There’s something about Kiwis and fences. We don’t just build them — we bond with them.
Somewhere along the way, a length of No 8 wire and a few wooden posts became a blank canvas for national identity.
Maybe it’s because we’re a country that likes to markout our patch — whether that’s to keep the stock in or the neighbour’s dog out — but we’ve taken fencing from function to folk art.
Take the electric fence, for instance.
A marvel of rural ingenuity and the fastest way to turn a curious kid into a cautionary tale.
It’s a tightrope of temptation, whispering, “Go on, touch me.”
For generations, it’s been the source of dares, double-dares and the occasional public urination incident that ends in an abrupt and deeply personal lesson in conductivity.
Every rural Kiwi knows someone, or is someone, who’s discovered what happens when curiosity meets current.
Picture it: a fog fence. Obviously, as Bing Crosby would say, “don’t fence me in” — so not technically a fence, but a tribute to fog that resembles a fence (or a wall of fog).
I’m thinking a curtain of long, white plastic strips, like those flappy ones on old bach doors or the fish and chip shop that still proudly displays a faded “Best Fish ‘n’ Chip Shop 1998” certificate.
A gumboot fence in Eastern Bay of Plenty. Photo / Kim Gillespie
But instead of rainbow colours, just whites. Layers of whites. An ode to FOG!
And while we’re at it, let’s go full fog and start rebranding.
Every single all-white paint swatch in the Dulux Colours of New Zealand range? Rename them all Hamilton Fog.
Let’s even re-release the Beatles’ White Album as The Fog Album.
