The Long Way to the Sea

You're half asleep, your cheek resting on his shoulder as the cold morning air brushes your face. He settles you into your seat, tucks a blanket around you, and before long your brothers and sister climb in beside you, still sleepy and warm from their beds.

You hear your parents' quiet murmur from the front. The engine starts. The house disappears behind you. You close your eyes again, surrounded by the familiar smells of your family, the soft rustle of blankets and the comforting sound of your parents talking. Somewhere in your sleepy mind, excitement stirs. You're going on holiday.

We were four children growing up in South Africa, and holidays meant long drives, a packed Volkswagen Combi and parents who somehow turned an ordinary journey into an adventure of its own. We always had a Combi. With four children, buckets and spades, fishing rods, clothes, books and enough food to feed an army, we needed every inch of space. Every few years, Dad would upgrade us to a newer model, and each new vehicle brought its own excitement.

This particular year, we'd acquired a Combi with air conditioning. Air conditioning! We'd spent so many previous summers sweating in the back, opening every window and hoping for a breeze. Now we sat marvelling at our new luxury, feeling the cool air wash over us. It was the sort of thing that could make an entire holiday feel different before we'd even left the driveway.

Of course, none of us could sleep for long. At some point, hunger would win. I'd open one eye, see my brother taking up far more than his fair share of the seat, and give him a well-aimed kick to reclaim a little space. My stomach would growl, cars would whiz past outside, and sunshine would stream through the windows. It was nearly time for our first stop.

We had a favourite picnic spot, and stopping there was as much a part of the holiday as reaching the beach itself. Mum and Dad would pull in, and we'd spill out of the Combi, stretch our stiff legs, and blink in the morning sunshine. The South African bushveld was beautiful at that hour. Birds called from the trees, the air was fresh, and distant mountains stood against the brightening sky. There might be a little rubbish around the bins, but we barely noticed. We were outdoors, we were hungry, and breakfast was coming.

Mum, meanwhile, had a public picnic table to deal with. Before anything else could happen, it needed wiping down. Thoroughly. We knew better than to argue. By the time she was satisfied, the rest of us were practically climbing over one another in anticipation. Then came the picnic basket.

Breakfast was serious business when you were one of four children. Mum produced the cereal boxes: Coco Pops, Rice Krispies and Corn Flakes. We always competed over which cereal was best, and somehow the arguments never ended. We'd all gravitate towards our favourites, leaving the least popular option to whoever was prepared to accept defeat. The sugar-coated Corn Flakes, which we called the icy ones, were rarely anybody's first choice.

There was milk, little cups for our drinks, and food packed carefully into the basket. My gluten-free food was kept separate, as it needed to be. Sandwiches weren't much use to me because gluten-free bread crumbled so easily, so I had my own food instead. Mum and Dad had their coffee, while we children had our little cups of brew or, if we were lucky, a Steri Stumpie, the South African flavoured milk drink that felt like a real treat. At ten, being allowed a sip of coffee made me feel terribly grown-up. A Steri Stumpie was another kind of luxury altogether.

Soon the table was covered with bowls, cups and cereal boxes. Everyone was talking at once. Someone wanted more milk. Someone complained about the cereal. Laughter, shouting, and the familiar soundtrack of four children delighted to be let loose after hours in the car filled the room. That was the magic of those mornings. Nothing extraordinary was happening, yet everything felt special.

When we finished breakfast, we helped pack up and ran around to stretch our legs. Mum called after us to stay away from the road, and soon we were climbing back into the Combi for the next stretch of the journey. Naturally, getting back into the car required another round of negotiations. Who was sitting where? Who had whose book? Who was taking up too much room?

There were no iPads to settle us down then. We had books, and plenty of them. We'd find the most comfortable position possible, tuck our feet under blankets, and disappear into our stories as the miles slipped past. Dad put on our familiar country music tapes. Before long, we were singing along, some of us more tunefully than others. Mum watched us in the rear-view mirror, and Dad laughed at whatever nonsense was unfolding behind him.

Outside, the countryside changed as we travelled. We passed a great dam, with water pouring through in enormous torrents. I remember watching through the window, fascinated by the sheer volume of water. We still had hours ahead of us, but we had something wonderful to look forward to.

Wimpy.

We were farm children, and eating out wasn't an everyday occurrence. A restaurant meal was a treat, and on these journeys we always looked forward to stopping at our favourite Wimpy. By the time we pulled into the garage around two o'clock, we were ready. We washed our hands, opened our menus, and settled into our booth with the enthusiasm of children who had been thinking about lunch for hours.

There were burgers, chips and milkshakes. I usually ate the burger filling without the bun, but that didn't make my Wimpy burger any less delicious. There was the cheese slice, the special relish and those perfectly formed chips that somehow tasted better than chips eaten anywhere else.

Then there were the milkshakes. Lime was my favourite. We always wanted the extra-large everything, with double patties on our burgers. We looked forward to that meal for weeks, and nothing tasted quite like it. We laughed and talked, finishing every last chip. Then came the next argument: pudding.

Most of my siblings favoured waffles with ice cream. I preferred ice cream with chocolate sauce. At ten, with a full stomach and a holiday stretching out in front of me, I couldn't imagine anything better. We sat there, happy and unhurried. Nobody was checking a phone or looking at a screen. We were simply together, enjoying a meal and each other's company.

Eventually, though, even the best lunch had to end. We climbed back into the Combi for the final stretch, with another three or four hours to go. Books reappeared. I think my eldest brother was the only one allowed headphones. He had his own tape player, which seemed terribly unfair. My sister and I played cards, usually rummy, while the boys talked excitedly about the fishing they planned to do once we arrived.

Dad turned up the music again, and we sang along. The car was warm and crowded, filled with the sound of turning pages, whispered conversations, occasional squabbles, and familiar songs. Mum glanced back at us from the front, and Dad laughed. I can still picture it: soft afternoon light through the windows, the air conditioning humming, and the countryside sliding past as we sat, squashed together, in our little travelling world.

Then came the afternoon tea stop. Mum loved her tea. Ten o'clock tea and afternoon tea were family traditions, and no long journey was complete without them. Our picnic basket contained a large flask of tea, a tin of Mum's homemade custard biscuits and cheese puffs. By half past three, the sun had lost some of its heat, and we'd pull into another picnic spot.

This time, the excitement was all about the treats. Mum rinsed out our little cups with water from a large bottle and poured everyone a small serving of tea. The biscuits were divided carefully. We each received exactly two and a half. With four children sharing, every biscuit had to be accounted for, because an unequal distribution could easily become a family dispute. Since we couldn't eat the cheese puffs, I got an extra packet of chips.

We sat overlooking a beautiful dam. I remember the stillness of the water, the birds in the trees, and what looked like a kingfisher perched on a distant branch. The African bush had its own smell: warm grass, dry earth, and the freshness of the open air. Even now, certain smells can bring it back so vividly that I feel transported.

We drank our tea, ate our biscuits and looked out over the water. For a little while, nobody fought or complained. We sat together and enjoyed the quiet. Then it was time to go again.

The light was beginning to change as we settled into the final stretch. My sister and I played cards. The boys talked about fishing. Dad put on another favourite song, and soon the whole Combi was singing. Then, at around six o'clock, we rounded a bend in the road.

The sea appeared.

After hours of travelling through the bushveld, that enormous expanse of water was almost overwhelming. Sunlight shimmered across the surface, and the sky began to soften as the day drew toward evening. We were nearly there.

Our fishing rods were packed and ready. We had buckets and spades, little fishing nets and boogie boards. We could already imagine ourselves running along the beach, searching rock pools and splashing in the waves. The last few minutes felt like forever.

When we finally reached our holiday home, the Combi was barely stationary before the shouting began. Everyone wanted out, to see the house, find their bed, and unpack. Mum and Dad, however, had other ideas. First, we had to unload everything. There were clothes, bags, cooler boxes, food supplies and all the equipment we'd brought for our stay. Each of us had a job, and nobody was allowed to disappear towards the beach until we'd helped get the house ready.

The place had been closed up before our arrival, so there was plenty to do. We opened it up, unpacked the food and sorted out our sleeping arrangements. We girls shared a dormitory at the back. The boys preferred the top room in the bush. Mum and Dad slept at the front.

Our own beds. Our own space for the next few days. We knew we weren't going home tomorrow, or even the day after. We had a whole holiday ahead of us.

Once we'd unpacked enough, the call finally came to grab our things and head for the lagoon. We took off with our boogie boards, buckets and spades, barely able to contain ourselves. The evening was beautiful. The water was calm, and the beach felt like it was ours. We dumped our things on the sand and ran straight into the sea.

It was freezing.

We shrieked, jumped and splashed, trying to get used to the cold. Someone complained. Someone laughed. Nobody wanted to get out. Behind us, Mum and Dad sat on the beach with their gin and tonics, watching their four children charge into the water.

This was our holiday. Our family. Our little world.

We'd travelled all day. We'd eaten cereal at picnic tables, argued over books, drunk tea and shared custard biscuits. We'd stopped for burgers and milkshakes, sung along to country music and watched the landscape change outside the windows. We'd bickered, laughed, eaten too much, and asked how much longer it would take to get there.

And now we were there.

As children, we don't understand how much goes into making a moment like that possible. We don't see the planning, the packing, the long hours behind the wheel, the food prepared in advance or the money saved for a holiday. We don't realise that one day, those ordinary details will become the very things we miss most.

We just know that Dad is driving, Mum has packed enough food to feed an army, our siblings are irritating and wonderful in equal measure, and the sea is waiting for us at the end of the road. We know that when we're tired, somebody will carry us to the car. When we're hungry, there will be something to eat. When we're cold, a blanket will be there. When we wake up, our family will be there.

We know that we belong.

Years later, the smallest things can bring it all back. The smell of Mum's custard biscuits. The taste of a lime milkshake. The sound of a familiar song coming through the car speakers. The feel of a blanket tucked around us before dawn. The cool air from that newly fitted air conditioner, which seemed like the height of luxury at the time.

You might smell grass after the rain and find yourself back in the bushveld. You might hear an old country song and remember your father's laughter from the driver's seat. You might taste something you haven't eaten since childhood and suddenly see the whole family gathered around a picnic table, arguing over the last bowl of Rice Krispies.

For a few seconds, you are there again.

You are ten years old. The windows are bright with sunshine. Your brother is taking up too much space. Your sister is ready for another game of rummy. Your mother is organising something, your father is telling you about the particular herd of sheep you've just driven past, and the road ahead is full of possibilities.

You don't know how quickly childhood passes. You don't know that the people around that picnic table will grow older, build their own lives, and one day look back on those same moments with their own sense of longing. You just feel happy.

I wish I could climb into that Combi one more time. I'd happily sit in the cramped back seat, listen to the same old tapes and argue with my siblings. I'd drink a little cup of tea, eat custard biscuits, and order the extra-large lime milkshake. I'd let my brother steal my space, and my sister beat me at rummy.

I'd watch the mountains rise above the bushveld, breathe in the smell of the grass and wait for that first glimpse of the sea. And when we finally arrived, I'd run down to the lagoon with the others, shriek as my brothers splashed me with cold water and look back at my parents sitting on the sand.

The older I get, the more I understand the real destination was never just the beach. It was the long road, the packed picnic basket, the familiar voices and the knowledge that, for those few precious days, we were all there, in one place, sharing the same adventure.

Childhood holidays don't last forever. But somewhere inside us, that little Combi keeps travelling. And if we're lucky, every now and then, a smell, a song or the taste of something familiar brings us home again.

This story is based on my own memories, with AI assistance for editing and proofreading.