A White Christmas in July
Down Under
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Expats wallowing in the endless blue skies of Western Australia seek an annual nostalgia trip by celebrating a pseudo Christmas in July (their winter) in a suitable country setting to rekindle fond memories of Christmas at home.
But given the climate in Western Australia its usually not even cold in July, just wet.
So the “White Christmas” experienced by the BDC of WA on this years Christmas in July weekend was right out of left field.
It was minus three degrees Celsius outside and felt like minus 10 inside.
But the mix of mulled wine, whiskey macs and port helped warm the innards of the BDC WA members when they indulged themselves in a surreal Christmas in July weekend deep in the heart of the countryside.
After a drive through picturesque farmlands and forest we were welcomed with roaring log fires strategically located throughout the 100-year-old Quindanning pub.
Here Bentley members battled valiantly against the unbelievable record-breaking low temperatures, helped by the bonhomie of the membership, alcohol and log fires to create an extra-ordinary fun weekend.
The atmosphere, however, became even more icy when a bevy of Bentley-widows stepped forward as the “bountiful, beautiful bedazzling Bentley Ladies Choir” (the Vienna Boys choir had cancelled out at the last minute, we were informed) to fill the ancient bedecked halls with a few sour carols:
“We wish you a merry Christmas,
“We wish you a merry Christmas,
“We wish you a merry Christmas
“And a Bentley-free year.”
Even worse, sung to Good King Wenseslas :
“Then a Bentley came in sight gathering winter fuu-ell.
“Bring me petrol, bring me pine. Bring me matches hither.
“We will see this Bentley burn and then we’ll live in heaven.”
Boos and jeers rang out as they launched into their new
Jingle Bells Jingle Bells Bentley anthem, ending with
“Oh what fun it is to spend,
(And spend and spend and spend)
On a Bentley driver’s pay.”
The evening continued to deteriorate as bottles of champagne rolled out as quickly as the bad jokes.
Adding to the chill factor of the evening was the news that the Silver Ghost drivers (Greenes and Walters, who recently quit their Derbys for filthy lucre) scooped the prize pool, raising ire and evoking unsportsmanlike allegations they only won because their Ghosts were so slow they had enough time to pick up the observation clues and work out the “Tricky” quiz.
Wholesome meals were served as befitting the yuletide theme and Father Christmas arrived on shaky legs (alcohol was my guess) to dish out more bad jokes followed by pathetic, cheap, poor taste presents donated by rank and file members for each other.
Mine was a plastic peaked hat guaranteed to raise compliments in a gay bar.
From the dining room, the party flowed into the ballroom where the Bentley aged were to be seen doing indecent gyrations scrutinised from the public bar by incredulous youngsters from another planet (well, they certainly weren’t from planet Bentley).
The evening wound down in front of yet another log fire in the private guests’ lounge where bottle after bottle of grandfather port and Jameson’s Irish whiskey kept evaporating every time the corks were removed.
It had to be evaporation because nobody owned up to drinking that amount of alcohol.
Around 3am the last of the stayers finally gave up the battle, dragging themselves to their icy bedrooms (the temperature not the spouse), the experience of which was moderated by electric blankets battling to warm the bodies of those not smart enough to imbibe in enough body-warming and mind-numbing alcohol before turning in.
The next morning we rose (oh so slowly) to find what looked like a carpet of snow on the ground and the cars. Given snow has never been known to fall in Western Australia since roughly the Ice Age retreated, this was indeed a phenomenon.
But those game enough to egress the beds found it was in fact thick frost, thanks to a minus 3 overnight temperature.
Though the sun shone brightly now (instead of the moon) the frost refused to abate, maintained by a freezing wind off the Wheatbelt.
So the engine oil stayed like treacle and the older cars, like their older owners, refused to turn over.
A healthy fried breakfast was deemed a necessary stopgap and was washed down with champagne, setting the drivers up for a 200km return trip, although some of the cars were a bit slow to get going, needing a tow rope and a tug.
The return trip took us to the unique farm of Jessie Martin who, on losing a 17-year-old son in a car accident some 30-plus years ago, started to gather up memorabilia to take his mind off his grief.
His enthusiasm for the campaign grew and before long he was taking old shops, petrol stations, post offices and general stores, all on the verge of being demolished in some of WA’s isolated country towns, back to his farm where they were re-erected as an historic village.
There are barns full of old cars, trucks, tractors, farm machines and other amazing memorabilia.
All the stores and garages are stocked with packaged goods of the eras – even the wonderful country pub.
Amazingly, this is a private collection not open to the public and a unique memorial to his son.
It’s an invitation-only experience and a privilege that all our lot will talk about for months to come.
Sadly we all eventually turned our gallant steeds on to the highway and homewards to the real world.
Our Walter Mitty weekend was over.
ends