Earth’s own Eden: Fly-fishing, whale-watching and looking for the elusive Kiwi on the ultimate New Zealand road trip

Before passport control, visitors at Auckland airport must pass another threshold: a carved wooden gateway, known in Māori as a tomokanga — a scene of warriors, serpents and spirits entwined. It’s a wonderfully dramatic contrast to the drab terminal, but this is how New Zealand introduces itself from the start.

It had long arrested my imagination. It is a country that, after a day’s travel, red-eyed and weary, already felt otherworldly, as if I’d stepped into the realm of the tomokanga.

I’d come to escape London and find solitude through New Zealand’s natural contrasts on a three-part, fortnight-long itinerary by road and air, courtesy of Turquoise: from the coastal cliffs of Kaikōura in the South Island, to the Cape Kidnappers wildlife sanctuary and finally across the mountain pass to Taupō and Rotorua, a Māori heartland and Mecca for anglers.

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Above all, I wanted an adventure.

On the drive to Kaikōura, my first stop, New Zealand promised to live up to those romantic expectations. The landscape and weather transformed each hour, as I passed between ranch towns and idyllic vineyards; neither of which hinted at the snow-topped mountain range that stretched across the horizon and tumbled into Kaikōura’s coastline.

I finally arrived at the Hapuku Lodge in a spell of heavy rain, relieved by the main building’s warmth. Founded by Tony Wilson as a deer farm, the Wilson family then added a luxurious lodge for visitors. Today, Hapuku is famous for its five treehouse suites, which look out to both the mountains and ocean.

General manager Emile van der Linde was there to greet me. ‘Each treehouse is named after a bird,’ he explained — mine being the Kererū wood pigeon. Originally from South Africa, by way of London, Emile first visited Kaikōura for its famous surf and has since built a family. ‘It’s a paradise for outdoor-lovers: the mountains, the ocean, the stargazing... and, of course, the marine life,’ he said.

Once a thriving port for commercial whaling, Kaikōura’s biggest attraction today is whale watching; it is one of few coastlines where you can observe a humpback from tip to tail — and in proximity with dolphins and fur seals. ‘We’re fortunate. The whales come close to shore to feed in the waters of the continental shelf,’ he explained.

Fyffe House is all that remains of Kaikōura’s whaling industry, yet I was told on entering, that it was foremost on Māori land, maintained with the blessing of the indigenous community — an instance of the seemingly effortless negotiation in New Zealand between both cultures to own their histories.

Fyffe’s was a settler one, the home of an eponymous wealthy whaler Robert Fyffe (plus three other families), now a museum. A tour through its creaking rooms gives insight into the lives of 19th-century settlers, many of whom arrived from Britain. For them to have travelled to the other side of the world, their nefarious trade must have felt deeply rewarding.

My guide volunteered to drive me to Point Kean’s car park, a common starting point for excellent walks around the bay. Plodding along the coast, the clouds unfurled over the bay and the blue skies brightened the afternoon.

The air tasted sharper — salt, kelp, something metallic carried from deep water and the Hikurangi Trough. The mountains, now vivid, dropped into the Pacific where 100 or more seals were lounging mere feet away. Here, alone with the seals, the seabirds, the mountains and an unfamiliar ocean, the world took on the mythical grandeur of the island’s proximity to the Antarctic.

Finally, I felt far from home.

Days later, I boarded a quick flight to the North Island — a new, different realm — for a stay at Cape Kidnappers. It was my mission, on visiting the cape, to spy a kiwi: the rare, thorny-nosed mascot of New Zealand. There’s no better place than the Cape Sanctuary: New Zealand’s largest privately owned and funded island conservation project since 2006 — closed to the public and guarded around the clock by 200 volunteers.

Cape Kidnappers’ seclusion is what really appealed to me. The drive between the inconspicuous front gate and my hotel, the Rosewood Cape Kidnappers lodge, is 15 minutes and, by the time you pass the world-famous golf course and see the magnificent main building, the world has vanished. Kailash Rana, the affable operations manager, became my compadré over the duration of my stay, even driving me to see a rare colony of gannets up close. ‘I wasn’t interested in birds before working here, but now I’m obsessed with them,’ he said, as a kerurū swooped overhead and perched beside my bungalow.

At Rosewood Cape Kidnappers, there was little need to do anything except sit by the fire-place in the beautifully decorated bungalows with a glass of wine and a book.

Whenever I looked out from a window, the view was always heavenly: a panorama of the cape with rolling green hills, fluttering birds and chalk cliffs falling into the ocean.

There is a sofa that was once owned by Bruce Willis and Demi Moore in the main living room area. It is where I spent time writing my notes each evening. Some books in the sitting room told the stories of the first families to settle on the cape. Here, farmers became immensely wealthy and their descendants remain so, forming dynasties such as the Gordons who, in this part of New Zealand, carry an influence comparable to the British landed gentry. Yet a more recent American clan, the Robertsons, established both the lodge and the Cape Sanctuary.

Kailash had booked for me a half-day excursion there with Andy, my amicable, but serious guide, who greeted me in a Steve Irwin-like bush jacket and shorts. ‘Won’t be seeing a kiwi at this time, mate,’ he shrugged. ‘They only come out at night.’ I knew nothing about my prey, but Andy did. A seasoned trapper, he volunteered with the Robertsons after his retirement. ‘This is like a safari,’ I suggested, his Land Rover creeping up the cape’s lush hills, causing the curious sheep, of which there were thousands, to flee into the crags. ‘A day pass to Eden, more like,’ Andy quipped.

As we drove deeper, he pointed out mischievous kākāpō parrots, dinosaur-like tautara reptiles, brown teal pāteke ducks (one of the rarest), and penguin mothers nesting with their fuzzy newborns. He also introduced me to the pride of Cape Sanctuary: the blue takahē, brought back from near extinction.

After the tour, Andy offered tips for tracking the nocturnal kiwi (left): ‘The kiwi never comes out at a full moon. Drive slowly. Their eyesight is bad, but their hearing is exceptional.’

We passed a number of hairpin bends just outside of the sanctuary where he recommended I look. I circled the roads near the lodge, perhaps seeming a little mad to the staff, but Kailash's words resounded: ‘If you want to find a kiwi, there’s no better place than Cape Kidnappers.’ I continued until — four long loops around the lodge later — I gave up. Then, as I neared the gate, a bumbling ball of fuzz — a kiwi — zipped across my headlights and vanished into the bush.

The following morning, it was time to depart the cape. This meant returning to the highway to cross the tropical Kaimanawa mountain ranges for the Huka Lodge and the final leg of my trip. There were scarce stops for provisions so I asked Kailash to fill my water can for the road. It was a beaten-up thing, but served me well and I anticipated he’d run it under the tap. However, I found his reply wonderfully funny — and telling of the lodge’s hospitality. ‘Just one question, sir,’ he said, unfaltering in his efforts to accommodate my every need. ‘The water for your bottle. Still or sparkling?’

‘New Zealand. The Country For The Angler’ — so reads a large Art Deco poster framed in each bungalow at the Huka Lodge, the grande dame of New Zealand’s lodges. If Kaikōura was for marine life and Cape Kidnappers for birds, Huka is where you go for freshwater fishing.

It is also where presidents and Elizabeth II stayed in complete privacy, so when I got the go-ahead for a few nights, I couldn’t believe my luck. It proved to be the most accommodating bridge between here and my return home, which by now was approaching.

It was a place to rest and reflect on what I had already seen — perhaps because of the sacred Waikato River that runs along the property and out to Lake Taupō. Built by fly-fishermen in 1924, the lodge was recently refurbished. Now, there is a state-of-the-art gym and spa, too.

The lodge organised an afternoon fly-fishing session. My teacher was a roguish, charming Kenyan-Briton named Oliver Jones who was raised on safaris and whom I liked immediately.

As I tried my luck at rainbow-trout fishing, and between his patient, but pleasingly chappy tutelage (‘the water was pure gin last week!’), he shared stories from his adventures as an instructor in the Congo or in Russia before the Ukraine-Russia war. Depending on the season, Oliver travels the world for his fishing, bringing private clients up to mountains for weeks at a time. He described his profession as an artform and used a hunter’s intuition to track along the river. Oliver has even designed and patented fishing flies.

With him scouting overhead, I cast the reel where he instructed, repeated and slowly got the gist of it. Before long, I had a series of wrestles with the trout. After an hour, I caught my very own — a brutish looking male with a protruding gurn. ‘Congratulations,’ exclaimed my companion. He handed it to me to hold and pose for a photo. That night, courtesy of the Huka’s kitchen, my trout was served pan-seared in butter. On ensuing mornings, I would bring a cup of tea to the bank, cast and watch the river’s colours change.

Time moves quickly along the Waikato — my trip had ended as quickly as it had begun, but, in my pursuit for an adventure in less than two weeks, New Zealand was generous. I had experienced great lodges, hospitable warrens of nature and rest. I had traversed mountains and coastal roads, through sleet and sunshine, meeting friendly people along the way.

However, it was time to cross the threshold again, to leave the realm of the tomokanga. This feeling was heightened when, boarding my flight home from Auckland, a clever person at United Airlines decided to put on a hit song by New Zealand’s greatest-ever band Crowded House. ‘Hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over,’ the chorus floated over the hum of the engines. Yet, I knew I would return.

Turquoise Holidays offer similar experiences from £7,995 per person, based on two sharing (every journey is flexible and tailormade).

The price includes two nights in an Upper Branch Tree House at Hapuku Lodge, two nights in a Hilltop Junior Suite at Rosewood Cape Kidnappers and three nights in a Lodge Suite at Huka Lodge on a half-board basis, car hire, international economy flights from the UK to Auckland return (with United Airlines via San Francisco) and domestic economy flights with Air New Zealand.

This feature originally appeared in the April 15 2026, issue of Country Life. Click here for more information on how to subscribe.