These lines from Ian Wedde's poem The Story always come to mind when after a long spell in the city I finally make it out to my bach. Struggling forward into a head wind as I explore along the high water mark, mopping at a bit of a runny nose, I can't help remembering those last two words. What for? I love coming to this bach, but why? What is it New Zealanders love so much about their baches?
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