We’d planned something quiet and meaningful to mark our anniversary this year— a daytrip to Lake Heron. Not a grand gesture, but a gentle one: a shared outing, a change of scenery, a peaceful day, perfect for marking time together.
We left Timaru under a sky quilted in cloud — soft, warm, and promising. The country roads stretched ahead, quiet and familiar, with only the hedgerows and fenceposts or the occasional house to nod us along. No rush, no traffic, just the hum of tyres and a sense of adventure.
We’re heading yonder — following the fence line and the folds of the land, drawn toward the mountains. Even in November, snow still lingers on the highest ridges, like a quiet reminder that the seasons don’t rush. The clouds above were restless, but the road beneath felt sure.
The roads were mostly ours — quiet stretches of countryside with only paddocks of cows or mailboxes for company. But then, true to rural form, we found ourselves tucked behind a slow-moving tractor, while another rumbled toward us in the opposite lane. A brief moment of choreography on the open road: no horns, no hurry, just a nod to the pace of farm life.
I could feel the slow pressure changes in my ears as we crept upward, the road winding and folding with the land’s own rhythm. Each turn brought us closer to the mountains, the asphalt stretching thinner until — quite suddenly — it gave way to gravel. Tony eyed the loose stones with quiet concern, protective of his shiny red car. But onward we went, trusting the road and the day.
Higher and higher we climbed, edging closer to the snow — though it still clung to the farthest peaks, aloof and unreachable. At the top of a rise, we slowed, taking in the view as the road ahead zigged and zagged through the valley. Dust curled around the car in lazy spirals, hanging in the still air.
Then suddenly, we turned a corner — and there it was. Lake Heron, wide and windswept, stretched out ahead of us. A breeze danced across the surface, ruffling the water into shifting patterns. Snow-dusted peaks framed the lake, and the gravel road led us straight into the heart of it all. After all the winding and climbing, it felt like arriving somewhere quietly alive.
We followed the track around the lake’s edge, eventually pulling up on a flat patch of grass close to the shore. After two hours in a warm car, it was a relief to climb out, stretch our legs, and breathe in the fresh air. The wind was gentle — not cold, just enough to stir the lake and remind us we were somewhere wild. No shops, no signs, no picnic benches. Just us, the mountains, and the quiet invitation to wander.
And here we are — the Herons at Lake Heron. A fitting destination for our anniversary adventure, with snow-capped peaks and wind-stirred waters. No fanfare, just a shared smile and a moment to mark the day.
We wondered, just for fun, if Lake Heron might’ve been named by one of Tony’s ancestors. A little digging revealed a more poetic origin: an early settler, fishing at the lake’s edge, spotted several heron birds doing the same. Inspired by their quiet company, he named it Lake Heron. Still — we’ll claim it as ours. After all, the Herons made it here too.
After a short wander, we decided to head back the way we’d come. The breeze had picked up just enough to make lingering less inviting, and with no benches or sheltered spots, Lake Heron wasn’t quite the picnic haven we’d imagined. Besides, I’d spotted something on the way in that I wanted to photograph — so we hopped back into the car and began retracing our path along the gravel road, dust trailing behind us like a soft farewell.
About halfway back to the 'real' road, we paused again at a still pool mirroring the sky and mountains so clearly it felt like stepping into a painting. This was the photo I’d hoped to capture — and it didn’t disappoint.
On the way in, I’d noticed this smaller lake tucked into the valley, surrounded by a soggy, marshy fringe. It’s one of the Māori lakes — shallow and seasonal, appearing after rain or snowmelt, then vanishing in the dry summer months. The breeze that stirred Lake Heron didn’t reach down here; the surface was glassy, the reflections undisturbed. A quiet contrast, and a reminder of how many kinds of water the mountains hold.
There wasn’t really a path to the water’s edge, but we picked our way closer, careful not to soak our shoes. Down in that valley, beside the quiet lake, everything felt hushed — still and silent, as if the land itself were holding its breath. Lake Heron had been bleak and beautiful, dramatic in its scale. But it’s the serenity of this smaller lake that will stay with me. A soft moment, tucked between mountains, where time seemed to pause.
Back in the car, we set off in search of a good picnic spot. The road offered its own entertainment — dodging farm machinery, admiring livestock, and watching the landscape shift from green to gold. This field of rape caught my eye, blazing bright against the muted sky. And right next door, a pale, lumpy paddock sparked a shared chuckle: clearly, the marshmallow crop was poor this year. Some harvests are best left to the imagination.
We picnicked in the small town of Mayfield, where the Domain offered a single table tucked into a sheltered corner surrounded by tall trees. Birds chattered around us hidden in the trees, they were remarkably well-mannered — not like the sparrows back in town who seem to materialize the moment you sit down, picnic or not.
I’d packed cheese, cold meats, crackers, pickles, and bottles of water, all quietly stashed behind my seat. Tony was surprised and delighted — a small feast he hadn’t seen coming. We shared the moment, left a few crumbs for the birds, and made sure to take all our rubbish with us. A simple lunch perfectly timed.
We chose a different route home, heading to the state highway and leaving the country roads to the farmers and their heavy machinery. It wasn’t long before we reached Tinwald, on the southern edge of Ashburton — which, of course, meant a necessary stop at one of my favourite stores. A little indulgence, a little tradition, and one last pause before the road carried us home.
This beautiful hexie quilt was draped on a ladder by the door, greeting me like an old friend. It was instantly inspiring — a patchwork of florals, stitched memories, and clever reuse. I could see that the maker had cut old cross-stitch pieces, doilies, and embroidered fragments to form some of the hexies. Nestled among the blooms, they looked perfectly at home. And you know I do love a scrappy quilt. After pausing to admire and snap a photo, I stepped through the door — and into heaven.
Almost as soon as I stepped inside, my eye was drawn to a beautiful blue bag hanging on the wall. Surrounded by quilts, kits, and bolts of fabric, it stood out — and tucked inside were the supplies to make one just like it. Sold.
Tony and I wandered the store while Rachael, the owner, cut fabric for another customer. We chatted as I admired her current project: a quilt top made entirely of half-inch squares. Sixteen blocks in a 4x4 layout, each one a mosaic of tiny, precise pieces in an Irish chain style quilt. She was choosing a floral backing and had a pile of hexie papers beside her, along with a clever little tool for removing glue-basted papers. It was lovely to talk shop with someone who clearly loves the craft.
Then it was my turn to pay, and we headed back to the car for the drive home.
I curled up for a nana nap on the couch before we went out for tea — a quiet end to a day stitched with beauty, laughter, and love.
