HOLIDAY MEMORIES

New Zealand Journal of Agriculture, Volume 66, Issue 3, 15 March 1943, Page 191

HOLIDAY MEMORIES

First Prize:

HOLIDAY memories, and what happy ones! London, France, Switzerland, Italy— perfect weeks of cloudless weather, and a dream that came true. All that remains now are some photographs, a few pieces of pottery, a tiny statuette, and pictures that can be conjured up at will as vividly as colour snapshots on a screen. London! The smoky dimness of Victoria Station on a warm summer afternoon; the grey backyards of London’s slumlands; the leafy orchards of Kent, and finally Folkestone, with the grey Channel beyond. France! The wild scramble through the Customs house at Boulogne; the train with its little lace antimacassars on the seat backs, and great baskets of peaches being handed in through the carriage window. On we went through the valley of the Somme with its gently swelling hills, its tiny patches of cultivation, and here and there a blasted tree trunk, grim reminder of 1916. Into Switzerland with its narrowing valleys, trim pine trees and snow-capped mountains. The excitement of the English passengers puzzled us till we realised that they had not seen a mountain before. From the cold austerity of a Swiss mountain valley we passed through fifteen minutes of dark tunnel into the brilliant skies and sunshine of Italy, and so to Lugaro, with its blue lake, white buildings,' and lime-shaded avenues. Then followed days of clear beauty,; and nights of warm scented darkness, with so much to do, and so much to see. There were days when we bathed in the warm waters of the lake, swimming to the channel buoy, and rocking lazily in the wash of the little lake steamer as she went by; there were nights at the Casino with music, laughter, and lovely women; there was the lake itself outlined in lights, the water reflecting the colour-

ed lanterns of the little boats as they skimmed across it; snatches of song; the twang of a guitar a veritable fairyland to a visitor from our young, less sophisticated country. There were afternoons in the cool shopping arcades, with their picturesque crowds, and tiny donkeys tripping daintily over the cobbles. Here we saw macaroni and spaghetti in every imaginable form and shape. A visit to the cathedral showed us funeral wreaths as large as an averagesized, kitchen table;

WHAT joyous recollections of happy holidays you have shared with me! I feel I have holidayed myself in all parts of the world after reading your memories, and I know you will all enjoy the enchanted holiday that “X.Y.Z.,” of Okato, shares with us. Thank you, “X.Y.Z.,” for taking us with you on your unforgettable holiday. Second prize goes to “Maritza,” of Gisborneher holiday memory brought us nearer home, but what a happy time she had nevertheless! a walk down a back street revealed meat being cooked on an ancient revolving spit; there were courtyards with tiny balconies where Romeo might have talked with Juliet. One night was spent dancing on a stone floor in the moonlight, in a strange little cafe overlooking the lake. We were never to see it in daylight, but it was covered with grape vines, and smelt of garlic. We visited a Franciscan monastery, perched on a mountain like an eagle on its nest, and after a sharp walk up past the Stations of the Cross we arrived at a door over which no woman’s foot must pass. The one exception is the chapel, which . was full of little dark-eyed peasant children, learning their lessons from the brown-robed monks. Sometimes we went further afield. Once it was through miles of mulberry groves to the city of Milan and its cathedral, with its forest-like dimness, its screens of flickering candles and its calm-faced saints and Madonnas before whom dark-veiled women were kneel-

ing. We went to Isola Bella with the blue waves washing its marble staircases, its flower-decked terraces and white peacocks, and its strange palace filled with what the critics tell us is bad art. Another day saw us at Lake Como, more lovely still, lying shimmering in the noonday sun, its waters stretching out to the white villas of Bellagio. Looking down on it all is the Villa Carlotta, with its art treasures, its cool fountains and its balustrades of tumbling roses and bougainvillea. Its gardens are a dream of beauty perfect setting for the Decameron. . There was much to see, but back we came from Italy on a night journey to Paris. Three bewildering days followed, days of movement and excitement. We saw Notre Dame with its hideous gargoyles and lovely rose windows; we travelled on' the underground railway, and had the nightmare feeling that the train would never stop long enough to allow us to get off. We drove in mad, hurrying taxis; we had a tour through the city in a char-a-banc, complete with' blaring megaphone and. shouting conductor, but we felt infinitely safer that way. We went to the Louvre, and stood with constricted throat before the Venus de Milo, awed. into silence by its beauty; we joined curious crowds gazing at the Mona Lisa. We saw the Bois de Boulogne with the lights of its lakeside cafes twinkling through the dusk of a summer evening; and were spell-bound by the amazing vastness of the palace of Versailles, its gardens and its tiny bedroom with the pathetic, brown-stained mirror that once reflected the lovely face of Marie Antoinette. And so back again to Calais and London, having gathered a lifetime of happy memories.— X.Y.Z.,, Okato.

Second Prize:

WAIKAREMOANA, “Lake of the Rippling Waters”—how I love it! My happiest holiday memories are

filled with the music of the tui, the soft whirring of wild pigeons’ wings, and the tantalising “plop” of a rising trout. Of all the holidays I have spent by the lake, one month stands out like a jewel for all of March we had perfect weather, and with a 16-foot boat and an outboard motor, we camped at the far end of the Lake. Our days were filled with joy and laughter. We swam in soft clear water, explored all the little bays and inlets around the shore,

had meals when the spirit moved us, and felt very . far' removed from the world. When dawn’ flushed the sky, we would creep round the edges of the bays where the big brown trout cuddle the shore, and the early mists of morning would slowly dissolve as the sun rose. Sometimes we would land a gleaming fish, and go back to our camp for a royal breakfast. Is any smell so fascinating as wood smoke in

the early morning, any .sound so appetising as the sizzling of 'trout frying? I have been at the Lake at' Christmas time, when the blood red rata tumbles down to the shore, and the - wild cherry trees are scarlet with fruit, and softbreasted pigeons take their dessert from the branches, but best of all is the time of year that I have mentioned. Early frosts tingle the mornings and give a wild crispness to the air, and the deer are collecting for the mating season. It is a perfect spot, unspoiled and very, very lovely. . The memory of that month by the “Lake of the Rippling Waters” will live, forever in my mind, and today, when the world is so full of sorrow, it is good to think that there the wild ducks still fly, the

pigeons whirr their soft wings, and the music of the tui is waiting for me when peace comes again— Maritza, Gisborne. WE spent the long week-end at New Year at a beach camp. On New Year’s Eve, we had a bonfire behind a hill on the green by the camp cookhouse. At 12 o’clock, as the New Year came bustling in, we linked hands in time-honoured fashion and sang “Auld Lang Syne,” “Land of Hope and. Glory,” a favourite hymn or two, and “The King.” " ' Then a Maori boy arrived with a big steel guitar, and struck up . the stirring “Maori Battalion”—and the way the crowd (about 300 of us) took it up! • Never had we heard such a wonderful pouring forth of pent-up emotions, such a spontaneous surge of harmony in such .weird surroundings, with the plaintive sound

of the steel guitar and the breaking of the : surf on the beach for accompaniment, and now and then the lonely cry of some wild creature in the dark remoteness of the bush-clad hills opposite. And above us, the lovely mystery of the night, and the stars seeming to blink at us so wisely and compassionately from the deep blue velvet dome of the heavens. Such insignificant little midgets we must have seemed to them, yet doubtless each of us so important to himself! Strange to think of so many of our dear ones far away across the, sea and of the many, alas! who would never now returnand I know we all sent up a heartfelt prayer that when the next New Year dawned, a universal peace might be very, very near and our loved ones home with us again.— A. M. Dowell, Taranaki.

Competitions

March:

Don’t forget our competition for next month—l am expecting to receive ever so many really worthwhile suggestions that are going to help mothers all over the country. Remember the subject? It was “Keeping them amused on wet days.” Entries close on April 15th, so be in time.

April:

How true it is that the children of today are the men and women .of tomorrow! What sort of men and women are your children going to grow up to be? Are you training them wisely, so that they will make good citizens in the world of tomorrow? Wise parents realise that their responsibility towards their children is indeed a big oneare you a wise parent in this respect? We owe so much to our growing children, they are indeed a precious heritage. Let us share your ideas on the subject for this month, in the hope that they will help towards making the rising generation into finer men and women. “WHAT ARE THE ATTRIBUTES OF WISE PARENTHOOD?” Make a note of the closing date —May 15thand there are two prizes, one of 10/- and one of 5/-. “ MARY,” ’ C/o “Journal of Agriculture,” P.O. Box 3004, Wellington.