Feeling the familiar throb of unshed tears, I turn my back on the view and hurry across a small bridge, which leads me into a densely wooded park on the opposite shore of the lake. It is a relief to step into the dappled shade of the oak trees and breathe in their earthy scent, and I feel able to remove my sunglasses for the first time since leaving the café. I can hear birds chirping to one another in the canopy of leaves above me as I walk on, and every person I pass looks relaxed and contented. Whether it’s the heat or the simple beauty of this setting, I don’t know, but it doesn’t take long before my emotions settle down again. There is peace here, the lake seems to whisper, and when I venture through the trees and down the stone-strewn bank, I see a sheath of clouds reflected in its surface.

The Maori people call New Zealand Aotearoa, which means ‘the land of the long white cloud’, and I am beginning to understand why. There is space for such natural creations here, room for everyone and everything to stretch and spread out. Perhaps that is why it feels so relaxed. Back at home, everything is jumbled and stacked together, including the clouds.

I see the minibus after I have finished exploring Queenstown Gardens and am making my way back through the centre of town. My heart leaps instantly into my throat when I clock the name emblazoned in bold green letters across its side. Those same two words – Koru Stables – are written at the top of the piece of paper that David gave me; the note bearing the address of my biological mother. I admit, I was immediately intrigued by the fact that my birth mother, similarly to me, had chosen to spend her life surrounded by horses. I had always wondered if I had inherited my passion from her, or even from my father, whoever he was – so when I found out about Koru Stables, I was grudgingly comforted to know that I had been right. Plus, I figured there was more chance of finding common ground with this woman if we had at least some of the same interests. If only I wasn’t so afraid to face her.

A complex tangle of intrigue and fear keeps me rooted to the spot, and as I stand there, a group of people appear from the open doorway of a hotel a few yards in front of me. They are led by a tall, dark-haired man with the broad-shouldered build of a rugby player, who smiles widely as he unlocks the side door of the minibus and slides it open.