Holidays...

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.

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.

The road to Shallow Inlet
Pilkington Family Collection

The Shack …

Nearing the end of February, and the official end of summer – although hopefully we will still have several more weeks of summery weather.  This has prompted me to think back to summers past, and childhood memories of “The Shack” which was the base for our summer holidays at Sandy Point.

Sandy Point beach 2018 ©kaypilk 

My father grew up at Sandy Point, on the shores of Waratah Bay in South Gippsland, where his father with two brothers and their cousin, had settled in the 1890’s after emigrating from Ireland.  The four families had grown up together and remained close.  My father’s path in life took him away from the land, and his family property had been sold after the death of my grandfather.  Several of his cousins remained on their family farms, and others returned regularly for holiday visits, so it was natural for my parents to keep the connection.

One of my earliest memories, when I would have been about 3 or 4 years old, is of crawling through tea-tree scrub with Mum & Dad as they checked out the advantages and disadvantages of various blocks in the new Playground Estate, recently developed on the dunes separating the beach from the farmland behind.  Eventually, they chose a block for the view it provided over the farmland, with Shallow Inlet and the South Gippsland hills beyond.  They named this property "Kiltrellig" in memory of the old Pilkington family summer home in the west of county Clare, Ireland.

Then came construction of "The Shack", built by Dad out of Volkswagen packing cases.  This would have been a cheap source of timber to use for the floor and exterior cladding.  The interior of the frame was unlined, but covered with bitumen-impregnanted brown paper sheeting to cover any gaps and reduce damp.  The Shack was built on what Mum referred to as "the leafy lane', which had been the old track connecting the original family homes before the roads were made.

Entertaining relatives at The Shack under construction c1961-2
Me on the deck chair in front.

                                                                                                        Pilkington Family Collection ©

While the Shack was being built, our family stayed with relatives at ‘Gyndahnook’, one of the original homes.  A highlight for me was taking the big brass gong off the wall and ringing it to let Dad know down the paddock that meals were ready.

Brass dinner gong in the kitchen at Gyndahnook

                                                                                                      from Pilkington family collection ©

Although small, the Shack provided all the comforts our family of seven needed. It was a  single room construction, cleverly designed with bunks built in at either end, and shelving units dividing the sleeping areas from the living area. The eight bunks meant that one of us could have a friend come to stay.  Mum used large posters to provide a colourful display on the walls. These posters were put out by Victorian Railways or TAA (airline) to promote tourist destinations.  I seem to recall there was one for wildflowers in WA, another for skiing at Mt. Beauty, and one of the memorial cross at Mount Macedon, among others. The image below is representative of the style of posters of the times.

Victorian Railways, and E.H. Turnor Studio, Artist. Wilson's Promontory, Victoria, Australia [picture] / E.H. Turnor., 1930.

There was no electricity at Sandy Point at that time. We had gas lighting, kerosene fridge, tank water and a little pot-belly wood stove for heating when we needed it. Mum produced our meals on a small gas hotplate and griller, or outside on the barbecue she had made herself from old farm implements. Bathroom facilities were non-existent. Hot water came from the kettle. The toilet was a “long drop” dug by Dad, and enclosed in a hessian frame outside. We cleaned our teeth in a cup of water and washed when required in a plastic tub. Once a week or so, we would head to the caravan park to shower, putting sixpence into the metre for hot water. This was a communal effort – one shower for the girls and one for the boys - as Mum wanted to get the most out of her sixpences.

Our days were spent at the beach, exploring the bush, or with cousins on their farms.  Day trips and picnics to nearby locations, depending on the wind direction.  East wind - off to the Prom, where the beaches would be sheltered.  Westerly - around the coast to Walkerville which would be similarly sheltered.  My memories are of sunburn, insect bites and stubbed toes, all par for the course of an Australian bush summer.  Shoes were unheard of - we trod those gravel roads, hot beach sands and tracks through the scrub in our bare feet without complaint.  We never gave a thought to snakes.  Dad always said we didn't need to worry about snakes because they were more scared of us than we were of them.  I doubt it, but whatever, we rarely saw them even though they must have been plentiful.

At night, we stayed out until dark.  Later, we would visit with relatives, or play scrabble or card games around our little table in the Shack.  Then off to bed, drifting off to sleep to the sound of the surf or the wind through the trees, and the smell of burning mosquito coils in our noses.  Dad could pinpoint the moment the tide turned just by listening to the sound of the surf.

Cleaning out The Shack in 2016 ©kaypilk

In reality, the time we spent in The Shack was only about 7 or 8 years, before Mum & Dad built a more substantial home.  But to me as a small girl it seemed like a lifetime.  After the house was built, the Shack became the domain of my older brothers.  It then served as a storage shed, garden shed and more recently a home to multiple species of wildlife.  The Shack is still there, although now in a state of disrepair.  From time to time we have had half-hearted plans to rejuvenate it, but for the moment it remains as a reminder of the many happy memories created within its walls.

The Shack 2016  ©kaypilk