Our summer holidays on Nanna’s farm are always an exhilarating mix of freedom, adventure, and family—a chance to escape the usual and embrace the wild, open spaces. As we drive south from Perth, nearing Mandurah, my heart swells with anticipation when the vibrant orange blossoms of the Christmas trees, Nuytsia floribunda or moodjar, begin dotting the paddocks. But it’s not until we turn down the gravel road bearing Mum’s family name that excitement really floods in.
The familiar landscape greets me, the old house standing roofless, its remains now an impromptu playground surrounded by the long grass. The air carries the distinct scent of cow dung as we pass the dairy, the smell lingering in the warm breeze. We make our way past my uncle’s house, and then, finally, Nanna’s place, parking between the house and the mulberry bush, which, despite only bearing fruit for one memorable season, still holds an unmistakable place in my memories.
Nanna is there to greet us with her warm embrace, her hugs and kisses marking the true beginning of our stay. The feeling of the familiar walls, the scent of the house—it all wraps around us as we quickly head out in search of our beloved dogs, with Blue being the favorite. After that, it’s time for the cousins—two live on the farm, but the excitement of seeing the others is something I eagerly await. We visit the chickens, collect eggs, and feel the rough tongues of the calves as they suck our fingers. One year, it’s ducklings; another, it’s puppies. The farm always holds a surprise.
There are trips to the dam for waterskiing and visits to Auntie Janice’s place at Myalup, where we sleep in the loft, crowded in together with cousins. We pile into the back of the ute, speeding towards the vast, sandy beach where we tumble through the waves, our laughter mixing with the crash of the ocean. Uncle Bernie reels in fish after fish, while the rest of us fish hopelessly.
The days are filled with the rhythm of farm life—waking at dawn to the sound of magpies, joining Uncle Johnny for milking, with the radio blasting classic rock in the background. We use the high-pressure hose to clean the yard afterward, and there’s always the thrill of the motorbike—speeding down dirt roads with Blue at my side, my uncle, my dad, and my cousins, racing past the paddocks. The heat, the dirt, the hay, the climbing, the jumping, the riding, the play, the dare—the electric fences and the occasional shock—all contribute to the electric summer.
But inevitably, there comes the leaving. The sweet goodbyes to the dogs, whose mournful howls will echo for days as we drive away, hugging Nanna tightly, our tears hidden but felt. As we drive down the winding gravel road, we take in the familiar landscape one last time, knowing the memories will linger long after we’ve left.
And then, there’s the dreaming—the longing, the yearning, the unending wish to return. The electric summer never truly ends; it stays with me, alive in every memory.
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