The road became the rhythm. New Plymouth’s coastal gusts, Ōpunake’s black sand whispers, Whanganui’s riverlight at dawn. Palmy’s caffeine pitstop, Nelson’s sun-struck bays, Whitianga’s salt-stung air.
No itierary, just windows down and the North Island’s moods shifting with every bend: mist-laced forests, lonely beaches, hills that begged to be sprinted up. Solo travel at its simplest, just a car, a camera, and the itch to see what lay beyond the next ridge.
