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

Clyde (1)

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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

Winton (3)

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Daily Photo – Winton (3)

The Larches, a modest property just outside the rural town of Winton, gained a measure of notoriety in the early 1870s as the home of the infamous baby farmer Williamina Dean (better known as Minnie Dean) and her husband, Charles.

The Deans moved there after their hotel business near Riverton collapsed. If that wasn’t enough, a fire at their new home left them teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. With Charles struggling to find steady work, Minnie turned to what was then called “baby farming”, taking in infants for payment from mothers who were unable or unwilling to care for them. Quickly whispers soon began to spread. Several children in her care had died, reportedly from neglect or mistreatment, and the town began to watch her more closely.

Locals noticed a curious pattern: Minnie often travelled alone by train, returning with a child in tow. Then, days, weeks or months later, she would be off again, returning with another child, many of them never to be seen again. On one particular journey, a local reporter saw her board a train carrying a baby and a small hatbox. When she came back, the baby was gone, and the hatbox was unusually heavy and all she carried. Suspicion turned to alarm, and the police were alerted.

In 1895, a search of The Larches revealed a grim discovery: the bodies of two infants and a three-year-old girl buried in the garden. Her trial was swift. Found guilty of murder, she was sentenced to death. On 12 August 1895, at Invercargill Prison, Minnie Dean became the first, and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand.

I found her grave on the edge of the old Winton Cemetery, slightly apart from the others, as though she were still kept at arm’s length from society. Today, Winton likes to be known as a prosperous farming community rather than for Minnie Dean, but the story still lingers in the background.I climbed back into my car and drove through the nearby streets. I drove past ‘The Larches’ where once a ramshackled old weatherboard cottage with a dirt floor once stood,  a faint emptiness settling over me. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, some dramatic flash of history, perhaps, but in the quiet morning hour it all felt strangely anticlimactic in a sad sort of way. Eventually, I rejoined the main state highway, all the while thinking about the life of Minnie Dean. There was nothing else to be said.  

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

Winton (2)

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Daily Photo – Winton (2)

In the morning, I was awake early and sprang out of bed in an enthusiastic mood. After all, it’s not every day you go to the grave site of the first and only woman to be hanged in New Zealand.

I completed my morning ablutions without incident, ate breakfast, and quietly slipped out into the chilly morning air to take in the town of Winton. Immediately across the road stood the old post office.

The previous evening, the old post office building had looked quite splendid bathed in harsh light. A bright orange streetlamp had thrown its starburst glare squarely across the façade, giving the white walls a lovely glow, while a colder blue light hovered to the left like some disinterested moon. Against the inky black sky, the building’s details of arched doorway and windows seemed exaggerated, as though trying to remind passersby of the importance it once held. But now, in the morning light, it had taken on a different complexion. It looked softer, almost apologetic, as though the bravado of the night had drained away and left behind a tired old building simply trying to mind its own business while it nursed a hangover!

I walked up one side of the street and back down the other, taking in the morning. It was only 7:30 a.m., but trucks were already rattling past. I made my way to my car, and soon after I too was on the road, heading for a place called ‘The Larches’ and later the grave of Minnie Dean.

#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.

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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.