If you grow up in south-western Sydney, there’s no beach to call your own. When I was growing up, the closest we came to a local beach was the endless sands of Cronulla. Even then we were referred to as westies.

So our annual family holiday to South West Rocks on the NSW North Coast was the one time of the year when I could get a taste for what it would be like to live near the ocean.

While school friends and their families headed for the nearby glamour of The Entrance, each year, for reasons best known to my parents, we made the 10-hour trip to the pristine shores of Horseshoe Bay, an idyllic and protected beach offering everything a growing family could wish for.

And yes, it was a 10-hour drive back in the days before the Pacific Highway upgrade. I remember it well: up before dawn and piling into the back of the car with my siblings, with the pillow from my bed for comfort and my mother armed with the necessary bags of lollies for the journey, hoping we would at least make it halfway up the coast before I started feeling car sick.

My dad always insisted on driving, and my mother told me in later years she made a point of packing his fishing rod last so that on arrival he could head straight to The Creek while she and my aunt started the arduous task of unpacking everything.

Those holidays are inextricably linked with memories of my cousins. Eight kids across two families, we were a mostly cohesive bunch with a range of interests that somehow dovetailed into a two-week break of salt, sun, sand – and fishing. Each year my mother and my aunt booked us into adjacent holiday homes, sight unseen, some of which were not really worthy of the name. But the worse condition they were in, the more we loved them.

Indeed, I still have an abiding love of frangipani trees and their fragile flowers because there was a mature specimen planted in the front garden at one of the less luxurious residences we stayed in.

Over the course of a fortnight, days took on an easy rhythm. Beach in the morning, with a Splice or Choc Wedge from the milk bar to entice us out of the water for the walk home.

Horseshoe Bay was not just where I learnt whatever watercraft skills I have, from basic body surfing to how to spot a rip, it was also where I fell in love with rock pools, those magical mini-worlds of light and colour filled with beautiful creatures like the slow-moving periwinkles, soft-tentacled sea anemones and the occasional crab or starfish. I liked that patience was its own reward in these environments, so that the longer you sat still, the sun warming your back, the more would be revealed to you.

A swim was always accompanied by sandcastle construction. Often a collaborative effort with my cousins Cassie and Robert, the pièce de résistance was creating something structurally sound enough to withstand tunnelling through and the creation of a moat. A keen builder, I took a lot of pride in my ability to construct a good sandcastle, complete with foraged shells and driftwood.

One year a complete stranger, not much older than me (but certainly bigger), stomped all over my work as I reached the final stages. I can still see my mother chasing the vandal halfway across the beach after I ran to her in tears. In that moment I had never loved her more.

Later in the afternoon, after lunch, we walked down to The Creek to throw in lines for fishing.

There was a strict hierarchy at The Creek, with women and kids casting off the sand on one side and men on the other, fishing for leatherjacket among the rocks. I never did get the knack of fishing but took some delight watching my cousin Robert annoy his brothers, whose skills with a rod and reel were far superior to mine. Each time they successfully landed a fish he would rush over and cast his line in, hoping that lightning would strike twice. Naturally, this often resulted in tangled lines and exasperated cries of “Robert!” before my aunt or my mother set to work calming teenage boys’ frayed nerves and patiently untangling lines, fish and, occasionally, people.

If it was late enough in the day we’d see dozens of soldier crabs marching across the sand, having neatly lined up the little balls of sand they had created while constructing their burrows, taking care where we walked.

It all seems like such a long time ago now, because it is. We stopped going to South West Rocks just as I was finishing primary school, I think partly because my older brother and sister had other distractions as they reached adulthood, as did my cousins. Despite suggestions from family I’ve never been back, perhaps because I don’t want to break the spell.

Sadly, my dear cousin Robert died way too young at 21. My memories of the place are so bound up with him I can only imagine returning there would be anticlimactic. I hear, however, that while it’s gone through significant development it’s just as beautiful as ever, welcoming new waves of holidaymakers each year. And I’m glad.

These days we drive past the turn-off for South West Rocks, heading further north, creating our own family traditions. Thanks to those highway upgrades, no one gets car sick.

There is one thing to remind me, though – a mature frangipani tree in my backyard. Sometimes, if I close my eyes and breathe in, I’m almost back there.

Robyn Willis is the Lifestyle editor for the Herald.