When I was young, around six or seven, my parents rented a bach every Christmas on a remote island in the Coromandel, on the east coast of New Zealand. The half-moon shaped island, which had a postage stamp-sized sandy white beach, was called Motupohukuo Island or Turkey island in English. We loved that Island as though it were our own. Our bach had no electricity, no running water, no mod cons and the toilets were scary long drop loos, the tall wooden kind, set far in the bush. We bathed in the sea, fished for snapper off the reef and ate raw[…]
