Laid-back holiday skills come in handy
As much as I miss jam-packed itineraries in exotic locations, how nice it is to journey to familiar places, unpack and unwind?
My parents were not born travellers. They lived in a time when a Globetrotter was a whiz basketballer from Harlem and a jetsetter was someone who drove a fanciful flying car like George and Jane Jetson’s (the cartoon series was set in 2062; we have 42 years to achieve that vision of commuting).
While not far-roamers, the family were champion holiday-makers. Three times a year we relocated to the Gold Coast where we were content to do nothing much, wallowing in being somewhere away from the four walls of home. In today’s terms, we chilled and lived the life. Just once we broke with tradition and motored to Bundaberg, which with its sugar farms and rum distillery was very educational, but seaside Bargara was no match for Surfers Paradise. I was at an age when natural beauty wasn’t as compelling as nightclubs (or preferably, niteclubs, not that I ever went to one) and had stars in my eyes for GC entertainers such as Lucky Starr, Lucky Grills and Les Girls.
Those inherited laid-back holiday skills have come in handy. As much as I miss jam-packed itineraries in exotic locations, how nice it is to journey to familiar places, unpack and unwind. Last year, I received a thoughtful gift of a bottle of Jet Lag Recovery Mist. I’m not sure it ever worked as promised, but on three recent NSW short breaks I have taken the Mist, simply because it has the alluring aroma of holiday. Trust me, I’m not nostalgic for jet lag, which is one ailment that has all but vanished from the world. These days I drive to my destination in a relative jiff, with little fear of DVT and calm in the knowledge my bags are in the boot.
And my experiences have been top notch. I have enjoyed street walks to learn of the history, both Indigenous and of European settlement, of Gundagai, Gloucester and Bathurst. They have similar stories of pastoral prosperity tinged with the discovery of gold. I have time to mosey, stop for coffee, sit in a park. I’m fond of motels, but think again if that’s your sole idea of regional digs. It’s a new world of stylish, comfortable lodgings often in heritage properties with a garden and library to explore.
We should have no diminished expectations of today’s permissible trips. Take that from a person who has drawn his life’s philosophy from a packet of biscuits. On my rail commute I see the fading words on the wall of the old Arnott’s factory crowned with a Sao sign, a relic of the manufacturing past of Strathfield in Sydney’s inner west: “There is no Substitute for Quality.” That’s a cracker of an idea.
