The other month I went for a wander out to the Harrington Point gun emplacements on the Otago Peninsula, one of those places you always mean to explore properly but never quite get around to. I’d driven the long, winding road past the familiar waterside spots of Macandrew Bay, Broad Bay and Portobello, through Ōtākou and on to Taiaroa Head, before parking my car as carefully as possible at Harrington Point.
The site itself was first constructed in the late 1880s, when the good people of Dunedin were convinced the Russian Empire was about to sail in and start something dreadful. The whole complex, observation posts, underground tunnels, magazines, engine rooms and all was built in earnest anticipation of a war that, of course, never came. Still, it must have made for excellent local gossip at the time.
That afternoon I wandered, tripped and scrambled my way around the remains, occasionally losing my footing and my sense of direction but never my curiosity. The incoming tide lapped at the rocks below the cliffs as I explored the old stairwells and passageways, hoping to stumble upon some long-forgotten relic. From one weathered doorway a narrow stairwell led deeper underground, connecting a warren of echoing tunnels and rusting fittings that once formed the nerve centre of Dunedin’s defences.
It’s an amazingly fun and oddly peaceful coastline, part history lesson, part playground with seabirds and seals forever close to hand, as if they, too, were keeping watch for something that might not arrive.
Looking up at those dark cliffs and their strange hexagonal pillars at Blackhead Beach, you get the feeling the earth here is older than time itself. And in a way, it is. The headland was born about ten million years ago, when the great Dunedin Volcano was still rumbling and lava was spilling into the sea. As it cooled, the molten rock cracked and shrank into perfect six-sided columns, nature’s own geometry lesson. The result is the striking formation known locally as the “Roman Baths,” a natural amphitheatre of basalt that looks as if it were carved by an ancient civilisation rather than made by chance.
Yet, long before geologists admired these pillars or quarry trucks began to rumble nearby, Māori knew this place by very different names Te Wai o Tinarau, “the waters of Tinarau,” and Makereatu, roughly translated as “to leave a seed.” The names alone hint at a deep connection with both sea and story. Tinarau/Tinirau, is a figure in Polynesian culture associated with the sea. To name this coastline after him suggests an understanding that went beyond simple geography, a recognition of the tides, the fish, and the life that springs from the sea.
Even the second name, Makereatu, has a poetry to it. A sense of something passed on, perhaps the way every wave that breaks here leaves behind a trace of the one before. It’s a reminder that places like Blackhead are layered not just in basalt, but in meaning. The rocks tell a tale written in lava; the names tell one spoken in generations. Both deserve to be read slowly.
Here’s a sudden swerve in direction for a Thursday morning (or whatever day and time it happens to be when you’re reading this).
The other day I spotted a wee snippet in the local paper marking 65 years since Penguin Books went on trial in London for publishing D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover. It caused a full-blown cultural storm in the 1960s because a publisher had dared to print a novel complete with sex scenes and swearing. The government, horrified, decided this simply wouldn’t do and charged them with obscenity. The prosecution, still clinging to Edwardian manners, good taste, and a solid dose of prudishness, asked the jury whether this was a book “you would wish your wife or your servants to read.” It showed just how spectacularly out of touch they were. When Penguin was found not guilty, it was a win for literature. It marked the point where Britain and much of the English-speaking world, began shaking off the moral stiffness of the 1950s. From then on, writers could explore feelings, emotions, and the messier bits of human love without being carted off to court or thrown in jail.
Looking back now, it’s hard not to smile at the irony. Imagine if the prosecution had got their hands on Fifty Shades of Grey- they’d have fainted before making it past page one. Not that I’ve read either mind you.
About a century ago, when a group of local doctors were looking for a place to escape the hustle and bustle of Dunedin, they settled on a quiet stretch of sand and bush just north of Waitati. So, when they came across the seaside sections at Blueskin Bay, they quickly snapped them up, building simple holiday cottages where they could unwind, fish, and forget about the demands of daily life.
The area quickly became known as “Doctors Point” and the name stuck. The place quickly became a favourite weekend retreat for Dunedin’s professional elite. Over the years, parts of the land the doctors once owned were turned into public reserves, and the beach became a place for everyone to enjoy – families, walkers, and swimmers alike.
Today, Doctors Point is one of those beautiful, quietly historic corners of the coast that still carries its story in its name. Standing there at low tide, looking across to Purakaunui and the cliffs beyond, it’s not hard to imagine the doctors arriving by train or car, grateful to trade stethoscopes for fishing rods and a breath of fresh sea air. It’s even got some wonderful sea caves that are good for exploring.
There’s something delightful about Purakanui, tucked away behind Port Chalmers and Aramoana on Dunedin’s northern coast. On this walk, I stumbled upon a row of weathered boathouses perched above the turquoise water, each one painted a little differently, as if competing gently for attention. The stillness of the inlet, the reflection of the hills, and the smell of salt and pine made it one of those moments you want to bottle up and take home.
Purakanui feels like a hidden place, one that hasn’t changed much in decades. The boathouses lean slightly with age, but that only adds to their charm, they’ve stood through storms, tides, and time itself. The bush presses in close behind, and when the wind drops, the only sounds are the lap of water and the occasional bird cry from the bush.
It’s the kind of scene that reminds you why exploring the backroads around Dunedin is so rewarding.
I headed for the small village of Aramoana. It was here, in 1880, that Englishman Sir John Coode came up with a plan. To protect Otago Harbour’s entrance from silting, he decided to try and direct the tidal flow. His idea was simple: cleverly design two moles at the head of the harbour,one jutting out from Taiaroa Head and the other from Aramoana. However, due to some miscalculations with the budget, the Harbour Board only had the finances to complete the mole at Aramoana. Even then, it was built to only half the height of Sir John’s specifications, and by the 1920s storm damage had destroyed a large portion of it.
And speaking of Aramoana, here’s a fact for you. Eighty species of moths have been recorded on the Aramoana saltmarsh, and, further to that, the tidal flats there are the most important habitat for wading birds in Otago. While we’re on the subject of birds, when hoiho penguins (like the ones that live in the dunes near Keyhole Rock) go out to sea to feed, they travel up to fifteen kilometres from shore and down to depths of a hundred metres.
Yet we wouldn’t have all that if they’d gone ahead and built an aluminium smelter here in the mid-1970s. The idea, apparently, was to turn this quiet stretch of beach and dunes into an industrial complex of pipes, smoke, and humming machinery, a sort of “progress at any cost” scheme. Locals were, quite understandably, horrified. The thought of bulldozers trundling over sand where penguins nested didn’t exactly inspire confidence in the future of mankind. Protests were held, signs were painted, and Aramoana very nearly became a synonym for environmental heartbreak. Thank goodness Aramoana was saved.
If there’s one thing to be discovered at Observation Point in Port Chalmers, it’s the view. I know that might sound a little obvious, but it’s the very view that the famous New Zealand artist Ralph Hotere drew inspiration from – and it’s amazing! It’s not hard to see why he loved it so much, or why he fought so fiercely to keep it.
In the 1970s, Hotere bought a four-room cottage near Observation Point and turned it into his first studio, transforming it quite a bit along the way. When a near-derelict stable next door came up for sale, he was desperate to get hold of it. Not only were the stables rumoured to have once housed Captain Robert Scott’s ponies on their way to Antarctica, but they also offered stunning views right down Otago Harbour – and they did not disappoint.
Once settled, Hotere produced some of his most famous works there and was content enough until the early 1990s, when Port Otago moved to reclaim the land for a port extension. Logging exports to Japan were booming, and to keep up with demand, the port needed to expand its operations, which meant they needed Hotere’s land. The problem was, he wasn’t about to move. What followed was a long, very public dispute between the artist, local authorities, and the community. Eventually, though, Hotere reluctantly agreed to sell, allowing the port’s expansion project to finally go ahead.
When he gave in, many who had supported him felt a way of disappointment. No one’s entirely sure what prompted his change of mind, perhaps he simply grew tired of the fight and decided to move on. Whatever the reason, when the dust settled, Hotere donated the proceeds from the sale to the Frances Hodgkins Fellowship Trust Fund. Today, the Hotere Garden Oputae stands on the site where his studio once was. It opened in 2005, marking the return of four of his sculptures to the hill that inspired him for so many years.
From Port Chalmers, I headed down the harbour road towards Aramoana – stopping on the way to see an old Torpedo Boat base. Tucked away in Deborah Bay, just around the bend from Port Chalmers, is the curious relic of the remains of Torpedo Boat Mole. It sounds like something out of a war film, but in fact it’s a small stone jetty built in the 1880s when New Zealand decided it needed a navy, or at least a few boats that looked like one. At the time, fears of a Russian invasion ran high, and several “torpedo boats”, essentially small, fast launches armed with spar torpedoes were stationed around the country, ready to defend the ports – just in case!
Dunedin’s was based here in Deborah Bay, sheltered and out of sight from prying enemy eyes. The mole itself was built to provide a base and slipway for the vessel, though the threat of attack never came, and the torpedo boat saw little action beyond the occasional exercise. Today, the remains of the mole sit quietly at the water’s edge, stones weathered and covered with a few picnic tables that are a lovely spot on a fine day, a reminder of a time when the nation nervously watched the horizon for warships that never appeared.
Looking for a good Waterslide documentary? Checkout Class Action Park: a 2020 documentary film about the American amusement park Action Park, which was located in Vernon Township, New Jersey.
Daily Photo – The Joy of the Waterslide
I like to think the worlds first waterslide was invented on a fine, sunny day by two blokes on a particularly steep hillside. I imagine one, with a red, oil covered baseball cap and a large handlebar mustache whose name is something like, Hank, putting down his beer, turning to his friend Jerry, and saying: “Hey, here’s an idea. If we make a long steep ramp and shoot water down it really fast like, into that pool of water at the bottom, we might really have something. We could even sit in things and leave our fate up to gravity.” To which Jerry replies, “Yeah, we could invite our friends and charge people money!”
This random train of thought got me thinking that of course, not every waterslide adventure ends in fun and in my reading, I found some alarming statistics. In March last year, a study in Texas found that the most common water park injuries were slips and falls, traumatic brain injuries, spinal and neck injuries and near-drowning. Across the pond, our friends in the United Kingdom found in a similar study that more than half of injuries affected the face and head, 29% happened on landing, and 24% were caused by slipping. And here in New Zealand, in the year from 2021, we spent roughly $3 million treating injuries. Clearly, water slides are fun, though not entirely without risk – and not immune from acts of stupidity, like The Banzai Pipeline Stunt in California.
In June 1997, a group of graduating High School seniors were at Waterworld USA, location of the popular Banzai Pipeline water slide. On this occasion, ignoring both the lifeguard and park official warnings, the seniors attempted to pile over sixty people onto the one-person ride. The colossal, unexpected weight caused the elevated fiberglass to snap with a groaning collapse. The pipeline sheared apart, plunging the screaming, interlocked students three stories down onto the hard concrete deck below with over thirty severely injured.
Now, I have absolutely no idea who invented the world’s first waterslide, when it happened, or why, but my guess is they were American – and either extremely confident in their mathematical calculations or had been drinking a whole lot.
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Daily Photo – Burns House – a Kind of Mathematical Poetry
There’s something oddly beautiful about buildings like this, all rhythm and repetition, concrete and glass, each window framing a tiny world. From a distance, it looks almost like a giant puzzle, oddly precise and orderly with small irregularities, a curtain half drawn, a light left on or a reflection that doesn’t quite fit the pattern. That’s the charm of it. What was once just another office block now feels almost nostalgic. There’s a kind of mathematical poetry in its plainness. In fact, if you stare at it long enough – it almost becomes an optical illusion.
Daily Photo – Chicago Skyscrapers & Edwardian Elegances
In December 1909, when the first tenants moved into the New Zealand Express Company Building (now Consultancy House) in Dunedin, what excitement there must have been. People stopped in the street, craned their necks skyward, and gasped in awe at the imposing edifice stretching up towards the clouds. It was unlike anything the city had seen before. Here was an amalgam of Chicago skyscraper and Edwardian elegance at its very finest, seven storeys of groundbreaking architectural wonder.
The soaring colossus that had risen from the ground in Dunedin’s Bond Street in a little over two years was a triumph of modern engineering. To create such a towering structure took around 400 tonnes of steel, over 500,000 bricks, and approximately 1,000 cubic feet of Oamaru stone. Add to that the kauri and rimu timber for floors and doors, the pressed-metal ceilings imported from the United States, and the marble stairs and tiled entryways, and it’s easy to see why Dunedin was proud. It was the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere, its view said to be unsurpassed anywhere else in the city, and its form of construction, as one newspaper noted, “had so far not yet been adopted anyway in the colonies.” This was one impressive building! Even more remarkable was the staggered occupation that took place upon opening, uncommon at the time, especially for large commercial buildings such as this. When the first tenants moved in towards the end of 1909, five of the seven storeys were complete, while work continued on the upper floors until final completion in 1910.
I mention this because the other day I happened to be near Consultancy House, not far from a new building recently opened in a style I like to call pointy and angular, a perfect example of what happens when architects are given a ruler, a lot of money, and far too much confidence. It looks like someone wrapped an office block in a giant, golden Venetian blind. No doubt it’ll take a team of highly paid specialists to fix it the moment a bird so much as sneezes on it. It’s not that I dislike the new four-storey, $45 million ACC Ōtepoti development, it’s just that I much prefer a little grand Victorian or Edwardian elegance, with an ornate façade in my buildings.
At its peak, Dunedin’s railway yards were incredibly busy. From the late 19th century through to about the 1950s, they were among the busiest in the country. The station wasn’t just a passenger hub; it was the operational centre for the entire Otago region. Hundreds of workers were employed in the yards, long trains loaded with wool, timber, livestock, coal, and manufactured goods constantly came and went, connecting Dunedin to the port at Port Chalmers and to inland towns as far as Invercargill and Central Otago. The smell of coal smoke, the clang of metal, and the hiss of steam were part of the city’s daily life with up to one hundred trains passing through the station each day at its peak.
Daily Photo – Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula
Earlier in the year, I took a walk down to Boulder Beach on the Otago Peninsula. The idea came to me one evening when, having a few days spare, I decided I would put it to good use and get in some physical exercise. This was at odds with my initial plan, which had been to lay on the couch and watch Major League Baseball, moving only to go to the toilet and gather more snacks that I would inevitably accumulate in a large pile in front me! So, after a heated debate with myself, I eventually settled on the walk and the next morning I headed out the door with an eagerness in my step, a spirited sense of adventure, and a bag full with camera equipment.
Once upon a time, access to Boulder Beach was possible via a well-maintained and signposted track that led down to the beach. Along the way, walking tracks branched off through the dunes and up over the nearby hills. You could spend an entire day exploring them, and never walk the same track twice. Now, all those paths are a distant memory, and for good reason – it is a protected wildlife area. You see, it is often visited by fur seals and sea lions, and is a favoured nesting spot for yellow-eyed penguins. In fact, the beach is so popular with these shy, nesting birds that the track is closed to the public from November to February during the breeding season.
I walked down to the beach. The farm road was longer and steeper than I remembered, and the nearby sand dunes had collapsed, resulting in an unexpected excursion through newly formed valleys, overgrown and heavy with dune. Reaching the bottom of the hill, I pushed my way through dense bushes tangled with vines. Every so often, the path would disappear—only to reappear moments later.
Eventually, after much swearing, I stumbled upon the isolated, wild, windswept beach. Golden dunes spilled to the shoreline, while large mounds of dark, smooth stones stretched along the beach and into the distance. The air was rich with salt, and the rhythm of waves rolling beneath the endless blue sky. Quiet, peaceful, and serene.
I found my way to Palmerston North. My initial plan had been to head to Taranaki and New Plymouth however, cyclone warnings had popped up all over the North Island, meaning a change in direction was required. So, I ended up in Palmerston North.
Surprisingly, I arrived under bright sunshine, something I hadn’t seen in some days on my trip through the North Island. After leaving a place called Waiōuru I drove through places called Taihape, Mangaweka, Cheltenham and Fielding, arriving in Palmerston North in the mid to late afternoon where I called in at a spot called ‘The Square’ and went for a walk around. Located in the very centre of the city, The Square is 17 hectares of land that features monuments, fountains, art work and picnic areas. At one end was a large Plaza while the other end featured the usual arrangements of shops that you might expect to find in a city centre. It was large with small pockets of people scattered around enjoying the warm, sunny day. For a long time, I couldn’t work out what it was, however something didn’t seem right. Then it struck me, that was exactly what was wrong. It was large and open but there simply wasn’t anyone there! In a larger city, it would be filled with people but here in Palmerston North it almost seemed too big. Almost as no one was really sure what to use it for.
For a short time I walked the streets looking at the sites that the locals see everyday. Then, once that was done, I went to find some accommodation, a bite to eat and a drink. However, not necessarily in that order!
So on to Moeraki, the village rather than the boulders, that is. Moeraki Village is a small, quaint settlement at the end of a big bay on the South Island’s east coast, about 30 minutes south of Oamaru, give or take depending on traffic. And, may I say, a lot nicer than some round boulders sticking out of the sand that people climb all over. In case you haven’t guessed, I’m not really a fan of the Moeraki Boulders, unless I’m photographing them at sunrise when the tide is right – they just don’t hold that much appeal to me. The village, on the other hand, I do very much like. It’s quiet, slow, and everything moves at its own pace in a relaxed, unhurried sort of way. You can eat fish ’n’ chips by the bay, stroll along the beach, or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you can wander up to the lookout on the point like I did, which is situated on a Māori pā site, and look out across the expanse. It is quite a sight, I can tell you. In fact, the view is so good, people have built houses right in front of some of the viewing platforms, meaning you can happily gaze down onto the beach, across the bay, inspect people’s back gardens, or see if their guttering needs a clean.
On the occasion I was there, the whole village was being buffeted by an enthusiastic wind that had gathered momentum somewhere far out to sea and was making a spirited attempt to relocate the entire place inland and blow the local sea-gull population into low orbit. By the time I reached the lookout, the wind was howling so loudly I clung to the railing, half convinced I might take flight at any moment, and looked out across the vast Pacific, which, I have to admit, is rather impressive. Much like Moeraki in its own unique way.
How many department stores can claim to be loved? Not just used, or remembered fondly, but genuinely loved. Down in Invercargill, H&J Smith’s managed it. For more than a century, this grand old shop sat on the corner of Tay and Kelvin Streets like a friendly old uncle, a little formal, slightly out of fashion, but always there when you needed a decent raincoat or a set of sheets.
Founded in 1900 by siblings Helen and John Smith, it began as a drapery and somehow grew into a Southland institution. Generations of locals bought their school uniforms, wedding gifts, and first suits under its roof. It even had a tearoom called ‘The Copper Kettle’, where you could order a sandwich and feel like you’d stepped into 1957.
When the store finally closed its doors in 2023, after 123 years, it wasn’t just a sale that ended, it was a chapter. People stood on the footpath to say goodbye, as if farewelling an old friend who’d seen them through every season and in some ways, I guess they were!
If there’s one thing to be discovered at Observation Point in Port Chalmers, it’s the view. I know that might sound a little obvious, but it’s the very view that the famous New Zealand artist Ralph Hotere drew inspiration from – and it’s amazing! It’s not hard to see why he loved it so much, or why he fought so fiercely to keep it.
In the 1970s, Hotere bought a four-room cottage near Observation Point and turned it into his first studio, transforming it quite a bit along the way. When a near-derelict stable next door came up for sale, he was desperate to get hold of it. Not only were the stables rumoured to have once housed Captain Robert Scott’s ponies on their way to Antarctica, but they also offered stunning views right down Otago Harbour – and they did not disappoint.
Once settled, Hotere produced some of his most famous works there and was content enough until the early 1990s, when Port Otago moved to reclaim the land for a port extension. Logging exports to Japan were booming, and to keep up with demand, the port needed to expand its operations, which meant they needed Hotere’s land. The problem was, he wasn’t about to move. What followed was a long, very public dispute between the artist, local authorities, and the community. Eventually, though, Hotere reluctantly agreed to sell, allowing the port’s expansion project to finally go ahead.
When he gave in, many who had supported him felt a way of disappointment. No one’s entirely sure what prompted his change of mind, perhaps he simply grew tired of the fight and decided to move on. Whatever the reason, when the dust settled, Hotere donated the proceeds from the sale to the Frances Hodgkins Fellowship Trust Fund. Today, the Hotere Garden Oputae stands on the site where his studio once was. It opened in 2005, marking the return of four of his sculptures to the hill that inspired him for so many years.
Kaitoke Regional Park is a beautiful spot – 2,860 hectares of native bush tucked into the foothills of the Tararua Ranges, with the Hutt River slicing a deep, dramatic gorge through the middle of it. Here, the forest feels ancient, with tall rimu and beech trees, tangles of rātā and fern with everything damp, green, and quietly humming with life.
Long before anyone was driving up here for a picnic or a stroll, local Māori used these valleys as travel routes between the Wairarapa and Wellington. That was, of course, until the Europeans turned up with saws and plans, cutting their way through much of it to open a road or two after 1856. Luckily, it only took about ninety years for someone to find the good sense to stop. From 1939 onwards, land was gradually bought back to protect the city’s water supply, and by the 1950s people were coming for swims instead of timber.
It officially became Kaitoke Regional Park in 1983, and today it’s exactly the sort of place you go to forget you live near a capital city – at least for a few minutes. Stand there long enough and you can still sense the history in the place, the feeling of movement threading its way through the bush.
I hadn’t been to Wellington for several years and was curious to have a wander round. I was due to catch a train and with time on hand, I took the chance to stroll around, starting with the harbour. I’ve always had a soft spot for the waterfront, it has a kind of restless charm, that uneasy balance between sea and city. The place feels alive, in its own odd way, with joggers, tourists, and office workers weaving around each other like they’re part of some unrehearsed dance. The air smells of salt and coffee, and every so often the wind roars in from the hills to remind you who’s really in charge. The gulls squawk, the old steam crane remains standing from another era, and the water laps against the wharf. All around, the hum of Wellington carries on, the clink of cups, the murmur of conversation, the sigh of the wind, as if the whole city is chaotically going about its business.
I’d driven up to Oamaru for the day and, as always, ended up wandering through the town’s remarkable heritage precinct. It’s one of those places that makes you feel as though you’ve stepped into another century, all creamy limestone facades, iron railings, and a faint whiff of coal smoke in the imagination.
Eventually, I found myself on Harbour Street, the heart of it all, and honestly, it was just lovely. The buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, each one a relic from the town’s glory days, now home to art galleries, antique shops, and cafés that sell tea in mismatched china.
But here’s what I don’t understand: why on earth is the street still open to traffic? It’s narrow, charming, and practically begging to be pedestrian-only. Nothing quite spoils the mood of admiring Victorian architecture like dodging SUVs and utes crawling past at two kilometres an hour. It made no sense at all, I pondered this for some time. Eventually giving up and headed for an Art Gallery then maybe a cup of coffee and biscuit.
Lovingly restored over a number of years, the old two room stone building appeared in superb condition on the outside and I was delighted to find both rooms unlocked so visitors like myself could have a poke around. The first room I went into contained old leather and heavy dark metal harness gear hanging from the walls, not far from where these were framed pictures that told the story of the cottage. The most prominent feature was an old large, old fireplace, oven, or forge made of stone and built-in to the wall beneath the chimney in the corner of the room.
The second room was much the same, bare but for a few horse shoes hanging on the far wall from the door. The floor closest to the door was concrete and moving further back, the floor transitioned to packed earth that extended to the base of the walls. Thoughtfully, a hole had been cut in the wall so you could peer between rooms which proved to be extremely useful for taking photos. I walked back and forth between rooms for a while. I stood and looked around each room and one thing bothered me. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out how they’d managed to find the room to excavate underneath the to make room for an illegal whisky distillery that was rumoured to be hidden under the floorboards. Not only that, I wouldn’t know where to start! Either way, it was a very impressive effort, and rather clever.
I drove through heavy mid-morning rain. Here and there, the road dipped into large muddy puddles that I bounced in and out of, spraying water and loose gravel across the car as I did so. Berwick Forest is only a forty-minute drive from Dunedin, and I’d been there on an errand which also provided the opportunity to go on a longer drive, away from the usual motorways, streets, and footpaths that I frequent over the course of a typical week.
Earlier that morning I had passed through small rural settlements with names such as Outram, Woodside Glen, and Berwick. I had it in mind to take a different route home, just to keep things interesting and the mind active. The surrounding countryside gradually became more hilly and disappeared into thick white clouds. Large pools of water were forming into new streams that cut through paddocks and ran down across the road. It had been years since I’d driven this particular road, so I spent the time looking out the car window as I bounced along, identifying possible photographic subjects with a sense of joy and intrigue. Every so often being reminded that I was in charge of a 1,600 kg (1.6 tonnes) motor vehicle, as a stone ricocheted off the windscreen.
At some point, between splashes of water and sprays of stones, I came across one of those road signs that indicate places of interest or historical significance. This one read: “McDonald’s Historic Cottage 2 km.” I thought that sounded like a nice place to drive past, and it was.
I found it thanks to a large blue sign hanging from a fence that told me the wee stone cottage was built in 1860 by the McDonald family. The building was a nice place – small, quaint, but remarkably pleasant for a two-room stone cottage sitting on somebody’s front lawn. Its approximate area being 33 m² (I did the math). Once a two-room dairy and bakery, it also had an illegal whisky distillery hidden under the floorboards.
I took this photo a few summers ago while spending a few days in Wanaka. I was there between Christmas and New Year, at that in-between moment when the Christmas celebrations had begun to fade and everyone’s attention was shifting toward welcoming the year ahead. The town was overrun with holiday energy, families picnicking by the lake, people soaking up the summer sun, and travellers passing through.
A bit of a change in direction today and a break from the usual travelogue …
Daily Photo – Lan Yuan
Why This “Quiet” Photo Was a Technical Battle
Every now and then, you take a photo that looks like it should be the easiest thing in the world. It’s a beautiful scene, some tranquil garden, maybe, or a quiet street. You look at the raw file (that top image, the one with all the orange marks) and think, lovely. You look at the final image (the bottom one), and you think, perfect.
But what’s the distance between lovely and perfect? That’s where the work sits. And in a photo like this, that work is all down to one of the most stubborn issues a photographer faces when shooting architecture: converging verticals.
The Problem with the Real World
The buildings in this shot that surround the Dunedin Chinese Gardens are meant to stand upright, proud, and square. But because of the lens, the height and the angle the camera lens did what it does best: it lied.
If you look closely at the raw file, you can see how those vertical lines, the edges of the walls, the pillars, the windows are all leaning into the centre. They look like they’re about to fall over, or maybe they just had a long night. It’s that classic “keystone” effect, and it immediately breaks the serene feeling of the place.
Now, this isn’t just one building. This is a complex arrangement of walls and corners, all at slightly different distances and angles. It’s a technical nightmare in the editing suite because correcting one set of lines perfectly often makes the adjacent set of lines look completely warped. It’s like trying to untangle one knot on a fishing line only to find you’ve created three more.
The Grunt Work in the Post-Processing Darkroom
There’s no magic button for this. Getting from that leaning, slightly chaotic raw file to the balanced, final image was a process of very fine adjustments, the kind that requires a cup of coffee and a lot of quiet concentration.
I had to put on my architect’s hat and methodically tackle the geometry:
Transform Tool, Not Magic: This involved manually adjusting the perspective and vertical guides both Lightroom and Photoshop. I wasn’t just pulling a slider; I was nudging it, checking the highlighted lines (the ones I’ve marked in orange), nudging again, checking the opposite side, and then nudging again until the eye accepted the view as naturally straight.
Fighting the Stretch: When you correct converging lines, you stretch the image. You have to be mindful that the proportions of the elements, the windows, the roof overhangs don’t become too tall or too thin. It’s a constant trade-off between straight lines and believable shapes.
The Final Layers: Only once the structure was sound and once the buildings looked like they were firmly anchored and not listing like a rusty ship could I move on to the easier, more enjoyable work of bringing the whole scene to life.
In the end, what looks like a simple, polished photograph is really a technical triumph over the lens’s distortions. It’s proof that sometimes, the most peaceful scenes are the ones that demand the most time and technical fussing to get right.
It’s that quiet satisfaction, the one you get from fixing a complex problem without leaving a trace of the effort, that makes the whole process worthwhile. It’s also a reminder to work slowly, and look carefully.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Has anyone else had a deceptively difficult image like this? Share your perspective battles below.
If we go back in time to the 1940s, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot and connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway. 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.
Overnight the temperature dipped, and by morning Dunedin had slipped back into winter, despite the calendar insisting it was spring. A thin dusting of snow lay across the city, settling on rooftops and lawns, as though someone had quietly shaken icing sugar over everything while we slept. It wasn’t enough to cause any trouble, just enough to raise eyebrows, especially from those who had already swapped coats for lighter jackets.
This is one of the curiosities of living here: the seasons are more suggestion than certainty. Spring might well bring daffodils, blossom, and lambs in the paddocks, but just as quickly it can deliver a southerly front that chills you to the bone. And yet, far from being an inconvenience, these sudden turns in the weather feel almost like Dunedin showing off. A reminder that it can shift moods overnight, and in doing so, make even the familiar look quietly extraordinary.
I found myself at Fairlight. At first glance, it’s just a station beside the road, the sort of place you could drive past without a second thought, 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 of 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, no doubt, a few startled sheep watching the spectacle thunder across the paddocks. For the locals, it must have been a very big day indeed.
The building here today wasn’t even born at Fairlight, it began life as Otautau’s railway station, built in the 1920s, before being uprooted and hauled south in 1996. It now serves as the southern terminus of the Kingston Flyer, that proud survivor of New Zealand’s steam age. In its heyday the Flyer was no ordinary train but a working lifeline, hauling passengers and goods along the lakeshore. When it was resurrected as a tourist service in the 1970s, its vintage engines and green-and-cream carriages drew visitors from around the world, offering them a taste of travel as it once was, unhurried, dramatic, and full of character.
Today, the Flyer runs only occasionally, a reminder of both the grandeur and difficulty of keeping steam alive in modern day Aotearoa.
One of the great things about museums is finding things you never expected. For example, you don’t expect to find a submarine 80 kilometers from the coast in a small Otago town. In fact, when you do, it feels a bit like a practical joke. There it sits, stranded in Middlemarch, a vessel that never touched the sea, looking less like a cutting-edge machine and more like a mislaid water tank – which, at one point, it actually was.
The story is simple enough: two men convinced themselves there was plenty of gold lying on the wild riverbeds of Central Otago and the best way to get at it was with a submarine. Only in New Zealand could such a thought be entertained with such seriousness. Elsewhere, there would have been committees, diagrams, and several university studies explaining why it was impossible. Here, they just built the thing.
That it didn’t work seems almost beside the point. The Platypus isn’t really a wonderful failure – it’s proof of that casual, can-do optimism that bubbles away in this country. A submarine eighty kilometres inland may not be practical, but it is gloriously, stubbornly imaginative. And somehow, standing here beside it, you can’t help but admire that more than if it had ever struck gold.
Driving into Hyde, I wasn’t expecting much more than a quiet town, a few cyclists and a scattering of houses. Then, through a break in the trees, I saw a small church with bright red doors, sitting there looking lonely and once loved. It looked almost shy, tucked among the surrounding pines, the morning light catching its stone walls in just the right way.
These are the kinds of discoveries I love most about wandering around New Zealand. You’re not searching for them; they simply appear, part of the everyday landscape. To locals, this church is just another building that has always been there. Yet, it felt like I’d stumbled across a story from another age, one where miners crowded into makeshift halls, and later, farmers scraped together enough to build something special and permanent.
There’s nothing grand about the Sacred Heart Church. No soaring spire, no rows of polished pews visible from the road. But that’s the charm. It’s modest and enduring, standing quietly among the trees, far from the bustle it once knew. And as I stood there, I couldn’t help but think: these are the moments that make road trips memorable, not the destinations you plan for, but the little surprises that simply appear.
One of the truly lovely things about driving around New Zealand is all the incidental things you come across that speak of daily life. And what’s more, to New Zealanders it’s nothing out of the ordinary, but to everyone else it’s just plain strange. At any moment you can find yourself passing honesty boxes selling fruit, vegetables, or any other manner of homegrown produce; hand-painted signs advertising horse poo for sale; or a row of second-hand lawnmowers neatly lined up at the roadside. Sometimes you’ll pass an old, weather-beaten shed that doubles as a bus stop and a meeting point, its walls scrawled with generations of initials. Other times it might be a letterbox shaped like a cow, a jet boat, or a microwave.
These small, unassuming details are what catch you off guard. They’re not staged for tourists or polished for effect. They just exist, part of the fabric of daily life – so ordinary to locals they hardly notice, yet to an outsider they feel like discoveries, the kind that make you slow down, smile, and wonder what else the road ahead might casually reveal.
… from a Small City. My daily musings from Ōtepoti to get you inspired. Read the blog, view the photos, embrace the creativity.
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