The former Arrowtown Camping Ground main block is being demolished to make way for the new Arrowtown Community Sports Facility at Jack Reid Park. Queenstown reporter Tracey Roxburgh remembers happy times in a building that was more than just concrete blocks.
It was, in the end, an eyesore.
A run-down, concrete block of a building, used as the Arrowtown Rugby team's base.
It was not pretty, and probably it was the running joke of rugby clubs around Central Otago but, for those who celebrated and commiserated there, it was a special place.
It is now being demolished to make way for the long-awaited Arrowtown Community Sports Facility - in the pipeline for almost 10 years.
Last week, as I stood on Jack Reid Park and watched contractors start to tear apart that dilapidated concrete block building, I had an overwhelming sense of sadness.
For me, it was one of the last remaining pieces of my childhood and the place where my happiest memories as a kid were centred.
My first visit to the Arrowtown Camping Ground (ACG), now Jack Reid Park, was when I was 3 months old. It was the first holiday of what would become an annual tradition that continued for more than 20 years.
The lazy hazy days of summer would be spent, almost exclusively, at the same spot by Lake Hayes.
The nights centred around a communal barbecue (which happened rain or shine) with other families we camped with every year, after which the kids were on dishes duty and had far more fun in the kitchen annexe than should ever be allowed.
Then we would roam free while our parents quenched their thirst with beer or wine cooler from a box until eventually we would either be called to go to bed, or crawl in ourselves ... We would get up and do it all again the next day. They were quintessential Kiwi summers.
The most stressful thing about those holidays, aside from the two days it took to pack to get there, was trying to get a hot shower.
That concrete building was one of the most heavily populated places in the district over the peak Christmas-New Year period.
With fewer than 10 ladies' showers in the main block, and about 1000 ladies in the camping ground, getting a hot shower became a sport (the losers were the ones who had to wait on benches outside the showers for an hour just to stand in cold water for five minutes).
The managers, Faye and Gordy Gibb, never seemed to stop moving.
Faye ran the reception and camp shop, exhibiting eternal patience with kids who spent 10 minutes picking out the exact lollies they wanted in their 5c mixture, rolling ice creams until her hands cramped, all the while checking in new campers, farewelling others and, inevitably, explaining to a group of teenagers why their bond would not be returned.
When she got a second away from the building, you would see her doing spot cleans, hanging out cabin laundry and having a chat with campers.
Gordy, meanwhile, was run ragged towing out caravans for people, directing new campers to their sites, manning a barbecue to ensure the hungry masses at New Year - who remembered to bring plenty of liquids but gave little thought to solids - were fed, and making ice like it was going out of fashion.
He was, and still is, a volunteer firefighter and you would all too often see him sprinting from one end of the camping ground to the other when the siren went off.
I grew up with Faye and Gordy and then, when I was a teenager and asked if I could work for them the following summer, I became part of a pretty special family: the ACG Cleaners.
I got to know every inch of every building.
Bright yellow rubber gloves were our best friends, followed closely by disinfectant.
It was hard work, seemingly never-ending, actually, particularly between December 27 and January 6.
Despite that, it remains one of my favourite work experiences.
We took enormous pride in the job and every day, we had fun.
We had to take turns at reading aloud the ''real-life stories'' from women's magazines in the kitchens to entertain those who drew the cleaning straw in that building.
We would have fights with the green ''gloop'', or disinfectant concentrate. We used the handle of any and every cleaning tool available as a microphone to perform our gloriously bad rendition of I Will Survive, complete with choreography.
When we were done for the day, we would head down to Lake Hayes and take a well-earned break before collapsing in bed, getting up before the birds and doing it all again.
I loved that job so much the first year, I went back for round two with my cleaning buddies, who are still friends.
And I would do it again in a heartbeat.
We were young, we were carefree and we were having the time of our lives.
They were the last summers before life got real, responsibility called and we began forging our way blindly into adulthood.
The other day I stood on our old family camping spot and I watched contractors pull down a building that for me, despite its ultimate ugliness, held so many beautiful memories.
For me, that building, the blemish on the landscape it eventually became, is irreplaceable.
The last remaining piece of the ACG may soon be gone, but it will never be forgotten by those of us who had the best nights (and worst mornings) in that bull ring.
Who slowly went from being wobbly toddlers to lanky teens, who enjoyed the most carefree Kiwi summers under the safety provided by Faye and Gordy and, of course, the special few of us who donned the yellow gloves.
