I came to Auckland in January 1958. An endlessly moving sky, chunks of joyful blue smartly replaced by towering gleaming whites clouds and soothing scudding patches of warm grey. The volcanic hills on either side slashed with gullies of red ochre, hugged by rich greens and the creamy flowers of manuka sparkling on black spikey trunks in a dark blue shade. It was a landscape full of energy and promise.
Now, many decades later, I wake every day to that sky. I live in a street lined with century-old plane trees which, in some extraordinary way, have incorporated in their trunks all those wonderful colours.