A child's Utopia

---

Murrumbateman’s big sky are sometimes filled with large, white, fluffy clouds that hover so close to nearby hills that you can think you could climb the hill and touch them. And there’s no sound other than the gentle breeze that lazily moves the clouds and rustles the leaves of shading trees.

That is, until the horde descends.

We set camp on the hilltop of a gentle rise that looked north along a valley framed by rolling hills and loosely populated with grapevines and occasional livestock. Simone ensured we’d want for nothing, and the car disgorged enough kit and food for a modest house. G and B went exploring before the tent was set. They raced down a hill, past skeletal remains of a couple of sheep, to a wooded area rich in fallen trees with moss growing on the shaded side. They walked carefully around the trees now stretched out on the ground – a favourite resting place for snakes, but none were to be found that day. They took to naming the different places – Boney Hill and Snakey Woods.

They returned to practice fire fighting with the pump action water sprayer. You know you’re in trouble when B approaches with the squirter and a grin, saying “I won’t squirt you, dad.” Sure … He had quickly become an expert shot, and each time I got squirted was followed by big laughs and squeals of delight. G also got into the action. She gets a cheeky glint in her eyes, and when she directs your attention to “look over there”, you know there’s trouble.

That evening, the fire they helped prepare burst into life, helped, according to G, by the Fire Fairies. Impatience overtook the slow roasting of marshmallows, and many snuck raw into eager mouths. The smell of the campfire in itself justified the outing. Its warmth as the sun withdrew was also more than welcome, and in the best pagan traditions, G and B danced around it, occasionally even offering a song.

The following morning saw little kids even more confident in their surrounds. Both took to binoculars, and with the look of senior command, strode around the camp peering into the distance and calling out things they saw.

They were deciding where to go on a hike – the hills or the creek. They chose the creek and we headed off down the long driveway that G named Buttercup Road, given that the delightful yellow flowers were everywhere around. Along the way we met the local fire crew in a passing fire truck. And 30 minutes later we stopped for refreshments at a quiet waterhole in the creek, now to be known as Billabong Rest. G was the first into the water; the first to swim at Billabong Rest. Not intentionally, and not completely. The muddy bank invited her in and coated her shoes and trousers. She at first looked distraught, but seeing the muddy mess, burst into laughter. B, meanwhile, tested his arm with ever-larger rocks that he sent splashing into the water.

Returning, we took a shortcut, over fences, through a paddock notable for its solitary bathtub, and up the back of the hill to the campsite. They raced up the final hill to tell their mum of their adventures.

Then it was off to a neighbour’s for a more civilised lunch before heading home. Our first camping trip now behind us, its success heralded many more to come.

---