Under blue expansive skies and a big sun, we cycled from Albert Town beside the sparkling waters of the Hawea River, past mile after mile of glorious gold, yellow, orange and red autumn displays.
Three generations we were; we the grandparents, two of our adult children with their partners, and five grandchildren who ranged from 22 months to 10-year-old twins.
Tarn, at 22 months, is the newest addition to the whanau. He is an ‘‘accomplished cyclist’’ with many cycling adventures and even an overnighter under his small belt. He rides nonchalantly on a seat (imported from the United States especially for him, no less) attached to his mum or dad’s handle bars. Relaxed under his tiny helmet, he positions his hands on a small (cosmetic only), steering-wheel.
The other children?
Well, at what point do children begin to overtake their grandparents? I never noticed it happening but they have certainly surpassed my cycling skills and speed, if not their grandfather’s. I slow at the top of every hill to embark on my cautious descent. They throw themselves gung ho at downhill sections, with all the strength and speed they can muster. Less is certainly not more. I try to take a leaf out of their books and let these child-mentors encourage me. I did have courage once: now, when was that?
Spunky 5-year-old Sophie, with her wild ginger ringlets pedals flat out on her mini, pink, gear-free bike. She manages 5km of the 18km track.
We celebrate the halfway mark by eating ice-creams in the playground at Lake Hawea. Our return journey is even more magnificent and seems somehow shorter. Beauty and sparkle are everywhere and everyone is high on nature and exercise endorphins.
We arrive back at our tents on the Hawea River side of Albert Town, our adventure a potentially chilly one at this time of year. We have brought our warmest duvet as well as our sleeping bags and I make an impromptu ‘‘hottie’’ out of the pancake mix bottle. It works a treat.
But, I wonder, are our children keeping our grandchildren warm enough? I’m always aware of "grandparent-interference syndrome".
"Wear hats and socks to bed kids, keep your extremities warm," I say. We bike, we walk and we play silly games around our "candle bonfire". (No fires permitted).
"What would you be minister of?"
(Minister of Saving the Kea; Minister of Fun; Minister of Fixing the Potholes Out the Front of My House.)
In which sport would you be Olympic champion? (Everything from triathlon, to cartwheels to that odd winter sport in which you go cross-country skiing armed with a rifle). What rock band would you be in? What instrument would you play? (I opted to be a backing vocalist for Leonard Cohen. R.I.P.)
But my highlight was when someone ordered "Bookclub!".
And while Tarn slept, 10 of us sat in front of our tents with a bowl of carrot sticks and Easter eggs between us while the river rolled by and the sun shone down. We read our books, one coloured in, one dozed, one wrote.
An hour. Not a word. Sophie, usually cartwheeling her way through life, had her head down in concentration.
"It’s for you, Nat!" she pronounced at the end of Bookclub.
I still have it. Her blue-pencilled labour of love reads: "Nat you are keend you make efrythin the best. XXXX."
And some love hearts. My best day ever? I have too many to count, but this would have to be right up there with the best of them!
- Natalie Yule Yeoman teaches Te Reo Maori and music at George Street Normal School.
Your best day
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