The carpet is boldly patterned — partly by design, mostly by necessity.
It’s doing the hard yards, hiding four decades of spilled Speight’s, muddy gumboots, tomato sauce explosions, and one legendary seafood basket incident that nobody talks about, but everybody remembers.
The lighting is either so dim you lose your mates in the shadows, or so fluorescent you can count their nose hairs.
The walls tell the story of New Zealand: All Blacks posters from the glory days (bring back Buck), at least one deer head staring down accusingly, and yellowing newspaper clippings celebrating local rugby triumphs from when shorts were, well, shorter.
And somewhere in the corner, there’s a blackboard that still lists the winner of the 1997 “Meat Raffle”.
There’s a pool table with a suspicious lean that adds an element of chance to every shot, and a jukebox offering a curated selection of Dragon, Dragon, and — if you’re feeling adventurous — Dragon.
Now, the food.
The golden rule at The Huntaway Inn, like all true Kiwi pubs? Fill the bloody plate.
If there’s any white porcelain showing, someone in the kitchen gets a “bollocking”, think Gordon Ramsay mixed with your aunty from up north.
Order steak and eggs, and you’ll get a full support crew: chips, salad, coleslaw, onion rings, peas, and a slice of buttered white bread for structural integrity.
Roast night is sacred — mashed potatoes thick enough to insulate your house, frozen mixed veg that’s seen better days, and gravy so hearty it probably played lock for Southland B.
No molecular gastronomy, no deconstructed anything — just nostalgic perfection that hits you right in the childhood and stretches all the way to the edge of your plate.
But the real drawcard? The locals.
There’s always a Barry. Barry knows everyone’s business, runs the social club, and somehow manages to be at the bar before opening time ... every day.
There’s a bloke who swears he was one training away from being an All Black if it weren’t for his dodgy knee, another who insists he “used to be in covert ops” but “can’t talk about it”. So we won’t.
The bartender knows your name, your partner’s name, your dog’s name, and probably your mother’s maiden name — even though you’re sure you’ve never told them any of it.
Entertainment is refreshingly low-tech but dangerously high-stakes.
Quiz night features a microphone that cuts out every third question, turning “What’s the capital of Mongolia?” into “What’s the cap—” followed by aggressive tapping and creative swearing.
Karaoke nights where confidence routinely outweighs talent, and everyone becomes Bono after their third beer.
There’s a weekly raffle with prizes that actually matter: a bar tab, a tray of rump steak, or a boot-load of firewood — thanks, Bob.
The soundtrack comes via CD (you might need to Google that), labelled “Pub Bangers 2007″.
It features The Feelers, Bic Runga, Sir Howard Morrison, Dragon, and more Sir Dave Dobbyn than a Kiwi sporting montage.
And this 700MB of music is officially considered a national taonga.
Given it’s winter, there’s a proper roaring fire. None of this fake gas-flame nonsense.
This is the real McCoy: a pile of pine logs Bob chopped down last year and “donated” in exchange for a suspiciously generous bar tab.
Nothing to see here, taxman.
It’s not just heating — it’s the beating heart of the place. Where you lean back, warm your bones, and make profound climate observations like, “bloody cold out?”
And then there’s the stainless-steel urinal, complete with those mysterious urinal lollies (which, for the love of all that’s holy, are not actual lollies — don’t be that person).
You might wonder why this deserves a mention, but anyone who’s spent time in a proper Kiwi pub knows the truth: the urinal is where some of life’s most important conversations happen.
“How’s it going?”
“Yeah, not bad.”
“Good chat.”
Three lines. Zero eye contact. Pure poetry. It’s basically a Kiwi haiku.
So, raise a pint to The Huntaway Inn — and every other real country pub across this land.
Because while the city bars chase trends with $24 cocktails and Himalayan salt rims that cost more than your power bill, there’s something beautifully unbeatable about a creaky bar stool, a cold jug, and a yarn that starts with, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but…”
