‘No idea, I’m afraid. Palmy North’s claim to fame is that your very own John Cleese called it the suicide capital of New Zealand. “If you ever want to kill yourself and lack the courage,” I believe were his exact words, “a visit to Palmerston North will do the trick.”’

Jo grinned. ‘Is it that bad?’

‘We Kiwis have a certain black sense of humour. Good old Palmy North’s reply was to name a rubbish tip Mount Cleese. Besides,’ he added, laughing, ‘it can’t be that bad. It hosts the only museum dedicated solely to rugby in New Zealand.’

‘That’s OK, then,’ giggled Jo, finally relaxing. ‘And how do you New Zealanders differ from your neighbours the Aussies?’

‘That old chestnut?’ He took her elbow and steered her down the path in the direction of the river. ‘We’re the reliable, down-to-earth, boring ones. The Aussies are the party-loving fun types.’ His mischievous grin belied the description. ‘And anyway,’ he added, ‘who can call us dull? We invented the bungee jump!’

‘So how did you become a winegrower?’ Jo enquired, still smiling. ‘Are there a lot of vines in Palmy North?’

Liam laughed. ‘Not a lot. The only things that grow there are satellite dishes. But it’s not far from Marlborough. You’ve heard of Marlborough?’

‘Of course.’

‘So I studied oenology.’ He bowed, like a maestro about to conduct an orchestra.

‘Is that a real word?’ It suddenly struck Jo as wildly funny.

‘Why would oenology not be a real word?’ Liam did an excellent job of looking wounded. ‘My dear girl –’ he took on the cut-glass tones of the British upper class –‘remember your ancient Greek. From oinos for wine, with the suffix logia, study of.’

‘Of course,’ Jo nodded, trying to keep a straight face. ‘Silly me.’

‘By that time, my folks had retired and bought a small winery near Cloudy Bay.’

‘I’ve heard of Cloudy Bay,’ nodded Jo.

‘Not surprising,’ he teased, ‘since it’s one of the most popular Kiwi wines. It’s also one of the loveliest places on God’s earth. Named by good old Cap’n Cook.’ The laughter died suddenly from his face. ‘It didn’t last, though. My father got a little too fond of the product.’

‘Couldn’t you have taken over? You seem extremely competent.’

‘Thank you. But the debts were bigger than anyone knew. I had to save something for my mother. So we sold. The big French champagne houses were sniffing around by then, terrified by climate change. We got enough for my mother’s comfortable retirement back in Palmy North. To be honest, she preferred it there.’

‘But you didn’t,’ Jo said softly.

‘No, I didn’t. So I came here. As far away as I could.’ He looked out beyond Fleur-de-Lis’ garden, already well in flower in the warmth of the south-western spring, to the Savarin River beyond. ‘Not such a bad swap.’