The bull ring where she camped is now a rugby field. The main ablutions block has been torn down to make way for a new community sports facility.
Still, Tracey Roxburgh clings on to her memories of the former Arrowtown Camping Ground.
They were the halcyon days of a Kiwi camping holiday.
When the summers were so hot the tar would melt, you could hear the lupins bursting all along the river and, on the rare occasions it rained, the scorched earth would start steaming as soon as it stopped.
This year, the last remnant of the place I considered my second home, the former Arrowtown Camping Ground, was demolished.
Before the main ablutions block was pulled down, I wandered around it, accompanied by the many memories I'd amassed during more than 20 of the best summer holidays I could have wished for.
The seemingly never-ending days were spent - almost exclusively - swimming in one water hole or another.
As the sun was going down we'd be chowing down at a communal barbecue, after which the kids would be put on dishes duty while the adults quenched their thirst with wine (from a box) and beer.
We would then roam free until we could no longer keep our eyes open, or our parents eventually called us to bed.
I had my first holiday in the Arrowtown Camping Ground when I was just 3 months old - the beginning of a tradition that spanned more than two decades.
The most stressful thing about those long-awaited breaks was actually getting to Arrowtown.
Packing our Nifty Camper was a process that took several days - and towing it to Arrowtown using the Toyota Corolla (in the days before air-conditioning) was an adventure in itself.
But the excitement as we got closer to Arrowtown was palpable.
I'll never forget pulling into the old entrance to the former camping ground, Mum driving the car sideways over the speed bumps to try to avoid scraping the tow bar, and waiting patiently (or not) in the car while she checked us in with former manager Faye Gibb.
Although her husband, Gordy, was often busy showing other campers where to pitch their tents or park their caravans, there was no need for him to do that with us.
After the first couple of years, we moved our site into the bull ring and every year - bar one - we parked up in the same position, as did the 10 other families who camped with us.
Forming our own fun little commune, we had the set-up down to a fine art: the custom-made awning was attached and the top of the camper popped in no time; poles were threaded through loops, guy ropes attached, pegged into the ground and pulled tight; curtains were hung, carpet (yes, carpet) was laid out and bunk beds erected.
We moved like a well-oiled machine because we knew as soon as we were unpacked the holiday could begin.
And it always began with the bacon and egg pie Mum made the night before and, when we were old enough, a wine (for a time, Vegemite jars sufficed).
When my sister and I were younger, our family, and the others who camped around us, would head to Kinloch to escape the bull ring over the New Year period.
In later years, we would sit outside our temporary home, being entertained by revellers who had beer for breakfast, offering them food from our barbecue because they'd run out of money.
Before cellphones, the Internet and iPads, we'd spend our days playing, reading, swimming and generally being kids.
Yet there was still a routine.
Every morning, up with the birds because the sun made it too hot to sleep in the awning, we'd walk down to the camp shop to see Faye and buy a newspaper, passing a blackboard outside the shop with the day's forecast and predicted high - which seemed to always be sunny and 35degC.
Breakfast was under an umbrella outside our camper before we'd begin the interminable wait for a shower.
Eventually, clean but not necessarily warm, we'd return to our camp site.
Damp towels were pegged out on the guy ropes to dry; my sister and I were slathered in sunscreen; we'd hop into our bathing suits and head to our second home - Lake Hayes, where we would stay until the heat from the sun finally disappeared.
We kids spent the vast majority of the days in the water, while our parents alternated between sheltering in the shade and basking in the sun, sometimes climbing into a sail boat and doing a lap of the lake.
We'd inevitably stop at the Royal Oak on the way back to the camping ground for hot chips and a raspberry and coke in the world's greatest garden bar, before the customary communal barbecue.
Sometimes, the routine varied. Occasionally, we'd go down to the Arrow River where we'd use tyre inners as flotation devices, or we'd head to a different spot in the river and try our hand at (unsuccessfully) finding our fortune in gold.
And, on those rare occasions it rained, the traditional Monopoly marathons would be held - events that sometimes lasted a couple of days.
Despite rarely leaving Arrowtown while we were on holiday, I don't ever remember getting bored.
If we weren't splashing about in a body of water, as my holiday friends and I got older we'd wander down Arrowtown's main street, buy a magazine from the dairy and sit on Buckingham Green flipping through the pages and talking about everything and nothing.
They really were, to quote Bryan Adams, the best days of my life.
All too soon though, our holidays eventually came to an end and the pack-up began.
It always seemed to take infinitely longer than the set-up, partly because none of us were ever in a great hurry to leave.
But, I always assumed we'd be back.
Now, my ‘‘second home'' is no more.
The bull ring where we camped is a rugby field and the main ablutions block was torn down early in 2015 to make way for a new community sports facility for the village.
Fortunately, it doesn't take a building to prompt my memories to come flooding back.
Old photos. The smells of tarseal, pine and gorse. Thick, white sunblock. Catalysts for time travel back to those lazy, hazy days I'll never forget.
