But even with glasses I'm sure I would have leaked a tear or two simply because the view was so beautiful; the sweet blue sky, the puffy clouds, hills tumbling over hills all the way to the city which was coated so tenderly in layers of subtle grey mist. Generally, I am cautious in my use of the word "perfect" (being the elusive term that it is), but I will boldly state here that the view was extremely near-perfect.
Perfect for me, anyway; I am a 20-year-old student. I can't afford the window-seat view from an aeroplane flying far away. I can barely afford the $120-per-week view of the cars on the one-way street in front of my North Dunedin flat.
So, I search for local views; views that don't cost me anything but time, effort and maybe $2.30 for apple juice on the way home from an overpriced, local-to-nowhere convenience store.
Highcliff Rd appeals to me because it is untarnished, understated, organic-like. To enjoy the view from this aptly named road, however, one cannot multi-task. Highcliff Rd can quickly transform into a long fall, as cyclist Neil Rout unfortunately discovered last Tuesday (I wish him all the best with his recovery).
It is fair to say that Highcliff Rd isn't the safest road in Dunedin, but what is this hullabaloo about "widening and straightening"? There is no need for expensive topographical surgery, DCC; but can you please sweep the loose gravel?
It is no surprise that this road is so popular with cyclists. The high road view is incomplete without those interspersed whiffs of agriculture; the taste of a misdirected flying insect; the sound of clouds cracking above you which shortly results in the feel of raindrops on your skin as you get caught out by Dunedin's temperamental climate - again.
The suffering required to ascend to a view is often proportional to the wonderment of the view itself.
Perched on the ridge of such vertical prestige, one cannot help but feel like an extremely important person - almost as though this view is there simply for one's own visual pleasure.
Perhaps it is this heightened sense of self-importance which draws home buyers (such as Mr William Larnach) to seeking - and paying through the nose for - the house with the view. It must be a treat to wake up each morning and see the world (or at least half the city) laid out before you.
I wonder if this beauty is able to become normality; is it possible to become desensitised to such magnificence? When would it stop being breath-taking? And, what after that? Search for a better, higher view? I have heard of such people and seen their houses; perched on poles, precariously teetering on the edge of some mighty mount.
Often unable to even carve a staircase up into the desirable yet untamable landscape they build contraptions such as personal gondolas so they can reach their front door.
I have seen the view from the high road many times and I have still not tired or become unaffected by it.
Every time I'm there the view is slightly altered; some days there is fog, rain or even hail and other days (or perhaps within the very next hour) the sun shines as though God Himself has opened His curtains.
This view makes me wonder: As I look upon this city, who looks upon me? Other days I am rational and reason that whether I am here to stare at this view or not, it will still exist.
It is, after all, just the sight of some big things which appear little through the distance between them and me.
One day, undoubtedly, people will run out of mountains on which to build their view-seeking houses. And what will we do then? I stare up at the clouds and imagine what God can see from His window - now I bet that's a view to die for.
• Katie Kenny studies English at the University of Otago.
