It’s nearing five in the afternoon by the time I head off down the hill, but the sun is showing no signs of burning itself out. I was carefully liberal in my application of factor fifty, but I can sense it is a completely different heat here to the fuggy humidity that limps through an English summer – this sun feels almost abrasive in its ferocity. With my blue eyes and pale skin, I’m a prime candidate for burning, and by the time I reach Queenstown’s busy Shotover Street, I have resorted to hurrying from one shaded patch of pavement to another.

Car horns honk, buses sigh under the weight of their human cargo and mopeds weave around backpackers as they swarm out unsteadily from numerous bars. Crossing the street to avoid them, I get caught up in the tail end of a very long queue leading into a takeaway restaurant called Fergburger, and lose a few minutes trying to battle my way out of it. The town’s party atmosphere is apparent at every turn, and it’s impossible not to notice the mischievousness on the faces of the people I pass. I envy them their freedom and uncomplicated happiness, and it makes me wonder briefly what they see when they look back at me.

I need something to take the edge off what has been a very long and rather surreal day. Heading into the first pub I come across, which has a collection of tatty dark-wood furniture and the same sticky floor as my local back home, I approach a friendly barman who directs me up a set of stairs and out on to a wide, open roof terrace, which has been strung with multicoloured lanterns. There are around twenty people already seated in small groups around low tables, but the tall stools that run along the front of the terrace are unoccupied. Collecting a frothy pint of beer from the bar in the corner, I carry it to the seat furthest away from the other drinkers and clamber up, resting my sandal-clad feet on the metal rungs.

The sun is finally starting to weaken, and a warm breeze jostles the loose strands of my hair that have escaped my ponytail. I take one sip, and then another, enjoying the sensation of the cold beer as it slips down my throat. I sit there on my stool for what feels like hours, chasing away memories and watching as the sunlight streaming across the rooftops turns from the brightest white to the palest gold. More people arrive, and music starts playing from speakers that have been fixed to the walls. I wait until there’s a gap at the bar to get up and order another beer. And then, as the volume on the terrace increases, another.