Alex Casey takes her rescue dog Maggie on a dog-friendly camping adventure and lives to tell the tale.

Part of my bargaining in us adopting a dog this year was that I swore not to become one of those barmy people who takes their dog with them on holiday and keeps a daily journal written in the dog’s voice of everything that the dog experienced that day (I’ve seen it done, I’ve read the pages). But when Joe started packing for our camping trip and asked where his backpack was, my reply made me realise that perhaps I hadn’t entirely kept my word. 

“That’s Maggie’s bag,” I said, gesturing to his Macpac backpack, now overflowing with an assortment of chew toys, food bowls, treats, towels, poo bags and even a dog sun hat. 

Maggie is our giant-headed one-year-old terrier cross mutt, born in the Huntly pound and shuffled through a few homes before we adopted her in January this year. Like any rescue dog, she has her quirks, and it has been a long and expensive road to get to the point where I was packing her an overnight bag to come camping with us. But if there’s one thing Maggie still loves more than growling at tall men and anxiously chewing the legs of our bed, it’s spending time with us. 

Even a dog with a head as remarkably large as Maggie’s can’t go camping just anywhere. There are 77 dog-friendly DOC campsites around the country, and plenty of useful listicles as a starting point. It always pays to ring ahead and double-check, so I was delighted when the woman from Leithfield Holiday Park, a beachside campsite 45 minutes north of Christchurch, confirmed they are still dog-friendly – provided the dog stays on lead and you “pick up after him” (dogs are boys, cats are girls).

To be honest, my primary concern in ringing ahead was actually to ask about the weather, specifically whether anyone in their right mind was even camping in Canterbury at this time of year. A sting in the tail, Joe’s dad always says – beautiful warm sunny days but bitterly cold nights in spring. Local lore suggests that, just like planting out your tomatoes and your cucumbers, you probably don’t want to be spending too much time outside at night before Show Weekend. 

Joe was slightly more emphatic about what a stupid idea it was to go camping in November. “People don’t camp here until January at the earliest,” he muttered, quietly resigning himself over to yet another night of “hell” for a Spinoff story. But with our alpine-level sleeping bags, multiple vintage wool blankets probably used by Hillary himself, beanies, thermals and a 14kg dog that runs hotter than the solar core, I was convinced we’d be OK for one night. 

Along with the winter woolies, I had packed two different leads, a dog harness, a couple of stuffed Kongs, dog food in the chiller bag alongside the fancy cheeses and dips (sorry Joe) and roughly 30,000 poo bags (just as you assume you will soil yourself 40 times on holiday, the same must be assumed for your pet). We headed north, with a brief stop at Burger King where Maggie snaffled an undisclosed number of french fries from the back seat. 

It never fails to astound me just how quickly the surroundings in Christchurch can change. Not just from suburb to suburb, where you go from wide open state housing streets to Fort Knox McMansions in the space of five minutes, but how fast the developed areas peter out into rural farmland, and then suddenly into small towns with vege stands and signs promoting charming community events. What I would give to go to “Big Kev’s Big Dig” on December 27! 

We eventually tumbled out of the car into our fully fenced site complete with a cute picnic table, and lined with pine trees for privacy and shelter from the wind. I could hear the ocean, which was just a short bush walk away. Maggie ran around excitedly sniffing all corners of the site, while a big golden boy named Leonard eyed her through a nearby fence. Across the way, a tiny Sydney Silky named Ruby basked in the sun outside her vintage caravan. It was dog heaven. 

Joe got to work pumping up the mattress (sorry Joe) and I took Maggie for an on-lead walk through the grounds. Nobody else was in a tent like us, but there were a pair of little Maltese-cross types in a glamping yurt, a Mastiff-cross puppy lolloping around a ute while his owner vaped next to their flash caravan. The great signs continued – a “beer and bullshit” area by the kitchen, the toilets emblazoned with “men to the left because women are always RIGHT”. 

When we got back, Maggie seemed bamboozled by the bright orange dome we were trying to coax her into. Much like a vampire, she requires a formal and persistent invitation to cross a new threshold, and we had to eventually resort to luring her in with dog treats. She was much more comfortable racing up and down the pebbles on the nearby off-leash beach, sniffing bums with a Kate Bosworth-eyed Blue Heeler and eating only the finest rotting seafood. 

About 10 minutes walk up the road was a little shack set up like a mini outdoor market, so that was our next stop with Maggie. We perused a colourful fridge painted up as “Nan’s Book Exchange”, which contained devastating items such as a copy of romance novel The Savakis Mistress inscribed with the reminder “2 x Ibuprofen at 6.20pm”, a self-help book about fathers reuniting with their estranged children, and Monsters University on DVD. 

Although there was a post to secure your dog while you shopped, we took turns going inside as I wasn’t confident enough Maggie wouldn’t tear out the post and devour a pair of glittery espadrilles as revenge for being left alone in Leithfield. I bought a big floppy denim hat, Maggie looked at herself for a long time in the mirror, and we headed back home past the swimming pool (no dogs allowed) and tennis court (no dogs allowed). Fair enough. 

It was nearing dinner time now, but I had done my research. The historic Old Leithfield Hotel up the road welcomed dogs, and we were delighted to enter through tinsel curtains to find the sequin-covered locals were gearing up for a “Great Gatsby Night”. In the corner, blokes in gumboots and high vis vests drained jugs of beer at the pool table. When one of them let out a loud guttural groan at a missed shot, Maggie tried to fit in by joining him in a low growl. 

The bloke in gumboots didn’t have much luck getting a pat from Maggie – “he doesn’t like the smell of me” – but she did let a few kids indulge. We ate our vegorama burger and chicken schnitzel outside in the dwindling sun, as a chocolate brown Australian Kelpie paced around the tables, potentially taking orders. A leather-clad biker sipped a Guinness and played classic rock on his phone, interspersed with ads for Grammarly. The night was cooling, and fast.

Back at camp, Maggie enjoyed her al fresco Barry Soper dinner and we hastily put on extra layers. Temperatures were plummeting, and the clear blue skies had been replaced by juicy-looking grey clouds. I felt a raindrop on my head, then another, then another. “It’s been threatening us all day” said a lady wearing her pyjamas and an Oodie at the beer and bullshit area, while I paced around waiting for our phones to charge up. “Time to hunker down.” 

Soon enough, the rain was pelting our cheap tent as we huddled under sleeping bags and blankets. Instead of sleeping in her bed, Maggie had wedged herself firmly in the middle of us on the inflatable mattress, suddenly the size of an NBA player and firmly pushing us both off each side with every subtle stretch. Joe checked the weather – eight degrees but feels like five, heavy rain for the next few hours. “This is the worst thing you’ve ever done,” he said, pulling a beanie over his head. 

I tried to stay positive. I posited that we could be doing Te Araroa, despite being nearly 200km away from the trail. We could be like our idol Naomi Arnold! Toughing it out in the middle of the bush in the freezing cold! We could be doing Outward Bound right now! We could be German tourists who didn’t know any better! We could barely hear the episode of MAFS UK on my phone over the torrent of rain. I wondered whose marriage was in more trouble: mine and Joe’s or Polly and Nathan’s?

At least Maggie slept soundly between us all night long. 

The next morning we awoke to sun streaming in, rapidly shrinking the scary pools of water on the roof of the tent. We were dry, we were warm, but unfortunately Maggie’s big sleep had led to a factory reset in her brain and she was startled by every little noise as the campsite began to stir. I was grateful we had booked a fully fenced site as she charged around the place growling at trees and having a loud bark-off with Leonard next door. At least we were all dog people here.

We had one more walk down the beach before preparing to head back south. Like a fed-up kid, Maggie huffed into the back seat of the car while we packed down the tent and did one last poo patrol around the perimeter. Leonard and his dad had already headed home in their caravan, as had Ruby and her mum. We stopped at a dog-friendly cafe in Amberley for breakfast, followed by a quick visit to the dog-friendly SPCA opshop (open on Sundays!).

I don’t believe that dogs should be entitled to all spaces and activities, but I was surprised at many dog-friendly places we found, and how much Maggie enhanced the experience of camping, especially camping in the same temperatures you might find at Everest Base. At one point in the deluge, I was laughing so hysterically that I woke up Maggie, who lifted her head and sneezed directly into my open mouth, before going straight back to sleep. 

And, as much as I swore I wouldn’t become someone who writes about their dog’s holidays, 1500 words later I’ve become someone who writes about their dog’s holidays. I look forward to camping with Maggie again, but will probably wait until sometime after Big Kev’s Big Dig. In fact, as a wise man once said, probably not until January at the earliest. Sorry again, Joe.