After a night of no sleep, I emerged from of the damp depths of the Pit.
Dunedin was in its quietest hour of the night. And yet, it was calling me out before the peeping dawn. For what? I wondered, slinking down into the lamp-lit street, slipping from shadow to shadow to the Octagon. The centre of Dunedin. The mystery I hadn’t yet cracked. For an answer, perhaps? I was seeking an answer to the problems I had created for myself - the downward-spiral that was my finances and creative endeavours. And I trusted in Dunedin. I trusted in its magic tricks and mysteries. I believed I would find my answer here, hidden in the city I held dear.
The statue at the Otagon’s crown held my attention. I always noticed this man sitting there, nonchalant in the centre of town. And yet I had never stopped to wonder who he was or how he ended up there, immortalised in Dunedin’s most curious place. A seagull landed on his head and squatted there, looking oddly suspicious. It cocked its head. Why is it looking at me like that? I thought. Like a gust of wind, it picked itself up and flew over to perch on the corner of a building.
Beckoned by this seagull of all things, I followed it across the road, and found myself in front of a sign I hadn't seen before. It had a majestic landscape on it, and a passage of text. “Dunedin Writer’s Walk?” I said, stepping closer to read what was written. What was this about? A Writers Walk! But… the text didn’t allude to any tracks, or show any map. It only had the majestic landscape. What was the Writer’s ‘Walk’ then? As if tugged by a string, my gaze shifted to the seagull perched on the corner of the building. Again, it cocked its head, and then flew down the alley between two buildings.
I glanced back at the statue at the top of the Octagon with innocent wonder, and then followed the seagull down the alley. Dare I say, it felt as if whoever that man had been was trying to show me the way along a secret path through Dunedin. The Writer’s Walk. I was on the verge of a fantasy tale, and I gave my imagination the reins. The alley took me to a plaza, and down some steps. I ended up on George street, Dunedin’s main stretch, my bubble of fantastical hope deflating. There were at least ten seagulls around, some squatting on posts, some pecking at rubbish bags. My guide… which one was he? How was I to know where the Writer’s Walk went next? I let out a sigh. It looked like I was on my own.
I wandered along the slumbering George Street looking for signs: anything related to writing. There was nothing of note. Nothing to show me the way. The fantasy of a secret path through Dunedin faded with each step. Until I reached Albion Place. A seagull guiding me along a secret path was ridiculous… But what if this ‘walk’ was up to me to discover for myself? If that was the case, Albion Place was surely the way forward. It meant something to me, as my busking alley. It had known my music. So I proceeded down Albion Place, simply on an adventure through town. Nothing fantastical about it. If there happened to be some kind of answer to my problem on the way… well, that would be fortuitous.
I followed the road on the other side to its end, and to my surprise, I found another place that meant something to me. The darkness was lifting, and the white building held a faint glow from the drowsy light of the street lamps. The Cook Hotel. My band SHEEP had played at the Cook last weekend. The Cook Hotel had known our music. I felt like I was on the right track. Before long, I found myself wandering into the University of Otago. It was an enticing way forward. As one who never studied there, the University always held an air of grandeur in my eye, with a hint of mystique. If the Writer’s Walk was real, surely the University of Otago would be able to help me with this riddle.
My meandering took me to what seemed to be the very centre of the University campus. A unique art-piece was situated there; a sculpture I couldn’t quite understand. There was a ring on the ground, marked with adjacent lines that gave me the impression of a clock, or a compass. Several metallic figures stood among the lines, dancing and gesturing. It was interesting, but what stumped me was that I was now faced for three directions. I had reached the crossroads of my journey, and I was unsure how to proceed. I went to stand amidst the strange metallic figures. Writer’s walk… My gaze revolved around the various directions that branched off. The first direction showed a path that ventured through the Uni and beyond, where pine trees stood proudly, framed by a peachy sky. A secret path, through Dunedin..? The second direction opened out to another plaza, ensconced by the grand buildings of the University. The third direction showed the town belt straight ahead, towering above the suburbs like some wild palisade.
And then a memory flickered before my eyes.
I stood up there enmeshed in the vegetation of the town belt, looking down at the mysteriously straight path cutting through Dunedin; looking down at myself in that moment, looking up at myself, in the past... A two month-old memory, blending with the now. In that now, I spun around and noticed that I was in the centre of that straight path. I couldn't hardly believe it. This strange sculpture in the centre of the University really was a compass, and through it I had found the way forward - by a bizarre bending of time. I strode forward on the straight path, toward the leaning pine trees, beneath the fairy-tale like buildings of the University of Otago. I could hardly believe it. This ‘Writer’s walk’ had become the strange fantasy adventure it had started as. The seagull showing me the way, and now my past self showing me the way? It was ridiculous! And yet I was feeling ever confident in this strange adventure. Where was it leading me to? What was I to discover?
The curious straight path took me to the waterfront. It was there that I found Dunedin’s backdrop, a canvas of harbour and hills framed by a blossoming sky. The path headed into the horizon towards Port Chalmers, and it was certainly the way forward. I had arrived just in time for the show - the dazzling light of the emerging sun fizzled through the clouds, burning a hole, startling my eyes. I beamed back, and my pace quickened. The Writers Walk had lead me here, into the light of the new-born sun. It was a glorious reward indeed. But soon, when the sun was well into its flight, I was faced again with the question: where to next?
The rustic bridge across the train-tracks creaked as I made passage to the road. Hills steeped in trees reared up ahead, houses climbing only so far. “Ravensbourne,” I said, looking around. Why had I ended up in Ravensbourne of all places? I trotted along the main road, eyes darting about for signs and finding nothing that sparked my imagination. I felt a bit disappointed, really. The miracle of what happened in the University had me genuinely believing that I was onto something, that I was heading to some significant discovery. This micro-suburb couched in the hill didn’t seem like the kind of place to find whatever I was looking for. Maybe my journey was over, and The Writer’s Walk was over.
Just as the thought of turning back formed, I stopped mid stride. To my left, I noticed a path zig-zagging upward. It can’t hurt to see where that goes, I thought, veering off and taking to the path. It took me up to a road where I noticed yet another zig-zagging pathway straight ahead, continuing upward. My curiosity flourished like it had in the University. The Writer’s Walk goes on, I thought with a smile. As I ascended the next zig-zag path, I traced it forward with my eyes, up and up the forested hill. To my thrill, a slight crease marred the forest all the way up to the top. This journey was getting seriously intrepid!
zagged through the shrubbery which grew thick and tangled. Unfriendly branches poked out at me, snagging my scarf as if to stop me continuing. But I pressed forward, crouching through bushes, ducking beneath branches, adventure pulsing through my veins like adrenaline. The further up I followed it, the more challenging it became to ascend. I came upon a fence that leaned toward me ominously with its rotting wooden poles and angry barbs coated with rust. It looked rotten and malevolent, like some undead creature guarding the way forward. It was quite tall, and terribly difficult to get over. The only way was to climb an old, spindly tree that almost sagged under me weight, and wriggle my way over the fence on its crumbling limbs. I hopped off onto the other side, dusting off my hands. Incredible, I thought, searching for the zig-zag path. It was almost entirely faded, but it was there, and it continued upward.
Slowly but surely, I shambled my way up the hill along the seemingly ancient, seemingly forgotten zig-zag path that eventually became one with the hill’s leaf-carpet. After leaping over the final fence, I had mounted the hill, and the path upward came to its end. I was excited to discover where Ravensbourne’s secret pathway had lead me. I trotted out of the bushes and found myself standing above Dunedin, the end of my scarf spurred about by the wind. It was Signal Hill! I reeled my jittering scarf in and wrapped it around my face to hide the triumphant smile that was there. I never expected to end up standing above Dunedin, on Signal Hill of all places! I was keen to think that my journey continued on, but, this really felt like it could be the end. The final destination that the journey was leading to. I hopped off the platform wall, and went poking around the monument and its inscription, seeking some kind of answer or revelation. Anything on writing, perhaps?
I found no such thing.
The sun had climbed high since its arrival, and the day was in full swing. After all that adventure, I had hoped to find something special. Just as I was mulling over what to do next, I was perplexed by the strange staircase that lead down from the platform, to seemingly nowhere. I had to know why… The Writer’s Walk, maybe it wasn’t over! I scuttled down. It was just too odd! Stairs to nowhere? Why? There had to be some kind of… There was a curious opening in the wall of bush at the bottom. “Aha” I said, poking through. A path indeed! Not a legitimate path, mind, but certainly a way through the bush. It was absolutely the way forward! And so, I plunged through the bushes yet again, this time heading down. It had to lead somewhere, this adventure. I was adamant!
I scrambled down the slope, this time with my scarf wrapped around my face so as not to be snagged by all the branches. I wondered if anybody used this path - it was only just distinguishable, and at times even non-existent, only to reappear again a bit further down. Was I just imagining this path? The zig-zag path was absolutely there, but this one… Oddly, the path came to a steep slope, where a fallen tree leant itself perfectly as a bridge. I balanced my way across it, feeling like Indiana Jones. But at the end of the log, it looked like the only way forward along this path was a leap away, where another fallen log was situated like another bridge. Okay I might just imagining this path, I thought with all due seriousness. I looked down - it was quite steep there. I looked back… No, I couldn’t turn back now. I had come too far. And so, I turned, and made the leap! The log on the other side wobbled slightly, and I only just managed to catch my balance. I shuffled along it, and crossed over to yet another fallen log. When I reached the edge of that one, I realised all too suddenly how precarious it was when it began shaking under my weight. I looked down - it was a tangle of dead branches. I looked up - the tangle was there too. Left, right, it was all interlaced, bony branches making up some frail structure of dead trees. And I was stuck right in the middle of it.
The ‘Writer’s Walk’ had suddenly become all too real. I was stuck in the bramble!
What had I gotten myself into? I tried turning back, but the mass of bramble leaned as I shifted my weight, and I immediately recoiled. Turning back was not an option, it seemed. I tested the branch to my right, and that too was an unstable foothold. Beneath me, the web of spindly branches appeared to drop forever. There wasn’t an inch of solid ground. Another two logs jutted out of the tangle before me, and I dared to latch onto one of them to see if it could hold me. I heard a wild crunch somewhere beneath me, and the balance shifted. I recoiled as fast as I could, but it was too late. The mass of dead trees rumbled, and I was thrown into the web, my bag snatched by a snapped tree trunk. The bramble heaved forward, all the hundreds of feeble branches snapping like ancient fingers in some morbid chorus, and I was dragged down into the abyss of lifeless boscage; consumed. The thing hadn’t yet stopped; it surged down the slope like a pyroclastic flow, eating all the forestry in its path, crushing me in its wake. Just as it ground to a halt, a log pressed down, crushing my legs. A visceral cry for help spasmed from my lungs - I didn’t have time or breath to make a noise during the chaos of the rumble. Suddenly, all was still and silent. My body was a crooked bag of crunched bones, as was the bramble. The source that fed me life all these years felt so distant, and my vision was blurring. I tried calling out again. Nothing. I was suffocated by the fact that I would die there, on a harmless hill in Dunedin, and nobody would find my body. In my last wisp of life, I saw my bag suspended there… My journals, my journey… Nobody would know… Nobody would…
“Snap out of it!” I growled to myself, trying to tame my fear. The image of my dead body in a grave of kindling shook me to the core. My left leg was shaking, and it was sending ripples through the log beneath me. Genuine fear tried to surface, but I fought back with confidence. I will get out of this mess! My eyes darted about wildly, calculating my options. I pressed on the log at my chest, and found that it was solid. With extreme care, I pulled myself up onto it. The bramble trembled, and I held my breath, letting it out like air from a balloon when the bramble settled. I sought the next foothold and eased onto it after careful consideration. But from there, there was nothing but tangled twigs and the logs behind me. The upright trees on the other side of the bramble were so close! They towered above their deceased forbears, merely two arm spans of hollow bramble from where I crouched. If I was a little closer, I could leap… A wild idea sprouted in my thoughts. It was risky, but possible. And frankly, it seemed like my only option.
Light as a feather, I repeated in my mind. I tried to imagine my body as a piece of paper as I stretched out my right arm and leg, reaching far onto the rambling bramble, and then eased my body onto it. Shockingly, it worked! I figured that if I spread-eagled my body, I wouldn’t fall through, and it would hold: and it was really working! I awkwardly shuffled along, and got just close enough to the other side. With one chaotic leap, I lunged for an upright tree trunk, the branches protesting wildly behind and beneath me. My body thunked into the tree and I wrapped around it like a koala. And then I shuffled down, dropping onto solid ground at the bottom.
I had to sit down and process what just happened. That was intense! Too close for comfort. I realised the madness of this journey I was on. There was no path! It was just my fanciful mind playing tricks, and it put me in serious danger. After a moment, I picked myself up and plodded down the rest of the hill on shaky legs.
I felt relieved to find myself back in Ravensbourne, on a solid road, out of the bush. I had had enough of ‘adventure’. I was tired and shaken. Stupid ‘Writer’s walk’. It doesn’t exist! I had to laugh at my own ridiculousness. It was an adventure though. When I reached the end of that road, I could have slapped myself. Another zig-zag pathway. Well, it is the way down to the main road… I followed it down, and it ended at an obelisk bearing a white plaque. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a war memorial with about thirty odd names on it. I could only think what an interesting place for a… “Botting!” I exclaimed. “What!”
My eyes must be playing tricks… There, listed in the names were three ‘Bottings’! Botting is my surname, see, so you can imagine my shock. I stood there in befuddlement, trying to piece everything together. After all that, there really was something at the end? It was… too hard to believe, and yet, it was right before my eyes. The Writer’s Walk had really been something, and it was strangely personal. A journey through Dunedin that seemed almost designed for me, by me. Or perhaps by my ancestors, pulling strings attached to a certain seagull?
— — —
I was ready to collapse by the time I returned to the Octagon, where this crazy adventure began. My mind was a fusion of my fascination, bewilderment, and imagination, and I gazed curiously up at the bronze statue at the head of the 8-sided centre of Dunedin. I still never got his name. “Robbie Burns, a poet and a bard,” I said quietly as I read his plaque with great interest. I proceeded to the sign that sent me on this wild journey to discover the truth of this Writer’s Walk. I felt chills ripple through my body. So, my journey was a fiction after all - a complete and utter fabrication. The ‘Writers’ Walk’ referred to a ring of bronze plaques around Robbie Burns bearing quotes of notable Dunedin Writers!
I spent the next half hour soaking in the words of those who came before me, writers of Dunedin alike, brought to tears by the discovery I had made. Why, I had at last unveiled one of the ultimate secrets of Dunedin:
This is a town of Writers!
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