As the evening shadow crawled across the golden-lit tussock, four Romney sheep clattered nervously along the stony shore, stopping and staring at us. We were too near their usual path. They inched past, then ran to wherever they were going for the night. We followed soon after with our bottle of French champagne and glasses.
The chauffeured drive here was amazing – 20 minutes of twisting, turning metal farm track that often perched us at the edge of the browned-off volcanic hills of Banks Peninsula where it falls into the sea.
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