The skeleton of an old power station, once a soot-stained behemoth, now hums with a different kind of energy. Its bones—twisted pipes, hulking generators, and cavernous brick walls—have been polished into a 5-star sanctuary, where the ghosts of industry rub shoulders with champagne flutes. This isn’t just adaptive reuse; it’s alchemy.
Built in 1939, the power station fed on sawmill scraps, exhaling smoke through three chimneys until it fell silent in 2001. Left to decay like a forgotten locomotive, its rebirth began in 2007 when visionaries saw past the rust. Three years of meticulous surgery transformed turbines into chandeliers and control rooms into honeymoon suites. The result? A hotel that doesn’t just occupy space—it converses with its past.
Walking in feels like stepping into a steampunk daydream. Original machinery—now gilded in playful hues—doubles as art: blue pipes trace freshwater routes, green ones mark saltwater veins. The floor’s glass panels reveal the earth below, as if the hotel floats on history. Even breakfast feels theatrical, served on tiered stands amid the whir of restored generators. "Quirky" doesn’t cover it; this is heritage with a wink.
The Turbine wears its eco-credentials like a tailored suit:
Even the honey drizzling over your morning toast comes from the chef’s own hives. Sustainability here isn’t a buzzword; it’s baked into the brickwork.
Dining under the shadow of dormant turbines, Chef Greg Coleman orchestrates plates that sing of the land and sea. Venison carpaccio melts like whispered secrets, while springbok lounges on cauliflower clouds. The wine pairings? Precise as a voltmeter. Meanwhile, the pub—a riot of local art and lagers—pours sunset views over the lagoon, because even industrial chic needs a sundowner.
This hotel isn’t just a place to sleep. It’s a dialogue between eras, where rivets and romance share the same breath. For travelers weary of sterile luxury, The Turbine offers something rarer: a stay that crackles with soul.