Visiting The Hobbiton Movie Set is a must for LOTR diehards, but it doesn’t actually require prior film viewing. Because this place works magic even Gandalf would envy… making you want to live there first, then watch twelve hours of extended editions to understand why.
Look, I’m going to admit something that could get me run out of New Zealand with a pitchfork… I have never made it through a single Lord of the Rings film without nodding off. But it’s not that I don’t like them… It’s more that my brain sees an epic three-hour fantasy saga and interprets it as an opportunity for an extended nap. But I have watched them all… at least, in sleepy serialised form!
My daughter has never seen them at all. At fourteen, she floats through life like a whimsical Victorian ghost who got lost on her way to a séance. She wears everything vintage, collects trinkets like a bowerbird and has never met a piece of jewellery she didn’t like. She also once spent an hour explaining to me why fog, though a little selfish, is the most emotionally literate weather. Naturally, I thought the fantastical world of Peter Jackson’s epic film franchise seemed perfect for her. But when I’d mentioned them, though she liked the idea of all the walking through misty forests and talking trees and, of course, was totally on board with obsessing over a ring… she passed on watching, because… “Three hours feels like a big commitment, doesn’t it?”
So, when I suggest we visit the Hobbiton Movie Set during our recent Waikato adventure, I’m not entirely sure what to expect.
“A movie set tour?” She looks up momentarily from her screen. “For films I’ve never seen?”
I explain that it’s a must-see and that, honestly, if you visit Waikato and don’t go to Hobbiton, it is probably a deportable offense. She is unmoved.
“There’s also a pond and a mill… and mysterious little doors. And a quirky old tavern where you’d expect to find someone playing a lute or a harp.”
She considers this. “Will there be moss?”
“Almost certainly.”
“I’m in!’
The road to Hobbiton
The drive from our hotel to Hobbiton winds us through the kind of impossibly green, rolling hills that make you wonder if New Zealand has some sort of Photoshop filter permanently affixed to the landscape. It’s about 45 minutes from Hamilton, near the farming town of Matamata. Sheep dot the hillsides like fluffy exclamation marks. And there are cows. So many cows.
My daughter insists we pull over to test the theory that cows love jazz. They do. It’s worth noting that Holstein Friesians seem to be especially partial to Miles Davis, should you ever have the need to entertain one.
Once we reach The Shire’s Rest. the gateway to the Hobbiton Movie Set, our guide, a cheerful lady who clearly adores her job, herds us on a bus. Here, with infectious enthusiasm, she begins revealing the extraordinary lengths Peter Jackson and his crew went to in creating his cinematic world. I won’t share those stories here, though. They’re far too delightful to spoil for future visitors, and frankly, they’re best heard while standing in the Shire itself.
Ten minutes later, we’re disembarking the bus and following our guide down the very path where Gandalf first rode into The Shire. When we reach the crest of the hill and get our first glimpse of it, my daughter stops, her phone slack in her hand. Let me point out that for a fourteen-year-old, this is the equivalent of a biblical miracle.
“Mum,” her voice is soft, almost reverent. “It’s so freakin’ CUTE!”
A hole new world
I will eternally remain confused about Middle-earth’s internal logic. I know there’s something about a cursed ring, a lot of walking, some wizards and elves, and a split-personality naked dude with a greasy combover and a penchant for raw fish… and I will never comprehend why they didn’t just fly the ring to Mordor on those giant eagle thingies instead of sending in some innocent, hairy-footed mini dudes to do the job.
But standing here, watching my whimsical weirdo of a daughter discover something that spoke directly to her quirky soul, I understood exactly why people make the pilgrimage here. It is transcendent.
Each of the forty-four hobbit holes has its own personality and its own story. Some have herb gardens with lavender and herbs. Others have tiny clotheslines with hobbit-sized shirts and smoke curling from chimneys. The vegetables in the gardens are real, and tiny garden tools lean against doorframes. It’s obsessive, delightful, and just a tiny bit mad.
The hardcore fans in our group squeal when we reach Bag End, home to Bilbo and co., and recite movie lines word-for-word (which I have to say is both impressive and slightly unhinged), but my girl does something different entirely. She starts imagining a life there.
“That one.” She points to a red door with a wild garden full of foxgloves and forget-me-nots. “That’s mine.”
She scans the landscape like a Hobbit real estate agent. “You can have the one with the blue door. It looks like someone very wise lives there. Plus, it’s close enough for you to make me dinner and far enough that I can have some space.”
“Thanks… I think.”
Her friends get the houses by the party tree. “We can meet there for picnics and to walk our miniature donkeys. Or maybe hold a regular cheese appreciation society. Do hobbits eat cheese?” she wonders aloud. “They must. They seem like cheese people.”
I follow along, entertained, as she maps out her entire hypothetical hobbit existence. Which paths she’ll walk. Where she’ll have her morning tea (the bench by the mill pond, obviously). Whether she’d keep chickens or ducks. And which hobbit hole has the best garden for hosting parties.
Apparently 3 Bagshot Row has “excellent entertaining energy,” but I point out that the diehard LOTR fans wouldn’t feel favourably towards her evicting their beloved Samwise Gamgee to make room for a party pad.
Speaking of Bagshot Row, here are invited to step behind the red door right alongside Sam and Rosie’s gaff. It leads us into a warren of low-ceilinged rooms that smell faintly of woodsmoke and stone.
A fire crackles in the parlour. Every surface holds something… handwritten letters, ceramic jars, linens stitched in faded colours. The pantry overflows with herbs and fresh vegetables, and in the bedroom, a four-poster bed is draped with mismatched fabrics.
My daughter, a committed maximalist, moves through the overstuffed burrow utterly enchanted.
Building a Hobbit property empire
Outside she pauses, squinting back up the hill….
“There needs to be a zipline from Bag End down to the Green Dragon.”
“A zipline?”
“Imagine you’re up there after dark and suddenly you fancy a catch-up with your friends? You shouldn’t have to walk all the way down. You should be able to just zip right down,” she explains, making a whooshing gesture with her hands.
“I’m not sure hobbits are known for ziplining.”
“Well, they should be.”
She spins around slowly, taking it all in. “Oh, and obviously I’d need that green door hole too as a weekender.”
“A weekender? You’re having two hobbit holes?”
“Well, yes. The weekender is for when I need to be closer to my friends. And then I’d need a summer house as well, so probably that yellow one by the pond. You can’t spend an entire summer in your main hobbit hole, Mum. That’s just impractical.” She explains with the conviction of someone who has thoughtfully considered the logistics of multi-property hobbit hole ownership.
Enter the Green Dragon
When we finally cross the stone bridge and pass the millhouse to reach the Green Dragon Inn and a plate of chunky scones and a complimentary ginger beer, which tastes infinitely better when you’re drinking it from a tankard in Middle-earth, she gets philosophical.
“I get it now,” she says. “Why people love this… it’s because someone imagined an entire world so completely that you can actually become part of it.”
As we walk through towards the exit and tour bus, she takes about three hundred photos. Not posed Instagram shots. Details. A garden gate. A wheelbarrow. The way the morning light hits the pond.
Hobbiton works its magic
“Mum,” she says as we head past a bed of butterfly-smattered bluebells on the way to the exit. “I want to watch the films.”
“They’re… quite long,” I warned. “Like, really long.”
“I don’t care. Are they on streaming? Can we watch them when we get back to the hotel? I need to know about my hobbit hole.”
She opens her phone. “Extended editions or theatrical?”
“There are extended editions?”
But she’s already downloading them.
But that, as it turns out, is the magic of Hobbiton. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never seen the films or if you’ve, ahem, fallen asleep through them. Because standing in the Shire, surrounded by round doors and impossible gardens and an imagined world someone loved enough to make real, you can’t help but want to know more. Even if that means committing to twelve hours of extended editions.
So, we start that night, curled up in our hotel room with room service and a newfound appreciation of Middle Earth and the power of imagination made real.
My girl makes it through all of the first film.
I make forty-five minutes before nodding off.
Bring on the pitchforks.
Hobbiton Movie Set need to know
Access – The Hobbiton Movie Set is only accessible via a guided tour that starts at The Shire’s Rest and requires a timed ticket. Advance booking is strongly recommended, especially during peak season, as they frequently sell out.
Duration – The Hobbiton Movie Set tour duration is approximately 2 hours.
Operating hours – Hobbiton Movie Set tours operate daily, year-round with varying hours by season, generally from early morning (around 8:30-9:30 AM) to late afternoon (around 4:00-5:00 PM), with peak summer (Dec-Feb) running longest .and winter (Jun-Aug) having shorter hours.
Getting there – Located in Matamata, approximately 45 minutes from Hamilton by car. Free parking is available at The Shire’s Rest departure point. Multiple daily bus services operate between Hamilton and Matamata. Alternatively, several operators offer day tours from Hamilton with hotel pickup, including private shuttle services.
Hobbiton Movie Set
501 Buckland Road,
Hinuera, Matamata 3472,
New Zealand
PH: +64 7 888 1505
An award-winning travel writer and photographer, Aleney de Winter was fresh from school when she first set off to explore the far reaches of Australia with a two-man tent and a beaten-up Kingswood for company. Three decades, and two kids later, and she’s still on the go, with her itchy-footed offspring in tow.
