The vacation
In these weird times of limited wanderlust, I find myself drawn to the travel section of the newspaper. I shared my thoughts about my local rag last Sunday so you know I love that newspaper unconditionally. I was browsing through today and came across an article persuading us to take up adventure travel which I would do in a heartbeat, of course. Being an adventurous traveller, I love these sorts of articles. Whitewater rafting in Tasmania was on the list which I’ve done in Switzerland and Bali. The next one was Kooljaman on Cape Leveque at the top of my very own state with its glorious red dirt and rocky landscapes. But my eye stopped on the next one and I just have to say ‘No!’. Snorkelling in Antarctica? Really? Everybody knows snorkelling is only good in warm water. Which brings me to reminiscing about a childhood getaway that is memorable for different reasons.
It was winter and we lived in Perth, a summer town on the edge of the west coast of Australia. Perth was no good in winter; everybody said it was shut. Holidays were for summer but this winter we went to Bridgetown. It was supposed to be an idyllic relaxed little historic town in the countryside full of serenity. Most of the time we went to the beach for holidays so I don’t remember what drew us to a non-seaside part of the state but it wasn’t far from home amidst the greenest part of our south west. Maybe our dad had a friend and we got a special deal? We rented a house where my sister and I shared a room (as we did at home) and the highlight was a swinging tyre out in the very spacious backyard. It wasn’t so much a backyard as an acreage of land that led right down to the river lined with paperbark trees. We ventured down there every day to paddle at the edges, spot tadpoles and get as muddy as possible before heading home for dinner.
We met another girl vacationing on the next property. She was named Sonja and was on holiday from England for her summer, our winter — although our winter was just like her summer, she told us. To my sister and me, she was strange. She wore short sleeves and light summer clothes while we wore heavy wool jumpers and corduroys. She painted her nails and with wet nail polish, played our rented piano in our rented main room. She went to our rented fridge opened the rented door and helped herself to food without asking. Our mother was appalled. Even though all these things were odd, she seemed exciting and different and exotic to us. I don’t remember the existence of my parents much on this trip, except on our trip back home in the car. My parents argued a lot and rarely went on vacation together. I don’t know what the argument was about this time but when the car broke down, the rain started at the same time as the argument and home hit us with a jolt. Bridgetown turned out to be less of a bridge and more of a sinkhole.
It probably needs another visit.
