There is a place.

There is a place that you can only find if you are lost or not looking for it. The solitary highway that dominates the upper end of the North Island of New Zealand, slices through the narrow strip of land like a deep gash. You need to be driving at sundown as we were, the blinding golden light dancing in our eyes as my partner squinted at the road behind the Ray Van’s he had found four days ago, abandoned on a sidewalk.

You will turn down a gravel road, guarded by an ominously abandoned sheep sheering shed. The road has many ruts, throwing you sideways in your seat as you slow down cautiously.

And after what seems like a lifetime of driving, just when you start to believe that the sweet girl who manned the gas station up the road, had conned you into some kind of psycho murder and kidnapping scheme, there she is, the sea.

Glittering sandbars and grassy cliffs. Your very own heaven on earth. A place you cannot even describe nor find on a map. A place that appeared just for you, just in this one moment of time, a magical place.

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