January ... Christmas over and done with and on to the serious business of Summer holidays!
As a child, the long summer break seemed to stretch endlessly in front of us. I've written about our childhood summer holidays previously in The Shack.
Being a clergyman, Christmas was a busy time of year for Dad, but come Boxing Day he took his three weeks annual leave, loaded up the car and the family headed off to Sandy Point. We've continued that tradition as adults, spending time at Sandy Point every year.
This year, for a couple of reasons, there will be no Sandy Point summer holiday for me. That's a whole other story for another time (maybe). In honour of summer holidays, I thought I would reproduce a story written by my mother about a holiday journey many years ago before I was born.
Between 1951 and the end of 1954, my father was the Vicar of St James Anglican Church in Orbost, in East Gippsland, Victoria. Orbost was a remote township, almost 400 kilometres from Melbourne, and 300 kilometres from Sandy Point, so it was a long drive to undertake in the heat of summer with small children on board. Roads of the 1950's would have been a lot more challenging than they are today.
I'm not sure from Mum's account which year exactly this event took place, but she would have either been pregnant and with two small boys aged 3 and 1, or they would have had 3 children under the age of 5. Here is Mum's story:
On one memorable holiday we packed the car full to overflowing with children and belongings, besides a trailer which Father managed to borrow from a friend and set off. Oh, the joy of freedom! We had travelled a considerable distance when we realised that all was not well with the trailer.
A tyre had burst. Father changed it and we set off once more only to find another tyre gone not long afterwards. We called in to a garage where repairs were made and set off on the longest stretch between civilisation, late in the afternoon. Before long, we had another trailer blow-out. This was too devastating, for we were miles from anywhere, and besides all garages were shut by then.
We considered our fate, and thanked God for the kind friend who had lent us a tarpaulin - at least THAT could not go wrong! Fortunately, Father's scout training stood us in good stead. He made a nice little fire in true bushman's style, then went hunting for some water in what I considered a most unlikely spot, whilst I set about cooking some tea. Oh, how fortunate we had some provisions with us.
Afterwards, Father rigged the tarpaulin up beside the car where we curled up for the night. The children had beds made up in the car, so we were all reasonably comfortable.
Next morning, after a little breakfast, Father decided to unhook the car and drive back to the nearest town, six miles away. The loaded trailer could not be left unattended, so the children and I stayed along the roadside with it.
After a while the novelty of the situation began to pall. There was nothing for the nips to do, and the day was becoming increasingly hot. Something had to be done to remedy the situation until Father returned.
Suddenly I remembered I had my violin in the luggage. What a blessing! We then played gypsies. I fiddled nursery rhymes whilst the children sang lustily at the tops of their voices. When we had gone through the repertoire of children's songs, we started on hymns.
Being on an inter-state highway, the reaction of passing motorists afforded much amusement. I'll bet there were a lot of cricked necks that day - they were still looking backwards as they drove out of sight!
In due course Father returned, and we set off without further mishap until we approached our destination. Here we became bogged in sand 14 times over the last mile.
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This story was originally published in a weekly column titled 'Within the Vicarage Walls' which my mother wrote for "The Anglican" newspaper in the late 1950's and early 1960's.
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| My mother aged 18, 1941 Pilkington Family Collection |
That last mile or so of the trip was literally a sand track bulldozed through the bush. Becoming bogged was a matter of when, not if, up until the mid-60's when a gravel road was made.
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| The road to Shallow Inlet Pilkington Family Collection |
