*Sorry for the long absence. I’ve been behind on my thesis and consequently have had very little spare time.
The McSpaz family usually makes an effort to take a holiday over Easter, and this year we were heading down to Naracoorte in the South-East. I’d chosen Naracoorte partly because of its caves and tiny train park (trains must always be taken into consideration with a kid like Angus, or we risk our entire trip being bombarded with questions like ‘Does this town have a train? Why hasn’t it got a train? Where can I find a train, then? Do you like trains, Mum?’ I might have been able to think of trains without hostility once, but that has receded into the distant past), and partly because I’d forgotten to book anywhere for Easter until a month ago, and this was literally the only place in SA that had any vacancies, unless I wanted to book a six-bedroom holiday house for a week and $3500 on Hindmarsh Island.
I had a rather inauspicious beginning to the holiday by developing the first migraine I’d had in a month. I couldn’t imagine why it had happened after so long. We’d just left the house and at that point I had two choices: to harden the f*** up, or to go back home and get the box of medicine my doctor had given me to try instead of my usual painkillers. However, there was a good chance that I was allergic to the medicine, as I’m allergic to most of the other similar medicines, and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin everyone’s holiday by coming out in hives or going into anaphylactic shock. So we kept going – stopping in Mt Barker so I could have a spew – and by the time we’d reached Keith I’d taken enough anti-nausea pills to feel well enough to compose a song titled ‘Jenkins the Sheep’, which I serenaded people with as we drove past the Keith BP. There wasn’t much else to inspire a song. The world between Murray Bridge and Bordertown is mostly brown or grey, dotted sparsely with scrub and really depressed-looking sheep. I couldn’t imagine living there. I tried to understand why anyone would want to live there. I thought that maybe when the sun went down it turned the paddocks to gold. Or maybe you just have to be born to it.
Anyway, the only other event of note was the old woman walking the most enormous goat I’d ever seen, down the main drag in Yumali (four houses, disused garage, shop window advertising quilting expo). It was bigger than she was and had a pair of extremely imposing horns, but it followed her docilely enough.
The scenery became greener around Padthaway, which was an interesting-looking place with its stone buildings and vine-hung trellises everywhere. I was feeling quite good by now, having taken a s***load of anti-nausea pills – they were of the sort that was once used to treat psychosis, so they probably relaxed me a bit. The rest of the trip was interspersed with vineyards and alpaca farms. I like alpacas and I would really like to have one so I could ride it around the neighbourhood, but after seeing what they look like when they’re shorn I have my doubts that I could find one to carry me. They have the skinniest longest necks, like an ostrich-sheep if such a thing existed.
We got to Naracoorte and our room wasn’t ready, so we had to find some entertainment. Mr McSpaz, despite never having been there before, managed to navigate us straight to the train park, which delighted Angus. Angus, Luke and I all rode the train while MM took photos. We got to go for four laps around the park instead of two because the owner/train driver was quite amused by Angus and thought he’d like a longer ride. There were four or five geese in the park that stretched their necks and hissed at us every time we went past. On the last lap the biggest one turned around and sprayed a giant green crap that fortunately missed us.
The park had mini-golf too, so we played a round of that. For some reason the course only had seventeen holes, one of which was obscured almost completely by a huge pine tree. We had to climb in between the branches to have our shot. I came close to cracking the s***s after I missed the hole and Angus said, ‘You missed it, Mum! But it was a good try.’ I would like to say that I am not competitive about family mini-golf games and that I can laugh off such encouraging remarks, but the truth is that I growled ‘I can do without the commentary, thanks!’ and stomped off to put the ball in the hole. In the end I drew with Mr McSpaz for the win. Final scores: Fisho 57, Mr McSpaz 57, Angus 87. (Angus liked to take full-blooded swings. He didn’t really believe in putting.)
We got back to our room and the first thing we did was to put up the tent. I’d discovered after I made the booking that the words ‘spa suite’ were somewhat misleading, in that the ‘suite’ was actually one big room. So we bought Angus a tent and pitched it in the corner of the room for him to sleep in. He actually slept really well in it – allowing MM and me to stay up late instead of having to put the lights out at 8:30 – and I think we’ll have to take him camping in it soon. Luke had a portacot, which we put in the bathroom until he went to sleep, then moved out into the main room so we could jump in the spa. All in all we survived, but I think next time I’ll make sure our holiday destination has at least one bedroom, and I would recommend the same for anyone who has young kids. You can get around things with one room, but it takes a bit of effort. Also, shifting a portacot is no mean feat when you’re three sheets to the wind.
The South-East is wine country. There was no way we were going to pass up the chance to taste the vintages of the Coonawarra in its own backyard. As soon as we’d unpacked I headed out to the bottle-o and came back with a bottle of my favourite Wynn’s Cabernet Shiraz Merlot, as well as a bottle of bubbly for later on in the spa. We went to dinner in the Highlander Restaurant, which was attached to our motel so we didn’t have to drive; thus we ordered another bottle of red with dinner. By the time it came to put the kids to bed we were feeling quite jolly, and read Angus his bedtime stories with more than usual gusto and a few interesting interpretations of the characters’ voices. (It was an Enid Blyton book, if that gives you any idea.)
Then came time to open the bottle of bubbly. I took one mouthful and nearly spat it out again. It tasted like Aspro and sugar mixed with metho. It was a bloody dessert wine. I like my white wine dry, crisp and full-bodied, and I can’t go near sweet wines since my high-school days of drinking four-litre Fruity Lexia goon casks. However, Mr McSpaz said ‘It’s not completely undrinkable.’ This was a lie, but sadly, one that I was willing to believe at the time. I think I probably deserved my headache the following day.
Before we could stagger off to bed at last, we had one important job to do. It was Easter Saturday and we had a basketful of eggs to hide for the boys. Because of our wine-clouded state, most of them ended up in blatantly obvious places, and I had the brilliant idea of putting one next to the night lamp, where it promptly melted. But the look on Angus and Luke’s faces the next morning made up for any faults in the difficulty level of the egg hunt.
More to come later on.
