Scary stories from a lovely place
On Saturday we spent the day on the train and in Kiama. For children whose every second word is ‘train’ and ‘toot, toot, train coming’ the public transport part of the day was a necessity. For myself, who grew up in Kiama, the destination was laced with nostalgia.
We walked to the blowhole, shared hot chips at Black Beach and played on the rocks.
I was only 10 years old when I moved from idyllic Kiama to middle class aspirational suburbia. Although the move undoubtedly took my life down good paths that probably wouldn’t have existed had we stayed, I still don’t think I’ve quite forgiven my parents for taking me away from Kiama. It was a fairy tale childhood in a big, old, magical house, surrounded by rocky shorelines and white sandy beaches.
I had a lovely time showing my kids places that I enjoyed as a child and seeing them relate to them in a similar way. Marveling at the spout of the blowhole. Climbing on rocks. Looking for crabs. Paddling on stony sand.
This has to be one of the coolest things about parenting – that as your kid grows you can interact with them and relate to them on a level that conjures up memories from your own childhood. As we played together on Black Beach it was like we were all kids together, spared the hassles of adulthood and just enjoying the natural beauty. May that continue for as long as possible.