I take a hit from an asthma puffer. Viewed from my friend's house, where she sings E Te Ariki and wind chimes battle against the small wooden house in a southerly, Te Ahu Pātiki is many shades of brown toast, fat and squat. If Mt Kilimanjaro is the House of God, Mt Herbert Te Ahu Pātiki is perhaps our kitchen. Foraging for herbs and fruit is effortless. A banquet of ripe feijoas awaits if you know where to look and who to ask, the information shared gently and knowingly face to face across a fence. I take just a handful for the child who loves them, shoving their deep green goodness into an old bread bag. She will eat them like lollies, scraping every last morsel of sweet flesh, leaving discarded husks in her wake.