We’re in Picton, a tiny village on the tip of the South Island.
An hour’s walk along a pressed dirt trail took us through dense woods this morning. We were surrounded by millions of screeching, chirping cicadas, whose abandoned brown bodies dangled from virtually every tree. The noise — a cross between a smoke alarm and a needle stuck in the groove of a vinyl record album — could sometimes drown out conversation.
Now I am on a little rocky beach, sitting by Clyde, listening to the waves and watching Picton come to life.
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