A Tale of Holidays
When I was so much young, much younger than today our holidays were a trip to my father’s family home.
It was about a three-hour road trip and our car was always packed in fact it often felt we were packed in around the luggage.
In those days there were no seat belts, we didn’t know any better. The trip took place on Boxing Day, in the middle of summer, so it was always hot and humid; there was no air-conditioning in those days apart from having the window open.
When your little trips seem to take an eternity and ours always felt like that.
There was a winding hilly section where the going was slow and the suggestion of carsickness was on everyone’s mind. Mum always had a bucket ready for such an eventuality.
I used to watch the climb knowing that when we reached a certain point the road would flatten out and the threat of illness would be over. My sister could never wait that long.
Once we were over the hill, so to speak we came to the city and there was always something of interest to see. Houses everywhere, so much traffic and if we were lucky there might be a sighting of the harbour bridge in the distance.
We reached our destination, rolled out of the car and went about the process of unpacking.
Usually, there were other relatives staying there so the house would be packed and on one occasion I recall five of us sleeping on a double mattress, three down and two up.
I think the holiday back then afforded us the opportunity to visit relatives we didn’t see throughout the year and enabled dad to catch up with his brothers and sisters.
It always seemed hectic is what I most recall.
The prize we most looked forward to was the trip on the bus into the city where there seemed to be so many shops and not enough time to explore them.
They were overall happy times, so much different from the normality of country living and I’m sure we all seemed a strange lot of hick kids to our city cousins.