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I now live in the
south of New Zealand, in Dunedin, a town with many Scottish names and
a prominent statue of Robert Burns. Half an hour's drive westwards sits
the eastern edge of Central Otago, a fragmented schist plateau whose summits
reach 1600 metres: rock-studded, often arid, disorderly, desolate, unfrequented.
A treeless emptiness that goes on and on. Discoverable. In summer, the
dun plateaus and hillsides dry up under stifling northwesterlies. In winter
they whiten under biting southerlies. In shady hollows, snow and cold
hands can linger all year. Further west, beyond Central Otago, lie the
Southern Alps, just a four-hour drive from here on lonely roads.
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