Summer fun: Five go camping
Sunday, 25 January 2026
Mike White is a senior writer and columnist.
OPINION: The text came out of the blue on a blue-skied day.
It pinged as we ate morning tea of a spectacular cheese scone, sitting beside the lake on a sunny Saturday.
The old dog was belying his arthritis and waning energy, suddenly appearing sprightly, dancing between us as he tried to work out who might be the soft touch to drop a crumb for him.
I glanced at my phone. The message was from one of our nephews.
“Sorry for the horrible organisation,” he began, before saying he and his family would be camping not far away for the next few days.
They were on a road trip from the other end of the island: two adults, their two boys, and an exchange student they were hosting. All somehow fitted into a brutish 4WD they’d borrowed for the trip, with five bikes intricately strapped to the back.
Togs and towels and tents. It was summer on four wheels.
“What are your plans?” our nephew asked.
We suggested they come round for a barbecue that night, once they’d arrived at their camp ground and got themselves sorted.
We finished our scone, disappointed the old dog with our lack of generosity, and went for an amble with him along the lakefront.
A couple of tourists were preparing to go for a swim, making small talk about their likely screams, and brevity of their immersion.
Summer had been a fickle lodger so far this year - coming for a day or two before decamping in a huff, with no indication when it might return.
Forecasts had been erratic, swimming intermittent.
Our nephew and his travelling troupe arrived early-evening, having already found a superb spot at their camp ground, under tall trees, beside the big river. They had shade and shelter, and a bed of pine needles to sleep on.
Within seconds, the boys had spied the bowl of cherries on our table.
“Just take two,” their mother said gently.
“Yeah right, good luck with that,” I thought.
But they were good kids.
When young son one returned, he had two enormous cherries. He’d patiently sifted through the whole bowl, examined, dangled and weighed, and come up with the two heftiest specimens.
We whispered they could have as many as they wanted, and opened the range for cherry stone spitting practice.
“Anywhere in the garden is fine - just not over the fence into the neighbour’s,” I instructed.
Soon, young son two had discovered a tennis ball that had been tucked away on a low shelf. I think we’d found it washed up on the riverbank one time, furry green flotsam among scattered branches and silt.
A boy. A ball. The rest is inevitable.
Well, it would have been inevitable if I’d had a bat. I felt mortified I didn’t have the tools of backyard cricket ready for them, and the lawn readied into a pitch.
“Have a look around, and you’ll probably find some sort of stick,” I said airily, pointing towards the trees.
But young son two was an expert at the art of substitution, a make-do master.
Soon, he’d located a broken tomato stake that had a slender girth, but was long enough to give him a chance of hitting the ball.
The septic tank breather became the wickets.
The game was on.
When it was time for dinner, and stumps were drawn, I’m not sure if young son two had managed to connect with the ball, but that didn’t seem of consequence or concern to him.
The wind stilled, the sun stayed steady.
An al-fresco feast was had.
By the time pudding was produced, a breeze had returned, and puffer jackets were extracted from the car. Strangely, the temperature didn’t affect the quantity of ice cream consumed.
Time was getting on, so the campers showered the boys and got them to do their teeth, so they could go straight to bed when they arrived back at the camp ground.
They packed up their chilly bin, packed up the car for the umpteenth time, and waved as they headed down the driveway.
The ball and the truncated tomato stake lay on the lawn beside the septic tank breather.
In the bathroom lay the pink and green toothbrush of young son two.
We were planning to go for a bike ride the next day that took us close by them, so said we’d drop it off.
We found them tucked under the trees, three small tents surrounding camp chairs.
Young son one played peekaboo from inside his tent. Young son two played on the edge of the riverbank, then clambered down to explore.
That afternoon, they were off to the bike park for mad fun.
The sun was working its way high in the sky.
Summer was stoking up again, forging the most wonderful memories for two young boys on a carefree car camping holiday.
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