton is at its best.

There’s the annual gala day to look forward to, or you can simply wander into the local dairy for the essentials of a Kiwi summer: a classic ice cream cone, a piping-hot pottle of chips with sauce, a pie, or a thick milkshake. You can hire paddle boats and drift lazily around the estuary, watch local kids leap from the town bridge into the river, clamber over the nearby rocks exploring rock pools, or spend time with the ever-growing sea lion population. And, of course, you can always just stretch out on the beach and let Brighton do what it does best – let you enjoy summer.

So you can perhaps imagine the sense of joy that came over me as I drove over the crest of a hill to find Brighton covered in sunshine. I wound my way down the hill through a series of suburban streets that looked lovely in the sunshine and were scattered with boats, surfboards, kayaks and other assorted items that suggested the owners spent a lot of time in the sea. 

I stopped at a t-junction and found a park close to a nice grassy clearing where I intended to soak up the relaxing atmosphere and inviting sunshine. This I did, before moving on my way. And, just  like that I was heading for Dunedin. 

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

Hindon

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Hindon

The drive to Hindon can’t be described as a sedately, peaceful trip through the wide spread scrub of the Silverpeaks Range. It’s more like a strenuous ordeal that’s an adventure in itself. The road is unpaved, steep, narrow and winding that includes passing over a shared road/rail bridge with sections that have sharp bends and steep drop-offs. In a sense, it’s scenic but challenging.  Fortunately, I’m a wonderful driver and was able to expertly navigate my way through to Hindon. In fact, I was navigating the road so well, a local who was tending his garden took the time to yell, scream and wave at me in the most dramatic fashion. I acknowledged his friendly one arm jester with a wave, and returned to the spectacular scenery that provided views of the Taieri River, dramatic rock formations that disappeared into the distance, and the tracks of the Taieri Gorge Railway far below. 

To be fair, there isn’t actually a lot to do at Hindon apart from look at the scenery, read an information board, sit by the river or throw stones off the Hindon Road and Rail Bridge. Sitting by the river is fine if you want an afternoon of serenity in the summer sun, but this was the middle of winter and there was rain in the air. So, before I went to find a few good stones to hurl off the bridge into the river far below, I took the time to read the information board – something I always feel compelled to do. Later, having propelled some mighty fine stones off the bridge that landed in the river with a satisfying crash, I also discovered that the Hindon Railway Station not only served as a passenger stop, but it was a refreshment stop, a post office, and a school – quite the CV for a tiny building in the middle of nowhere. 

With that, my duties in Hindon complete, I returned to the car and began the steep ascent back to paved roads where there’s at least room for two, and no need for nervous prayers.

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

Outram

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Outram

I left Clarks Junction and continued on State Highway 87 towards the southeast until I reached the small junction town of Outram. A drive that was 26 kilometers of quiet, peaceful bliss. The whole time, I didn’t see a single car, truck, campervan (thank goodness), tractor, or anything else that annoys me on the road. It was as if everyone else in the world had suddenly vanished. That was, until I descended from the higher elevation plains of Clarks Junction, Lee Stream, and Lake Mahinerangi to the Taieri Plains where Outram is located, and I found a steady stream of traffic milling around the town.

The journey is certainly much more pleasant than it used to be. Back in the 1860s when everyone lost all common sense and went completely crackers over the discovery of gold, the route (The Old Dunstan Road) I had just driven was close to the same one used by the miners to get to the goldfields. Outram was a key starting point for the original Dunstan Road. Travelers would start their journey from Outram and make their way up to Clarks Junction, where the more rugged and arduous part of the journey took miners high between the Lammermoor and Rock and Pillar Ranges to the goldfields. While it was possible to make this journey by horse or coach, many went on foot. This was an immensely difficult trip. Miners, with their heavy swags, would often be exhausted and starving. Some became so desperate for food and water they would trade gold for a loaf of bread, or they would eat the fat from a freshly killed sheep’s tail. The lack of provisions and the extreme weather, including snow and bitter cold, led many to be near death from starvation and exposure.

Having arrived in Outram, I parked outside a bakery that was conveniently located near a petrol station – this pleased me as I needed both food and petrol. Afterward, I went for a stroll around the town. Locals were casually going about their daily routines and ignored me as I poked around. I walked to one end of the street where the road heads out of town towards the Taieri River and further on to Mosgiel, while at the other, I found houses with connections to the earlier days of the town, such as the old Blacksmith’s house, the former Bank of Otago building, and a Watchmaker’s shop.

I returned to my car, pleased with the fact I wasn’t making the journey on foot carrying all my worldly possessions on my back. As I pointed the car towards the coastal suburb of Brighton, I noticed the time. It wasn’t nearly as late as I thought it was. Back in Sutton, when I decided to skip the Salt Lake, I had thought to myself, “If there’s time, I could detour from Outram to Hindon before continuing on to Brighton.” This seemed to me a capital idea, so pleased that I had the time to put the plan into action, I headed to the tiny settlement of Hindon.

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

Clarks Junction

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Clarks Junction

Leaving Sutton’s Salt Lake behind, I carried on along State Highway 87 towards Clarks Junction. Highway 87 peels off from State Highway 1 and Dunedin’s Southern Motorway south of Mosgiel, running through the Taieri Plains, past the Maungatua Range and into the Strath Taieri valley, before finishing at Kyeburn. It’s 114 kilometres of open road that rises and dips with the wide spaces it passes through, a road where the most daring thing you’ll encounter might be a lone sheep – lost and hungry. Once you leave the soft, green pastures of the Taieri Plains, the highway threads through the undulating country around Lee Stream before dropping into the Strath Taieri. Here the horizon suddenly stretches into the far distance, anchored by the Rock and Pillar Range, which carries snow in winter and shimmers like an oasis in summer.

This is a landscape whose vast, open spaces and dramatic landforms have drawn the attention of famous New Zealand artists. Colin McCahon found inspiration here, as did Grahame Sydney, Marilynn Webb, James K. Baxter and Brian Turner. There’s something about this country that demands a response through paint, poem, or photograph – it pulls you in. 

The land itself shifts almost without warning. One moment I was passing lush paddocks edged with trees, the next, tussock, scattered trees, and piles of schist as far as the eye could see. The hills in the distance rise under a vast sky, and you realise you’ve crossed into a country that is both stark and strangely beautiful. It’s like another world, empty, exposed and completely stunning. It was here that I found Clarks’s Junction. I pulled the car over and went for a walk. 

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

Sutton

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Sutton

Having marveled over New Zealand’s only submarine, I headed in a southeasterly direction toward Clarks Junction, a small rural crossroads settlement where State Highway 87 meets the Old Dunstan Road, a route goldminers once took from Dunedin over the Rock and Pillar Range to the Central Otago goldfields.

On the way out of Middlemarch, I passed a sign that said “Sutton Salt Lake.” I considered making a quick visit, but I knew it wouldn’t be quick, and I really didn’t have the time. Access to New Zealand’s only inland salt lake is via a 3.5-kilometre walking track through the wide-open spaces of the Strath Taieri. I had visited earlier in the year and had the whole track to myself. I spent a leisurely morning walking past schist towers that rose from golden tussock and dry shrub, scattered across a quiet plain. The sky stretched endlessly above as the ground crunched underfoot. It was a stunning day, the vast blue sky broken by a few rolling clouds over the Rock and Pillar Range in the distance.

The Sutton Salt Lake is a hidden treasure in the heart of New Zealand. A place of rare ecological importance and significance, it is the nation’s only inland salt lake, formed by rainfall, evaporation, and mineral-rich schist. Its fluctuating saltiness creates a fragile environment where only specialised plants survive, making it a living laboratory of adaptation. Surrounded by the stark Maniototo landscapes, it offers a striking glimpse of nature’s resilience and rarity in Central Otago.

I know a salt lake doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it really is a special place. Exploring the lake and surrounding landscape is like finding a white peacock in the wild, seeing the Sea of Stars in the Maldives, or watching Aston Villa win on Boxing Day. It’s like experiencing the Boston Red Sox win the World Series, or Charlize Theron herself – a rare and beautiful thing.

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

Middlemarch

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Middlemarch

If you’re ever in Connecticut, USA it is highly recommended that you visit the USS Nautilus at the Submarine Force Museum. It was the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and is permanently docked on the Thames River which you can walk aboard and explore. In Kiel, Germany at the Laboe Naval Memorial you can visit the U-995, a World War II U-boat. Sydney, Australia has the HMAS Onslow at the Australian National Maritime Museum in Darling Harbour and Kaliningrad, Russia is home to the  B-413 at the Museum of the World. What all these nautical museums and submarine attractions have in common (as in fact do most) is that they are located close to significant bodies of water such as a harbour or ocean. Not so in New Zealand. Here in the land of the long white cloud, to see our one and only submarine you have to drive 80 kilometres inland to Middlemarch – its closest water supply being an outside tap! Yet, it is here you’ll find the Platypus, a submarine that’s a nod towards New Zealand’s ingenuity, inventiveness and No 8 wire mentality. The only drawback being, it never really worked and spent more time holding water than being in it! 

The brainchild of R.W.Nutall and Antoine-Prosper Payerne, who between them came up with the genius idea of building a submarine that could easily dredge the river beds of Central Otago. The theory was that vast quantities of gold must lay on the Central Otago riverbeds and a submarine seemed the ideal way to access it. If the gold wouldn’t come to them, they would go to the gold, thus ‘The Platypus’ was born.

Of French design, The Platypus submarine was constructed, fitted and finished locally in Dunedin before a series of moderately successful public launches took place, starting in December, 1873. The difficulty was that the vessel took a good dozen people to operate and most rational people didn’t want to have anything to do with the craft. Eventually, when at last a group of brave individuals were persuaded to get in the thing, the testing continued, with mixed results at best. During the last of these trials, things went so badly, when The Platypus eventually resurfaced, the men scrambled out, certain they were about to die. After this, unsurprisingly, support started to wane and before it could be transported to the gold fields, the project collapsed with The Platypus left abandoned on the banks of Pelichet Bay (now Logan Park) for four decades. 

The Platypus Project suddenly jumped back to life in the 1920’s when the submarine was dismantled, cut into three sections and sold. The two end sections were purchased by a farmer from the Barewood area near Middlemarch where it was used as a water tank with the middle section disappearing and remains missing. Another 70 years later, the farmer donated the  remains to the Middlemarch Museum where it stands for people like me to marvel over. Which, is what I did now.

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

Straw Cutting

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Straw Cutting

For ten years, the Hyde railway disaster held the title of New Zealand’s worst rail tragedy, until it was overtaken by Tangiwai in 1953. Having visited both, you couldn’t find a sharper contrast. Tangiwai is moody and sombre, with carefully constructed boards that guide you through the events leading up to, during, and after the tragedy. There are graves, multiple memorials, and a well-signposted track that draws you to the site itself. Once there, the information repeats in a way that allows you to pause, reflect, and imagine how horrific that Christmas Eve night must have been. It’s a poignant reminder of a tragic day in New Zealand’s history, and almost impossible to miss as you drive past. Hyde, on the other hand, is a different story entirely, it consists of a recently erected memorial that is 500 metres from the actual site and a lonely information board in the middle of a paddock politely advising you to head eight kilometres back up the road if you’d like to know more.

I was on my way through the Strath Taieri heading for Middlemarch when I reached a sign on the side of the road that encouraged me to see the Hyde Rail Memorial and that’s exactly what I did. I parked in a makeshift car park, spent a few minutes viewing the memorial – reading the names of those that lost their lives, then set off down the track for the crash site. I didn’t know what to expect but suspected it wouldn’t be much, after all, nothing along the way suggested I was even walking in the right direction. Sure enough, after about 500 metres I reached a curve known as Straw Cutting, where the old railway once ran. This, it was clear, was the site. At the top of a bank stood a modest board with just over a hundred words on it, none of which told me anything new. Quite frankly, it was a little disappointing. I wasn’t expecting a theme park selling novelty souvenirs, but I had hoped for a few stories about the survivors, or information about the crash. It seemed only logical: if you’re standing on the site of a disaster, that’s where the story should be told. You don’t go to a museum, stand in front of an exhibit, and then get directed three blocks down the street to read the details. Here I was, at the site of New Zealand’s second-worst railway disaster, and all I got was a reminder to put my rubbish in the bin (though there wasn’t actually a bin to be seen).

For the record, the Hyde railway disaster happened just after 1:30 pm on June 4, 1943. A passenger train was rattling its way from Cromwell to Dunedin, carrying 113 people, many likely heading for the Dunedin Winter Show. The driver, under pressure to make good time, had taken the train well beyond the safe speed limit. As it careered into a sharp bend near Hyde, the inevitable happened – the carriages left the track, crashing and rolling in a scene of devastation. The wreckage stretched across the countryside, leaving survivors to clamber free and search for loved ones amid the chaos. Twenty-one people lost their lives, many more were injured, and Hyde (along with Straw Cutting) became one of those quiet country places forever marked on the map by tragedy, its story, much like the Tangiwai disaster, retold with a mix of sorrow and disbelief.

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

Rockvale

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Rockvale

I returned to the car and drove fifteen kilometres along yet more slow but lovely roads to Hyde, the way winding past sheep paddocks, willow groves, and the occasional farmhouse that looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a decade or two. The frost clung stubbornly to the verges as the sun began the day’s slow defrosting process. To the west, the Kakanui Mountains rose in a long, rugged line, their slopes catching snow in winter and dust in summer. To the south lay places with names like Fairleigh, Newton, Rockvale, Rock and Pillar, and Middlemarch. It was this last place I was heading to next – though on the way, I had a famous crash site to visit.

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

Kokonga

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Kokonga

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost. Having settled overnight, it stretched across the fields as far as the eye could see, and by the time I reached Kokonga, it seemed even more bitter.

A few kilometres before the small settlement, I had passed through the Maniototo in the early morning. The hills lay flat and peaceful, like sleeping animals. Scattered farms stood distant and isolated; fields climbed up to the rolling hillsides, giving the valley a far-flung feel. The sun had yet to take hold of the day and, for the meantime, remained tucked away behind dark, puffy clouds. On a short stretch of road beside a frozen field, I passed a sign that read “Railway Road – No Exit”, the track itself running only a short distance up into the hills. I pulled over beside an old, forgotten fenceline and got out to look around. There was no one about. Presumably, the people of Kokonga were still sensibly tucked up in bed, warm and cosy.

I wandered past a house with a neatly kept garden – no sign of life – and then along the former railway line, now part of the Central Otago Rail Trail. I stopped where the view opened over a scattering of caravans and huts that sat in the frost-stiffened grass, paint peeling, windows squinting out at the day as if half-asleep. Behind them, the hills rolled away into the distance, capped with snow and looking noble and grand, as mountains often do. The whole scene lay under a pale winter sky, stark, cold, beautiful in a way that makes you wonder if the people living here are brave, mad, or a little of both. I pondered that notion for a bit, not reaching a conclusion as my feet crunched their way back to the warmth of my car.

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

Kyeburn

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Kyeburn

Of all the things to come out of Kyeburn recently, by far the most remarkable happened in March of 2019, when a local discovered a series of moa footprints in the Kyeburn River. Experts from Tūhura Otago Museum were altered, the river diverted, and the footprints carefully removed to Dunedin. After study, the fossilised trackway was confirmed as the first of its kind known in the South Island and the second-oldest evidence of moa in New Zealand, dating back around 3.6 million years. 

Just think about that for a moment. Some 3.6 million years ago, a heavy-footed moa clumsily wandered across soft river mud, leaving footprints at just the right moment when the ground was firm enough to hold them. By sheer luck, nature quickly covered them with a fresh layer of sediment, shielding the prints from rain, wind, and any other wandering feet. Over millions of years the mud hardened to stone, only to be revealed by the river, just in time for a man named Michael to stumble upon them while walking his dog. Practically speaking, the chances of that happening are astronomically low. 

Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost.

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

Waipiata (4)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Waipiata (4)

In the morning, breakfast was a generous affair of fruit, muesli, toast, coffee, and orange juice – the sort of spread that convinces you a second helping is simply good manners. After several rounds and feeling suitably fortified, I gathered my things and attempted a dignified exit, slipping quietly out the back door so as not to disturb the other guests. This worked perfectly for all of three seconds, until I tripped over a rubbish bin that clattered to the ground and promptly woke the neighbour’s dog, which then woke the rest of the neighbourhood. So much for subtlety.

The morning was cold, properly cold. Everything, and I do mean everything, was frozen solid. Since de-icing the car wasn’t going to be quick, I set off for a walk. Each step landed with a satisfying crunch on the frost, my breath hanging in the air like a thin city fog. Smoke curled lazily from a few nearby houses before dissolving into the washed-out colours of a Maniototo morning.

I’d been following a dirt road, but as the sun began rising over the hills I turned back toward the car, the new light dragging long shadows across the gravel roads and paddocks. I followed them for a while until I reached a frozen stream pressed against a fence line, glinting in the pale sun. I stood there for a moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of a world not quite awake, not yet anyway. 

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

Waipiata (3)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Waipiata (3)

To be honest with you, the first pint didn’t touch the sides and the second didn’t last much longer as I carefully surveyed the menu. It had been a long day, I was tired, hungry, thirsty and before I knew it I was happily devouring a delicious Lamb Shank Pie with mash and veg. I know it doesn’t sound that spectacular but it really was. I loved every mouthful, it was so good I considered ordering a second, but I knew I couldn’t possibly manage it. I washed it all down with a beer and happily sat there full, content and musing over how correct people had been. The food was nothing short of delicious and what’s more, there seemed to be delivery parcels of takeaway meals coming out of the kitchen every few minutes. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where all the food was going, I didn’t think enough people lived in the area to sustain so many orders but clearly I was wrong. By the time I was ordering my fourth pint I had firmly decided on several things. Firstly, I too would soon be raving to people about the food at the Waipiata Hotel and secondly, it wouldn’t be long before I would be heading to bed.

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

Waipiata (2)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Waipiata (2)

Before leaving on this trip, when a few of my friends had heard what I was doing, the food at the Waipiata Country Hotel had been highly recommended. So highly recommended in fact it was the sole reason I was there. Now, here I was, on the verge of what I’d been told was a culinary feast. I found the hotel with little problem, dumped my gear in my room, spent a moment organising myself and headed straight for the bar! On the way, I spotted a sign that read “We are not able to predict when a social gathering might occur. If your stay coincides with a night when the locals come down from the hills to gather and celebrate we can only apologize for any excess noise coming from the bar. Please feel free to use the earplugs provided – or come out and join in.” I ordered a pint, found a table and sank into the bar stool. I instantly felt at home!

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

Waipiata (1)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Waipiata (1)

I left Ranfurly deciding to take a backcountry gravel road to my destination of Waipiata – a short trip of only 10 kilometres, pretty much having the road to myself, apart from the occasional farmer who would pass, creating a dramatic dust storm and a wave of gravel that would rattle against the windscreen. After the onslaught had dissipated, this off course would leave me peering through a film of muck so thick it took a four-step process to clean. Step one (while driving) was to spray the windscreen and flick the wipers, which only turned the dust into a thick brown sludge that would be smeared across the windscreen – briefly leaving me driving blind. Step two was to repeat step one which was required to clean-up the mess created by step one – which helped a little. Step three was another repeat, finally restoring visibility to approximately 80%, and step four bringing things back to clear. At least until the next farmer appeared right on cue in a perfectly choreographed arrival.

It was getting late by the time I arrived in Waipiata, a tiny settlement in the Maniototo. Once a bustling railway stop but now a sleepy village with a pub, a scattering of houses, and the wide open sky for company. The sun and light were starting to fade and an evening chill whistled in from somewhere out on the plains. I went for a short drive around the town, stopping at the local domain which peered out across the plains to the snowcapped peaks on the horizon. I followed a track through the tussock for several minutes that seemed to go nowhere. I stood for a few minutes and listened to the silence, the land stretching away rising gently to meet the blue-grey mountains where the last of winter’s snow clung to the ridges. It had been a long day, but I was pleased I was here. I turned, returned to my car and went in search of some accommodation – The Waipiata Country Hotel, a place I’d chosen specifically for the food. 

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

Ranfurly

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Ranfurly

It was mid to late afternoon when I came into Ranfurly. The sun was beginning to slip down the sky, casting a long golden light across the Maniototo Plains. I was on my way to Waipiata, but Ranfurly was sitting there in the middle of the landscape looking quietly self-assured, so I decided to make a small detour. Like most New Zealand small towns, Ranfurly seemed to be quietly going about its business while the outer world went hurriedly by.

The Maniototo had been vast and open all afternoon, a place where the sky seemed to take up more space than land. Coming into Ranfurly felt a little like stepping into a pocket of civilization after so much emptiness, if only for a microsecond – a modest town on the edge of a timeless land supporting a surprising amount of character.

Putting its ruralness aside, the first thing I always notice about Ranfurly is the art deco. It’s everywhere: shopfronts, corners, the old post office. Ranfurly owes this quirk to a run of fires in the 1930s, which had cleared much of the main street and forced the town to rebuild. While other places might have chosen a more practical, no-nonsense approach to reestablishing the town, Ranfurly went in a slightly different and quite unexpected direction by giving itself a touch of Hollywood glamour.

The result is a main street with clean lines and curved corners, pastel colours and cheerful facades – the sort of place where you half-expect to find Clark Gable leaning against a doorway in the tearooms. If tourists stopped and asked him for directions he would be able to turn and say, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn! Further down the street outside the pub they could have Humphrey Bogart telling people “The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world” while Gene Kelly could appear every time it rains, singing and dancing – twirling an umbrella.

Of course, all of this isn’t so. Like most New Zealand towns, Ranfurly is built on farming, family, and a strong sense of community. But the art deco architecture gives it a twist – a kind of unexpected pride that sets it apart from its neighbours. You come for the wide landscapes and sharp light of Central Otago, and somehow leave remembering a town that chose style as well as substance. But what really tickled me was the thought that, out here on Maniototo Plains, a town had decided not only to exist but to do so with a certain amount of pizzazz, as if to say, “yes, the sheep are important, but have you seen our curves and pastel trims?”

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

Oturehua

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Oturehua

I found Oturehua tucked quietly into the heart of the Ida Valley. With a population of a little over one hundred, it felt as though time had politely slowed down just enough for me to notice the hills, the wide skies, and the gentle hum of a quiet Central Otago town.

I arrived at rush hour. Four or five utes were parked outside the Railway Hotel, a family wagon idled off into the distance, a family of five emerged from Gilchrist’s General Store, and a group of cyclists enthusiastically inspected their machinery on a nearby patch of grass – no doubt about to tackle another section of the famed Rail Trail.

I parked and called in at Gilchrist’s General Store, famous for being one of New Zealand’s oldest continually operating general stores. It’s the type of place that time has forgotten, but nobody else has. It’s like a living museum; as soon as you step inside you’re transported back in time, free to rummage through the shelves for all sorts of quirky goods while vintage advertising signs decorate the walls. I wandered around, reading the old signs and enjoying the endearing elegance of a place that has no right to be as charming as it is. Behind the counter stood a ladder, reaching to the higher shelves. It’s wasn’t hard to imagine a whimsical shopkeeper climbing the ladder behind the counter, then pushing himself to the other end of the display, the ladder gliding smoothly along the shelves on its clever wheel runners. Throughout the store, not only are there old signs, tins, and packaging to admire and reminisce over, but the original telephone exchange is still in place. If that isn’t enough, between the 1920s and the 1940s the business also incorporated a bakery that employed up to 12 people.

Yet Gilchrist’s General Store, the Railway Hotel, the Rail Trail, or even Hayes Engineering are not the most remarkable things about this tiny settlement. The real surprise is that, for a town of just over 100 residents, two have won New Zealand Heritage Literary Awards for poetry. The settlement regularly hosts literary and artistic events such as the Under Rough Ridge Writers’ Retreat, and the wider community is home to a remarkable concentration of writers, poets, and other artists. Without the world noticing, Oturehua has become a creative hub in rural Central Otago, far from the country’s urban centres.

I went for a walk up and down the street where the main cluster of buildings stood. I can’t even call them shops, because mostly they weren’t. I don’t mean that in a rude way – just as a statement of fact. Yet the strange thing was, the longer I stayed, the more the place grew on me. It had no right to. There didn’t seem to be enough there. Yet – and here’s the kicker – it was more than enough.

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

The Ida Valley

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – The Ida Valley

From Ophir I headed northwest over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley. A wide, sunlit expanse where the air feels thin and clear, and the land rolls out quietly in front of you. It’s the sort of place that makes you slow down, breathe deeply, and wonder why more people don’t live in valleys like this. Then you realise how special it is and hope it never changes.

As I made my way through the wide-open expanses, the remains of a recent snow drift lay either side of the road, melting in the winter sun. In the distance the Hawkduns loomed – a great, brooding mountain range that dominated the skyline, the kind of mountains that make you feel wonderfully insignificant.

The Ida Valley itself has a curious stillness, as if time slows down. Farmhouses sit low and square against the wind, fences run for miles into the distance, and the road stretches on so far ahead that it seems almost reluctant to end. Out here, there’s a sense that this is a place built on endurance – of people who chose to stay, even when the winters bite hard and the summers bake the earth into cracked clay.

There’s something beautiful about the valley. Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the long shadows cast across the plains, or maybe it’s the knowledge that for decades, this land has seen lives come and go – gold miners, farmers, artists – yet somehow, it has resisted change. You can sense history lingering in the dry air, tucked away in stone cottages and forgotten farm sheds. I pressed on, the road drawing me deeper into the valley, half expecting to meet no one, and quite enjoying the idea.

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

Ophir

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Ophir

The very small town of Ophir has a delightful post office, a wonderfully creaky old bridge, a charming pub, and for a glorious stretch of time – the claim of being the coldest place in the country. This, of course, was before some mean spirited person decided to rifle through forgotten weather records and unearthed the inconvenient fact that neighbouring Ranfurly had once managed to be even colder. Three degrees colder, in fact. The record was promptly reassigned, leaving Ophir with its post office, bridge, pub, and the rather less marketable distinction of being merely the second coldest place in New Zealand. 

Ophir’s near-record low of -21.6 °C was reached on Monday, 3 July 1995. To put that in perspective, the average temperature at Scott Base in Antarctica – a place where penguins look like they’re regretting their life choices – is a comparatively balmy -19.8 °C. Ophir was so cold that day locals swear livestock froze to the ground, hens had to be prised off their perches, and hypothermia was a very real threat. For years, the town proudly held on to this shivery claim to fame, until 2015 when the past inconveniently caught up with it. Old records were dusted off and revealed that back in July 1903, a site just west of Ranfurly had clocked an arctic –25.6 °C. And just like that, poor Ophir slipped from first place to second – which is a cruel fate for a town that was already small enough to be overlooked on most maps. 

Fortunately for Ophir, the post office is delightful, the old bridge is wonderful, and the pub is charming. I arrived from nearby Omakau in bright sunshine on a fine but chilly afternoon, wandered about the old buildings, and walked across the bridge – which I rather enjoyed. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I walked across it once more. Then, for good measure, I skipped, hopped, and danced my way across as well, before climbing back into the car and slipping over the hill into the Ida Valley.  

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

Omakau

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Omakau

Just after you leave the town of Clyde – heading towards Alexandra on State Highway 8, there’s a turnoff called Springvale Road. I took this, heading for the town of Omakau. As I did so, a strange thing happened: the sky cleared revealing a stunning winter’s day. It felt almost biblical. One moment I thought it was going to rain, next I was traveling through bright sunshine under a vast and radiant blue sky. This was the weather I’d been hoping for since leaving home, and now at last, here it was – stretching off into the distance, a big blue sky over a timeless land. I couldn’t be happier. 

I’d read somewhere that Omakau is a charming little Central Otago town, a lovely place to stop and stroll around. So that’s exactly what I did. I parked out the former Commercial Hotel and went for a wander, reading signs and inquisitively peering into various shop windows before strolling the short distance down to the Manuherikia River 

Over a hundred years ago, a violent storm swept through the region, bringing a combination of flooding, snowstorms, and blizzards. So unexpected was the weather system, many people were caught unprepared and heavy rain caused rivers like the Manuherikia to swell with one drowning recorded. During the snowstorms that followed, further fatalities were recorded. Thankfully, when I was there the river was in a pleasant and agreeable mood, and looked rather fetching from my vantage point on the bridge. I could almost make out the town of Ophir, which was where I was heading next. For a moment I considered walking there. It was only two kilometres away and the day was warm and fine. What’s more, I was on my own time and in need of a good walk. Just as I was about to set off, a bout of rational thinking kicked in. If I walked there, I’d also have to walk back, and the afternoon would quickly disappear. A decent walk now would mean less time for a beer at the end of the day. I mulled over this quandary for a few minutes … and then headed back to the car.

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

Clyde (2)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Clyde (2)

Like a lot of places in Otago and Southland, the town of Clyde got its start in life thanks to the discovery of gold in the region. When that happened, everyone went absolutely bananas and rushed to the goldfields seeking fame and fortune, the epicentre of the mayhem being the town of Clyde – although back then it was simply known as “The Dunstan.” At the height of the gold rush, Clyde was the largest town in the country, and it’s also home to one of my favourite gold rush robbery stories.

At the time of the Otago Gold Rush of the 1860s, the towns of Frankton and Clyde were strategically important hubs in the gold escort network. Located on key routes between Queenstown, Arrowtown, and the wider Otago diggings, shipments of gold often passed through one or the other on their way back to Dunedin. Depending on where the gold originated, it might be staged overnight in Frankton or in Clyde before tackling the next leg of the journey. In July 1870, gold from the local diggings was being held in Clyde’s lock-up, awaiting the Monday morning escort to Dunedin, when one of the country’s most audacious robberies took place, gold and banknotes to the value of around £2,000 at the time were stolen from inside the Clyde gaol.

The robbery occurred on a cold winter’s night in late July 1870, as a hard frost settled over the town. Earlier that day, the weekly gold shipment from the local diggings had been brought into Clyde and stored away in the town lock-up, located inside a cell within the town jail. The next morning, upon inspection, it was discovered that the outer gaol door remained secure, but the larger, heavier, and stronger door inside had been forced open and the gold and banknotes were gone.

After an exhaustive search, with a substantial reward offered to anyone who could help solve the crime, the cash boxes were found empty in a water race just 50 metres from the gaol, while whispers around town suggested a local shoemaker and the constable on duty might have been involved. Local gossip even hinted that the constable had simply unlocked the outer door to let the shoemaker in, yet none of this was ever proven and no one was ever convicted.

The robbery had taken place some time between midnight and 4 a.m. The thieves broke through the inner door by removing heavy screws and manipulating the sturdy iron bolt across it. Once inside, they threw the cash boxes over the gaol wall and made off with the loot – the gold and notes were never recovered, although town gossip suggested they were hidden 50 kilometres (35 miles) from Clyde, somewhere in the rocky Maniototo hills.

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

Clyde (1)

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Clyde (1)

The drive to Clyde was 20 minutes of scenic beauty along the shores of Lake Dunstan. The weather was in an indecisive mood, with ominous storm clouds gathering overhead, while settled patches of blue sky showed signs of promise far off in the distance. All along the lake there are bays and inlets that are usually filled with people in the summer months; however, today they were empty, as occasional gusts of wind whipped up the lake, disturbing the wintery aqua hues on the lake’s epilimnion. The road was strangely quiet – a welcome surprise, let me tell you – leaving me free to happily gaze out the window, contently singing along to some 1970s Soul Train mix that Spotify had told me was “a vibe I know you’re into,” putting me in a happy and content mood as I pulled into town and parked outside a local bakery.

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

Cromwell

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Cromwell

A few minutes later, I arrived in Cromwell. It had a sluggish sort of feel. The town was busier than expected, yet low mist and cloud had settled over the place, giving the day a lethargic air that residents seemed to embrace as they ambled between shops at a pace suggesting they had nowhere urgent to be. I drove through the historic precinct, where the original town once stood before the area was flooded and most of its historic buildings were lost forever, eventually leaving via the main bridge at a place called Dead Man’s Point. Here, I joined State Highway 8, with Lake Dunstan coming into view, and carried on towards Clyde.

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

Bannockburn

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Bannockburn

Just before reaching Cromwell, near Highlands Motorsport Park (a world-class venue that at one point looked doomed for the scrapheap until Scottish-born entrepreneur and racing enthusiast Tony Quinn injected the necessary funds to see it completed) I decided on a whim to detour 5 kilometres to the small settlement of Bannockburn. 

Bannockburn got its start in the days of the Otago Gold Rush and at the height of the gold rush, around 40,000 miners were working claims across Central Otago, with about 10,000 in the Clyde, Cromwell, Bannockburn, Stewart Town area by 1864. Around this time, a story emerged of a chilly spring evening when a handful of miners gathered at one of the numerous watering holes just down the hill from Stewart Town near Bannockburn. After a hard week of sluicing and picking through schist, they were ready to unwind, and as the night grew later, the whisky flowed, the laughs grew louder, and the stories taller.

By the time the last orders came, three miners – let’s call them Jack, Tom, and Bill – discovered that the relationship between their brains and legs had broken down entirely. They began the long stumble back up the hill to Stewart Town in a not-altogether-straight line. As the night deepened, the songs grew louder, the hill steeper, and the gullies all started to look the same. Familiar landmarks blurred in the moonlight. Hours later, the townsfolk woke to faint voices and songs drifting over the hills through the night. At first light, a search party set out and found the trio several kilometres off the usual track, tangled in a scrubby gully, their boots soaked, clothes torn, and nursing hangovers that could floor a crash of rhinoceroses.

These days, all that’s left of Stewart Town are a few crumbling remains on a historic reserve, while Bannockburn itself has a population of around 500 – a number that soars to what feels like 5 billion in summer as holidaymakers flock to Central Otago to enjoy this sun-baked pocket of the country, where golden hills, vineyards, and vast blue skies linger late into the evening. Upon arrival, I drove around for a bit, admiring the remains of old schist buildings that still grace the town, before slipping out across the bridge.

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

Lake Hayes

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Lake Hayes

At Lake Hayes, the weather was starting to break. The heavy, overcast gloom and constant threat of rain was giving way to still, settled-yet cold-conditions. I pulled into a relatively empty car park and went for a stroll along one of the tracks that followed the shore. The full loop is a picturesque and enchanting 8-kilometre (5-mile), two-hour walk around the lake’s edge. On a different day I’d have embraced the track and set off for a decent walk, but time wasn’t on my side. Instead, I stood by the water’s edge, taking in the near-perfect mountain reflections in front of me.

The lake was still, like a sheet of glass stretching all the way to the distant shore, creating a flawless, crystal-clear mirror image of the mountains across the horizon while wildlife lazily pushed through the reeds near my feet. Only the steady hum of the motorway behind me, with its chaotic rhythm, broke up the tranquillity of this peaceful oasis. It couldn’t last. It didn’t last. Just as I pulled out of the car park and bravely rejoined the stream of traffic, an annoyance of British campervans arrived and began setting up a corral in the very car park I’d just vacated. Hungry and thirsty, I slipped into the traffic flow heading for Cromwell, roughly 45 kilometres (27 miles) away, passing through the wonderful Gibbston Valley and Kawarau Gorge – an ever-changing journey of spectacular mountain peaks, deep ravines, with a striking yet imposing river.

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

Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Carlin Creek, Jacks Point & Frankton

I returned to the car and drove 32 kilometres (20 miles) along a glorious yet winding road to Jack’s Point, a resort on the edge of Lake Wakatipu framed by the dramatic, snow-covered peaks of the Remarkables on one side and rocky tussock covered hills on the other. To the north lay the ever-expanding district of Frankton, a strategically important location during the time of the Otago Gold Rush in the 1860s and the birthplace of WWII hero and flying ace William Hodgson.

I’d read about RAF officer William Hodgson quite by chance before leaving on my trip, wondering if I might be able to find a war memorial in the area with his name on it. Born in Frankton on 30 September 1920, Hodgson joined the RNZAF in Dunedin in 1939, training first at the Otago Aero Club and then at Wigram’s Flight Training School before being shipped off to the United Kingdom in April 1940. Upon arrival, he completed Hurricane training and was posted to the 85th Squadron at Debden in May, becoming involved in the Battle of Britain in August – his squadron being ordered to patrol the skies over Canterbury. From there, he went on to fly close to 150 missions, being officially credited with destroying five enemy aircraft and damaging many others. On 13 March 1941, Hodgson was a passenger in an A-20 when shortly after takeoff, a panel came loose, wrapped itself around the tail fin causing the plane to crash, killing all on board.

My plan upon arrival in Frankton was simple: go for a walk, see if I could find any mention of William Hodgson at the war memorial, have a coffee, and grab some lunch. But that quickly changed when I discovered that traffic was in a state of insane chaos due to a series of never-ending roadworks. Vehicles were backed up in every direction, made worse by airport traffic and tourists who seemed determined to photograph mountains, rubbish bins, or whatever the hell else had caught their fancy. Stuck in this traffic hellhole, I decided that poor Mr William Hodgson would have to wait. I didn’t want to spend a minute longer than necessary in such chaotic shambles, so I escaped via State Highway 6 as quickly as possible. Stopping instead at Lake Hayes, which I hoped would be much more peaceful and was only 9 kilometres (5 miles) further on.

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

Kingston

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Kingston

From Fairlight, the road to Kingston hugged the edge of open farmland before finally giving way to the lake. The weather had slipped into that particular winter moodiness – a low ceiling of grey, the hills brooding under a dusting of snow, and Lake Wakatipu the colour of slate. By the time I rolled into Kingston, it felt as though the clouds had settled in for the long haul.

Kingston’s first claim to fame was, of course, the Kingston Flyer, the old steam train that once flew its way up and down the tracks. But I discovered it had a second claim to fame: it was here that the TSS Earnslaw was launched.

Built in Dunedin, the Earnslaw had been dismantled and loaded onto trains for the journey to Kingston, piece by piece, before being reassembled and launched on 18 October 1912. She set out from Kingston to Queenstown on her maiden voyage that day and has been gliding up and down Lake Wakatipu ever since, a floating slice of Edwardian elegance.

I stood and looked out across the lake, then back towards the town. I’d managed to see the Flyer, stand where the Earnslaw first touched the water, and even exchange a few words with a handful of locals who seemed equal parts curious and amused by my visit. It felt like I’d done Kingston justice – enough history, conversation, and weather to fill a small notebook. With that achievement under my belt, I pointed the car toward the Devil’s Staircase, Carlin Creek, Jacks Point and finally Frankton.

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

Fairlight

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Fairlight

Leaving Athol, State Highway 6 quickly slips into that familiar Southland habit of stretching out in long, ruler-straight lines, as if the surveyor couldn’t be bothered. Further on, smaller settlements appeared almost apologetically, little more than a handful of houses and a war memorial that looks like it’s been keeping a quiet eye on the place for over a century. Blink, and you’re on your way again.

Further on, I found myself at Fairlight. At first glance, it’s just a station beside the road, but this patch of ground was once “The Ten Mile,” a staging stop for horses and travellers in the pre-railway days. Then came the 10th July 1878, when the first train rattled through on the newly completed Athol-to-Kingston line. Invercargill marked the occasion with a celebration excursion, five engines, twenty carriages, and presumably a few startled sheep watching the spectacle roll past.

The building here today started life as Otautau’s railway station, built around the 1920s, and was hauled over to Fairlight in 1996. Now it serves as the southern terminus of the Kingston Flyer, quietly keeping watch, waiting for the next whistle of steam, and maybe remembering the days of old when the carriages made the ground tremble.

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

Lumsden, Lowther & Athol

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Lumsden, Lowther & Athol

Twenty kilometres beyond Dipton is Lumsden, then the towns of Lowther and Athol. But, I didn’t feel like stopping at any of these places. The rural feel was giving way to mountain passes and ranges with snowcovered peaks, all of which gave an ominous, moody feel to the far off horizon. I was happy to drive and watch the countryside pass me by. Besides, I was deeply engrossed in an Australian podcast called The Crewe murders: New Zealand’s most infamous cold case. In 1970, Harvey and Jeanette Crewe were shot dead in the living room of their Pukekawa farmhouse, their bodies found in the Waikato River three months later. 

When the Crewes’ were first discovered to be missing, their two-year-old daughter Rochelle was found alive and alone at the Crewes farmhouse, having been cared for by an unknown person/s. Local farmer Arthur Allan Thomas was eventually arrested and charged over the murders, the prosecution relying heavily on a spent .22 cartridge case found in the Crewe garden. Thomas was convicted, appealed and reconvicted and spent nine years in prison before it was revealed evidence was planted by police. In 1979, nine years after the Crewe’s were murdered, Arthur Allan Thomas was granted a Royal Pardon by Governor-General Sir Keith Holyoake on the advice of Prime Minister Robert Muldoon, while to this day, the murders have never been solved. 

As I drove with the countryside changing around me, I realised it’s the mystery around the Crewe murders more than the murderers themselves that make the case so fascinating. The actual murders were nothing more than a grisly affair that has happened countless times before. What made these murders so sensational was the sheer amount of unknown intrigue that lasted throughout the case. With the Crewe murders, new evidence doesn’t provide answers, it only raises more questions, and that’s very rare!  

About the time I was whizzing through the small Southland town of Athol, dodging slow-moving cars with Australian bumper stickers that read “I come from the land down under” and “Australian and Proud,” my podcast was ending and I was feeling in a somber mood. I had started the day with the infamous baby farmer Minnie Dean and moved on to the horrific murders of Harvey and Jeanette Crewe. These were heavy topics for 10am and now I was being held up by slow-moving Australians. So, to lighten the mood before arriving at Fairlight, I spent the time trying to remember jokes about Australians.

Question: How many Australians does it take to make chocolate chip cookies?
Answer: Ten. One to make the batter, and nine to peel the M&Ms.

Question: What do you call an Australian in the final of the Rugby World Cup?
Answer: A referee.

Question: Why did the Australian stare at the carton of orange juice?
Answer: It said “concentrate.”

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

Dipton

Leave a comment

Daily Photo – Dipton

Limehills is the kind of place you could easily miss if you blink too long while driving, which is exactly what I did. I’d been hoping to get an early fix of caffeine, my eyes scanning for the tell-tale sign of a café with a chalkboard out front and a name like “Bean There” or “Perky’s,” but the opportunity sailed past without me even noticing. By the time I realised, I was rolling into Dipton, wondering if I’d dreamt Limehills entirely.

Located on State Highway 6 between Invercargill and Frankton, Dipton’s population hovers at just over 2,000 people, who enjoy its tranquil rural feel. The nearby Ōreti River sparkling in the sunshine, all the while surrounded by wonderfully green pastures that seem to go on forever. But this was winter. The pastures weren’t green, the sunshine wasn’t shining, and the tranquillity seemed to have slipped away. A low grey winter cloud hung over the town like an unmade duvet, the nearby paddocks were lined with mud, cows standing about in that resigned way cows do when they know there’s no point complaining.

And yet, there was something oddly comforting about Dipton in winter. The stillness was different; it was more of a sedate winter hibernation. Still, I’m sure locals welcome visitors with all the good graces in the world. I could turn up at the Winter Community Catch-Up in June, attend rock ’n’ roll lessons on a Wednesday evening throughout July, stop off at Bee’s Bites for a taste treat, or join the locals in seeing Nick Hyde live in the Community Hall in September, all the being embraced into the town. Dipton seemed to be the kind of place where locals would tip their hat with a friendly “morn” before moving on with their day.

Dipton wasn’t flashy. It’s not even mildly attention-seeking. It was just quietly getting on with the business of the day. As must I, which is why I headed for Lumsden.