Hobbiton

Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep.

That’s the sound of my alarm dragging us back into the land of the living at 6:00am, followed immediately by a few well-earned groans.

Today we were off to Hobbiton, about a two-hour drive from Hot Water Beach, so there was no time for a slow morning. We threw back a quick instant brew, shoved anything loose into a cupboard before it became airborne, and hit the road.

It’s been nice knowing you, Hot Water Beach. You’ve treated us well, but adventure calls.

The drive to Matamata was spectacular. Remember those winding roads that put us through the wringer on the way in? In daylight, they were far less daunting, and wow, had we missed out on the scenery. What felt like a dark, wet survival mission suddenly turned into rolling green hills, misty valleys, and the kind of views that make you forgive New Zealand for having roads designed by someone who’s never heard of a straight line.

Now we were really in Middle-earth, although with more tractors and cows than I remembered from the films.

Arriving at Hobbiton, it was clear this wasn’t just a quiet little farm with a few hobbit holes tucked into the hillside. There’s a purpose-built assembly point complete with a cafe and gift shop strategically placed between the car park and the coach pickup to catch every spare dollar on the way through.

It’s a much larger operation than I’d pictured. I’d imagined wandering into a peaceful slice of Middle-earth. In reality, Hobbiton runs with the efficiency of a small airport, just with more round doors and fewer departure gates.

We were herded onto a coach, and off we went, winding our way down a road purpose-built by the New Zealand military.

As we rolled through the farmland, an intro video flickered onto the screen. Peter Jackson and the Alexander family appeared to personally thank us for visiting.

Now I was feeling special. A valued guest, even. Definitely not just one of several hundred people being efficiently transported through a well-oiled, hobbit-themed money machine.

Then we arrived in the Shire.

And like clockwork, as we stepped off the coach, the group before us was whisked away to the next section. No dawdling. No wandering off. The hobbit conveyor belt waits for no one.

Another bus arrived behind us, and suddenly it was our turn to be whisked down the unassuming little pathway.

And that’s where the magic properly began.

For all the coaches, gift shops and military-grade infrastructure, Hobbiton still manages to feel special. The hobbit holes are tucked into the hillside, surrounded by little gardens, washing lines, and smoke drifting from the chimneys. It feels genuinely lived in, which is impressive, considering filming wrapped well over a decade ago.

Our tour wound us through the heart of the Shire, with our guide pausing along the way to sprinkle in stories from the movies before leading us up to Bag End. Seeing it up close, you can’t help but appreciate just how well Bilbo had it, prime hilltop real estate, sweeping views of the whole village, and, naturally, a front-row seat to at least ten other tour groups all angling for their perfect Hobbiton photo.

From there, we made our way to the Green Dragon Inn, where we enjoyed a pint of the Shire’s finest and a small but delicious pie. There’s nothing like a bit of themed hospitality to make you forget, at least for a moment, that there are still plenty of ways to lighten your wallet before you leave.

On the way out, our guide gave us a subtle rundown of all the other ways we could part with our money, weddings, venue hire, the works. It felt like the official closing ceremony of Hobbiton: please exit through the gift shop.

And with that, Hobbiton was done.

Next stop: Rotorua.

More farmland. More rolling hills. More sheep. More cows.

We arrived in Rotorua just after lunch, but check-in at our home for the next three days wasn’t until 2:00pm, so we figured we’d stooge around town and fill the remaining hole in our bellies.

To our delight, we found dedicated camper parking for tourists right on the edge of town.

That delight lasted about four seconds.

We opened the door and were instantly walloped by a giant stink bomb, the kind that would clear out the back seat of a school bus. Rotorua sits atop a hotbed of geothermal activity, so you get steam, bubbling ponds, hot springs, and, apparently, a permanent stench of rotten eggs. The steaming pools around the car park made sure our introduction to town was delivered straight through the nostrils.

Welcome to Rotorua. I think it will take some time to acclimate.