What it's like to stay at the same NZ lodge where The Traitors was filmed.Photo / Anna Sarjeant
Amateur sleuth and true crime junkie Anna Sarjeant uncovers what it’s really like to stay at the NZ lodge where the TV hit series The Traitors was filmed.
“I stayed at Woodhouse Mountain Lodge and survived the night”...
… is a T-shirt that guests should be able to buy at reception - myself included - because TV Three’s latest reality series, The Traitors was filmed here. But Woodhouse Mountain Lodge isn’t that kind of establishment. It’s a classy joint and gimmicks would only receive a disapproving look from the life-size horse lamp that guards the vestibule.
All limbs intact, it seems the only thing that got a light butchering was my car. I suspect the Italians didn’t have gravel roads and recently flooded New Zealand countryside in mind when designing zippy red Alfas. Having tottered her way off the state highway, navigating roads so remote even Google gives up and declares “you have arrived”. (I hadn’t. Unless arrival was via a colossal pothole.) My little town car looks like a misplaced pair of stilettos at a sale yard.
Not to say Woodhouse is of farmyard ilk. The estate is immaculate: clipped and groomed into the rolling green hills, with zero civilisation for miles. We’re technically in Warkworth and a 30-minute drive from Matakana but it’s an eternity from the hubbub of Auckland.
Strewn across the grounds are standalone buildings comprising villas that you can interconnect should you be treating your children or elders, too.
Not me. I absconded, leaving my partner to supervise the toddler while I snuck off for a night away. If there had been a murder, I’d put money on him having hired a hitman.
My villa sits proudly on the brow, a decent stretch from the main lodge where you’ll find the reception, dining room and various billiard rooms. The views are as captivating as they are far-reaching, showcasing a vast lawn that slips into endless pastures.
I take my time crossing the threshold – as you should when going uber-luxe for one night only. The space is sumptuous, with elaborate wallpaper and theatrical sky-high curtains; pull them apart and the panorama is fittingly dramatic. The bed is a pillowy meringue and the fireplace a welcome reprise from the outside chill. In the bathroom, the shower has so many spouts that curiosity gets the better of me and one lever later, I’m drenched.
In faux outrage, and for all of 30 seconds, I realise there is no television. The proprietors of Woodhouse Mountain Lodge are keen for guests to appreciate their surroundings, and so, with three hours until dinner time, I throw caution to the wind and head to the outdoor pool and spa facilities. It’s Baltic but I’m determined.
Armed with the villa’s jolly blue and white striped towels, ill-suited for the winter drizzle, I stride towards the pool, already commending my bravery.
Swinging open the gate, I inadvertently interrupt a romantic tryst. There was a lot of flapping on my arrival as I sprang upon a couple of lovebirds. Quite literally. There were two ducks frolicking in the water.
Despite all the good intentions in the world, I’m not gracing the pool with a pair of horny ducks.
I retreat to the villa and run a bath instead. A rare indulgence in my household - unless you want several pieces of Duplo lodged up your unspeakables - here, the tub takes full advantage of the countryside so I bathed with the blinds open and absorbed the views while the sun set.
By dinnertime, I’ve even squeezed in a True Crime podcast. Not recommended. The walk to the restaurant is dark. The wind is howling and in the isolation, I’m spooked. My umbrella brushes a tree leaf and bristles, much like the noise of a knife-wielding maniac – possibly Paul Henry – and I quickstep into a light canter.
Thankfully I reach the main lodge alive and fall into its warm embrace and amber glow. The fire gently crackles and I can see why the TV bigwigs chose this venue to film – it’s quite plausibly The Cluedo board brought to life. Colonel Mustard is likely snuffing someone out in the library as we speak. With the candlestick no doubt.
I eye up the eclectic decor; chessboards and weighty books; cowhide armchairs and a life-sized pig masquerading as a coffee table, and I wonder if murder is a no-go, but a light plundering might be acceptable. I wish my house looked half this good.
Dinner is a three-course a la carte menu served in the dining room which is dressed in white linen and striking fixtures. I start with breaded camembert and honeycomb before making my way through beef cheek and sticky date pudding. A drop of syrah from Matakana Estate and my eyelids are heavy.
By morning, the rain has lifted and the views outdo themselves. For breakfast, I choose eggs benny and strong coffee, while sunshine streams through the dining room window. A plate of fresh croissants appears without request. I can only assume the horse lamp ordered them for me, as a final salute before the bumpy journey home.
On the way out, I thank the GM and quip that the next time I’ll bring my partner. I’m lying of course, but I’ll bring his ute.
For more information and to book, see woodhouselodge.nz
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