South Island Sonata

第四章 南島ソナタ

❄️ Lake Tekapo

The winter chill clung gently to the air as we arrived at Lake Tekapo, welcomed by the soft hush of snow and the mirror-like lake reflecting pastel skies. We checked into the BBH Tailor Made Tekapo Accommodation tucked quietly near the lake and soon found ourselves dining at a quaint Japanese restaurant—savoring steaming bento boxes while gazing over that iconic turquoise water. There wasn’t much choices here in 2014, so Kohan was our best bet. It felt surreal: miso soup in hand, mountains across the lake, serenity on our plates, not to mention the salmon too!

Not ones to waste fresh snow, we hit the slopes near Lake Tekapo. The Road to the ski resort were spectacular, especially in New Zealand, where the land wasn’t really covered much by the snow. We booked the transport too as our car were not equipped with snow chain.

While not the most aggressive terrain, the powder carried our laughter as we skied under a wide, open sky. This was the first time we did our skiing, and we chose the ski board. Felt many times and I couldn’t forget about the pain over my butt.

Then, we visited the Church of the Good Shepherd, its tiny frame outlined against a setting sun, a postcard moment etched forever. We stood in stillness as the sky melted into lavender and fire.

As night fell, the world above unveiled its secrets. Lake Tekapo lies in one of the few Dark Sky Reserves in the world, and the heavens responded. The stars—millions of them—pierced through the silence, and for the first time in a long time, we felt how small and yet how infinite we were. The milky way was visible in the dark sky with bare eyes.

🏔️ Echoes of Giants – Arthur’s Pass & Castle Hill

We continued north, winding through mountain passes until the magnificent Arthur’s Pass opened before us. Jagged peaks, icy winds, and that iconic viaduct bridge—nature and engineering entwined. At Castle Hill, limestone boulders stood like forgotten gods. It was easy to see why the Dalai Lama once called this place the “spiritual center of the universe.”

The mischievous kea, New Zealand’s unique alpine parrots, came to inspect us—one tried stealing part of our lunch. Cheeky and unforgettable, and remembered, that although they looked innocent, they are incredibly smart, they might even try getting into our car.

🕊️ Reawakening in Christchurch

Our brief return to urban rhythm was in Christchurch, still recovering from the earthquakes but pulsing with quiet determination. Streets bore scaffolding and art in equal measure. We wandered through the cardboard cathedral and colorful murals—signs of both memory and hope.

One unforgettable food in South Island was definitely the Pedro’s House of Lamb. Imagine stepping closer to the Pedro’s House of Lamb in Christchurch and being greeted by the irresistible aroma of slow-roasted lamb wafting through the air. Their signature half lamb — charred to perfection on the outside, tender and juicy inside — was so decadent that every bite practically melts on your tongue. The rich, smoky flavor was beautifully balanced with zesty sides: crisp, garden-fresh salad and golden, crunchy oven-roasted potatoes.

🐧 Whispers of Bushy Beach — A Poetic Encounter in Timaru

On our way to Timaru, we made a quiet detour to Bushy Beach — a windswept stretch of coastline in South Island where the ocean hums softly against golden cliffs, and time seems to slow with the setting sun. Before even setting foot on the trail to Bushy Beach, I was greeted by a scene that felt straight out of a New Zealand fable.

A lone sheep lay peacefully at the entrance, basking in golden sunlight, as if it too was watching over the sanctuary.

Beside it stood a whimsical donation box shaped like a penguin, its hand-painted eyes wide with gentle invitation — “Help protect penguins,” the sign read.

It was a quiet reminder that I was entering a place not just of scenic beauty, but of deep stewardship. As I reached the clifftop, the land opened up beneath me — a sweeping view of orange sand meeting cobalt sea, waves curling like ink strokes on a scroll. Below, the wild coast stretched endlessly, hugged by lush cliffs where nature whispered in every gust of wind.

Here, nestled in the gentle folds of a protected reserve, the rare yellow-eyed penguins return home from the sea. As dusk painted the sky in hues of amber and rose, we watched in stillness as the penguins emerged from the waves, waddling with quiet purpose across the sands toward their hidden burrows. It felt less like wildlife watching and more like witnessing a secret ritual passed down by nature itself.

The air at Bushy Beach carries a reverence — as if even the wind whispers softer in respect. Tiny footprints etched in the sand speak of lives lived quietly, resiliently. We stood at a respectful distance, hearts full and hushed, realizing that the most powerful moments often ask nothing of us but presence. Bushy Beach doesn’t boast or entertain — it breathes, it waits, and if you listen closely, it sings in silence.

🕊️ South to Dunedin — A Night Beneath the Stars and the Wings of Giants

Leaving the quiet reverence of Bushy Beach behind, we drove south toward Dunedin — a city where Scottish charm meets wild ocean cliffs. That night, under a sky laced with stars, we parked our car and turned it into a makeshift home. It wasn’t the most comfortable sleep, but there was something liberating about dozing off to the hush of waves and the hum of southern winds. Wrapped in layers, we fell asleep with anticipation stirring like a tide.

At dawn, we made our way to the Royal Albatross Centre at Taiaroa Head — the only mainland breeding colony in the world for these legendary seabirds. September was still early in the season, and we were warned that sightings would be rare. Yet fortune favored us. First, a few seabirds traced elegant arcs across the morning sky.

Then, in a fleeting but unforgettable moment, we spotted a single royal albatross gliding in the distance. It looked like a ghost of the wind, wings stretching wider than a doorframe, drifting without effort — a living legend dancing with the sea breeze.

Afterward, we turned inland to find another Dunedin icon — Baldwin Street, the world’s steepest residential road. The climb was brutal, our legs aching with every step as the gradient seemed to defy reason. But with laughter echoing between houses and the sense of triumph growing with altitude, we pressed on to the summit. Breathless and grinning, we stood atop the incline, the whole city sloping away beneath us — a perfect metaphor for the ups and downs of this unforgettable journey.

☕ Down to the Deep South — Where the Road Ends and Stories Begin

The road from Dunedin to Invercargill unravelled like a ribbon along the edge of the sea. Somewhere along the way, we stopped at a cliff’s edge, wind brushing past us like a forgotten lullaby. Below us, the Southern Ocean shimmered beneath a pale sky, waves endlessly tracing the outline of a rugged land. There were moments we didn’t speak — just listened. The silence of the South is a language of its own.

As we arrived in Invercargill, the southernmost city of New Zealand, our first stop was more familiar than expected — the southernmost Starbucks in the world. Sipping a warm flat white felt surreal, like tasting a piece of global comfort at the edge of the earth. The breeze was brisk, but the coffee steamed gently in our hands, grounding us in the moment.

We wandered into Queen’s Park, a lush green expanse that felt more like a private botanical sanctuary than a public garden. What surprised us most was how well-maintained everything was — a mini-zoo, glasshouse, aviaries, playgrounds, all open to the public for free. There we met curious eyes of a fluffy llama and the shy turns of a wallaby — not in some gated attraction, but in a space where locals strolled, children laughed, and time moved gently. A park like this could’ve easily charged a fee, but here, nature felt like a gift — generously shared.

As we neared the coast, we found ourselves standing before the famous yellow signpost at Stirling Point in Bluff. Each direction pointed to far-off lands — New York, Sydney, London — but what it really pointed out was how far we had come. To the very edge of Aotearoa, where the winds are colder, the skies wider, and your heart, unexpectedly fuller.

🦜🗻 Mystic Waters of Milford Sound — Where Mountains Breathe and the Sky Listens

The road to Milford Sound wound through landscapes that felt almost mythical.

Mist clung low to the golden tussocks of Eglington Valley, like a secret not ready to be spoken. Towering peaks, their shoulders wrapped in snow, stood silent under an infinite sky.

As we passed through the Homer Tunnel and emerged into the dramatic alpine wilderness, we met a familiar friend — the Kea.

This cheeky alpine parrot strutted across the road like a proud gatekeeper of Fiordland, his mossy-green feathers flashing hints of orange beneath. A curious tilt of his head was all it took to remind us — we were in his world now.

And what a world it was. Milford Sound greeted us with towering cliffs rising from deep blue waters, waterfalls cascading down like silk threads unraveling from the sky. The light was pure, the kind that sharpens everything it touches — jagged peaks, mossy rock, a passing cloud. Boarding the cruise, we drifted into a dream. Stirling Falls roared beside us with an elegance both fierce and graceful, while snow-capped mountains mirrored themselves in the glassy surface of the fiord. It was as though time had slowed, or perhaps vanished entirely.

On deck, wind tousling my hood and the sun scattering diamonds across the water, I stood in quiet awe. The fiord stretched on like a sacred hymn — a place untouched, wild, whispering truths that cities forget. Milford Sound wasn’t just a destination; it was a feeling. A reminder that there are still places on this Earth where nature doesn’t just exist — it reigns, it stirs, it speaks, an iconic place in the South Island of New Zealand

☁️ Queenstown Whispers — Where Mountains Cradle the Quiet Heart

Queenstown, a name often spoken with excitement — of bungee jumps, jet boats, and wild adrenaline highs.

But our journey here was quiet. Short. And unexpectedly gentle.

Not all who wander seek a rush. Some of us come for stillness, for flavor, for stories written in the hush between peaks.

And Queenstown welcomed us with open arms — not to push us over edges, but to slow our pace and soothe our senses.

🏞 A Hill, A Town, A Sky that Stretches

It began as a simple walk — a wooden gate marking the start, a quiet path winding into forest shadow.

Pine needles softened our steps as we entered the hush of the trees. Tall Douglas firs stood like sentinels, their branches filtering morning light into golden threads that danced across the ground. The scent of resin and moss drifted through the air — earthy, calming, like an old memory unfolding.

The trail gently climbed, curving through switchbacks lined with wild grasses and rocky outcrops. Occasionally, the trees parted — just briefly — to reveal glimpses of the lake far below, glimmering like spilled ink beneath the rising sun. We paused often, not from exhaustion, but awe.

As we rose above the tree line, the landscape opened — first into rolling hills dotted with hardy shrubs and golden tussocks swaying in the alpine wind. Then, without warning, the view revealed itself.

And it took our breath away.

The wind up here was stronger, cooler, whispering across the summit like a lullaby only the mountains could understand.

We found the Basket of Dreams sculpture — a large circular steel nest, woven like a portal to imagination. Sitting beside it, we let the silence settle in. Not the silence of emptiness, but of fullness — of mountains holding their breath, of skies wider than thought, of a world briefly in perfect balance.

In that moment, Queenstown wasn’t just a town below. It was a painting, a song, a living, breathing soul. And we were part of it.

The descent felt lighter — not just because it was downhill, but because something within us had shifted.

We hadn’t flown. We hadn’t raced.
But we had climbed.
And we had seen.

🍖 Where Fire Meets Flavor

We had heard whispers about Flame Bar & Grill, but nothing prepared us for that moment — when the ribs arrived.

They were rich, smoky, tender to the soul. A meal that doesn’t just fill you — it stays with you, warming you long after the last bite.

We didn’t speak much here either. Some foods deserve quiet reverence. This is one of the best rib ever ever tried in my life.

🍦 Cold Hands, Warm Hearts

Even as alpine winds danced around us, we held ice cream in our hands. Yes, ice cream — cold upon cold, but somehow exactly what the moment called for.

Sweet. Crisp. Fleeting. Like Queenstown itself. We ordered the Patagonia’s Dark Chocolate and Macadamias.

There’s something romantic about eating gelato when you can see your breath — a childlike joy, tucked inside adult wonder.

👣 The Footsteps We Leave

We didn’t leap from cliffs. We didn’t race down rivers.

But we felt Queenstown — its still corners, its hidden grace.
And in that short time, it gave us something quietly unforgettable.

A walk through mist.
A meal by fire.
A sky that made us small, and free, all at once.

🚗 Road to Paradise — Where Stillness Flows and Curiosity Leads

Some journeys are loud — marked by ticking clocks and crowded maps.
But the road from Queenstown to Paradise was none of those things.

It unfolded like a whispered invitation — a drive not just through landscapes, but into a slower rhythm of the world.

The first part of the journey brought us to Glenorchy, a quiet lakeside town where even the wind seemed to move with grace.

We walked the Glenorchy Lagoon Walkway, where boardwalks floated gently over still waters. Around us, the hush of reed beds, the occasional rustle of a distant bird. The light here was soft — filtered through clouds, dancing off the surface of the wetlands.

We paused at the famous reflection tree, its gnarled silhouette mirrored perfectly in the water below. It was as if the land had stopped breathing, just for a moment, to admire itself.

There were few people. Fewer sounds. Only the feeling that somehow, you were standing in the space between two worlds — one real, one reflected.

But the road didn’t end here. It called us forward.

We followed gravel paths that wound deeper into the valleys, past pastures and sleepy sheep, into a place fittingly named Paradise. The name wasn’t poetic exaggeration — it simply was.

And then, something unexpected: a bit of adventure.

As we headed toward Mount Aspiring National Park, the road grew wilder. We didn’t expect to cross water — but soon, there it was: a narrow stream spilling gently across the track. And then another. And another. Four shallow water crossings in total.

Our vehicle? A Honda Odyssey — not exactly a rugged 4WD.

We hesitated. Wondered. Would we get stuck?
I never watched a lot of Youtube back then, so I stepped into the water with my waterproof boots and told my wife that it should be good, should be…
But just as our doubts peaked, we watched a small sedan — an ordinary city car — glide straight through without pause.

We laughed. Sometimes, fear is a story we tell ourselves.
And sometimes, a splash of water is just a splash of water.

With newfound courage (and wet tires), we continued.

Then came the reward.

As we entered the Mount Aspiring National Park, the atmosphere shifted — like stepping into a forgotten world.

The air was cooler. The light filtered through ancient trees in soft, green layers. Moss curled along every branch like handwritten script. We hiked quietly for about an hour, letting the forest wrap around us like a story being told in another language.

There were no sweeping signs or crowds here — just a raw kind of beauty. Untouched. Unrushed.

A tree caught my eye — its limbs twisted like a dancer frozen mid-movement. Nearby, a stream flowed clear over polished stones, its voice soft and persistent.

And just like that, it was time to turn back.

But we left carrying something with us — a feeling that the best parts of travel aren’t always the loudest. Sometimes they’re a silent road. A tree’s reflection. A drive through water that turns out to be easier than fear had promised.

☁️ Falling into the Sky — Wanaka, Where Courage Meets the Clouds

There are moments in life that begin with a question you don’t know how to answer.

Would you jump?

In Wanaka, on a crisp blue morning, I said yes. One of the most adventurous activities we have done is in South Island New Zealand.

Before I had time to second guess, I was suited up, strapped tightly to a professional skydiver — a calm, smiling man who held my fear like it was something ordinary. Something expected. Something small.

The plane climbed slowly, slicing through the cloudless sky. Below us, the Southern Alps, Lake Wanaka, and the braided rivers of the South Island unfolded like a living painting — untouched, infinite, quietly breathing.

And then — the door opened.

My heart dropped before I did.

We leaned into the sky, and suddenly, there was nothing beneath us. Only air — and light, and the sound of wind screaming past my ears, louder than thought, louder than fear. We weren’t falling. We were flying.

It’s hard to describe skydiving — because it doesn’t feel real. People may tell you that it was scary, but it was, on the plane though. It’s a moment outside of time, a suspension between gravity and freedom. After jumping out from the plane, I wouldn’t even have time to scare, and then — a jolt.
The parachute deployed. Silence returned.

And that’s when the world revealed itself.

We floated gently now, slowly spinning, wrapped in a 360-degree view of South Island — mountains sharp against the sky, the lake below glinting like liquid sapphire, the horizon stretching into forever.

It was breathtaking. But for me — quite literally — it became stomach-turning.

As we spiraled for landing, the motion stirred up something not-so-magical.
By the time my feet met the ground, the altitude and turning had caught up with me.
I made it to the washroom just in time.

Let’s just say: the sky gave me everything, and then took a little something back.

But still — I’d do it again.
Even if it ended in a small, humbled moment… it was worth every loonie spent.

🍽 Grounded Again, With Warm Bread and Laughter

After skydiving, we needed grounding — in every sense.
So we wandered into Francesca’s Italian Kitchen, where warm bread, rich pasta, yummy pizza, and a slow lunch healed us from the clouds. The flavors were bold, comforting, honest — like someone’s Nonna had whispered each recipe into the kitchen walls.

Later, we strolled along the edge of Lake Wanaka, letting the wind brush past us gently this time. No rush, no altitude, just the slow rhythm of footsteps on gravel and the mirror-still lake beside us. The famous Wanaka tree stood calmly in the water, defying gravity in its own quiet way.

🌀 Through the Looking Glass

As the afternoon softened into golden light, we wandered into the Puzzling World Museum — a space where gravity bent, illusions danced, and perception turned playful.

Rooms tilted. Faces followed us. Reflections spun the familiar into something strange.
We were children again — laughing, pointing, leaning too far into mirrors.

And just when the day couldn’t surprise us more, we turned a corner and met a friend — someone from Blenheim, someone unexpected.
Wanaka was full of such magic — the kind that isn’t loud, but lingers.

From falling through the sky to finding old friends in illusion rooms, Wanaka gave us a day we wouldn’t forget — and couldn’t have planned.

Even with trembling legs and a queasy stomach, I’d do it all again.

Because sometimes, the best memories are the ones that scare you, shake you, and softly welcome you back to earth.

🌿 Where Waters Glow and Mountains Wait — From Wanaka to the West

We left Wanaka with our hearts still light from the sky — but this time, our feet stayed on the ground.

Heading north, the road twisted gently through forest and valley, the sky thickening with grey.
It was the kind of day where the rain doesn’t rush — it drizzles like a whisper, soft and steady, as though nature herself was deep in thought.

Not far from Makarora, we made a quiet stop at the Blue Pools.

The walk in was short — a gravel path through silver beech trees, where raindrops drummed gently on the canopy above. The sound of the river grew louder with each step, until we reached the swing bridge and looked down.

There it was: water so clear, so blue, it felt unreal — like the soul of the mountain had gathered into a single pool. The pebbled riverbed glowed beneath it, undisturbed, sacred.
Even in the soft rain, the color glimmered like melted glacier.

We didn’t stay long. But it was enough.
A brief pause. A breath.

🌫 Lake Matheson — The Mirror That Chose Mist

Further west, through Haast Pass and winding roads wrapped in rainforest, we reached Lake Matheson near Fox Glacier.

It was early morning. The sky hung low, dressed in fog and drizzle. We had dreamed of the postcard view — the glassy lake reflecting Aoraki and Mount Tasman in perfect symmetry.

And… it was beautiful.

There’s a peace that only rainy mornings offer — a gentleness that sun cannot teach. The water was still. Birds called softly through the trees. We walked slowly along the path, wrapped in jackets and quiet thoughts.

There’s something sacred about seeing a famous place not at its best — because it becomes yours in a different way.
We didn’t see the mirror lake.
We saw the lake in silence.
And somehow, that felt enough.

We left Lake Matheson with wet shoes and warm hearts, ready for what came next — the road to the glaciers, where ice meets earth and time reveals its scars.

🗺 Where the Road Curves North — Closing the South with a Quiet Heart

As we left the mist of Lake Matheson behind, the road curled like a ribbon through valleys and rain-soaked forest, leading us steadily away from the deep South.

The glaciers came and went, like ancient guardians watching from afar — their breath cold, their presence immense. We paused to admire, to reflect, to listen to the hush of moving ice, before continuing onward.

But slowly, gently, we began to feel it — the shift.

Not just in geography, but in rhythm.

The mountains grew softer.
The rain became mist, then sun.
The South Island — wild, vast, raw — had given us its wonders: skydives and silent lakes, mirrorless reflections, laughter across cold rivers, trees older than memory.

It was time to let go.

We crossed back northward — ferry bound, hearts full.
A new chapter awaited on the other island: warmer roads, volcanic breath, and coastlines drawn in softer strokes.

But the South had left its mark — not in souvenirs, but in stillness. In skies we once fell through. In footsteps we left near glacier streams. In the quiet truth that some places change you — gently, but forever.

And with that, we closed the page.

A new story was already beginning.