IT’S great to have friends with connections.
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During the second week of Easter school holidays, the girls and I were invited by my fabulous friend Laura to her family’s beach house near Wilson’s Prom in Gippsland.
Well, beach house is a bit of an understatement.
More like rustic mansion, complete with six bedrooms, loft, fireplace, games room and separate self-contained unit.
And the best part — the enormous deck overlooking the ocean.
Not only that, sleepy koalas hung on tree branches just metres away while friendly rosellas ate breadcrumbs from our palms and heads.
It was like something out of a picture book.
It would have been quite romantic if I wasn’t there with another three women and nine children with me, but who’s complaining? Not me.
Days were spent walking along the near-secluded beach, swimming in the freezing cold ocean (my daredevil daughter that is) and bushwalking (that was me).
Which was just as well because evenings were filled with good food and the three ‘C's — cocktails, champagne and cheese.
So what we put on that night, we made up for the next day. It was a win-win.
As well as providing much-needed time to unwind and catch up with friends, the holiday also offered up some life lessons.
Like how to make a fire.
How I have managed to go through more than four decades of life without starting a real fire is anyone’s guess.
Mind you, I did grow up in outback Queensland where fireplaces, chimneys, coats and beanies are pretty much non-existent.
The only time you would start a fire is if you were camping.
And even then, I always had my parents or boyfriend to do the dirty work. I was too busy looking for the closest toilet because there was no way I was doing my business in the bush.
Anyhoo, the night we arrived, Laura asked me to get a fire going.
As an independent, self-reliant woman, I sprung into action. I mean, how hard could it be?
Lugging up a couple of large logs from the bush, I stacked them in the fireplace, along with some sticks and newspaper, before asking where the kerosene was kept.
Well, not quite, but you get the picture.
A dumbstruck Laura looked at me like I had been living under a rock my whole life — which probably would have helped me in the fire-starting department.
‘‘You’ve never made a fire before, have you?’’ she quizzed.
‘‘Not exactly,’’ I replied.
‘‘But I sure know how to enjoy them. Especially with marshmallows.’’
Then Mrs Self Sufficient herself rolled up her sleeves and set about teaching me a basic skill she had probably been doing since the age of three.
Fast forward a few days, and they were calling me the Firestarter.
I was checking it, stoking it, feeding it and checking it again to ensure it never went out.
And when it did (only because we had been away too long), there I was, lighting it up again.
I felt like Tom Hanks in Cast Away when he first made a bonfire — that primal sense of achievement.
And so, at 43 years of age, I can safely say if I ever crash-landed on a deserted island that I could build a fire and at least survive the cold.
Eating might be a different story though.
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