Never mind Europe's easy weekend haunts, we have Waiheke Island, writes Kerri Jackson.

It's 11am by the time we have been driven through the farmland and outer suburbs of the island to the Tuscan-esque haven of Poderi Crisci.

This boutique vineyard-cum-restaurant sits tucked among the merlot vine-lined hills. It's the baby of chef Antonio Crisci, the man behind Toto and Parnell's Non Solo Pizza.

Thanks to the logistics of organising transportation to what amounts to Waiheke's "wop-wops", we are an hour early for our booking and the first guests of the day, but that is no hurdle for the staff at Poderi.

More bubbly appears, glasses are filled and we spend a pleasant hour wandering the vege gardens and exploring the underground wine cellar (which can also be booked for dining).

By the time we are sitting around a table inside near the floor-to-ceiling windows, swapping superlatives about the location, delicious food is beginning to sashay out from the kitchen; the start of what will be an Italian-style long lunch.

Over the next three hours a steady parade of dishes exits the kitchen, perfectly timed and proportioned so just when you think you might be ready for a little something else, the next dish appears, accompanied by a Poderi Crisci wine.

We glance up occasionally from our table to find the buzz of the place steadily building with a mix of locals, visitors and celebrities.

We leave, reluctantly, but well and truly sated, to collapse gratefully into the air-conditioned taxi, bags gently clinking with more Poderi wines.

Day two, then, is all about recovery. We take a stroll down the hill to the white sands of Palm Beach, where bobbing about in the crisp, incredibly clear water is the perfect cure for groggy, post-indulgence heads.

After crepes from the beachside stand and a restorative coffee from the Palm Beach store, it's time to mosy back to the ferry and consider rejoining the rat race.

This two-day stay has stretched out into what feels like weeks and that takes the sting out of going home.

The ferry is teeming with mainlanders all raving about their own sun-soaked weekends away from the city and you overhear "no traffic", "just 40-minutes away" and "we must come here more" peppered through their conversations.

Remember the tinge of bitterness you feel toward your Europe-based friends who can country-hop in their weekends thanks to short, cheap flights and fast trains?

Pity them that they don't have a Waiheke on their doorstep.