Road trip.
The words have the ability to strike unbridled joy in the hearts of children and adolescents…. while at the same time shooting terror into the souls of parents everywhere.
‘He touched me!’ ‘She’s on my side.’ ‘Are we there yet?’
When Eli was not yet three months old, we set out on an adventure – slowly crawling up the coast all the way to Coffs Harbour. We found that the more relaxed pace was conducive of a true experience to be remembered. The coming of age trip was repeated for each child around the same stage of life as we used the excuse of relatives studded along the east coast of New South Wales as a lure to entice us out again and again.
Every time, that is, except for Harvey.
We somehow missed the momentous trip for him and I began to fear that his existence would be as concept only to my ailing Baba, whiling away moments in her padded plastic chair in the kitchen that has not aged a day since the 1970s.
The time came to rectify the error and we set the date. It would be a quick trip – one night stopover to break up the ten hour trek to Cabramatta and one on the way back. We would make our home in the magical Blue Mountains and use Leura as a base to visit the family.
…
Grandma Pat packs one of her famous adventure bags for us – a Mary Poppins-style portal of challenges and treats that breaks up an otherwise monotonous journey – and we set off early Easter Sunday. The morning is beset by toileting accidents and a moody outburst from our eldest but we aren’t daunted. The high spirits of holidays keep us riding above the tide of frustration for the most part and we make the most of our stops, batting away pesky wasps as they try to share in our picnic.
When we arrive – worn and weary – at the Little Rose Cottage in Wagga, we are ready to collapse. Harvey – hell bent on demonstrating his reputation as our most unseasoned traveller – has refused to either sleep or stay quiet and we have been taking it in turns to sing tuneless lullabies to him in the back seat.
Then we enter the house.
It is stunningly decorated – tastefully French chic with ornate clocks, charming ornaments and elaborate ceilings. An overflowing platter of cheese, dips, pretzels and fresh fruit sits invitingly on the bench alongside an ice cold bucket of Sauvignon Blanc and beer. Six shiny Easter eggs cluster around the ceramic vase bursting with hydrangeas and the kids gasp in delight. The bountiful display serves as the bulk of our dinner as we misjudge the country town’s opening hours on Easter Sunday and we savour every last bite of the generous collection.
Watching the kids come alive in the space makes it all worthwhile, with Eli setting himself up at his self-designated ‘writing desk’, Hudson promptly unpacks his belongings into ‘his and Daddy’s’ room and Ivy’s eyes widen in wonder at the ‘princess bed’ that she gets to share with me.
One of the most incredible elements of a trip is the awakening that each child undergoes. Perhaps it is the exposure to new experiences, maybe it is the removal of comfort and routine or perhaps we just pay attention without the monotony of normal life to sap our energy and attention… whatever it is both Dave and I remark without fail at the coming of age that each of the kids displays and how we grow to appreciate them more with each journey.
I love the Australian countryside… the little towns dotted between great expanses of overwhelming landscape. The friendliness of the shop keepers the further you venture from the cities… the care and delight that is displayed in the goods of rural bakeries. I love and fear the feeling of my own insignificance as I gaze upon the vast hills and paddocks, the rhythm of the road as it buzzes beneath the wheels. It seems to lull us all – except for Harvey, though he learns as we go on, letting the pace slow him, slowly letting go of his need to be entertained every moment as we journey further from home.
When we arrive at dusk in the Blue Mountains it is as if we have been transported to another dimension. Where wind chimes hauntingly sing in the evening breeze, hundreds of cushions wait to be reclined on… exotic patterns and fabrics adorn the walls and floors and we discover secret gardens and paths that beckon to be followed. The smooth wooden lid creaks open on the Zimmerman grand piano and we sit, creating melodies and haunting movements with flying fingers. Nanny and Pa blow in with the evening train and we laugh and settle in together.
We spend the next day exploring. A generous gesture from my parents allows Dave and I to disappear for a while – sipping on coffee and darting under raindrops as we traipse up and down the main street. We meet a jazz guitarist who unfolds his life story to us within minutes of making our acquaintance, we wander shelves and explore nooks in the bookstore. I ponder over the selection of oozing cheeses and admire the elaborate street art adorning every alley way. Shivering under the unexpectedly biting chill I browse op shops in Katoomba and purchase jackets on a whim. Dave fights the nausea that has trailed him since Melbourne and becomes subdued with the effort.
When we reach the Gingerbread House the younger kids waste no time in setting themselves up in the outdoor courtyard and play kitchen. We huddle inside the charming and cosily scented converted church, raiding the Little Free Library while Eli marks items off on the treasure hunt sheet. ‘A moose made of wood’ – check. ‘A rabbit in the sunlight’ – check. The cheerful waiters are well prepared for kids here – bringing out platters of peanut butter sandwiches in record time. The visit ends with a trip to the enchanted candy store in the centre of the building and a sugar-laden treat for all.
Braving the drizzle, we trek to the Toy and Train Museum and marvel at the glass cabinets bursting with stories from distant eras. The wood-panelled walls tell tales of a time when toys were treasured, scarce and made to last. We spend ages following twisting paths through leafy hedges, arriving at mosaic fountains and pretending to wait at abandoned train stations. We follow the buses of tourists to gawk at the Three Sisters but leave them behind when the fog thickens and swirls around the car.
After a meal of Goulash, endless games of Go Fish and far too many renditions of Chopsticks we retire – full and happy to our beds.
Visiting my grandparents can be complicated. It is impossible to know before going whether you will play the role of confidant, mediator or debate opponent. We are warmly greeted and we settle in for the unpredictable ride. While Baba is now unable to walk unaided or make full use of her limbs after the stroke a year and a half ago, her spirit is still fierce and well. She offers food continuously, beckoning for me to retrieve it from the fridge to feed the kids. I inherit a gargantuan pot and my eyes widen in delight as I begin plotting all the meals that will perfectly fit within the dish. We spend much of the time dissecting her recipes and I snap reams of photos of the handwritten gems – still in the original Cyrillic script.
Deda and Dave argue about the meaning of life – a friendly debate that continues almost as if it had never stopped each time we enter the doors. Dave proffers his VIT registration card to prove he is a ‘real teacher’ and not the scorned pastor he was in the past. I field questions about my plans for more children (nonexistent) and am grilled about my future career prospects. It is, as it always has been – a wild ride of predictable proportions and I have no doubt that the experience will be sorely missed when they travel on.
Harvey has his first taste of chocolate – a peppermint and dark chocolate concoction that ends up more on his clothes than in his mouth. His cheeky smile charms Deda and he ends up spending the rest of the time in his arms.
An impromptu dinner party emerges and we while away the night pouring over photos with my uncle and his wife. We spend moments reminiscing about library break-ins, trophy cabinets and childhood illnesses reclining on the sumptuous cushioned couches in the piano room.
Three days have passed all too quickly and we pack half-heartedly, the kids taking the opportunity to explore unearthed corners of the property – discovering a border of lavender and a hidden cubby house that had so far eluded our attention.
When we return to Baba and Deda’s the mood is ripe for soccer and a heated battle is staged despite the unseasonable heat. Flashes of childhood catch me off guard at unexpected moments – twilight soccer games, posed photos before the scarlet and blush hibiscus trees, the threadbare sheet drawn in front of the bountiful canned food stash in the garage. The kids are effusive with their declarations of love for their great-grandparents and we reluctantly pack ourselves back into the car for our next trip – this time, homeward bound.
We arrive at the farm stay at dusk, worn and messy. Then, suddenly it is feeding time and the magic returns – hay rains and hearts pour love onto wayward cats, ponies and black fluffy sheep. We stumble into a cottage evocative of my childhood at Grandma and Grandpa’s farm and the kids waste no time in creating imaginative games, leaping from rug to steps, while I dish out a hasty dinner of leftover chicken curry.
I don’t want it to end.
Harvey has emerged into being and the whole trip seems shrouded in hazy blissful mystery. I spend much of the trip home fruitlessly trying to book a last minute stay between Cooma and home…. clutching at the few grains of sand still clinging to wistful fingers.
Holidays refocus us, force us to treasure the moments that otherwise slip past undetected. The outbursts, the mess, the chaos – it somehow becomes contained by the experience of breaking out. We echo our routine, buy the same ingredients, weather the nights in convoluted configurations… but the backdrop shifts and shimmers, making the days feel longer and more meaningful.
If you need any more convincing, take it from me – just do it. Take a road trip. Make it as slow or efficient as you like. You’ll find your rhythm and discover a part of yourself that you may not have realised existed. Australia is a land of undiscovered gems, of elusive landscapes and charming character.
I’m planning our next trip already….
