On the sun-drenched sidewalk of Queenstown’s lakeside promenade, where the peaks of the Remarkables cut the sky like teeth, a man strums a guitar and beside him, his faithful companion, always by his side. The busker’s name is Callum, maybe forty-five. Weathered face, sun-creased smile, a wool beanie tugged low and boots scuffed from miles of towns and tracks.
He plays old folk tunes, Fleetwood Mac, Crowded House, a bit of Ed Sheeran for the kids. Voice raw but warm, like river stones smoothed by time. The guitar is battered, stickers peeling, but the sound it gives is golden. Locals pause. Tourists drift closer. Some toss coins, some stay longer.
Between songs, he sips flat white from a thermos, scratches behind the dog’s ears. “This here’s Milo,” he says, “my rhythm section and travel agent.”
Milo thumps his tail once, then rolls over with a groan, letting a toddler pat his belly while Callum launches into “Wagon Wheel.”
He’s not chasing fame. Just making enough to keep moving. South Island now, maybe up to Wellington next month, maybe not. He sleeps in a camper van parked outside town. Spends mornings by the lake.
Watches sunrises with black coffee and Milo curled at his feet. The dog never leaves his side.
He’s part of the act. Part of the life.
And when the light turns soft and the wind picks up off Lake Wakatipu, Callum plays slower,
strumming something old and aching, while Milo watches the horizon, ears flicking to the rhythm of the street.
And for a moment—with music in the air and the mountains holding the sky in place—it feels like all you need in the world is six strings, one dog, and a sidewalk that lets you stay a little longer.