Twenty-twenty had really thrown some punches and it was only March. Fiordland had been well and truly fucked by apocalyptic rain. This being followed by a worldwide pandemic. It was to this biblical backdrop that we found ourselves immersed in a plague of sandflies on the shores of Mavora Lakes. I had convinced my punters (and Luke) that a tent fly would be all good for everyone. However in the dark it was rather difficult to erect and so my group had to put up…
