I caught up recently with my friend Kirsten Wilson, a land­scape archi­tect, and our con­ver­sa­tion took a side quest into foot­paths.
​I have been on a side quest of my own, look­ing closer at the mater­i­als that shape Timaru’s his­toric streets­cape. I had noticed blue­stone in old build­ings and retain­ing walls, but Kirsten helped me look closer at something I had been walk­ing over without fully appre­ci­at­ing: the blue­stone pav­ing at our feet.

She poin­ted out how much she admired it, and sud­denly I saw it not just as a sur­face, but as a link between our streets and old build­ings, geo­logy and archi­tec­ture, and the vol­canic land­scape beneath us and the built her­it­age around us.

That feels espe­cially timely when parts of our CBD pav­ing are being repaired or replaced. Before we lose too much of this mater­ial, it is worth under­stand­ing what it con­trib­utes to our built her­it­age.

Timaru’s blue­stone is basalt, formed from lava flows from the Waipōuri/Mt Hor­rible vol­canic area about 2 mil­lion to 2.5 mil­lion years ago. It is recog­nised as the most recent vol­canic activ­ity in the South Island.

When we walk on our CBD foot­paths, we are step­ping across a local vol­canic story, not just in the pavers, but also in the basalt deeper under­ground.

Around the world, places with access to good basalt blue­stone have long val­ued it for pav­ing, walls, and civic land­scapes. Not every town has dense vol­canic stone so close at hand. Timaru is for­tu­nate that its geo­logy gave us a spe­cial and effect­ive build­ing mater­ial.

Long before the town was built, this vol­canic coast­line and its reefs were part of a much older liv­ing land­scape. The reefs provide hab­itat for mar­ine life and, for a long time, have been con­nec­ted to mahika kai, the gath­er­ing of food and resources by Māori. Later, this same geo­logy helped shape Timaru’s devel­op­ment as a land­ing place, port, and hub for exchange.

In many towns, her­it­age is something you look up at: a church tower, monu­ment or façade. In Timaru, we have a spe­cial story also under­foot. Blue­stone kerbs, steps and pav­ing stitch our streets­cape together, giv­ing the town centre tex­ture, weight and con­tinu­ity.

From church and ware­house walls to kerbs, retain­ing walls, har­bour struc­tures and foot­path details, blue­stone runs like a seam through Timaru’s his­toric fab­ric.

One of blue­stone’s best qual­it­ies is its unique, vari­able tex­ture and nat­ural slip res­ist­ance. Formed from vol­canic lava, the stone con­tains tiny pores and tex­tures cre­ated by escap­ing gases as the mol­ten rock cooled. Each piece tells the story of how it was formed. This por­ous tex­ture also absorbs mois­ture, so the sur­face is not slip­pery when wet or frosty.

Kirsten’s land­scape archi­tect eye helped me under­stand that pav­ing can frame a place, guide how we move, and affect what we notice. In a her­it­age streets­cape, pav­ing can strengthen the story of our people and place.

After the dev­ast­at­ing 1868 fire des­troyed three-quar­ters of the early wooden town centre, Timaru rebuilt stronger and more per­man­ently in stone and brick. Blue­stone became part of that trans­form­a­tion, giv­ing the town a solid­ity that still shapes the CBD today.

Blue­stone con­nects us to quarry work­ers, stone­ma­sons, har­bour build­ers, and craftspeople who quar­ried and shaped the heavy stone by hand. It also reminds us that local mater­i­als can help a town endure harsh weather, coastal con­di­tions and time itself. Per­haps that is why blue­stone still feels so “Timaru”. It is not an impor­ted iden­tity. It is part of a much older land­scape, built into the walls, kerbs, and foot­paths of the town around us.

So next time you are walk­ing through town, look down as well as up. See if you can find one of Timaru’s best her­it­age stor­ies that has been beneath your feet all along.

By Roselyn Fauth

Timaru’s Botanic Gardens rotunda commemorates the 1911 coronation of King George V and Queen Mary.

This was at a time when brass and military bands were central to civic occasions and public recreation, and rotundas gave musicians a place to perform and communities a place to gather.

Rotundas and bandstands were built across New Zealand, and examples still survive in public parks such as Waimate and Temuka. Timaru used to have a rotunda at Caroline Bay, built around 1905 by private subscription, and another at Alexandra Sq, gifted by Charles Bowker and opened in 1904.

The Government had a subsidy scheme for coronation projects to express loyalty to the Crown and the British Empire, and to create something useful for communities.

Coronation projects for our neighbouring boroughs included halls at Woodbury and Ōrari, and Coronation Baths, a memorial fountain, and a boundary fence in Temuka.

In 1911, the Rugby Union (footballers), led by its president Arthur Shirtcliffe, discussed creating a coronation memorial for Timaru. James Craigie, who was mayor at the time, suggested a rotunda.

​A football match raised £60, Craigie gave £30, the Borough Council £50, and the balance came from public subscriptions and other local support. The Government matched the coronation project fundraising with £157, making the final total £314.

The timber ceiling was designed to curve downward to spread the sound, and the location by the pond was chosen to work like a natural amphitheatre. It had an octagonal footprint, 23 feet in diameter (approximately 7 metres), eight fluted concrete columns, grey cement work, and brown-stained shingled eaves beneath a russet brown roof. Hall and Marchant architects designed it, and Messrs Baird and Sons built it.

The rotunda officially opened on March 14, 1912. Crowds gathered on the slopes, Arthur Shirtcliffe handed the rotunda over on behalf of the footballers, mayoress Catherine Craigie cut the ribbon, and the Garrison and Marine bands played. The Timaru Herald described the grounds as the Botanical Gardens, “formerly the Park, but no longer so”. The rotunda was part of that development.

A year later, James Craigie presented the Robert Burns statue to the people of Timaru in the gardens. In 1914, a Floral Fete committee formed to raise funds for improvements. By 1927, attractions included possums, kea, swans, deer, emu, and even a monkey called Bridget. The Queen Victoria Fountain was relocated in 1960 from King George Place into the gardens, and trees have been planted over the years to mark royal milestones.

Since The Park was set aside as a reserve in 1864, its transformation into a Botanic Garden had been shaped by council staff and the community. The built heritage is woven through that history. The Gloucester Gates, fountains, caretaker’s cottage, conservatory, 1922 tea kiosk, and band rotunda each mark stages in the gardens’ growth. The built heritage is both useful and beautiful. The rotunda belongs firmly in that legacy.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, celebrating our built heritage and the people who keep it alive.

By Roselyn Fauth

​Next time you are near 47 Wai-iti Rd, Timaru, pause at the Aigan­tighe Art Gal­lery gates before you look at the house. The focus is often the house, but these gates have their own story too.

Coated in glossy black paint, the orna­mental entrance has three pil­lars, a wider vehicle gate, and a smal­ler ped­es­trian gate. Across the cent­ral arch, the name Aigan­tighe is worked into the metal.

It is more than a prop­erty label. It announces that you have arrived. Before any­one reached the front door, the prop­erty had made an impres­sion.

That feels fit­ting, because Aigan­tighe was built as a town­house for Alex­an­der and Helen Grant around 1905 to 1908, and its design has been attrib­uted to Timaru-born archi­tect James S. Turn­bull in a Queen Anne style.

The Grants had pre­vi­ously farmed Gray’s Hills Sta­tion, north­east of Lake Ben­more. They had three chil­dren, includ­ing James, who took over Gray’s Hills, and Jessie, who became a painter. “Aigan­tighe” is said to mean “at home” in Gaelic. Helen Grant left Aigan­tighe to the people of Timaru, and the house reopened as an art gal­lery in 1956.

Crouch down at the gates, and you will see, low in the iron, a maker’s mark: W. Faulkner Maker Dunedin. Sud­denly, this Timaru entrance con­nects us to Dunedin work­shops, trade cata­logues, indus­trial skills, and people often left out of archi­tec­tural his­tor­ies.

J.W. Faulkner began advert­ising smith­ing and wire­work ser­vices in Dunedin in 1887. By the early 20th cen­tury, J. W. Faulkner and Sons was a sub­stan­tial man­u­fac­tur­ing firm, known for orna­mental wire­work, iron­work, and prac­tical metal­work. This mat­ters because the gates are built her­it­age evid­ence: a named entrance fea­ture, orna­mental iron­work by a known maker, part of Aigan­tighe’s designed street present­a­tion, and a clue to the South Island net­works that sup­plied build­ings with fin­ish­ing details.

Per­haps Turn­bull spe­cified them, or selec­ted something sim­ilar from a Faulkner cata­logue. Per­haps the Grants chose them. Per­haps Faulkner sup­plied the metal­work to suit an entrance already planned for the house.

Aigan­tighe may not be the only Timaru place where Faulkner’s work sur­vives. Sim­ilar gates, also bear­ing the Faulkner Dunedin mark, can be found at the Timaru Botanic Gar­dens, at the bound­ary of the care­taker’s house. Unlike the Aigan­tighe gates, prom­in­ent and main­tained, the garden gates are quieter sur­viv­ors, left to age and barely noticed unless you know where to look. If you have Faulkner stamped into your iron­work at home, please let us know.

Aigan­tighe was designed to present itself well to the street. The gates car­ried its name, wel­comed guests, trades­men, and garden­ers, and later opened to the com­munity for art, exhib­i­tions, and garden vis­its. Today, they also wel­come the staff, volun­teers, artists, and sup­port­ers who help make it the home of art in South Can­ter­bury.

The house behind them will always com­mand atten­tion, but the gates ask us to notice the threshold. Her­it­age is not only found in grand rooms or fam­ous Timaru facades. Some­times the clues are stamped low in the iron­work, still hold­ing the bound­ary, still wel­com­ing vis­it­ors.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, cel­eb­rat­ing our built her­it­age and the people who keep it alive.

By Roselyn Fauth

Arrive at West End Park from Onslow St in Timaru, and you notice something curious.

On the eastern side of the reserve, old gates still stand, hinting at a more formal entrance than most people now associate with this park.

Today, many people arrive from Wai-iti Rd for the playground and sports field, or drive in off Maltby Ave to the hall, and there is also access from the Kiwi Drive side.

Onslow St is no longer the obvious way in. Yet it may be the entrance that keeps the park’s older ambitions most visibly in view.

The record comes close to confirming that, without quite letting us say it outright. In 1924, the West End Ratepayers’ and Householders’ Association wanted gates at both entrances to West End Park, with Maltby Ave specifically named.

By 1930, The Timaru Herald credited the association’s leaders with helping erect entrance gates and recorded £30 allocated towards the Maltby Ave entrance. Then, in 1936, the association thanked the council for making “a substantial job” of erecting gates in Onslow St. That makes the old Onslow St gates an important clue, even if we cannot yet prove they are the original fabric.

That uncertainty tells us what sort of West End story this is. Not a tidy survival story like Gloucester, and not quite like Ashbury either. Here, the built heritage lies partly in what survives, and partly in the very clear documentary evidence that entrances mattered.

The association itself had been active by 1924 and said it existed simply to further the interests of the West End. By 1930 membership had grown from 75 to 150. It raised money, petitioned the borough, and kept pressing for improvements. Its achievements were not minor. The association spent its first years building up £700 for Oldway Baths, secured a government subsidy, allocated £30 towards entrance gates, and handed over a children’s playground costing £104.

The 1929 council report makes the scope of that ambition even clearer. The association asked for Oldway Park to be renamed West End Park, sought permission to erect a paddling pool and swings at its own cost, wanted more cubicles at the baths, requested repairs and asphalting, and pressed for kerbing and channelling beside the park. This was not just a reserve. It was being imagined as a properly equipped civic recreation ground.

That low ground had to be remade too. A stream once flowed through the park and is now piped underground. The reserve we see today has been shaped by drainage, earthworks, access routes, and repeated alteration over time. That helps explain why entrances mattered so much. A gate was not just decorative. It gave form and identity to a place that had been deliberately made.

And the story did not stop with the original association. West End Hall remains in the grounds. In the 1960s, the park was even seriously considered as a site for a major covered tepid pool, which could have changed Timaru’s recreational geography altogether. Later again, a little playground sign acknowledged the contribution of Timaru Round Table 48. So this park has kept attracting local effort in various forms.

That is what makes West End Park worth looking at differently. Its heritage is not just an old gate. It opens us to a story of people trying to make this reserve more visible, more useful, and more central to the life of the town.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, celebrating our built heritage and the people who keep it alive.

​By Roselyn Fauth for Timaru Civic Trust

The Ashbury Park gates on Evans St are easy to pass without much thought.

Cars move along State Highway 1, people walk dogs, children head to and from kindergarten, sports play out on the grounds, and the playground provides some park side fun on swings and see-saws.

The entrance simply does its job, marking the street access. But pause for a moment, and the gates open to say something interesting: this place was noticed, valued, and deliberately marked by the people who lived nearby.

The plaque records that the gates were erected by the North End Ratepayers and Improvement Association in 1926. A neighbourhood was leaving its name at the entrance to a public place.

The gates are rendered piers and low walls frame red brick panels, while the black metal gates use circles, vertical bars and spearhead finials to give the entrance its formal rhythm. They may not be as grand as the Botanic Gardens park gates we wrote about last week, but they are carefully designed and considered for the park’s street appeal. They turn the edge of Ashbury Park into an invitation to enter.

Ashbury Park was not always the open recreational ground we know today. The wider landscape was once connected to Waimātaitai Lagoon and Creek, a wetland and hāpua environment remembered as a source of tuna and īnaka. For mana whenua, places like this were not empty or waiting to be improved. They were part of a living network of waterways, food gathering, movement and memory.

That makes the latter park story more layered. European settlers and later residents often looked at low-lying wet ground through the language of drainage, usefulness, recreation, and civic improvement. The area was prone to flooding, and the coastline changed rapidly as the harbour developed, which impacted wave action and the way sediment moved up the coast. Many genuinely believed they were doing something good for the neighbourhood by turning what they saw as difficult ground into a public park. But that public benefit also sat within a longer story of environmental change, altered waterways, and the loss or disruption of mahika kai.

Captain Belfield Woollcombe, who arrived in Timaru in 1857, later built his home here for his wife Frances and their children. The land they purchased was known for a time as Woollcombe’s Gully, and their home, Ashbury, looked over the Waimātaitai estuary and lagoon. The house has been demolished, but the name remains, and the landscape below it has been gradually reshaped into public parkland and sports fields.

By the 1920s, North End residents looked to improve the area. The association met at Waimātaitai School, set subscriptions, and formed committees for beautifying, ground work, finance, and suggestions. This was not just a few people complaining about what the council had not done. It was local people organising themselves to make things happen and be helpful.

Their contribution was physical as well as financial. In 1922, the association helped organise a tree planting ceremony at Ashbury Park. Reports stated the ground had been cultivated, cleaned, and drained, seven chains of pipe drains had been laid, and nearly 1000 trees had been planted, including oak, elm, ash, sycamore, English beech, New Zealand birch, Douglas pine, Pinus insignis, and cypress. Mayor F. J. Rolleston planted a scarlet oak, to be known as the “Rolleston oak”, schoolboys helped with the planting, and local women provided hospitality afterwards. Ashbury Park was being physically remade into a park.

By 1924, the association wanted to raise up to £500 to help complete the park scheme. That same year, GH Andrews argued that a “decent entrance” should be erected so people would know where the park was and appreciate what a pleasant place it had become. That was the method: subscriptions, volunteer labour, public pressure, council support and a strong belief that local effort could unlock wider investment. Two years later, the gates were formally handed over to the council.

There is a wider New Zealand story here, as suburbs grew across the nation in the early 1900s, parks became more important for recreation, health, and civic identity. Communities wanted land improved, planted, and recognised as belonging to everyone. Today, we can value that civic effort while also recognising that the land already held meaning before it became a park and what has been lost.

That is what makes the Ashbury Park gates so interesting. They mark the moment when North End residents volunteered together. They also invite us to look further back, to the Waimātaitai landscape beneath the park and to what was changed when wetland became a recreation ground.

Next time you pass them, look for the plaque, brick and iron, and the path beyond. The gates still welcome people in, and invite us to notice the layers of place: mahika kai, homestead, park, neighbourhood gift.

Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, celebrating our built heritage and the people who keep it alive.

​By Roselyn Fauth for the Timaru Civic Trust

After writing about the cemetery gates opposite the Timaru Botanic Gardens, I found myself looking across the road with fresh eyes. If gates can hold stories, what about these ones?

Opened by the Duke of Gloucester on January 10, 1935, the gates led people off Queen St and into the Timaru Botanic Gardens, once known as The Park. They seemed to be doing more than simply marking an entrance. The 1935 opening formed part of a wider royal tour, giving the occasion civic weight. But the gates also belong to a longer Timaru story about civic pride, public improvement, and ceremony.

As the first in a short series on Timaru’s park gates, the Gloucester Gates tell a different story.

Ashbury and West End had ratepayers’ associations closely involved in park improvements. Timaru South had its own association too.

But by January 1934, when proposed new gates at Timaru Park were being discussed at a Borough Council meeting, the South End body was described in the newspaper as “now defunct”. A follow-up report made clear its money had already gone towards a shelter near the children’s playground, not the new gates. So the Gloucester Gates look less like a neighbourhood subscription project and more like a planned public work.

Land was set aside for the gardens in 1864, making the Timaru Botanic Gardens among the oldest public gardens in New Zealand. These gates stand at the threshold of a place tied to Timaru’s earliest civic planning and to a belief that public green spaces were key for a thriving community.

They also belong to a wider tradition that came from Britain. In the 1800s, towns created public gardens and pleasure grounds as places where people could stroll, meet, enjoy beauty, and get some fresh air. Lawns, paths, flower beds, specimen trees, and framed entrances were all part of that idea. The Timaru Botanic Gardens grew from that tradition.

So, in that sense, as well as control access to protect what was inside after hours, the Gloucester Gates gave the gardens presence and signalled that what lay beyond was important. This visual impact was achieved through a curved footprint, local bluestone pillars, iron pedestrian and vehicle gates, a pair of lamps, and the carved words “Gloucester” on one side and “Gates 1935” on the other. At the base of a pillar are the names of those who contributed to the project: architect V. H. Panton, builder W. J. Harding, and engineers Parr & Co. Ltd. Another plaque above names the Duke of Gloucester and mayor T. W. Satterthwaite. This was planned public work, important enough to be named and commemorated for a significant dignitary visit.

One of my favourite details when learning about the opening ceremony was the silver key that was made locally by F. J. Dunn. However grand the day may have seemed, local hands still shaped the large and smaller details of the moment.


The Gloucester Gates on Queen St are an important built heritage. Next time you are in the area, call in and admire the garden gates. When we look closer and appreciate our built heritage we can connect to our past people and place... of one of New Zealand’s oldest public gardens, an Victorian idea carried into a growing town, to royal occasion, and the locals effort and pride. They remind us that the public beauty we appreciate today is a legacy from earlier generations who planned, grew, built, and marked occasions.

These gates still do what good gates have always done. They tell us that what lies beyond is worth entering.