Some of the stuff the university found stayed on the marae. Some went to the museum in town. The marae gave the big doorway carving to Te Papa. Then they said they didn’t want any more excavation. The swamp was a treasure itself, and they didn’t want it disturbed again. I reckon that’s cool. But like I say, it means there’s nothing new to be found here.

It was time to head back. Time to learn where and how I’d be living the next part of my life.

I stood still for a few seconds. I gazed around me, at the river, stones, the poplars downstream, the bridge, the old swimming place by the rocks. I tilted back my head, to let the sun shine on my face. I know it’s just imagination, but the sun in our valley feels brighter and cleaner somehow than it does in town.

A shadow slid past overhead. A hawk, gliding towards the swamp. Must be its turn to stand guard there.

Be brilliant to fly: that was my incredibly intellectual thought as I headed towards the path up to the bridge. OK, I have flown a couple of times. Not with my wings: in a plane, up to Auckland to see some of Mum and Dad’s rellies. We went to see where my too-many-greats-to-list-grandfather Duncan’s sister Jess lived. She did all sorts of things to help improve women’s wages and conditions. The government gave her a medal: an MBE, whatever that means. The new building where her house once stood is named after her.

Great-grandad Alan and Tipene had asked if we could visit the place where Finola used to be. She was Tipene’s sister, and like Jess, though much younger. She wrote about Maori women’s lives.

We couldn’t find the place. Mum said it’s too often like that: Maori people aren’t honoured the same way. ‘It’s still not an equal country, Callum. Remember that.’ Yes, Mum.

I enjoyed the flights. One time, we came in over the Waimoana Valley. I saw everything: our farmhouse; the cottages and the cemetery; the bridge and the river glittering. Weird to think my whole life so far had fitted into that little space. My parents were gazing down, too — and holding hands. How puke-making.

That was the first flight home. The second time I saw … clouds.

There’s a bunch of other families who came out from Scotland soon after ours. They live a couple of hundred ks away: we see them now and then. Some of them have flown to Scotland for a visit. I’d like to travel that far. Maybe when I make my mind up what I want to do; when I’m … 200?