The summer influx: too many cars, too many people. By Catherine Watson
SO THEY have gone at last. The exodus started on the Friday before the long weekend with a trickle of caravans and utes stacked high with mountain bikes and kayaks. By Australia Day it was a cavalcade.
And this was Wonthaggi, the poor cousin. I can only imagine how it was in Inverloch or on Phillip Island. It must have felt as though the island floated a little higher as they left.
Many Phillip Islanders basically go into hibernation between Boxing Day and Australia Day. Even in Wonthaggi we have to change our habits, getting up at dawn to shop or going in as the sun is setting. By then the shelves look as if they’ve been hit by a plague of locusts.
SO THEY have gone at last. The exodus started on the Friday before the long weekend with a trickle of caravans and utes stacked high with mountain bikes and kayaks. By Australia Day it was a cavalcade.
And this was Wonthaggi, the poor cousin. I can only imagine how it was in Inverloch or on Phillip Island. It must have felt as though the island floated a little higher as they left.
Many Phillip Islanders basically go into hibernation between Boxing Day and Australia Day. Even in Wonthaggi we have to change our habits, getting up at dawn to shop or going in as the sun is setting. By then the shelves look as if they’ve been hit by a plague of locusts.
Our dear little towns can’t cope with the summer influx. Too many cars, too many people. The sound of horns.
“They’re so rude!” locals kept complaining. It’s standard practice in these parts to stop to let someone back out onto the street. The courtesy is acknowledged with a wave. Good feelings all round. The newcomers aren’t aware of the etiquette. They act as if it’s their due.
Vilya says she doesn’t really mind the summer influx. It’s only a month and she knows our local traders rely on the burst of business to keep them going through the year. But she says Wonthaggi is less friendly in January. The locals lie low and the visitors are impatient. “They complain about the lack of services but they don’t seem to realise they’re the ones creating the problems.”
Leonie refers to the tourists as “terrorists” but I sometimes think of them as “the terrorised”. It’s easy to recognise them on a beach track. No friendly nod, no gidday. They look away as they pass you. You can have a bit of fun with them. I like to say “Hello!” They look startled. They’re not sure how to respond. You can see the cogs whirring. “Who is she talking to? What does she want? Is she mad? Is she dangerous?”
I told Megan I felt sorry for them. “I don’t,” she said. “They own these million-dollar holiday houses and they come and stay in them once a year.”
True, some of them are rich (they probably don't realise) but they bring their stress with them on holiday. There's still too much to do and not enough hours. Things in our small towns are not up to their standards and our slow country ways annoy them. Most of us were once visitors to this place. I remember my own impatience when I first came here. Those long, leisurely conversations at the checkout counter (no self-checkout then) drove me mental.
A Cowes retailer once described the visitors to me. The week after Christmas was a nightmare. The holiday makers were rude, impatient and demanding. “By the second week they’ve mellowed and they’re the loveliest people! And then they go back to the city and the next lot arrive. And for the first week they’re so rude and impatient!”
“They’re so rude!” locals kept complaining. It’s standard practice in these parts to stop to let someone back out onto the street. The courtesy is acknowledged with a wave. Good feelings all round. The newcomers aren’t aware of the etiquette. They act as if it’s their due.
Vilya says she doesn’t really mind the summer influx. It’s only a month and she knows our local traders rely on the burst of business to keep them going through the year. But she says Wonthaggi is less friendly in January. The locals lie low and the visitors are impatient. “They complain about the lack of services but they don’t seem to realise they’re the ones creating the problems.”
Leonie refers to the tourists as “terrorists” but I sometimes think of them as “the terrorised”. It’s easy to recognise them on a beach track. No friendly nod, no gidday. They look away as they pass you. You can have a bit of fun with them. I like to say “Hello!” They look startled. They’re not sure how to respond. You can see the cogs whirring. “Who is she talking to? What does she want? Is she mad? Is she dangerous?”
I told Megan I felt sorry for them. “I don’t,” she said. “They own these million-dollar holiday houses and they come and stay in them once a year.”
True, some of them are rich (they probably don't realise) but they bring their stress with them on holiday. There's still too much to do and not enough hours. Things in our small towns are not up to their standards and our slow country ways annoy them. Most of us were once visitors to this place. I remember my own impatience when I first came here. Those long, leisurely conversations at the checkout counter (no self-checkout then) drove me mental.
A Cowes retailer once described the visitors to me. The week after Christmas was a nightmare. The holiday makers were rude, impatient and demanding. “By the second week they’ve mellowed and they’re the loveliest people! And then they go back to the city and the next lot arrive. And for the first week they’re so rude and impatient!”
*****
To tell the truth, even at the height of summer my beach never gets very busy. There are enough coves and rock pools and channels for everyone. But yesterday I went out at low tide and it was glorious. Two cars in the carpark. From the steps, I saw Rod out fishing in his favourite spot on the rocks. John and Aneta were floating in the rock pools. And that was all.
I compared notes with John and Aneta. We agreed we didn’t begrudge the visitors their few weeks beside the sea. It’s been a tough year and there’s another one ahead. They deserve a couple of weeks of sea and sunshine and fresh air.
“We used to come down at that time when we were working,” Aneta said.
“It’s only a month,” I said, “and it reminds us of how lucky we are.”
But oh, it’s blissful when they leave. Peace descends. The place is ours again.
Thank you for visiting. Please come again – but not till next summer!
I compared notes with John and Aneta. We agreed we didn’t begrudge the visitors their few weeks beside the sea. It’s been a tough year and there’s another one ahead. They deserve a couple of weeks of sea and sunshine and fresh air.
“We used to come down at that time when we were working,” Aneta said.
“It’s only a month,” I said, “and it reminds us of how lucky we are.”
But oh, it’s blissful when they leave. Peace descends. The place is ours again.
Thank you for visiting. Please come again – but not till next summer!