Given that three quarters of New Zealand’s population live on the north island, hitchhiking here is – if it’s possible to believe – even easier than on the south island. I set off from a suburb outside Wellington and was picked up before I’d even stuck my thumb out by a man bearing a grudge against the English for stealing his girlfriend thirty years ago (she preferred Chiswick over him). He asked me to give the place a good kicking from him.

Several rides later I was left standing in a particularly awkward spot, and a car pulled over thinking I was going somewhere quite different. The driver, ‘CJ’, realised my problem and offered to drive me to a better spot. Then offered to go the long way round to her town. Then offered to take me all the way to the next town. And then offered to drive me right the way to my campsite. After half an hour we turned off onto a small gravel road, over a wooden bridge and into a beautifully lush, deserted camping ground. But CJ wasn’t happy leaving me there, and insisted she would pay for a hotel room for me. She was middle aged and absolutely tiny, so I thought I’d be alright accepting – and did so in a state of grateful disbelief. Back in Hunterville we found an old railway station which had been turned into a boutique hotel, and she paid for my room and breakfast. I felt so bad that I tried to thank her by buying her a drink, but she then bought dinner! We sat in the bar watching the farmers drink and looking at photos. She found the whole thing hilarious and a great adventure. There were three things in her life: horses, dogs, and planes (she worked at the flying school and knew them all). I suppose it was an adventure for her – and me.

So I spent a night in luxury! I was the only guest in the hotel and had everything to myself: the rooms and corridors with thickly carpeted floors, understated wallpaper and fluffy towels, the rose garden and a country kitchen downstairs. I couldn’t read behind the polite face of the owner – who knows what she was thinking.

Hunterville is the sort of place the army stops off at for 10 minutes to use the toilets. There were statues of sheep outside the town hall, the museum was only open on Friday afternoons, and the shop windows displayed posters for some sort of extreme man-dog festival.

I carried on north, lured by the volcanoes of the Tongariro National Park. Mt Tongariro, Mt Ruapehu and the wonderfully unpronounceable Mt Ngauruhoe (aka Mt Doom in Lord of the Rings) are considered embodiments of ancestors and their stories by Maori. They are sacred, but were given to the government in the 19th century as a way of protecting them. Part of the park will soon return to management by the local iwi, but for now it’s just run like a national park (though one with dual world heritage status).

The volcanoes are still active and the last eruption was in 2012. Every evening during my walk we would sit down for a hut talk and be told what to do in case of sudden volcanic activity. There were maps dotted around highlighting the areas that have been affected by volcanoes in the past 27,000 years, meaning they are still hazard areas. But it was clear that, despite the enormous devastation of the landscape around us, everyone is desperate for an erruption. Flows of rocks and lava have created a kind of desert moonscape, leaving behind slopes of pumice and sulphuric streams. The scenery is dramatic enough to make it New Zealand’s most popular day hike, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to pass walkers with Lord of the Rings music blaring out their phones while crossing these barren mountains, but it was.

We’d had the best long range weather forecast of the year and Mt Ngaurruhoe stood so close. I teamed up with a Belgian and a Swiss girl to walk, and talked to a ranger about how best to climb the volcano. It was a steep two hour climb up a 45 degree ridge of rocks, and by the time we got to the top we were in cloud. But we could still sit on the bright red rock and peer inside the volcano to see the crater. It was all solid and stable, but felt incredibly alive.

The descent felt even more alive. Skating down the scree was fun, without a doubt, but dangerous, especially when there were other people below. Each footfall would dislodge hundreds of small rocks, but it was the big rocks I hadn’t prepared myself for. I watched a large stone slip so slowly, willing and not quite believing it would carry on. But it sped up and suddenly the rock was tumbling down and everyone was screaming out to people below, who leaped out of its way. Seconds later the rock had disappeared somewhere out of sight. But one of the men who had jumped aside had fallen over, hitting his head on a rock and badly cutting his knee. I went to see if he was alright and made sure he got down safely, but nothing could get rid of the feelings of guilt and horror at having almost killed this man. It was one of the most terrifying moments I’ve had, watching the rock bounce down the mountain towards everyone. A reminder of how dangerous mountains are, even on the best of days. And what happens if you climb a mountain that is so sacred to local Maori that some won’t even look at it.

A few days later, still recovering from the drama and intensity of the volcanic landscape, I was walking alongside the highway, trying to behead as many flowers as possible because I’d stupidly headed away from the nearest town and there wasn’t a single lay-by to start hitchiking. I was cursing myself, but had a feeling that such bad luck would pay off soon.

Sure enough, when I eventually found a suitable spot I was picked up in under a minute. Soon afterwards, just as I was waving goodbye to the driver, and turning the wave into an out-turned thumb, a van immediately pulled over. The driver was a middle aged Maori man. He was working, transporting high-end art and other expensive objects in this unmarked white van, which was actually alarmed and couldn’t be left out of sight. It was slightly hard to believe, but we really did go to a museum and I helped him by periodically checking on the van and unloading some paintings at the back gate. He knew all about the large public artworks around the city and had stories of how he’d packed and delivered them all. He also had stories of working for millionaire collectors who would fly him in their helicopters to install artworks on their private islands, stories of how to look after $60,000 crates of wine, and of being the innoccent intermediary (never a spy) between feuding galleries.

As we were discussing where I could pick up my next lift, he announced he had a one chance offer – I could spend the night at the hotel he was staying at (no ulterior motive he promised) and it would be paid for by his business. It meant having to go in the opposite direction down to Rotorua, but he was heading up to Auckland anyway and would be able to take me right the way there. It was a very tempting offer.

Rotorua is the centre of geothermal activity in New Zealand so the whole place stinks, and in the public gardens there are lots of pools of steaming, bubbling water and mud. It was very atmospheric and felt quite healthy. We arrived at the hotel, and it turned out to be a 5 star spa resort. I had my own suite and personal spa, with complementary bottle of wine. We had an expensive takeaway for dinner and some excellent New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and Pinot Noir. The following morning I went for a morning swim in the pool, sat in my dressing gown in the sunshine drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, and then went out for a very fancy brunch (the most delicious eggs florentine) – all paid for by the business of course.  I was dropped off right in the centre of Auckland, and I checked into my hostel where the bed was unmade and only a brown, stained pillow sat on the bed, pipes gurgled all across the ceiling, and overloaded extension cables were strewn across the beds and floor.

So that was the end of hitchiking, and I’m glad it was because it really couldn’t have got any better than that.