Full house, again

An authentic holiday house with all the expected quirks is just the thing to inspire a trip down memory lane.

We took an oldfashioned family holiday a few weeks ago. Eleven of us shared a seven-bedroom beach house.

Daughter Courtenay and son-in-law Nick found the house, rounded up siblings, booked airline tickets, worked out menus, bought food, and planned “group activities”.

“We’ll pick strawberries, see penguins and take long walks on the beach. No complaining people. Whine and you wash up!”

“It sounds like the school camp I went to in 1962,” grumbled the MOTH (man of the house).

“It will be just like our place before everybody grew up and left home,” I said happily. “Someone in every room!” “Exactly,” he muttered.

The MOTH cheered up when he saw the rambling old house. It was perfect. There was a rocky beach, a tiny cafe and a pub down the lane. “Hear that?” he shouted to our granddaughters as he unloaded suitcases.

“The howling noise?” “Yep! That’s not the wind or the waves, it’s the ghosts of the last family who stayed here!” The girls raced up the front steps squealing in blissful terror.

I know an authentic Aussie holiday house when I see one. I followed them in with my checklist.

• Creaky floorboards (friendly ghosts). • Dim bedside lamps (less reading, lots of talking).

• No lock on the toilet door (some squealing but short waiting times). • Blunt knives (no designer food). • Unused coffee machine with 200-page instruction manual (takeaway coffee every morning!)

That night the MOTH and I sat on a comfy sofa in front of the fire sipping wine and listening to our children wrestle their children into strange new beds. Those without children were in the kitchen setting out cheese platters and popping corks.

“Having all these kids wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” I mused.

“I see the chardonnay’s kicking in,” he observed mildly.

I topped up my glass and thought back to sunny days when the nappies dried quickly and a “freshly laundered” baby with a full tummy dozed in my arms.

I was less fond of the “cake stall” decade that followed. I had to buy my own cake once because the polling booths were closing and magpies were circling. I could have done with fewer school projects requiring bottle caps, feathers and glue, and I’m happy I don’t iron 25 long-sleeved white school shirts every week anymore. But who wouldn’t miss the noise a giant Lego creation makes when it crashes into a million pieces on the floor? Or the shouty singsong of, “DID TOO! – DID NOT!” on a rainy day.

I can almost hear it now.

“You really can,” said the MOTH. “Somebody just broke a wine glass in the kitchen.”

And I miss being able to solve their problems. It’s easier to talk to a 16 year old about curfews and report cards than to adults about house prices and mortgages.

I closed my eyes for a moment and woke up with a start. The kids stood in a semi-circle looking at us.

“Wake up and go to bed,” they chorused. “We’re meeting on the beach at 6am!”

“I was just resting my eyes,” the MOTH grumbled.

“The people we used to put to bed are putting us to bed,” I huffed.

“If we go quietly maybe they’ll give us a treat.”

We did. But they didn’t. They’re meanies.