On Friday 14 February, when we tired sudddenly of flogging along in Tim down State Highway 1 from Oamaru to Dunedin, we turned off the road towards the coast, and to a place our road map showed had a basic campsite. But the name of the nearest habitation was not promising - Warrington.
What we found was a huddle of somnolent bungalows at the back of a white sand beach empty except for wading birds and driftwood. Long, curling, turquoise waves rolled in from the Pacific, driven by the warm breeze, spray spinning as they collapsed.
The camping field, sheltered from the sea by hedges of palms, pampas grass and tall New Zealand flax was spacious and almost empty. Only a couple from Hampshire having a break from sailing the world in their yacht, and, by nightfall, a handful of surfers with tents but all were pitched so far away that still it felt as if we were alone.
We sat in the sunshine with glasses of wine then went down to the shore. Lupins heavy with seed pods lined the sandy path, rattling out samba rhythms as we passed, while fluttering clouds of Oystercatchers, Godwits and Red-billed Gulls performed Mexican waves for us at the water's edge.
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