Child-friendly attractions in NSW

A month-long visit from my three-year-old granddaughter has given this Nonna permission to act silly.

My three-year-old granddaughter and her parents (servants) have returned overseas after a month-long summer holiday and this Nonna is bereft. It’s not just the physical separation that causes distress but the reality of not being present for all those milestone moments. So, FOMO (fear of missing out) becomes real and full of anguish.

I want to be with her for all the continuing capers and wonderment that defined her Australian stay. Rediscovering the pleasures of simple childhood games (hello, quoits and digging in the garden with tiny bucket and spade) and acting like a kid at wildlife attractions. A toddling stooge is all I need by my side to pretend that feeding giraffes at Taronga Zoo or holding a baby alligator at the Australian Reptile Park have been her insistent ideas, not mine.

So, permission to breathe and act silly, especially where prehistoric monsters are concerned. My daughter-in-law books us into Dinosaur Valley at Scenic World in Katoomba, that most lovely of Blue Mountains outposts west of Sydney where the air always feels as zesty as a sparkling tonic. It’s a seasonal attraction (on this year until February 27) and the animatronic creatures and hatchlings are spread at intervals on the valley floor, viewed from a serpentine walkway.

At Dinosaur Valley in the Blue Mountains.

Oh look, I exclaim, there’s a brontosaurus. “It’s not,” says a plaintive little voice. Further evidence is forthcoming when she adjusts her Jurassic Park kerchief and passes me her binoculars for a full investigation. Sorry, her “dinoculars”, actually. As I read out signs, she looks at me warily. Nonnas can be relied upon for squashy hugs and pockets full of contraband sweeties but not up-to-the-minute information.

We toss fish at pelican-feeding sessions and she rides a pony named Luna. Later, I show her a picture of me, aged six, on my pony Peter Edward and she presses her little finger against the image and asks if it’s really me.

I think of my grandmothers, Eliza and Grace, and their sadness when my parents moved hemispheres and I grew up out of reach. There were no electronic communications, and international phone calls were things of mystery and unimaginable cost.

We reunited when I was in my teens and far too cool to associate with Nonnas. So many decades later, I cannot bear to contemplate their sense of loss.