Just for second, imagine beginning inside this iron tube. Eight men wedged in this space, the clank of shafts, the hiss of pumps, the smoke of oil lamps, an air supply slipping away through a leaking valve, insufficient pressure to expel water, all the while waiting to find out if the contraption will rise back up to the surface. Standing here today, I could help but think volunteering to go in such a thing lands somewhere between absurd and heroic.
Oturehua is in the Ida Valley and I found myself ten minutes after leaving town detouring onto Coal Pit Road near Idaburn, before eventually heading for Waipiata by way of Wedderburn and Ranfurly. The Hawkdun Ranges were keeping me company out of the left-hand window, stretching up into the vast blue sky, covered in a magnificent sweep of white – a clear sign of winter lingering a while yet.
At Lake Hayes, I had pulled over to escape the steady stream of traffic heading to and from Frankton and Queenstown in one direction, and the Gibbston Valley, Kawarau Gorge, and Cromwell in the other. The water was still, a smooth, glassy surface reflecting the peaks of the surrounding mountains, indifferent to the human chaos behind me. Yet even here, it was impossible to ignore the changes to the Queenstown-Lakes District.
In my day Frankton was a separate settlement from Queenstown, on the drive you’d pass through Frankton, a motel famously made out of bottles, trees, mountains and views of the lake. Eventually, you’d spot the Skyline Gondola high on the mountain side, then Queenstown itself. Nowadays, Frankton is a suburb of Queenstown, with the drive being a slow procession of cars, boats, trailers, trucks and campervans passing an endless stream of motels, hotels, houses and lifestyle blocks where majestic views of the lake used to be. When people buy property or develop land, I don’t think the environment comes into it very much. The focus seems to be on capitalising on the property boom and gaining resource consent than maintaining the natural environment. When a study into population growth in the area was carried out it found that between 2013 and 2018, the population jumped from 28,224 to 39,153 – a startling 39% increase. It was then carried out again in 2024 where it had climbed again to 52,400. That’s a staggering population increase of nearly 25,000. I would scarcely have believed these figures, I had not seen the ongoing development for myself. Driving from Frankton to Lake Hayes, the road passed new subdivisions, rooftops, and roads that seemed to sprout suddenly from nowhere. How do people look at all this development and still see the charm that made people fall in love with the place? I don’t know the answer, but I suspect it’s a mix of necessity and ambition – more people, more houses, more infrastructure, more money to be made. For all I know, developers are trying their best, but it often feels like all the development is spoiling the very scenery people are coming to see.
What I can tell you is that having driven through the area, you spend more time looking at the scenery than being in it. Yet, amid the chaos, the landscape remains a spectacular draw for people around the world. If only they left footprints, not foundations.
I left Owaka coffee-less. Instead, a short time later I lingered at an old pier I found that was jutting out across the water toward the upper estuary of the Catlins River, something far more peaceful and rewarding. I was following the Southern Scenic Route through The Catlins, a drive of wondrous beauty, with timeless and almost mystical overtones and having left Owaka, I was now heading deep to the region.
Having explored the pier, I’d left it, rejoined the road and it wasn’t long before I reached the Catlins River Bridge, which I crossed before spotting a sign that read “Purakanui Falls.” For a moment, I considered turning left onto Purakanui Falls Road and heading for the falls which are located at the end of a rather pleasant bush walk.. It was tempting, very tempting, but I didn’t have the time.
For the next twenty minutes, I continued along the Papatowai Highway toward Papatowai, following the Catlins River and the nearby gullies, still holding remnants of native bush: rimu, tōtara, kahikatea, and southern rātā – much of it felled for timber or cleared for farmland in the late 1800s and early 1900s.
By the time John Corcoran pulled his train into the Ranfurly Station, it was already an hour late. Scheduled to arrive at 2:30 a.m, it wasn’t until 3:30 a.m. that the train finally ended its run for the day. With trains running to tight schedules and a shortage of experienced engine drivers, crews were often pushed hard while a lack of track maintenance had left the line in poor condition. Whenever they did get downtime, it was vital to rest properly so they could remain alert and able to work at full capacity – despite the hectic rosters. John Corcoran was no exception.
That Friday morning in June was particularly cold, with a heavy frost covering much of the Strath Taieri. The temperature barely rose above 3 or 4 degrees, and the hard frost lingered well into the day. Earlier, Corcoran had brought a goods train from Dunedin, arriving in Ranfurly an hour late at 3:30 a.m. He signed off duty and walked to the Ranfurly Hotel, where he had a room booked. He rose by 10:30 a.m, had a drink with an old friend in the hotel bar, ate a pie for lunch, and then walked the short distance to the station to take charge of the Ab782 for the homeward run to Dunedin. The train left Ranfurly ten minutes late, at 12:48 p.m.
By then, Corcoran had been off duty for a little more than nine hours. In that time, he had managed less than six hours’ sleep, had a drink at the hotel with a friend, eaten a pie for lunch, and was now under pressure to ensure his train – already late leaving – arrived in Dunedin on time on a line that was in poor condition. Later that day, passengers who survived reported that the train had seemed to be travelling much faster than usual, lurching violently from side to side. At 1:45 p.m, at a bend known as Straw Cutting, the train derailed at excessive speed, killing 21 people.
Help from Dunedin would take time. In 1943, the road from Outram through the Strath Taieri to Middlemarch and Hyde was narrow, unsealed, and still followed the winding course of the old bullock wagon trails. Any motorised assistance faced a long, difficult journey, bumping over rough roads in the dark before reaching the scene.
That left those at the scene or nearby needing to act quickly. Members of the Gimmerburn Football Team, travelling in one of the rear carriages, rushed to help where they could. The Maniototo Battalion of the Home Guard from Ranfurly was mobilized at 2 p.m. and were also among the first on the scene. Doctors and nurses from Middlemarch, Ranfurly, and Waipiata soon arrived to assist. In the days that followed, local hotels in Hyde and Middlemarch kept extended hours and exhausted local supplies providing blankets, meals, and accommodation for rescuers and railway workers who laboured to clear and repair the track.
Following the disaster, the derailment was proven to have been brought about by excessive speed and lack of judgement on the part of a tired driver who had had little sleep and inadequate food during the previous 24 hours. Yet, it seems a little striking and hard on Corcoran that nothing was said about the tight scheduling, the lack of adequate rest between shifts, or the poor condition of the track itself.
At the time, it was New Zealand’s worst railway disaster.
From Mosgiel, I passed through East Taieri and Allanton before going some kilometres out of my way to take the scenic road alongside the Taieri River to the small settlement of Henley, which was picturesque in its own unique way. It wasn’t scenic like Milford Sound in Fiordland or the Great Ocean Road in Australia, but carried its own beauty in a slow, overcast winter’s day kind of way. Like many small towns in New Zealand, Henley carried its own quiet version of charm.
I stood on the side of the Ida Valley-Omakau Road, where the last of a recent snowfall lay dissolving into slush beneath my feet. Before me, stretched the flat farmlands of the valley, sheep scattered across the fields, looking for the remains of the winter feed. Beyond them, Hawkdun Ranges rose in a sweep of white, snow tumbling down their edges. It was one of those moments when the Ida Valley felt caught between two seasons, winter reluctantly loosening its grip, spring waiting just around the corner.
Before I left home on this trip, I’d decided that when I returned, it would be an ideal opportunity to look at Dunedin from a different perspective, to view the city as a tourist might. So, when the hills of the peninsula eventually came into view, with the harbour stretching out into the distance and the city centre neatly tucked on the far shore, I paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air and the familiar, distinctive coastline. I quickly discovered that I’d set myself an impossible task – I was far too invested. You see, having called Dunedin home for 98% of my life, I couldn’t look at it any other way. It was home.
Still, not wanting to give up completely on the task I’d set myself, I had a flip through a few well-known travel guides to gain a foreigner’s perspective, an honest attempt to see the place through a different set of eyes, if you will. Eventually, after much reading (and let’s be honest here, most travel guides are pretty dull) and a few false starts, I was able to cobble together some kind of semi-coherent consensus. The overall opinion seemed to be that Dunedin is a place where history, creativity, and nature meet. With its heritage architecture, lively arts scene, and easily accessible wilderness, it comes across as charming, quirky, and environmentally blessed. Added to which Dunedin is a UNESCO City of Literature, and in the heart of the Octagon you can even follow a literacy walk, stopping at plaques commemorating writers of note and literary milestones.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against these publications; they are, in fact, very useful. I’ve even used one myself in a moment of poor judgement and indecision. It’s just that you could easily apply that description to almost any major city in the world – some minor cities as well, come to think of it. What I wanted was something unique, something you couldn’t say about any other city in the world. Then, just when I was about to give up, just when I was thinking Dunedin would fall into the vast well of nondescript cities, I happened to stumble across notable New Zealand poet Peter Olds and a quote that I absolutely love when he so eloquently said: “I fell flat on my face, drunk in the Octagon: right on top of a plaque with my name on.” There, in that single unvarnished sentence, Dunedin is captured quite beautifully.
I left Brighton heading for Dunedin. I’d decided to take the Southern Scenic Route, a 610-kilometre roading network that connects Queenstown, Fiordland, and Dunedin via The Catlins, Invercargill, and Bluff. Created in the 1980s as a way to boost tourism, the drive gives you an entirely new perspective on New Zealand and the joys that can be found along its coastline.
I took a section of the Southern Scenic Route now, as I approached the city of Dunedin. Having left the township of Brighton and passed the Kaikorai Lagoon, I turned right onto a stretch of road known as Blackhead. The name comes from the headland, a mass of dark volcanic basalt formed by the Dunedin volcanic field some 10 million years ago. This is a wonderful and distinctive part of Dunedin’s coastline, with beaches well known for their surf, a steadily returning sea lion population, historic walking tracks, and a hidden cove tied to Dunedin’s earliest days.
I drove along Blackhead Road and paused to breathe in the fresh, salty sea air as I looked out over the beach. Then I carried on, climbing over the hill into the suburbs of Corstorphine and St Clair. Ahead of me, Dunedin slowly came into view, the harbour, the peninsula, the eastern coastline, and the central city all unfolding in front of me. It was good to be home.
One moment I was stuck in a heavy line of traffic on State Highway 1, the next I was heading over Scroggs Hill on a winding gravel road, free of traffic, towards the seaside community of Brighton.
It was here that New Zealand’s most successful defence lawyer, Dr. Alfred Hanlon, spent his last years. Having spent the best part of his life defending accused murderers such as Minnie Dean, Alexander McLean, and Mina McKellar, when he finally retired in the 1940’s, deciding he wanted a quieter life, he chose the peaceful surrounds of Brighton and nearby Ocean View.
In those days, Brighton was a popular seaside holiday spot, connected to Dunedin via the Brighton Branch Railway, and in many ways, not too dissimilar to what it is today. Brighton is the kind of place that comes alive in summer. During winter, it slips into a sort of semi-hibernation as the southerlies bite, but once spring arrives, the colours return and the days slowly warm, leading into the long weeks of summer. That’s when Brighton is at its best.
There’s the annual gala day to look forward to, or you can simply wander into the local dairy for the essentials of a Kiwi summer: a classic ice cream cone, a piping-hot pottle of chips with sauce, a pie, or a thick milkshake. You can hire paddle boats and drift lazily around the estuary, watch local kids leap from the town bridge into the river, clamber over the nearby rocks exploring rock pools, or spend time with the ever-growing sea lion population. And, of course, you can always just stretch out on the beach and let Brighton do what it does best – let you enjoy summer.
So you can perhaps imagine the sense of joy that came over me as I drove over the crest of a hill to find Brighton covered in sunshine. I wound my way down the hill through a series of suburban streets that looked lovely in the sunshine and were scattered with boats, surfboards, kayaks and other assorted items that suggested the owners spent a lot of time in the sea.
I stopped at a t-junction and found a park close to a nice grassy clearing where I intended to soak up the relaxing atmosphere and inviting sunshine. This I did, before moving on my way. And, just like that I was heading for Dunedin.
The drive to Hindon can’t be described as a sedately, peaceful trip through the wide spread scrub of the Silverpeaks Range. It’s more like a strenuous ordeal that’s an adventure in itself. The road is unpaved, steep, narrow and winding that includes passing over a shared road/rail bridge with sections that have sharp bends and steep drop-offs. In a sense, it’s scenic but challenging. Fortunately, I’m a wonderful driver and was able to expertly navigate my way through to Hindon. In fact, I was navigating the road so well, a local who was tending his garden took the time to yell, scream and wave at me in the most dramatic fashion. I acknowledged his friendly one arm jester with a wave, and returned to the spectacular scenery that provided views of the Taieri River, dramatic rock formations that disappeared into the distance, and the tracks of the Taieri Gorge Railway far below.
To be fair, there isn’t actually a lot to do at Hindon apart from look at the scenery, read an information board, sit by the river or throw stones off the Hindon Road and Rail Bridge. Sitting by the river is fine if you want an afternoon of serenity in the summer sun, but this was the middle of winter and there was rain in the air. So, before I went to find a few good stones to hurl off the bridge into the river far below, I took the time to read the information board – something I always feel compelled to do. Later, having propelled some mighty fine stones off the bridge that landed in the river with a satisfying crash, I also discovered that the Hindon Railway Station not only served as a passenger stop, but it was a refreshment stop, a post office, and a school – quite the CV for a tiny building in the middle of nowhere.
With that, my duties in Hindon complete, I returned to the car and began the steep ascent back to paved roads where there’s at least room for two, and no need for nervous prayers.
I left Clarks Junction and continued on State Highway 87 towards the southeast until I reached the small junction town of Outram. A drive that was 26 kilometers of quiet, peaceful bliss. The whole time, I didn’t see a single car, truck, campervan (thank goodness), tractor, or anything else that annoys me on the road. It was as if everyone else in the world had suddenly vanished. That was, until I descended from the higher elevation plains of Clarks Junction, Lee Stream, and Lake Mahinerangi to the Taieri Plains where Outram is located, and I found a steady stream of traffic milling around the town.
The journey is certainly much more pleasant than it used to be. Back in the 1860s when everyone lost all common sense and went completely crackers over the discovery of gold, the route (The Old Dunstan Road) I had just driven was close to the same one used by the miners to get to the goldfields. Outram was a key starting point for the original Dunstan Road. Travelers would start their journey from Outram and make their way up to Clarks Junction, where the more rugged and arduous part of the journey took miners high between the Lammermoor and Rock and Pillar Ranges to the goldfields. While it was possible to make this journey by horse or coach, many went on foot. This was an immensely difficult trip. Miners, with their heavy swags, would often be exhausted and starving. Some became so desperate for food and water they would trade gold for a loaf of bread, or they would eat the fat from a freshly killed sheep’s tail. The lack of provisions and the extreme weather, including snow and bitter cold, led many to be near death from starvation and exposure.
Having arrived in Outram, I parked outside a bakery that was conveniently located near a petrol station – this pleased me as I needed both food and petrol. Afterward, I went for a stroll around the town. Locals were casually going about their daily routines and ignored me as I poked around. I walked to one end of the street where the road heads out of town towards the Taieri River and further on to Mosgiel, while at the other, I found houses with connections to the earlier days of the town, such as the old Blacksmith’s house, the former Bank of Otago building, and a Watchmaker’s shop.
I returned to my car, pleased with the fact I wasn’t making the journey on foot carrying all my worldly possessions on my back. As I pointed the car towards the coastal suburb of Brighton, I noticed the time. It wasn’t nearly as late as I thought it was. Back in Sutton, when I decided to skip the Salt Lake, I had thought to myself, “If there’s time, I could detour from Outram to Hindon before continuing on to Brighton.” This seemed to me a capital idea, so pleased that I had the time to put the plan into action, I headed to the tiny settlement of Hindon.
Leaving Sutton’s Salt Lake behind, I carried on along State Highway 87 towards Clarks Junction. Highway 87 peels off from State Highway 1 and Dunedin’s Southern Motorway south of Mosgiel, running through the Taieri Plains, past the Maungatua Range and into the Strath Taieri valley, before finishing at Kyeburn. It’s 114 kilometres of open road that rises and dips with the wide spaces it passes through, a road where the most daring thing you’ll encounter might be a lone sheep – lost and hungry. Once you leave the soft, green pastures of the Taieri Plains, the highway threads through the undulating country around Lee Stream before dropping into the Strath Taieri. Here the horizon suddenly stretches into the far distance, anchored by the Rock and Pillar Range, which carries snow in winter and shimmers like an oasis in summer.
This is a landscape whose vast, open spaces and dramatic landforms have drawn the attention of famous New Zealand artists. Colin McCahon found inspiration here, as did Grahame Sydney, Marilynn Webb, James K. Baxter and Brian Turner. There’s something about this country that demands a response through paint, poem, or photograph – it pulls you in.
The land itself shifts almost without warning. One moment I was passing lush paddocks edged with trees, the next, tussock, scattered trees, and piles of schist as far as the eye could see. The hills in the distance rise under a vast sky, and you realise you’ve crossed into a country that is both stark and strangely beautiful. It’s like another world, empty, exposed and completely stunning. It was here that I found Clarks’s Junction. I pulled the car over and went for a walk.
Having marveled over New Zealand’s only submarine, I headed in a southeasterly direction toward Clarks Junction, a small rural crossroads settlement where State Highway 87 meets the Old Dunstan Road, a route goldminers once took from Dunedin over the Rock and Pillar Range to the Central Otago goldfields.
On the way out of Middlemarch, I passed a sign that said “Sutton Salt Lake.” I considered making a quick visit, but I knew it wouldn’t be quick, and I really didn’t have the time. Access to New Zealand’s only inland salt lake is via a 3.5-kilometre walking track through the wide-open spaces of the Strath Taieri. I had visited earlier in the year and had the whole track to myself. I spent a leisurely morning walking past schist towers that rose from golden tussock and dry shrub, scattered across a quiet plain. The sky stretched endlessly above as the ground crunched underfoot. It was a stunning day, the vast blue sky broken by a few rolling clouds over the Rock and Pillar Range in the distance.
The Sutton Salt Lake is a hidden treasure in the heart of New Zealand. A place of rare ecological importance and significance, it is the nation’s only inland salt lake, formed by rainfall, evaporation, and mineral-rich schist. Its fluctuating saltiness creates a fragile environment where only specialised plants survive, making it a living laboratory of adaptation. Surrounded by the stark Maniototo landscapes, it offers a striking glimpse of nature’s resilience and rarity in Central Otago.
I know a salt lake doesn’t sound like much, but believe me, it really is a special place. Exploring the lake and surrounding landscape is like finding a white peacock in the wild, seeing the Sea of Stars in the Maldives, or watching Aston Villa win on Boxing Day. It’s like experiencing the Boston Red Sox win the World Series, or Charlize Theron herself – a rare and beautiful thing.
If you’re ever in Connecticut, USA it is highly recommended that you visit the USS Nautilus at the Submarine Force Museum. It was the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, and is permanently docked on the Thames River which you can walk aboard and explore. In Kiel, Germany at the Laboe Naval Memorial you can visit the U-995, a World War II U-boat. Sydney, Australia has the HMAS Onslow at the Australian National Maritime Museum in Darling Harbour and Kaliningrad, Russia is home to the B-413 at the Museum of the World. What all these nautical museums and submarine attractions have in common (as in fact do most) is that they are located close to significant bodies of water such as a harbour or ocean. Not so in New Zealand. Here in the land of the long white cloud, to see our one and only submarine you have to drive 80 kilometres inland to Middlemarch – its closest water supply being an outside tap! Yet, it is here you’ll find the Platypus, a submarine that’s a nod towards New Zealand’s ingenuity, inventiveness and No 8 wire mentality. The only drawback being, it never really worked and spent more time holding water than being in it!
The brainchild of R.W.Nutall and Antoine-Prosper Payerne, who between them came up with the genius idea of building a submarine that could easily dredge the river beds of Central Otago. The theory was that vast quantities of gold must lay on the Central Otago riverbeds and a submarine seemed the ideal way to access it. If the gold wouldn’t come to them, they would go to the gold, thus ‘The Platypus’ was born.
Of French design, The Platypus submarine was constructed, fitted and finished locally in Dunedin before a series of moderately successful public launches took place, starting in December, 1873. The difficulty was that the vessel took a good dozen people to operate and most rational people didn’t want to have anything to do with the craft. Eventually, when at last a group of brave individuals were persuaded to get in the thing, the testing continued, with mixed results at best. During the last of these trials, things went so badly, when The Platypus eventually resurfaced, the men scrambled out, certain they were about to die. After this, unsurprisingly, support started to wane and before it could be transported to the gold fields, the project collapsed with The Platypus left abandoned on the banks of Pelichet Bay (now Logan Park) for four decades.
The Platypus Project suddenly jumped back to life in the 1920’s when the submarine was dismantled, cut into three sections and sold. The two end sections were purchased by a farmer from the Barewood area near Middlemarch where it was used as a water tank with the middle section disappearing and remains missing. Another 70 years later, the farmer donated the remains to the Middlemarch Museum where it stands for people like me to marvel over. Which, is what I did now.
For ten years, the Hyde railway disaster held the title of New Zealand’s worst rail tragedy, until it was overtaken by Tangiwai in 1953. Having visited both, you couldn’t find a sharper contrast. Tangiwai is moody and sombre, with carefully constructed boards that guide you through the events leading up to, during, and after the tragedy. There are graves, multiple memorials, and a well-signposted track that draws you to the site itself. Once there, the information repeats in a way that allows you to pause, reflect, and imagine how horrific that Christmas Eve night must have been. It’s a poignant reminder of a tragic day in New Zealand’s history, and almost impossible to miss as you drive past. Hyde, on the other hand, is a different story entirely, it consists of a recently erected memorial that is 500 metres from the actual site and a lonely information board in the middle of a paddock politely advising you to head eight kilometres back up the road if you’d like to know more.
I was on my way through the Strath Taieri heading for Middlemarch when I reached a sign on the side of the road that encouraged me to see the Hyde Rail Memorial and that’s exactly what I did. I parked in a makeshift car park, spent a few minutes viewing the memorial – reading the names of those that lost their lives, then set off down the track for the crash site. I didn’t know what to expect but suspected it wouldn’t be much, after all, nothing along the way suggested I was even walking in the right direction. Sure enough, after about 500 metres I reached a curve known as Straw Cutting, where the old railway once ran. This, it was clear, was the site. At the top of a bank stood a modest board with just over a hundred words on it, none of which told me anything new. Quite frankly, it was a little disappointing. I wasn’t expecting a theme park selling novelty souvenirs, but I had hoped for a few stories about the survivors, or information about the crash. It seemed only logical: if you’re standing on the site of a disaster, that’s where the story should be told. You don’t go to a museum, stand in front of an exhibit, and then get directed three blocks down the street to read the details. Here I was, at the site of New Zealand’s second-worst railway disaster, and all I got was a reminder to put my rubbish in the bin (though there wasn’t actually a bin to be seen).
For the record, the Hyde railway disaster happened just after 1:30 pm on June 4, 1943. A passenger train was rattling its way from Cromwell to Dunedin, carrying 113 people, many likely heading for the Dunedin Winter Show. The driver, under pressure to make good time, had taken the train well beyond the safe speed limit. As it careered into a sharp bend near Hyde, the inevitable happened – the carriages left the track, crashing and rolling in a scene of devastation. The wreckage stretched across the countryside, leaving survivors to clamber free and search for loved ones amid the chaos. Twenty-one people lost their lives, many more were injured, and Hyde (along with Straw Cutting) became one of those quiet country places forever marked on the map by tragedy, its story, much like the Tangiwai disaster, retold with a mix of sorrow and disbelief.
I returned to the car and drove fifteen kilometres along yet more slow but lovely roads to Hyde, the way winding past sheep paddocks, willow groves, and the occasional farmhouse that looked as if it hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in a decade or two. The frost clung stubbornly to the verges as the sun began the day’s slow defrosting process. To the west, the Kakanui Mountains rose in a long, rugged line, their slopes catching snow in winter and dust in summer. To the south lay places with names like Fairleigh, Newton, Rockvale, Rock and Pillar, and Middlemarch. It was this last place I was heading to next – though on the way, I had a famous crash site to visit.
Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost. Having settled overnight, it stretched across the fields as far as the eye could see, and by the time I reached Kokonga, it seemed even more bitter.
A few kilometres before the small settlement, I had passed through the Maniototo in the early morning. The hills lay flat and peaceful, like sleeping animals. Scattered farms stood distant and isolated; fields climbed up to the rolling hillsides, giving the valley a far-flung feel. The sun had yet to take hold of the day and, for the meantime, remained tucked away behind dark, puffy clouds. On a short stretch of road beside a frozen field, I passed a sign that read “Railway Road – No Exit”, the track itself running only a short distance up into the hills. I pulled over beside an old, forgotten fenceline and got out to look around. There was no one about. Presumably, the people of Kokonga were still sensibly tucked up in bed, warm and cosy.
I wandered past a house with a neatly kept garden – no sign of life – and then along the former railway line, now part of the Central Otago Rail Trail. I stopped where the view opened over a scattering of caravans and huts that sat in the frost-stiffened grass, paint peeling, windows squinting out at the day as if half-asleep. Behind them, the hills rolled away into the distance, capped with snow and looking noble and grand, as mountains often do. The whole scene lay under a pale winter sky, stark, cold, beautiful in a way that makes you wonder if the people living here are brave, mad, or a little of both. I pondered that notion for a bit, not reaching a conclusion as my feet crunched their way back to the warmth of my car.
Of all the things to come out of Kyeburn recently, by far the most remarkable happened in March of 2019, when a local discovered a series of moa footprints in the Kyeburn River. Experts from Tūhura Otago Museum were altered, the river diverted, and the footprints carefully removed to Dunedin. After study, the fossilised trackway was confirmed as the first of its kind known in the South Island and the second-oldest evidence of moa in New Zealand, dating back around 3.6 million years.
Just think about that for a moment. Some 3.6 million years ago, a heavy-footed moa clumsily wandered across soft river mud, leaving footprints at just the right moment when the ground was firm enough to hold them. By sheer luck, nature quickly covered them with a fresh layer of sediment, shielding the prints from rain, wind, and any other wandering feet. Over millions of years the mud hardened to stone, only to be revealed by the river, just in time for a man named Michael to stumble upon them while walking his dog. Practically speaking, the chances of that happening are astronomically low.
Of course, when I arrived in Kyeburn, the only thing I found was a hard frost.
In the morning, breakfast was a generous affair of fruit, muesli, toast, coffee, and orange juice – the sort of spread that convinces you a second helping is simply good manners. After several rounds and feeling suitably fortified, I gathered my things and attempted a dignified exit, slipping quietly out the back door so as not to disturb the other guests. This worked perfectly for all of three seconds, until I tripped over a rubbish bin that clattered to the ground and promptly woke the neighbour’s dog, which then woke the rest of the neighbourhood. So much for subtlety.
The morning was cold, properly cold. Everything, and I do mean everything, was frozen solid. Since de-icing the car wasn’t going to be quick, I set off for a walk. Each step landed with a satisfying crunch on the frost, my breath hanging in the air like a thin city fog. Smoke curled lazily from a few nearby houses before dissolving into the washed-out colours of a Maniototo morning.
I’d been following a dirt road, but as the sun began rising over the hills I turned back toward the car, the new light dragging long shadows across the gravel roads and paddocks. I followed them for a while until I reached a frozen stream pressed against a fence line, glinting in the pale sun. I stood there for a moment, enjoying the quiet beauty of a world not quite awake, not yet anyway.
To be honest with you, the first pint didn’t touch the sides and the second didn’t last much longer as I carefully surveyed the menu. It had been a long day, I was tired, hungry, thirsty and before I knew it I was happily devouring a delicious Lamb Shank Pie with mash and veg. I know it doesn’t sound that spectacular but it really was. I loved every mouthful, it was so good I considered ordering a second, but I knew I couldn’t possibly manage it. I washed it all down with a beer and happily sat there full, content and musing over how correct people had been. The food was nothing short of delicious and what’s more, there seemed to be delivery parcels of takeaway meals coming out of the kitchen every few minutes. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where all the food was going, I didn’t think enough people lived in the area to sustain so many orders but clearly I was wrong. By the time I was ordering my fourth pint I had firmly decided on several things. Firstly, I too would soon be raving to people about the food at the Waipiata Hotel and secondly, it wouldn’t be long before I would be heading to bed.
Before leaving on this trip, when a few of my friends had heard what I was doing, the food at the Waipiata Country Hotel had been highly recommended. So highly recommended in fact it was the sole reason I was there. Now, here I was, on the verge of what I’d been told was a culinary feast. I found the hotel with little problem, dumped my gear in my room, spent a moment organising myself and headed straight for the bar! On the way, I spotted a sign that read “We are not able to predict when a social gathering might occur. If your stay coincides with a night when the locals come down from the hills to gather and celebrate we can only apologize for any excess noise coming from the bar. Please feel free to use the earplugs provided – or come out and join in.” I ordered a pint, found a table and sank into the bar stool. I instantly felt at home!
I left Ranfurly deciding to take a backcountry gravel road to my destination of Waipiata – a short trip of only 10 kilometres, pretty much having the road to myself, apart from the occasional farmer who would pass, creating a dramatic dust storm and a wave of gravel that would rattle against the windscreen. After the onslaught had dissipated, this off course would leave me peering through a film of muck so thick it took a four-step process to clean. Step one (while driving) was to spray the windscreen and flick the wipers, which only turned the dust into a thick brown sludge that would be smeared across the windscreen – briefly leaving me driving blind. Step two was to repeat step one which was required to clean-up the mess created by step one – which helped a little. Step three was another repeat, finally restoring visibility to approximately 80%, and step four bringing things back to clear. At least until the next farmer appeared right on cue in a perfectly choreographed arrival.
It was getting late by the time I arrived in Waipiata, a tiny settlement in the Maniototo. Once a bustling railway stop but now a sleepy village with a pub, a scattering of houses, and the wide open sky for company. The sun and light were starting to fade and an evening chill whistled in from somewhere out on the plains. I went for a short drive around the town, stopping at the local domain which peered out across the plains to the snowcapped peaks on the horizon. I followed a track through the tussock for several minutes that seemed to go nowhere. I stood for a few minutes and listened to the silence, the land stretching away rising gently to meet the blue-grey mountains where the last of winter’s snow clung to the ridges. It had been a long day, but I was pleased I was here. I turned, returned to my car and went in search of some accommodation – The Waipiata Country Hotel, a place I’d chosen specifically for the food.
It was mid to late afternoon when I came into Ranfurly. The sun was beginning to slip down the sky, casting a long golden light across the Maniototo Plains. I was on my way to Waipiata, but Ranfurly was sitting there in the middle of the landscape looking quietly self-assured, so I decided to make a small detour. Like most New Zealand small towns, Ranfurly seemed to be quietly going about its business while the outer world went hurriedly by.
The Maniototo had been vast and open all afternoon, a place where the sky seemed to take up more space than land. Coming into Ranfurly felt a little like stepping into a pocket of civilization after so much emptiness, if only for a microsecond – a modest town on the edge of a timeless land supporting a surprising amount of character.
Putting its ruralness aside, the first thing I always notice about Ranfurly is the art deco. It’s everywhere: shopfronts, corners, the old post office. Ranfurly owes this quirk to a run of fires in the 1930s, which had cleared much of the main street and forced the town to rebuild. While other places might have chosen a more practical, no-nonsense approach to reestablishing the town, Ranfurly went in a slightly different and quite unexpected direction by giving itself a touch of Hollywood glamour.
The result is a main street with clean lines and curved corners, pastel colours and cheerful facades – the sort of place where you half-expect to find Clark Gable leaning against a doorway in the tearooms. If tourists stopped and asked him for directions he would be able to turn and say, “frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn! Further down the street outside the pub they could have Humphrey Bogart telling people “The problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world” while Gene Kelly could appear every time it rains, singing and dancing – twirling an umbrella.
Of course, all of this isn’t so. Like most New Zealand towns, Ranfurly is built on farming, family, and a strong sense of community. But the art deco architecture gives it a twist – a kind of unexpected pride that sets it apart from its neighbours. You come for the wide landscapes and sharp light of Central Otago, and somehow leave remembering a town that chose style as well as substance. But what really tickled me was the thought that, out here on Maniototo Plains, a town had decided not only to exist but to do so with a certain amount of pizzazz, as if to say, “yes, the sheep are important, but have you seen our curves and pastel trims?”
I found Oturehua tucked quietly into the heart of the Ida Valley. With a population of a little over one hundred, it felt as though time had politely slowed down just enough for me to notice the hills, the wide skies, and the gentle hum of a quiet Central Otago town.
I arrived at rush hour. Four or five utes were parked outside the Railway Hotel, a family wagon idled off into the distance, a family of five emerged from Gilchrist’s General Store, and a group of cyclists enthusiastically inspected their machinery on a nearby patch of grass – no doubt about to tackle another section of the famed Rail Trail.
I parked and called in at Gilchrist’s General Store, famous for being one of New Zealand’s oldest continually operating general stores. It’s the type of place that time has forgotten, but nobody else has. It’s like a living museum; as soon as you step inside you’re transported back in time, free to rummage through the shelves for all sorts of quirky goods while vintage advertising signs decorate the walls. I wandered around, reading the old signs and enjoying the endearing elegance of a place that has no right to be as charming as it is. Behind the counter stood a ladder, reaching to the higher shelves. It’s wasn’t hard to imagine a whimsical shopkeeper climbing the ladder behind the counter, then pushing himself to the other end of the display, the ladder gliding smoothly along the shelves on its clever wheel runners. Throughout the store, not only are there old signs, tins, and packaging to admire and reminisce over, but the original telephone exchange is still in place. If that isn’t enough, between the 1920s and the 1940s the business also incorporated a bakery that employed up to 12 people.
Yet Gilchrist’s General Store, the Railway Hotel, the Rail Trail, or even Hayes Engineering are not the most remarkable things about this tiny settlement. The real surprise is that, for a town of just over 100 residents, two have won New Zealand Heritage Literary Awards for poetry. The settlement regularly hosts literary and artistic events such as the Under Rough Ridge Writers’ Retreat, and the wider community is home to a remarkable concentration of writers, poets, and other artists. Without the world noticing, Oturehua has become a creative hub in rural Central Otago, far from the country’s urban centres.
I went for a walk up and down the street where the main cluster of buildings stood. I can’t even call them shops, because mostly they weren’t. I don’t mean that in a rude way – just as a statement of fact. Yet the strange thing was, the longer I stayed, the more the place grew on me. It had no right to. There didn’t seem to be enough there. Yet – and here’s the kicker – it was more than enough.
From Ophir I headed northwest over the Raggedy Range before dropping down into the Ida Valley. A wide, sunlit expanse where the air feels thin and clear, and the land rolls out quietly in front of you. It’s the sort of place that makes you slow down, breathe deeply, and wonder why more people don’t live in valleys like this. Then you realise how special it is and hope it never changes.
As I made my way through the wide-open expanses, the remains of a recent snow drift lay either side of the road, melting in the winter sun. In the distance the Hawkduns loomed – a great, brooding mountain range that dominated the skyline, the kind of mountains that make you feel wonderfully insignificant.
The Ida Valley itself has a curious stillness, as if time slows down. Farmhouses sit low and square against the wind, fences run for miles into the distance, and the road stretches on so far ahead that it seems almost reluctant to end. Out here, there’s a sense that this is a place built on endurance – of people who chose to stay, even when the winters bite hard and the summers bake the earth into cracked clay.
There’s something beautiful about the valley. Maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the long shadows cast across the plains, or maybe it’s the knowledge that for decades, this land has seen lives come and go – gold miners, farmers, artists – yet somehow, it has resisted change. You can sense history lingering in the dry air, tucked away in stone cottages and forgotten farm sheds. I pressed on, the road drawing me deeper into the valley, half expecting to meet no one, and quite enjoying the idea.
The very small town of Ophir has a delightful post office, a wonderfully creaky old bridge, a charming pub, and for a glorious stretch of time – the claim of being the coldest place in the country. This, of course, was before some mean spirited person decided to rifle through forgotten weather records and unearthed the inconvenient fact that neighbouring Ranfurly had once managed to be even colder. Three degrees colder, in fact. The record was promptly reassigned, leaving Ophir with its post office, bridge, pub, and the rather less marketable distinction of being merely the second coldest place in New Zealand.
Ophir’s near-record low of -21.6 °C was reached on Monday, 3 July 1995. To put that in perspective, the average temperature at Scott Base in Antarctica – a place where penguins look like they’re regretting their life choices – is a comparatively balmy -19.8 °C. Ophir was so cold that day locals swear livestock froze to the ground, hens had to be prised off their perches, and hypothermia was a very real threat. For years, the town proudly held on to this shivery claim to fame, until 2015 when the past inconveniently caught up with it. Old records were dusted off and revealed that back in July 1903, a site just west of Ranfurly had clocked an arctic –25.6 °C. And just like that, poor Ophir slipped from first place to second – which is a cruel fate for a town that was already small enough to be overlooked on most maps.
Fortunately for Ophir, the post office is delightful, the old bridge is wonderful, and the pub is charming. I arrived from nearby Omakau in bright sunshine on a fine but chilly afternoon, wandered about the old buildings, and walked across the bridge – which I rather enjoyed. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I walked across it once more. Then, for good measure, I skipped, hopped, and danced my way across as well, before climbing back into the car and slipping over the hill into the Ida Valley.
Just after you leave the town of Clyde – heading towards Alexandra on State Highway 8, there’s a turnoff called Springvale Road. I took this, heading for the town of Omakau. As I did so, a strange thing happened: the sky cleared revealing a stunning winter’s day. It felt almost biblical. One moment I thought it was going to rain, next I was traveling through bright sunshine under a vast and radiant blue sky. This was the weather I’d been hoping for since leaving home, and now at last, here it was – stretching off into the distance, a big blue sky over a timeless land. I couldn’t be happier.
I’d read somewhere that Omakau is a charming little Central Otago town, a lovely place to stop and stroll around. So that’s exactly what I did. I parked out the former Commercial Hotel and went for a wander, reading signs and inquisitively peering into various shop windows before strolling the short distance down to the Manuherikia River
Over a hundred years ago, a violent storm swept through the region, bringing a combination of flooding, snowstorms, and blizzards. So unexpected was the weather system, many people were caught unprepared and heavy rain caused rivers like the Manuherikia to swell with one drowning recorded. During the snowstorms that followed, further fatalities were recorded. Thankfully, when I was there the river was in a pleasant and agreeable mood, and looked rather fetching from my vantage point on the bridge. I could almost make out the town of Ophir, which was where I was heading next. For a moment I considered walking there. It was only two kilometres away and the day was warm and fine. What’s more, I was on my own time and in need of a good walk. Just as I was about to set off, a bout of rational thinking kicked in. If I walked there, I’d also have to walk back, and the afternoon would quickly disappear. A decent walk now would mean less time for a beer at the end of the day. I mulled over this quandary for a few minutes … and then headed back to the car.
Like a lot of places in Otago and Southland, the town of Clyde got its start in life thanks to the discovery of gold in the region. When that happened, everyone went absolutely bananas and rushed to the goldfields seeking fame and fortune, the epicentre of the mayhem being the town of Clyde – although back then it was simply known as “The Dunstan.” At the height of the gold rush, Clyde was the largest town in the country, and it’s also home to one of my favourite gold rush robbery stories.
At the time of the Otago Gold Rush of the 1860s, the towns of Frankton and Clyde were strategically important hubs in the gold escort network. Located on key routes between Queenstown, Arrowtown, and the wider Otago diggings, shipments of gold often passed through one or the other on their way back to Dunedin. Depending on where the gold originated, it might be staged overnight in Frankton or in Clyde before tackling the next leg of the journey. In July 1870, gold from the local diggings was being held in Clyde’s lock-up, awaiting the Monday morning escort to Dunedin, when one of the country’s most audacious robberies took place, gold and banknotes to the value of around £2,000 at the time were stolen from inside the Clyde gaol.
The robbery occurred on a cold winter’s night in late July 1870, as a hard frost settled over the town. Earlier that day, the weekly gold shipment from the local diggings had been brought into Clyde and stored away in the town lock-up, located inside a cell within the town jail. The next morning, upon inspection, it was discovered that the outer gaol door remained secure, but the larger, heavier, and stronger door inside had been forced open and the gold and banknotes were gone.
After an exhaustive search, with a substantial reward offered to anyone who could help solve the crime, the cash boxes were found empty in a water race just 50 metres from the gaol, while whispers around town suggested a local shoemaker and the constable on duty might have been involved. Local gossip even hinted that the constable had simply unlocked the outer door to let the shoemaker in, yet none of this was ever proven and no one was ever convicted.
The robbery had taken place some time between midnight and 4 a.m. The thieves broke through the inner door by removing heavy screws and manipulating the sturdy iron bolt across it. Once inside, they threw the cash boxes over the gaol wall and made off with the loot – the gold and notes were never recovered, although town gossip suggested they were hidden 50 kilometres (35 miles) from Clyde, somewhere in the rocky Maniototo hills.
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.