“The Lodge” is a disused church camp with about one hundred acres of bush attached to it.
Our “more front than Myers”* mum has negotiated a lease arrangement with the owners of “The Lodge” and the bushland. She pays them an absolute pittance and in exchange we get full use of The Lodge and the bush. We build a holding yard so that our ponies can sleep overnight when we are up for the weekend. We renovate the bungalow and fill it with our belongings, we construct elaborate air riffle ranges with old cups and plates and cookware from the old kitchen.
It’s every kids dream and we have to pinch ourselves every time we drive through the gate.
As we approach the gate there’s a heated discussion about who will be on duty. It’s raining hard and it’s warm in the car. I “win” and haul my oilskin coat on before I dash out of the car to the gate. I wait for mum to drive through and then quickly close the gate and leap back in the car.
Mum stops the car but leaves the headlights on so we can see to light the gas lamps. We all rush into the bungalow. It’s absolutely freezing and the three of us are jumping up and down on the spot to keep warm. Mum sets to work unlocking the storage cupboard and pulling out all our belongings. She lights a couple of gas lanterns and finds that the mantels need replacing on a couple more. She leaves us with one primus and instructions to make our beds.
We roll out our sleeping bags and grab a blanket each. It’s going to be a really cold night. Once everything is organised in our room we drag on our gumboots and prepare ourselves for the mad dash over to The Lodge. We hold our primus up high and see that mum has created a fairly crude bridge system over the puddles in the wood shed.
The puddles and the bridges are negotiated easily and we open the lodge door to find the fire roaring. Mum’s had to rearrange some of the furniture to avoid the drips coming through the rusted roof. There are already a series of puddles forming in the sawdust floor. We are confined to our carpet square for the night as the rest of The Lodge is dotted with soggy sawdust pot holes.
We all head straight for the fire to toast our bottoms. The three of us stand too close to the roaring fire watching mum replace gas mantels in the half light and listening to the rain on the tin roof. We talk sleepily about how much fun we are going to have tomorrow and how full of tadpoles the swamp will be.
More rainy day stories here.
* for non-Australian residents: More front that Myers