Getting there can be one of the best bits of a holiday, writes Don Sinclair.
December 23, 1954, a Thursday morning, 7 o'clock, my mum, dad, sister and I climbed into a large black Plymouth taxi in Shetland St, Wakari, which took us to the NZ Railways bus depot in Queens Gardens.
We were headed for Queenstown and for me, a 9-year-old boy, this bus trip was going to be a true adventure, on what was considered quite a long road trip back then.
The taxi ride itself was a treat as the Plymouth was brand-new and our driver was dressed for the part in a long white coat.
At the bus depot my dad handed over our bus tickets and our suitcases were checked through as far as Cromwell.
We had to change buses there, as the NZ Railways bus carried on to Wanaka, while the Mount Cook bus company provided the Queenstown service.
Our bus left Dunedin about 8.15am and we travelled down to Milton where it stopped for morning tea.
My dad and I ran along the main road of Milton to see his sister to wish her a happy Christmas and new year.
He had not talked to or seen her for a number of years; people in those days mostly just wrote letters.
We then travelled on to Roxburgh where the bus stopped for 40 minutes for lunch.
Mum and Dad decided to go to the local hotel for lunch, which in itself was really special.
Only rich people went to a hotel for a meal.
Dad told the lady in charge that they were going to have to serve our meal real quick.
They must have, as we ate a three-course meal and it just tasted great.
At Cromwell we had to get off the NZ Railway bus and stood waiting on the footpath for our Queenstown Mount Cook bus, which finally pulled up painted a dark brown on top and a wine colour on the rest of it.
We watched our new bus being loaded, with lots of freight and bags on the roof where it had a wooden carrier.
Mum was telling Dad "No way are our cases going up on that roof!''.
Dad talked to the bus driver (a big man with light ginger hair) and our suitcases were placed in the inside luggage compartment.
They then both disappeared into the bar of the local hotel.
Once we were moving again, we passed the racecourse and the seal ended.
Our Queenstown bus driver (Snow White, I think his name was) lived in Arrowtown, Dad said.
He sure was not wasting any time driving up through the Kawarau Gorge, and lots of dust started coming into the bus.
We passed a number of Bailey bridges, which crossed the very fast green-looking river that flowed away down below us, as the Bedford motor screamed away.
To a young boy, it was just great.
My mum, who was dressed in a new outfit, and wearing a big white hat, was not too sure about all this. She said to Dad, "I can see our bus driver's eyes closing in his rear mirror''.
"Look, Don,'' she said.
My dad just said, "Well, I shouted him a few stiff Christmas-time whiskies in the bar in Cromwell. He will get us there OK. Stop worrying and just look at the scenery and enjoy it."
My mum was not impressed.
Finally, we got to the Mountain View Lodge Camping Ground, in Queenstown.
It was 8pm.
There was not a soul to be seen, just the lake and mountains.
The bus took off and suddenly it was dead silence as if we had been dropped off in the middle of nowhere.
We carried our suitcases up a hill, with the help of the camp owner, to our holiday cabin.
We were his first guests there.
We had a great holiday, but that is another story.
• Don Sinclair is a retired panelbeater and freezing worker.
