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Despite all reports to the contrary it’s still possible to get sunny, rainless weather in the Bay of Islands. Just ignore the weather reports.

We did, and on a day forecast as spoilt by scattered showers and cloud we were rewarded with an absolute pearler. Kingfisher blue sky with just a few towering confections of cloud to give it perspective. The sea reflected our good fortune in hues of glassy green, turquoise and cobalt blue and into this unearthly vision we quietly launched our sailing barque.

Island Time II is a stunner. A catamaran so new, so white, so shiny and slickly molded, it’s as appealing as a child’s toy and as functional as a knife. A wonderful marriage of beauty and purpose. She floats upon the ocean, stable as a table. So stable that afterwards none of us were left with the usual rolling on-land after-effects. Seasickness seemed unimaginable.

So we felt pretty chuffed with ourselves when we left Opua, as if we’d had something to do with rearranging the elements. Sailing past Craig Heatley’s house and helicopter pad in Norwegian Bay, we avoid the usual lucky-bastard remarks we might otherwise have made. We’re magnanimous now that we’re lucky bastards too.

We can afford to be. The islands are ours alone. December to March is technically high season but in reality most boats and yachts converge on the Bay over Christmas and New Year. Over three thousand beer drinking partygoers. Once the festive season is over they all disappear. Weird, say the locals.

Wonderful, I reckon, because now the place is practically empty. Not quite as Cook saw it when he came in - turpentine pines give the game away - but empty enough to recall past visitors. Maori were well established by the time Cook arrived. Then came the French who established a temporary base on our first stop, Moturua Island. There’s still a bottle containing the claim of 'Austral-France' for King Louis XV buried on the island, but the Maori saw to it the claim was never realised - rather vigorously in fact. Eleven Frenchman dead, one left to tell the tale and a harbour named in blood - Assassination Cove. After the French came the missionaries and, later, settlers. And now lots and lots of tourists.

Ours is a conventional route. We opt to explore this graceful fusion of sea, land and man, instead of going further afield. The Bay of Islands, studded with over 150 islands, is a "drowned river system," an area where the sea has invaded and drowned a number of river valleys.

The plan is to walk at Army Bay, lunch at Urupukapuka Island and snorkel, swim, sail and fish in all of these places. Everywhere with the cicadas chirruping their corrugated summer song in our ears and the gulls keening overhead.

Ah, but the evidence is undeniable. There has been rain and not so long ago either. The grass is sodden and clumped up in deep woven kikuyu mounds. It’s rather like wading through thick snow or sand. But for the views around Moturua Island it’s a worthy exchange. Wet itchy legs in return for a vista of shockingly sheer cliffs on one side and sweet beaches on the other. At times you have both in your sights.

It’s enough to work up an appetite and since there are no restaurants anywhere, it’s a pack-in pack-out affair. But good food is critical on a boating holiday. An essential part of the total indulgence package. Which is why we hadn’t done any of the food ourselves.

Instead a sainted woman called Antoinette Cherrington of Waterview Lodge packed us a splendid picnic. The aroma of hot bread, steaming banana and chocolate chip muffins, freshly baked quiche and roast capsicums pulled us from one meal to the next, with barely a gap in between sometimes.

After that it’s a matter of catching a snapper and cooking it on the boat’s barbecue.

The dial shows 26 degrees. That’s the sea it’s measuring. Imagine that. Warmer than your local pool. Suddenly you can visualise your ancestors emerging from this salty primordial soup. You wouldn’t mind going back there yourself for a while. For a couple of days on a bare boat charter anyway.

Did I mention Girl Guide’s biscuits? They weren’t the first to go I must admit. But when all the deli delights are gone and you’ve eaten to within an inch of your belt capacity, they suddenly look immensely appealing. Simple and nostalgic and practically fat-free. Truly. It’s like that when you’re at sea in perfect weather in a perfect boat. You can convince yourself that just about everything is good for you.

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