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Queenstown's Carnival
Gaiety On Beautiful Lake Wakatipu

(By G. A. Herbert , Officer in Charge.)

“Wakatipu Lake,” said a well-known European traveller, “I regard as in the front rank of tourist attractions of the world. One might spend a year in that locality and then not exhaust its glories. Queenstown (on the lakeside) is one of the prettiest spots on earth, and the view from the slopes below Ben Lomond, looking over the lake to the Remarkable Mountains, is something I should like to think of when my turn comes and I am going over the Great Divide.”

The spacious Dunedin railway station is alive with tourists all full of excitement and chatter. They are bound for Queenstown, that beautiful Venetian-like resort situated on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, 1000ft. above the sea, amidst the mountains of Otago. It is Queenstown's carnival season, and the lure of it is irresistible to these travellers.

They know that many happy days may be spent about Lake Wakatipu, with Queenstown as their headquarters. The climate is delightful, and the district rich in resources for the excursionist and the sightseer. Sheer from the depths of the lake (1,242ft.) rise the Remarkables, in rough grandeur, to a height of 7,650ft. (Ben Nevis), their snow-clad crests dazzling against the sky, and their mighty bases paved by the sparkling waters of one of New Zealand's most beautiful inland seas. Every kind of small pleasure craft may be had in its neighbourhood, and distant bays and beauty spots may be visited by means of the Railway Department's commodious steamers.

The town of Queenstown is the centre of tourist traffic in the Lakes district, and each year sees this fact more widely recognised, for there are few towns anywhere in the world so picturesquely situated.

Everyone is talking of this pretty spot. Some who have visited Queenstown before are relating their experiences, and explaining to others, who are making their first trip, some of the many places of interest they must be sure to visit.

The clang of the station bell temporarily interrupts these happy conversations, and bids the tourists be seated. Then, a shriek from the engine whistle, and the journey commences. Much interesting country is traversed as the train speeds on towards the progressive town of Gore, where a halt is made for lunch. Shortly after lunch, with the party transferred to another train, the journey is continued to Kingston, at the foot of Lake Wakatipu. The first glimpse of the lake is obtained from the train, which, slipping down an incline into Kingston, suddenly shoots round a curve, and there, the page 43 vast expanse of the lake, a beautiful turquoise, is displayed, stretching for miles and disappearing round a bend in the distance.

The train stops alongside the steamer, passengers and baggage are quickly changed over, and the clanging of the engineroom telegraph announces that the last, but most beautiful portion of the journey has commenced. After about an hour's steaming, the passengers are noticed making their way in groups to the bow of the steamer, where quite a number of fingers point towards an arm, covered with beautiful trees, jutting out into the lake. Further out still, a white beacon marks the end of a shallow reef. The beacon is soon reached, and with a warning blast from the whistle, the steamer turns into a beautiful little cove dotted with rowing boats, and in them boys and girls, all in gay summer colours, singing under a cloudless sky. At the head of this little cove, stretching from the hills right down to the water's edge, is Queenstown, “The Queen City of the Southern Lakes.”

Once ashore, and dinner over, all paths lead to the lake, the shores of which are illuminated with hundreds of brilliantly coloured lights, dotted in and out among the trees, presenting a scene from fairy-land. Out on the lake, are large motor launches, decorated with greenery and brightly coloured flowers, through which hundreds of tiny lights are twinkling like glow-worms. The launches are towing a string of gondolas, also gaily decorated with flowers and Chinese lanterns, casting rainbow reflections on the mirror-like surface of the lake. Presently the music of stringed instruments accompanied by hundreds of voices floats in from the lake.

The spell of this gay scene is suddenly broken by the shrill blast of a steamer's whistle, and, after making hurried inquiries, it is found that the S.S. “Earnslaw” is making preparation for a cruise on the lake. The whole throng, now gathered on the foreshore, move in the direction of the wharf, from which this steamer takes her departure. Everyone is anxious to get on board, pushing at the entrance of the gangway, each eager to be on first. This fine steamer is decorated with coloured lights, a string of which stretches from her stem to her masthead, down to her funnel, and then along to the stern. Her upper deck, which has been cleared for dancing, is encircled with another string of coloured lights and streamers, giving the appearance of a luxurious ballroom. The orchestra is playing a lively fox-trot, and the decks are now full of smiling faces, all eager page 44 for the steamer to depart. Silently the gangway is lowered and the steamer, casting into the lake myriads of reflections from her coloured lights, glides off into the night. Once out past the watchful red eye of the beacon, the engine's speed is reduced to slow, and the evening's enjoyment commences in earnest. Everyone is dancing and the orchestra is encored again and again. Later an interval is announced for supper, and the supper room, a profusion of foxgloves, roses, and streamers, is quickly filled to overflowing. Above the chatter and laughter, soft music comes floating down from apparently nowhere. Supper over, the orchestra again commences to play. All too soon the steamer is wending her way round the bay to the wharf, and, alas, the cruise is over.

The morning to leave this delightful little city behind has arrived, and it is with regret that bags are packed for the return journey. The steamer is blowing her whistle, warning passengers to hurry. All is hustle on the wharf, where the mail and baggage is being loaded, while crowds of people are throwing streamers to their friends on board. The last whistle has sounded, the lines are cast off, and the boat moves out, homeward bound. One by one the streamers are broken, and finally flutter into the lake. In a few minutes the beacon is rounded, and beautiful Queenstown is shut out from view.

You can do nothing much worth doing, in this world, without trouble; you can get nothing much worth having without expense.—Ruskin.