New Zealand: Southland – Stewart Island / Rakiura National Park

🌧️ At the Edge of the World: Bluff, Foveaux Strait and a Kiwi After Dark

Possible Title Options:

• The End of the Road and a Bird That Won’t Fly

• Oysters, Ocean Swell and One Slightly Grumpy Kiwi Guide

• Bluff to Rakiura: Sea Spray, Starfields and Shoelaces

• Sixty Minutes of Nautical Regret

⛈️ Bluff — Where the Road Gives Up

We set off for Bluff, which sat about half an hour away and, as far as roads go, was more or less the last sensible place you could reach without a wetsuit. The weather, clearly irritated that we had previously enjoyed ourselves, responded with theatrical indignation. Out of nowhere came a hailstorm, a crack of lightning overhead, and a thunderclap so loud it sounded as if the Almighty had dropped a piano from a great height.

It was, thankfully, just the one strike. Another couple and we’d have been rummaging through museum leaflets looking for ark-building instructions.

Bluff itself was exactly what you expect at the bottom of a country — practical, weathered, and faintly resigned. It had been a port for generations, ever since European settlers began arriving in earnest. Before that, Māori had used the area seasonally, fishing and gathering food from the abundant southern waters.

It was famous across the country for its oysters. Bluff oysters are regarded as something of a national treasure — fat, briny and harvested in the colder months when the sea is at its most unforgiving. There was even an annual oyster festival that drew crowds, which amused me no end. Only in New Zealand could a mollusc command such civic devotion.

The town had the distinct air of “this is definitely the end of the road.” There was even a signpost pointing to various world cities, as if to reassure visitors that civilisation still existed somewhere north of here. We rolled into the modest ferry terminal, parked up, and checked in with the quiet efficiency of people who hoped the sea might behave itself.

🚢 Foveaux Strait — Sixty Minutes of Nautical Aerobics

The ferries operating between Bluff and Stewart Island were sturdy twin-hulled catamarans, built specifically to cope with the Foveaux Strait. That stretch of water had a reputation. It was not a crossing for the faint-hearted or the weak-stomached.

The strait itself had long been known for unpredictable currents and sudden squalls. In earlier times, sealing and whaling ships had braved it in far smaller vessels, which made our complaints seem faintly pathetic. The crew distributed sick bags with the calm professionalism of people who had witnessed many a grown adult reconsider their life choices.

To be fair, the crossing wasn’t catastrophic by local standards. No one was flung dramatically overboard. But there was a solid rolling swell. The boat rose and dipped with the sort of rhythm that made your internal organs feel like they were participating in a moderately enthusiastic dance routine.

We bounced and lurched our way across. The horizon tilted in ways it was never meant to. There were moments when I suspected my stomach was considering a transfer request.

After roughly an hour of what I can only describe as nautical aerobics, we pulled into the harbour at Oban. No applause broke out, but I felt it would have been justified.

🌲 Stewart Island — Or Rakiura, If You’re Being Respectful

Stewart Island — known to Māori as Rakiura — was New Zealand’s third-largest island. “Large” in landmass, but not in human presence. Most of it was forest. Dense, ancient, and thick with birdlife. Over eighty percent was national park, protected to preserve what remained of New Zealand’s once vast native ecosystems.

Rakiura roughly translated as “glowing skies,” often linked to the aurora australis that occasionally shimmered overhead. It was a rather poetic name for a place that also specialised in sideways rain.

The island had a small population clustered almost entirely around Oban, the main settlement. It was friendly, modest and faintly weather-battered, as if permanently bracing itself. A handful of shops and cafés faced the bay. Boats bobbed in the harbour. There was a general feeling that time moved more slowly here, unless, of course, you were waiting for a ferry in a storm.

We lugged our bags uphill to Stewart Island Backpackers. Mercifully, we made it indoors just before the rain resumed with renewed enthusiasm, like a man paid per raindrop.

Life on Stewart Island revolved around fishing, conservation work, and tourism. It had once supported more industry — timber milling, boat building, even a small tin mining venture — but now it leaned heavily into its wilderness appeal. Birdlife was the headline act.

🧥 Merino Economics and a Kiwi That Won’t Fly

I had booked us onto a kiwi-spotting tour that evening. Kiwis, in their infinite wisdom, were nocturnal. This was clearly a design feature intended to inconvenience tourists. Our tour began at 21:15.

This gave us ample time to cook dinner and, more importantly, for Karen to purchase additional merino clothing from the conveniently located shop beside the general store. Apparently, the correct quantity of merino on Stewart Island was “more.”

Merino wool had become something of a national obsession in New Zealand — soft, breathable, and reassuringly expensive. Karen embraced this wholeheartedly. I stood by as the credit card performed its quiet sob.

At 21:00 we trudged through drizzle to the tour office. We were greeted — somewhat briskly — by the woman who runs the company and leads the tours. She allowed us inside with the air of someone who preferred birds to people. Within minutes, I entirely understood why.

Six others joined. We were all damp. She was unimpressed by damp humans entering her premises, which on Stewart Island was roughly equivalent to objecting to fish being watery.

Before departure she delivered an extremely thorough lecture on kiwi biology. Kiwis were flightless, nocturnal birds with shaggy, hair-like feathers and an extraordinary sense of smell. Unusually for birds, their nostrils sat at the tip of their long beaks, enabling them to sniff out worms underground.

The eggs were absurdly large relative to the female’s body size — among the biggest egg-to-body ratios in the bird world. It made one wince sympathetically. Females were larger; males often handled most of the incubation. The chicks hatched remarkably well-developed — tiny, functional kiwis almost immediately capable of fending for themselves.

There were five recognised species, each facing pressure from introduced predators such as stoats, cats and dogs. On the mainland, numbers had plummeted dramatically. Stewart Island’s southern brown kiwi population remained comparatively healthy but was still closely monitored. Conservation efforts across New Zealand had become a national mission, with predator control programmes running constantly.

We were instructed to follow her rules exactly. No white light. No noise. No wandering off. At one point, a tourist fiddled with his phone and received a sharp dressing-down. He muttered something back. For a brief moment I thought we might witness a full emotional collapse. But she regrouped and resumed issuing instructions with renewed vigour.

🌌 A Kiwi, a Beach and the Finest Sky I’ve Ever Seen

We piled into the minivan and set off into the night. Stewart Island had only a few roads near Oban. Kiwis, we were told, favoured roadside verges where worms were plentiful. Even rare wildlife, it seemed, appreciated convenient takeaway options.

After a lengthy and increasingly hopeful drive, we spotted a solitary male.

We slipped quietly out, formed a single file, and crept forward. She illuminated the bird with a dim red torch. There it was — round, shaggy, purposeful — snuffling industriously in the soil.

We were clearly near a beach; the gentle wash of waves carried through the darkness. But what truly stopped me was the sky.

Stewart Island sat within an exceptional dark-sky region. With virtually no light pollution, the heavens were crammed with stars. The Milky Way arched overhead in a blazing sweep that simply did not exist back home unless the entire National Grid collapsed.

For a brief, miraculous interval, the clouds parted. It was the finest night sky I had ever seen.

We watched the kiwi for about fifteen minutes as it pottered about, entirely unconcerned with our existence. Eventually it wandered off into the undergrowth.

We searched for more but none appeared. The temperature had slipped into the range best described as “enthusiastically bracing.” Wildlife was wonderful. Not freezing was better.

Sometime after midnight, she returned us to the hostel.

🧇 Crumpets and Swiss Competition

Naturally, despite the hour, we were hungry. We headed straight to the shared kitchen and produced late-night crumpets — the universal British response to hunger and emotional complexity.

Karen struck up conversation with a young Swiss woman she had met earlier. The Swiss woman had just returned from a different kiwi tour. Fewer rules, apparently. She had seen seven kiwis. One had even wandered up and pecked at her shoelaces, mistaking them for a worm.

We were, I admit, slightly jealous. Seven felt excessive.

Still, we had enjoyed one excellent close encounter and, more importantly, retained circulation in all major limbs. That, in the Antarctic-adjacent south, felt like victory enough.

Reflections

Bluff felt like the edge of the map. The ferry crossing reminded me that nature doesn’t care about comfort. Stewart Island felt peaceful, wild and slightly damp.

We saw one kiwi. Not seven. But one was enough.

The stars were the real surprise. I hadn’t expected that.

I whinged about the cold. I survived the sea. Karen bought more merino.

All in all, a good day at the bottom of the world.