We always went down to the crib for the Christmas holidays. Mum and Dad packed up the old Ford on Christmas Eve, and we would head off for an endless summer at Taieri Mouth with the cousins.
The crib meant unheard of freedom for us city kids. Freedom from hot baths, as there was never enough water in the water tank for a bath. A dip in the icy sea had to do.
A trip to the loo at night was unlike any trip to the loo at home. With torch in hand we crept in the dark through the lupins. No flash toilet rolls, just cut up squares of the Otago Daily Times threaded together with string, hanging by the loo door, which did not close, so everyone usually sang while on the loo, telling the world the family throne was occupied.
The highlight every year was our traditional New Year’s Eve bonfire, and the year no-one will ever forget is the year a large furry rat walked out of the flames, terrifying everyone.
New Year’s Eve dawned grey and overcast. Coal ranges were lit and our mums began preparing the New Year’s Eve bonfire feast early, helped by the odd sip of sherry. Our dads took off by boat for the Henley pub to fill the flagons. We always knew when they were nearly home as we heard them singing their army songs while they floated back down the River Onions, as we used to call the Taieri River.
We were sent off to the Taieri Mouth store with a shopping list, pausing on the old Taieri Bridge for a quick round of Poohsticks on the way back to the crib.
Then bonfire building was under way. Piles of junk were dragged across the sand. The wind began to blow and the bonfire began to grow. A couple of old chairs were thrown on top to crown the masterpiece.
Finished at last? ... Well not quite. The old chairs were antiques. They were rescued from a flaming fate by Dad and we all went back to the crib for tea and to count the hours until midnight.
Finally, it was time to gather the picnic baskets, the Tilley lamps and Thermette, and head off across the sand dunes to celebrate the new year.
Our first job was to erect wind shelters: a hopeless job as they blew away before we could set them up. Heavy raindrops were pounding the dunes and thrashing against us like bullets. We hardly noticed. We were all counting the minutes until midnight.
"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one: happy New Year!"
It was party time at last, a party we had waited a year to enjoy. Everyone danced around the flames, singing Auld Lang Syne, while the Thermette boiled water for much-needed hot cuppas.
That should have been it, but it wasn’t.
The event remembered by everyone was the appearance of a large brown furry rat coming from the middle of the blaze while the bonfire was at its height. It slowly walked towards us. We stared at it aghast while it paused inches from our bare feet. No-one dared move. It looked around, then disappeared into the dark before any of us had fully realised what it was.Then the famous New Year’s Eve Rat Hunt began.
Mum and Aunty Nell jumped on to the old chairs and screamed. Dad told everyone to calm down. Uncle Ted burned his fingers trying to turn the Thermette into a rat trap, and we kids grabbed blazing banners out of the fire and charged after the monstrous intruder, the little rat.
By the time the rat hunt was under way the poor animal had either died of fright or was safely hidden in the dunes. It was never seen again, and was the only rat to ever walk out of a Taieri Mouth New Year’s Eve bonfire ... as far as we know.
- Rose Hudson is a Wellington-based writer, teacher and actor.
Your best day
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