Andrew Paul Wood

In 1964, Timaru made national history when the Royal New Zealand Foundation for the Blind opened a social centre at 63 Grey Rd.

It was the first of its kind in the country, marking a vast improvement in quality of life for the visually impaired in South Canterbury.

The new venue provided a range of activities, including indoor bowls and occupational therapy.

It is a relatively straightforward example of mid-century modern design. Its low profile, simple interlocking gabled roof forms, and unadorned concrete block walls reflect the period’s emphasis on practicality and clean geometry.

Large windows provide ample natural light, and the layout is arranged for clarity and ease of movement. A gently graded entrance ramp signals the building’s purpose and ensures full accessibility.

Overall, the design is functional, economical, and built to serve the community without unnecessary embellishment.

The aesthetic is structural in the roofline, window layout and clever use of the concrete blocks appealing to the sense of touch.

“The building,” reported The Timaru Herald (November 2, 1964), “of concrete block construction covering an area of 1250 square feet [116m²], was financed from legacy funds left by beneficiaries for the blind of Timaru.

It is an orthodox type of hall, simple in design and with the usual amenities associated with social functions; but, for the benefit of the blind, steps have been avoided.”

It was opened by the then Minister of Education, Arthur Kinsella (1910-2004), who described the building as “most attractive’’.

The total cost was around £8000, which is approximately $320,000 in today’s money.

The building was designed by Timaru architect Owen Wiles MacDonald (1916-2012), who also designed the South Canterbury Savage Club Hall in Dee St.

You can see many resemblances in the use of concrete block, treatment of the windows and the creation of interesting patterns, rhythms and textures.

MacDonald also took over as architect to the Timaru Hospital Board, succeeding Percy Rule when the latter died part way through the construction of the Jean Todd ward.

Roselyn Fauth

​What hap­pens when you put a hotel oppos­ite a court­house?

At the inter­sec­tion of North and Barn­ard streets, Timaru still has the answer.

On one side stands the Timaru Court­house, built in 1877-78 to the design of Colo­nial Archi­tect W H Clayton, with the police sta­tion beside it: formal pub­lic order and judg­ment.

On the other stands the former Queen’s Hotel, now closed: once beds, meals, beer, for the informal life of loc­als and the vis­it­ors who no doubt enjoyed a yarn and gos­sip with the pub­lic­ans.

The court­house and hotel rose almost together. The Queen’s Hotel opened on Octo­ber 1, 1878, with Thomas Bell Jones as its first pub­lican. It was designed by Thomas Machin and built by J Simpson, using brick and cement plaster.

As one of the older sur­viv­ing com­mer­cial hotel build­ings in Timaru’s cent­ral busi­ness dis­trict, it helps us read a layer of town life that has changed, if not largely dis­ap­peared.

Machin is the thread from last week’s column. At the former Timaru and Glad­stone Board of Works build­ing, com­pleted in 1874, he had been the con­tractor, work­ing to Thomas Roberts’ design in Timaru blue­stone.

Four years later, at the Queen’s Hotel, Machin appears as archi­tect.

This is an inter­est­ing shift, as it was at a time before archi­tects had the formal regis­tra­tion sys­tem we know today.

Skilled build­ers could move into design, and Machin would have under­stood build­ings from the inside out.

The build­ing is two-storey, erec­ted in a com­mer­cial clas­si­cism style, with a foot­print shaped by its corner site.

Its has a rus­tic­ated ground floor, arch-headed sash win­dows and a simple cor­nice. The above-the-para­pet is inter­est­ing to me, as is the ped­i­ment is a curi­ous cir­cu­lar open­ing.

A c.1885 pho­to­graph in the South Can­ter­bury Museum col­lec­tion shows a horse-drawn cart out­side the hotel, with a woman hold­ing an infant and a child nearby. It reminds us this corner was part of ordin­ary fam­ily, trans­port and street life too.

Today, accom­mod­a­tion, res­taur­ants, bars and cafés are often sep­ar­ate things. In the 19th cen­tury, a pub­lic house gathered many of those func­tions under one roof. It could offer alco­hol, meals, lodging, shel­ter, stabling for horses, spaces for meet­ings and a lay­over when tra­vers­ing the region was lim­ited to how far a horse could travel before it needed a rest. New Zea­l­and had liquor licens­ing from 1842, and in Can­ter­bury pub­lic houses were reg­u­lated by pro­vin­cial law before national rules took over.

From 1881, pub­lic houses selling liquor were required to provide meals and at least six bed­rooms for trav­el­lers.

But hotels were also con­tested spaces, and while alco­hol was part of social life, tem­per­ance cam­paign­ers, includ­ing many women, wor­ried about fam­il­ies, poverty and harm, and chal­lenged the place of drink in pub­lic life.

Later came licens­ing debates, pro­hib­i­tion cam­paigns and six o’clock clos­ing, remembered through the hur­ried drink­ing cul­ture of secret knocks on back doors and the “six o’clock swill”.

North St marked the join between Gov­ern­ment Town to the south and Rhodes Town to the north, which helps explain why some nearby streets still meet awk­wardly.

So this corner is not only a former hotel site. It is where justice, hos­pit­al­ity, town plan­ning, alco­hol his­tory and every­day pub­lic life met.

Next time you pass Barn­ard and North streets, look up at the corner, ima­gine being a fly on the wall and all the con­ver­sa­tions these walls must have accom­mod­ated, fed and watered.

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

By Roselyn Fauth

Once you start look­ing down in Timaru, it is sur­pris­ing how much his­tory can appear under­foot.

In last week­end’s column, I wrote about blue­stone beneath our feet in the cent­ral busi­ness dis­trict. This week, I want to pause over one spe­cific small strip of it.

On the south side of the former Timaru and Glad­stone Board of Works build­ing in Stafford St is a strip of blue­stone cobbles. I sus­pect most people walk past without noti­cing it. I prob­ably did too, until one of my blue­stone side quests made me slow down and look closer.

It is not as obvi­ous as a stone facade, but it is charm­ing. It looks old, and if you get on your hands and knees as I did, you can see moss grow­ing in the cracks, even a very old bottle top wedged in a gap.

Here is the thing about a street. It only looks simple once the hard work has been done.

A well-designed street is a small civic machine. It tells wheels where to go, people where to walk, and water where to run. Kerbs, drains, cobbles and asphalt all have jobs. When they work well, we barely notice them. When they fail, every­one notices.

The cobbles sit beside one of Timaru’s import­ant civic wit­nesses. The former Board of Works build­ing was com­pleted in 1874, designed by Thomas Roberts and built by Thomas Machin. The board was cre­ated after South Can­ter­bury pushed for more local say over roads, bridges and har­bour works.

Inside these walls, prac­tical civic work was planned. The cobbles beside the build­ing help us think about one of the key tasks of a grow­ing town: turn­ing mud into order.

Stafford St was once known as the Great North Rd. It began as a rough route used by people, carts, anim­als and trade.

Today, our cent­ral street has edges, sur­faces and water dir­ec­ted away before it becomes a nuis­ance.

It is strange and rather fun to ima­gine it once as a dusty, and some­times muddy, bul­lock route.

In 1887, coun­cil­lor Hill objec­ted to streets being “ploughed and har­rowed” in future. What a phrase. Plough­ing and har­row­ing belonged to pad­docks, not town streets.

Timaru was some­where between rough ground and organ­ised pub­lic space, between mud and muni­cipal order.

Two years later, a news­pa­per notice described improve­ments at Woollcombe St. The foot­path was ker­bed in blue­stone, chan­nelled in con­crete and asphal­ted.

I can­not say, without fur­ther proof, when each cobble beside the Board of Works build­ing was laid. But when you stand there and look closer, they seem to belong to an older street story.

Built her­it­age is not only held in façades. It can also sit in a kerb, a worn step or a cobbled strip most people pass without see­ing.

Next time you walk past the former Board of Works build­ing, look down. That strip of blue­stone may look mod­est, but it is a clue to something much big­ger: a town learn­ing to organ­ise itself and solve local prob­lems, one prac­tical decision at a time.

That feels timely as New Zea­l­and again debates how coun­cils should func­tion; this small strip of stone reminds us why know­ing our his­tory can be help­ful. It helps us know what we want for our future. Roads, drains, bridges, foot­paths and pub­lic spaces have always required local decisions and pub­lic money.

This old blue stone cobble strip, shows how her­it­age is not just about keep­ing old things for the sake of it. The cobbles are clues, that can help us under­stand the choices people made before us, so we can make wise choices about what comes next.

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

After looking down at bluestone beneath our feet, it seems only fair to look up.
At 95 Stafford St stands one of Timaru’s great civic witnesses. Built in 1874, the former Timaru and Gladstone Board of Works building was designed by Thomas Roberts and constructed by Thomas Machin in local bluestone.
It is not the biggest building in Stafford St, but it has confidence thanks to its Italianate style. The dark basalt walls, arched upper windows, dressed surrounds, quoins, bracketed eaves and strong street frontage give it weight. It feels established, solid and trusted to do the job.
Above the entrance, the building’s former role still survives in stone, telling us what these walls were made for.
That is why this building is powerful as built heritage. It is attractive, but it is also evidence. We can stand in front of it and read a chapter of Timaru’s civic progress.
Before the board existed, Timaru was already learning to govern itself. A young Municipal Council had begun meeting, and boards managed roads in their own districts.
From its first years, The Timaru Herald also helped give local people information and a stronger public voice. In 1864, it was already advocating for local self-government, arguing that Timaru carried the burdens of a town without the benefits.
That local debate matters. Newspapers did not build roads or bridges, but they helped people know what was happening, argue about what was needed, and take part in civic life.
The Timaru and Gladstone Board of Works was created by Act of Parliament in 1867, when South Canterbury was pushing for more local say over public works. Canterbury Province was governed from Christchurch, and many in this district wanted more decisions made closer to home.



The Act helps us read the building. It created a general Board of Works for the electoral districts of Timaru and Gladstone, with members appointed by the Timaru Municipal Council and local Road Boards.
The board could carry out works of “general utility”, but only under written contract. It had to keep accounts, have them audited, and report on works carried out.
One-fourth of the gross territorial revenue from Crown land sales within the district went to the board. Funding was also set aside for Timaru harbour works and bridges over the Opihi and Rangitata rivers.
So when we stand outside this compact bluestone office, we are not simply looking at an old façade. We are looking at a building that housed decisions about movement, trade and connection.
The board had a short life. The building was completed only two years before New Zealand’s provincial government system was abolished in 1876, and the board came to an end. Its offices then passed to the Crown and were taken over by the Lands and Survey Department.
Today it is known as the Gladstone Building and continues in commercial office use.
Its short original purpose makes it more valuable, not less. The building marks a moment when South Canterbury was learning how to argue for infrastructure, public money and stronger regional identity.
That feels timely. As New Zealand again debates how councils should function and how local services should be organised and paid for, this building reminds us why knowing the past matters.
The 1867 Act was not only about local pride. It was about structure: who had a seat at the table, how money was raised, how contracts were managed, how accounts were checked, and which works were considered essential.
Those questions are still with us. Who decides? Who pays? Who benefits? What work should be handled locally? What services matter most to daily life?
Heritage does not give us a simple answer, but it can give us a longer memory. It helps us see that debates about roads, bridges, water, public money and local voice have shaped Timaru before. Understanding that past can help us take part more thoughtfully in civic decisions about what comes next.
Next time you walk along Stafford St, pause at the bluestone walls of the former Board of Works building. This is more than a beautiful old office, this facade reflects a young colonial town figuring out how to build itself.
Brought to you by the Timaru Civic Trust, celebrating our built heritage and the people who keep it alive.