Daily Photo – Winton (3)

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

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

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

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

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

Daily Photo – Winton (2)

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

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

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

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

Daily Photo – Winton (1)

By the time I arrived in Winton, it was already early evening. The light was fading into that blue haze of half-light that comes at sunset. As I navigated the surrounding streets, I was surprised to find that Winton was larger than I’d been expecting. While still on the small side, it was considerably larger than anything I’d seen for some time, so I happily drove around for a bit, taking in the sights and looking for a place to stay.

The town of Winton sprang to life as miners seeking the riches of the central Otago goldfields plodded across the plains from Invercargill to the goldfields of Wakatipu. The steady stream of travellers became so great that a railway was constructed, and Winton quickly became one of the main transit points for local farmers along with those travelling to and from the goldfields. While the town has grown, as I drove around I couldn’t help but feel it kept some of its transient origins. I liked this.

I took a room at the Railway Hotel, a handsome two-storeyed Edwardian-style building that would’ve been a grand place at the time of its reopening in 1910 (the original building having opened in 1861 before being destroyed by fire). I was given a smallish room, spent several minutes exploring it, opening cupboards, testing the water pressure, and trying to turn on the TV, before presenting myself at the downstairs bar, ready for a pint and something to eat.

I stood at the bar for several minutes before a gravelly voice from behind me said, “You’ve got to ring the bell if you want something.”
I looked around to see a man with a long grey beard in a John Deere tractor cap looking at me with a crooked smile. His name was Jim, I was to discover later, and he must not have been a day younger than 150.
“Pardon me?” I replied.
“The bell, you’ve got to ring it if you want service. They’ll be in the other room setting up for the quiz night,” he continued.

A quiz night, I thought to myself? Now this was a stroke of good fortune. I could just see myself enjoying a nice meal before joining a team who might be down a member. It just so happened that I had recently been part of a champion-winning quiz team, and feeling in a somewhat confident mood, I inquired if anyone could join in. My mind whirled in thought, maybe I could enter on my own. I’d go down in local folklore as that stranger from out of town who whistled in on the breeze, won the local quiz night, and disappeared as quickly as he arrived. However, my daydream was shattered when I was told by a lady behind the bar, “All the teams are full. We’re expecting quite a turnout tonight.”

With this, I slunk to a table, menu in hand, and set about ordering some dinner.
“Besides, the questions are probably all about farming and not nearly as challenging as the local Kindy fundraiser that I’d been part of the winning team in,” I muttered to myself as I surveyed a menu that was about five pages long and had dishes from every major continent on it. For a moment I considered ordering a Greek kebab with a side order of pork bao buns and margherita pizza, just to give the night a truly international flavour. However, I decided to go with a steak and order another beer.

I finished my meal and ordered another pint, with the pleasant sounds of poker machines whittling away in the background. Occasionally Jim, my new best friend, would come over and we’d engage in short conversation before he too became lost to the dazzling lights and sounds of the pokie machines. Eventually, I looked at my watch. It wasn’t late, but I was tired. It had been a long day and my eyes were beginning to droop.

I went outside and looked at the town of Winton under the night sky. The trucks were still bowling past; they had been all day. I retired to my room, read a few pages of my book, and listened to the soothing sounds of laughter coming from the quiz. I bet the questions suck, I thought to myself as I drifted off to sleep.