‘That’s what the olds said at the time,’ Kit jokes, his voice cracking with amusement. ‘Then my mum, she followed it up with a few more, less polite words.’

‘Your poor mum,’ I say, wincing inwardly as a painful memory of Anna sitting by my hospital bed slices through me. When I was ten, I had fallen from a bolting pony and managed to break my wrist badly enough that it required surgery. Anna’s tearful face was the first thing I saw when I came around from the anaesthetic.

‘What about your folks?’ he asks, glancing at me as we continue upwards. ‘Are they the protective types?’

Where to even begin? I settle on a non-committal ‘I guess so’, remembering how wobbly I had become down by the Dart River, when it was on the tip of my tongue to tell him about Anna. The mood between us is so light at the moment, I don’t want to dampen the cheery spirit of the day by touching on that subject.

Even Kit begins to perspire as we puff and pant our way up what looks to be the final section of the trail. I can see a crescent of sweat on his back and marvel again at his generosity in offering to show me around. Unlike me, Kit also had the foresight to bring a bottle of water along with him, and he offers it to me every few minutes, pulling a face when I shake my head.

‘You need to stay hydrated,’ he points out after my third refusal, thrusting the bottle towards me. ‘I don’t want you passing out on me.’

When we finally, blessedly, emerge from the trees on to a flat expanse of road beside a large café, I contemplate weeping genuine tears of exhausted relief. It still feels beyond bizarre that it’s essentially summer in December. Just five days now until Christmas, and only four until the anniversary of Anna’s death. I have now spent 361 days without her, yet somehow I am still here. The world is still spinning, the sun rising and setting, my senses still reeling from all these sights, sounds and smells. Everything has continued without her, and it’s not fair. It’s not right.

‘Quick breather here, then we’ll carry on up, yeah?’

I turn and stare at Kit, feeling the blood draining from my cheeks.

‘This isn’t the top?’

Kit looks around, as if surveying the area for the first time.

‘Er, nope, sorry.’

‘But the luge starts from here,’ I say, pointing to a sign behind him. ‘And over there is the gondola drop-off.’

‘This is just the Skyline,’ he states. ‘The tourist summit, not the proper one. If you want the true Kiwi experience, then we’re going to need to go a bit higher.’

‘How much higher?’ I ask, but Kit merely shrugs.