Rocky Mountain High

There’s a story to every city, every village, every town.

The scent of pine freshly cut and roughly hewn. A caravan of vehicles quietly carrying one of New Zealand’s richest assets from pasture to table. The rhythmic scrape of pebbles beneath my feet.

There’s an echo of John Denver here, an innocence and wonder that tickles the senses in a town where sidewalks seem more fit of fancy than necessity. My mind’s eye sees fisherman, worn boots and church potlucks on a brighter summer day.

It’s a shift that jars the mind coming from the hustle and bustle of Wellington just a ferry ride across the Cook Strait. A city of life and art, history and pride. Where Wellington excites, Pictons suffuses, content in its transitory role as gateway to New Zealand’s South Island. 

A new journey starts today, marked so eloquently by this city’s shift. Welcome to the mountains, my dear. Welcome to your new home.

 

Downtown Picton

 

 

Waterfront park

  

Harbor