In the fifth of our series, David Eames recalls holidays far from the beach and under the thrall of Space Invaders
While many of us remember childhood holidays messing around in boats, or swatting mozzies at seaside holiday camps, I had no great interest in the outdoors as a kid.
I'd just as happily run a cold bath as go to the beach, and growing up on a farm, when holidays came around, I wouldn't have cared if the whole world was pavement.
So a week or two in Wanganui was my idea of a good time. My grandparents settled there after the war, and having raised four children, would open their place to any grandkids looking for somewhere to spend a few weeks.
A holiday at 80 Pitt St boasted three attractions for a 14-year-old: a train line, a hedge to crawl under into someone else's property, and easy access to amusement arcades where I could drop pocket money into the new-fangled Space Invaders machines.
Countless hot summer afternoons were spent in the dark and smokey confines of the fun parlour at the top of Maria Place and played out to a soundtrack of advancing aliens.
Both grandparents were keen gardeners, and my sister and I were often called upon to help them.
My grandfather's experience of army life was manifested in the military precision with which he kept his lawn, marshalled his marrows and bound his beans. When not in the garden, and before his eyesight failed him completely, he was often to be found lurking in his shed, ferreting through jars of nails and odd-sized screws or hunting out a bit for a drill that had long since ceased to function.
They write books about such sheds nowadays, and we spent hours helping as he erected trellis for free-ranging kiwifruits or new compartments for the compost heap.
When granny worked the garden, my grandfather would watch as she planted trees he was convinced would grow to dwarf the property, or worse, become untidy.
Unless a tree grew to less than two metres - a little higher if it provided food - it needed to be constantly and ruthlessly restrained, or better yet removed.
A busy day's holidaying was always topped off with the type of evening meal that seems to have disappeared with that generation.
I remember piles of grated suet on their way to becoming dumplings, oxtail being transformed into a tasty stew, and tripe ... well, it doesn't really matter what you try to do with tripe.
My grandparents died more than 15 years ago, the house on Pitt St was sold before that. But I checked in on the property not so long ago, courtesy of Google Earth.
The vegetable gardens are gone, and the flower garden converted into lawn. Even worse, the old shed looks to have been replaced by a new one, with a shiny corrugated iron roof. I'll bet it doesn't have half the character.
