Dunedin, South Island, NZ
5th July 2025
The procession started out quite small, 20 or so people spilled from overflowing bars in the city centre. The sign said ‘follow the bagpiper’ and so we did. We only arrived at the Octagon 10 minutes ago, squeezing ourselves past families and friends clad in black puffers and black bobble hats to a temporary bar set up outside one of the pubs. The plastic marquees, ruddy cheeks and everyone wearing an obscene number of layers remind me of Christmas markets at home. Two cans of Steinlager in plastic cups, quickly drained to join the small crowd drifting east down George Street towards the stadium.
We soon caught up. French fans and kiwi supporters alike, packed close together not because we have to be, the streets aren’t that busy, but because we want to be, trading conversations. We’re behind a tall man wearing an all blacks flag as a cape, and I keep a pace back to stop his regal outfit from brushing against my shins constantly as we walk.
Quietly, we grow in number. I’m looking ahead to make sure I don’t trip over anyone, so I can’t see our steady expansion as we continue our beeline through the city. There’s a charming atmosphere to the group, not quite fervent but I hear someone behind me say ‘there’s nothing like seeing the All Blacks at home’. People are discussing previous games they’ve been at, who has travelled from where - I hear Wānaka, Milton, Cromwell. The conversation turns to the South Island’s obvious supremacy to the North - ‘30,000 North Islanders moved here last year, heard it on the news the other day’; ‘they’ll be calling us the mainland next’.
The woman directly behind me, wearing an All Blacks beanie, asks me ‘did your bag come like that, or did you do it yourself?’ and just like that we are reeled into the conversation. My small crossbody bag has blue paracord tied as a strap, and it did indeed come that way. I tell her. She says ‘aw, shame, I was going to say that’s some real Kiwi ingenuity there otherwise’.
I’m not sure if she’s had several Steinlagers or genuinely not heard my accent over the bagpipes’ festive din, but I am thrilled to have been mistaken for a local. We were starting to feel conspicuous, not wearing any black.
We stop at several sets of blinking traffic lights and our amassed crowd becomes obvious, an amicable horde swarming along. We joke that it’s kind of the walking bus to plan the route right by the liquor store as some people peel off, questing for more beer. The bagpiper has been playing and walking for at least 20 minutes, some kind of aerobic feat. The fostered sense of community keeps James and I quiet, it’s nice to be around other people and share their localised humour.
It’s cold, but like penguins huddled together we don’t feel it, although our breath rises in the dimming sky. It’s been misting all day, not quite rain and not quite dry, but no-one seems to mind. It’s rained every day we’ve been in a city, Dunedin no exception. The last daylight slowly slips around the dim street lamps.
We turn down Anzac Avenue, James reminiscing about walking down Holloway Road to Arsenal games. Our group liquefies, people pouring out towards the sausage stands set up on the side of the road, whilst other clusters are sucked in, we are a constantly shifting, malleable pack. The stadium comes into view, a homing beacon, against a sky that turned bluer with dusk.
Reaching the final couple of hundred metres, the bagpiper finally stops as we dissolve fully into the rest of the crowd. Spattered applause follows from all directions, she takes a small bow and visibly relaxes, becoming another member of the crowd walking towards the game, a fan. We turn to face ahead, and excitement for the match begins to settle in, joy burrowing in against the cold.
Thoughts from James #8
Much of travelling around New Zealand involves driving past impressive vista after impressive vista, murmuring wooooow in unison and just about remembering to keep the van on the left side of the road as the next vista comes into view.
I shall focus instead on the plethora of campsites, holiday parks and car parks we have experienced. I am not an expert on holiday parks and what they offer back home. In New Zealand they feature entire kitchens with utensils and crockery to borrow, barbecues and even pizza ovens. You could turn up having forgotten everything and it wouldn’t be an issue.
About dusk every evening without fail, a peculiar natural phenomenon occurs. A wild herd of Maui Motorhomes wander aimlessly into the park. They are spotted during the day dotted about but group up just as the sun starts to fade away.
The number of motorhomes and campervans wandering around NZ is becoming a problem (one that we are adding to despite many prejudices felt against the motorhome) and if you see this many in winter, summer must be something else.
Many people from many places have been met in these spaces of numbered rectangles of gravel or glass. Sandwiched between vans of French rugby fans just outside of Dunedin or a German man concerned about the number of layers of clothing we had for the South Island. There have been numerous Chinese family feasts featuring steaks, oysters and scallops I’ve interrupted to clean the pan I’ve just used to cook the fourth variation on beans and tinned tomatoes.
Unfortunately, there is one sight which haunts me having seen on two occasions. Watching a man manoeuvring his caravan using a tiny remote control is akin to accidentally glimpsing his urinal procedure.
The rugby sounds experience sounds wonderful x
I was hoping for a video of the "haka". Hope you enjoyed the game x