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Rh upon us a lovely evening for walking about in the park on the lake-side, where a band was playing and all Queenstown strolling about.

But next morning when a visit to the head of the lake was suggested Mrs Greendays said that she had had enough of the water for the present and preferred driving out to see the Shotover gold claims. The landlady told us that the road was frightfully dusty, but so full of interest and excitement that we would not even notice it!

“You’ll go through the ‘Gates of Hell’” she said, “but you can get back again, and that’s more than the many poor fellows could do as lost their lives or their fortunes or both owing to them gold-claims. When I tell you that there used to be fifteen hotels between this and the bridge you’ll cross the river on, most of them making fortunes out of the drink they sold to the miners, you’ll understand.”

So we set off directly after breakfast enveloped in our dust-cloaks and motor veils. The road began to ascend immediately, and after passing several charming farms, rich in orchards and flower-gardens, we crossed the Shotover River. The driver pointed out where some of the old workings used to be, and said that in the old days the miners had to ford the river as best they could, often having bad accidents, but we crossed on a fine wooden bridge built on stone supports. Of the fifteen hotels nothing now remains but two stone chimneys, looking like forlorn sentry-boxes.

We were soon going uphill again after crossing the river. Down below lay a valley called “Miller’s Plain.” It once belonged to one man; it is now cut up into small farms, all comically alike, each with its fields of wheat and barley enclosed by gorse hedges, its hayricks, belt of Normandy poplars and neat homestead. Beyond this valley we could see away in the distance a small lake called “The Diamond” from its shape. It looked like a sapphire that morning, shining in the sun in the midst of green acres.

Next began the tortuous passage of the “Skipper’s Road.” It is cut out of the sides of a chain of rugged, barren hills composed of schist so full of mica that it glistens like silver wherever the surface has been cut. The making of this road must have been most arduous, for though the rock is so soft that it is easy to work, the gorges are deep and very steep. In several places the cutting has been done from above and the road built up from below. Far down, winding like a snake, the river Shotover flows; the miners have been dredging it for gold for years, and it is almost all worked out now.

Our driver had lived all his life in the district and was able to tell us the history of every turn and curve. Soon after passing through the rocks that some optimistic being has christened “Hell’s Gates” we came to a funny little inn called the “Welcome Home,” the only house on the road, which continues for several miles beyond it. And on our way back we lunched there, while the horses were resting. We did not get back to Queenstown until five, when we were able to thoroughly endorse the landlady’s opinion of the dust. Poor