Fifty-odd years ago people were more than happy to travel many hundreds of miles for a single evening's enjoyment. Some would stay over with local friends, some would stay at the Guest House itself and some would roll out their swags or sleeping bags and doss down on a handy verandah. Every head found a resting place that night; in those days people looked out for each other.

The white-painted Guest House - first opened in 1938 by Mr and Mrs Wallace - was a Dalmeny landmark. For us children it had always been there, proudly perched upon the apex of the hill; sprawling, many-windowed, inviolate.

I have a delightful memory of Mrs Wallace: slender, charming, correct and always so beautifully dressed. It was a very hot day in summer and my father and I - driving along in our blue Vauxhall Viva - came upon Mrs Wallace, heavily laden with shopping and toiling up the hill from the store. Dad stopped, leapt from the car and offered her a lift home. Very politely she thanked him but firmly refused the lift. Somewhat puzzled, my father reluctantly left her to the hill, the heat and the heavy load. Several days later Mrs Wallace met up with my mother:

'It was very kind of your dear husband to offer to drive me home,' she told Mum. 'I could not possibly accept a lift from a gentleman when I was not wearing my best hat. I do hope he understood.'

The excitement began after school when the taxi dropped three children at the corner of William Street and Noble Parade. Now that Dalmeny finally had five school-age children in permanent residence, the responsibility of getting them to school belonged to the government, much to the relief of certain parents who had shared the school-run for several years. Mr and Mrs Picker owned the Narooma-based taxi service.

'Have a grand time tonight, kids,' Mrs Picker called after our fast-retreating forms. 'I want to hear all about it on Monday morning.' I headed for the grassy track that led to my home on Ocean Parade.

Sheep no longer grazed peacefully across the Dalmeny headlands but it was only a very few years since Ocean Parade played home to Corriedale sheep. The people from that era tell a story:

Circa 1961: a winter's afternoon and the sheep were grazing as usual around the headlands. Our dog - a highly undisciplined canine named Nap - chased some of the sheep down the cliff into the sea. My horrified mother followed in hot pursuit. By the time she got to the bottom of the cliff - exactly across from where Number 92 Ocean Parade is today - four Corriedale ewes were in the sea. Mother promptly plunged into the sea and hauled the panicking sheep out. She was seven months pregnant - with me - at the time. People say it accounts for much.

Once home - on the night of the ball - I was - to my utter disgust - dispatched to bed for two hours rest. It was going to be a long night. I lay on my bed and gazed at my frock hanging from the door. A new hair ribbon was looped around the hanger: it was black velvet, very long and came from Mrs Healey's wonderful shop in Narooma. My frock matched that of Mother: blue and green pinafore in a lovely swirling pattern and to be worn over a white, lace-trimmed blouse.

I was jerked from my thoughts some time later by voices just outside my bedroom:

'Should I wear braces?' My father's voice, dubious, questioning.

'No, dear. They are no longer considered essential evening wear in this modern era.' My mother, reassuring, comforting.

I was very disappointed. I had never seen my father wear his braces yet knew they hung at one end of Mother's wardrobe: fascinatingly stretchy with intriguing silver clips. One set was dark grey with elegant thin white stripes, the other set was very dark brown with a central stripe of gold patterned with light brown diamonds.

Long before we actually entered the Guest House, the many lights and the discordant sounds of the band tuning and testing their instruments foretold of an exciting and very special night. I hung shyly behind my parents as they moved towards the ballroom. I felt very out of place: surely this sort of party was for the grownups? Yet the hosts had been very insistent it was for all: small children to great-grandparents. I had even received my very own invitation.

'Welcome, welcome. So glad you were all able to come.' The young man bounded across the floor and bowed to Mother and me, shook Father warmly by the hand. It was Peter, who was turning twenty-one that day. Tall, fair, handsome, he had the charm, sophistication and politeness so often found in the men of Northern Europe. Wide-eyed, I stared around the room.

It appeared enormous to my young eyes. Down the two sides chairs were arranged against the walls. The band had taken possession of the front of the room; the back wall was lined with white-clothed tables. Flowers in big glass vases added a note of brilliant colour.

I sat alone in my chair watching the dancing couples. I was completely enchanted by this totally strange view of my parents - whom until tonight - I thought I knew intimately. From dance to dance they went, from partner to partner, never sparing a thought for their small daughter.

To be continued next week