Porirua Hospital sits quietly now, tucked away in Porirua, about 13 miles north of Wellington. It’s surrounded by trees and green hills, but don’t let that calm look fool you. Back in 1887, this wasn’t just a peaceful spot—it was the Porirua Lunatic Asylum, built on 140 acres of farmland to help people who were struggling with their minds. The idea was simple: fresh air, open land, and work on a farm would do them good. They grew vegetables, tended orchards, and even built a big water reservoir before the first buildings went up. It was meant to be a better place than the crowded Mount View Asylum in Wellington, where patients were packed tight and needed somewhere new to go.
But life here wasn’t easy or kind for many. People came here with all sorts of troubles—some had what we’d call mental illnesses today, like depression or psychosis. Others were soldiers back from wars, their minds broken by the horrors they’d seen, like grenades exploding nearby or the endless fear of battle. The audio you heard from Graham Bloxham mentioned a guest entrance, and that green door with steps in the picture—that’s part of this place. Back then, they called the patients “guests,” but it wasn’t a warm welcome. They were brought through that door, often against their will, because their behaviour didn’t fit what society expected.
The treatments here were harsh and strange by today’s standards. Doctors tried shocking people’s brains with electricity—electroconvulsive therapy, they called it. They gave them drugs like methamphetamine, hoping it would somehow fix their minds. It sounds frightening, doesn’t it? And it was. Many people suffered here, locked away, their voices silenced. The hospital grew over the years, adding wards and buildings, like the big central block in 1892 that could hold 500 patients. By the 1940s, there were 1,500 people living here, with staff working hard but often not knowing how to truly help.
The place wasn’t all bad—there were gardens, sports, and work on the farm, and some patients found peace in the fresh air. But there were dark corners too. People died here, and in the early days, their bodies were sent back to Karori by train for burial—a costly and sad journey. Later, they made a burial ground right here, on the hospital land, adding to the heavy weight of the place. Nurses and doctors did their best, but there wasn’t much medicine back then, and some treatments, like the shocks and drugs, left people worse off. A nurse once said it wasn’t barbaric—they moved people to clean rooms every 12 hours, and there was nothing else they could do. But many families and patients would disagree, feeling forgotten or mistreated.
Over time, Porirua Hospital changed its name—to Porirua Mental Hospital after 1911, and later just Porirua Psychiatric Hospital. It became the biggest hospital of its kind in New Zealand, with thousands of staff and patients shaping the area’s history. But by the late 20th century, things started to shift. In the 1980s, New Zealand moved away from big institutions like this, letting people live in communities instead of being locked up. Wards closed down, like F Ward, which was judged unfit and turned into a museum by 1987. Other buildings were saved too, marked as important history, but the hospital itself shrank, leaving behind empty spaces and memories.
Today, Porirua Hospital stands mostly quiet, locked up and filled with old newspapers, as Graham mentioned in his audio. You can see it in the pictures—the big brick building with the red roof, the small shed out front, and that guest entrance with the green door. It’s a sad sight, really, just sitting there, used now for storage or left to crumble. Cats wander in, leaving their mark on the papers, and the place feels forgotten. But it shouldn’t be. This is where so many lives crossed, where people suffered and struggled, and where we need to learn from the past.
We think it’s time to open this place up again—not as a hospital, but as a museum. It could tell the stories of those who were abused in state care, the soldiers who came back broken, and the families who lost loved ones here. The money spent on fixing it up would be well used, honouring the people who went through so much. Imagine walking through those halls, seeing the old wards, the gardens, and hearing the voices of the past. It wouldn’t be cheerful, but it would be real, and it would help us understand what happened here.
Porirua Hospital’s story isn’t just about bricks and buildings—it’s about people. It’s about the quiet suffering of those who were misunderstood, the hope of doctors who tried their best, and the lessons we can learn today. The green door in the picture, with its steps worn by time, stands as a symbol of that history. It’s a door that once welcomed “guests” but now asks us to remember and reflect.
So, that’s our story from One Live Wellington Live—a serious look at Porirua Hospital, its haunting legacy, and what it means for us now. It’s a place that deserves our attention, not to be left locked away with cat litter and old newspapers. Keep listening for more from around Wellington, and let’s honour the past together.
