On the road — again and again
Car journeys can be an exotic adventure, or plain torture, but are the stuff of family legend.
Toowoomba-Gloucester
I’m not sure how we survived our 600km jaunts from Queensland to my uncles’ dairy farm in NSW, but I do remember the relief at arrival. My family of five would rise at 4am and hit the highway south. As the only child who got car sick, I claimed a window seat, much to the disgust of my two brothers, who were convinced my inevitable heaving was a psychological ruse. Sibling conflict was a given. My eldest brother’s boy-spread was usually the spark that lit the fuse, though my middle brother liked to pretend to shoot every horse en route, a sure way to torment his pony-obsessed sister. By Nowendoc (assuming the car hadn’t broken down in Guyra, which it did twice), I would have thrown up. As our old Volvo snaked down the steep descent, I was convinced the brakes would fail and we would hurtle off the mountain. When the “giant’s blankets” of the Barrington Tops appeared, journey’s end was in sight, and never was there a sweeter sight than the farmhouse, friesian cows grazing in a pastoral idyll.
PENNY HUNTER
READ MORE: Family holidays — the way we were | Memories are made of this
South Australia-Snowy Mountains
My father was a farmer, so family holidays were rare. The great Snowy Mountains Expedition was mounted to allow my brothers and me to see snow and for Dad, obsessed with precipitation and dams, to view the delights of the NSW hydroelectric scheme. Off we set in our Datsun 180B, Dad armed with maps and a military-style sightseeing schedule; Mum with a thermos and jumbo can of hairspray that she deployed frequently, and without warning, effectively suffocating her three children. There were roadside picnics, commentary from Dad (who’d done his homework) and the inevitable backseat fight. I’ve never forgotten the intense novelty of motel breakfasts and “chicken in a basket” dinners. The mountains were blanketed in snow that year, and it might have been Saint Moritz, given the levels of excitement in the back seat. Tyre chains, tobogganing, ski lifts. Nothing since has felt quite so exotic.
CHRISTINE McCABE
Melbourne-Sydney via the South Coast
For the seven years my Sydneysider family lived in Melbourne in the 1970s, we drove to the NSW capital for Christmas. Mum, Dad, my brother Andrew and my Gran piled into the Falcon 500, with the footwell space of the back window seats packed with luggage and covered with eiderdowns to make travelling daybeds for Andrew and me. My ever-patient Gran, a statuesque woman, was crammed in the middle to separate the siblings so that we didn’t kill each other before Bairnsdale over an I-Spy spat. Those were the years when we took the scenic coastal Princes Highway rather than the faster Hume Highway. In the fishing port of Eden (pictured), we’d buy prawns, which Dad would peel while Mum and Gran would spread a beach towel on the car bonnet and butter fresh white bread for prawn sandwiches with lemon and white pepper. My bro always scoffed these enthusiastically, but I thought prawns were revolting and sullenly ate egg sandwiches. Eschewing, rather than chewing, those sweet Eden prawns remains one of my biggest childhood regrets.
JANE NICHOLLS
Melbourne-Merimbula
Our family driving holiday, an irregular but highly anticipated journey in the 1970s, usually between Melbourne and Merimbula (pictured) on the NSW south coast, always started early. Dad’s mantra was “to beat the heat of the day” so we’d set off at 3am after a pre-departure check (for what, was unclear) using a torch, or one year, a household candle, to peer under the bonnet. Then we’d roll down the driveway (lest turning on the engine might wake up the neighbours) and head for Sydney Road, past darkened, dormant shops. It felt especially thrilling to be the only ones awake. Hours later we’d pull into a town, maybe Benalla, and its Golden Fleece petrol station. This was a highlight of the trip and the only time we’d ever eat breakfast out, so we made the most of it. The juice was canned (pineapple) and so was the spaghetti, which was served with slices of soft “toast” in a paper bag. Then back in the car for endless rounds of Spotto before arriving at our destination, which was always wonderful, but somehow never as exciting as the journey.
FIONA HARARI