As the cinema curtain rolled back and the projector whirred to life, I reclined in the semi-dark and let the pleasant childhood memories play in my mind.

To be honest, the curtain didn’t exactly roll. It squeaked and stuttered and threatened to stop but eventually got the job done.

The silver screen it revealed was full of the precious potential of absolute escapism I had always remembered on those magical movie jaunts we enjoyed as kids.

This was going to the flicks Yamba-style and in this critic’s mind, it was an award-winning performance.

The family spent last week at the laidback town at the mouth of the mighty Clarence River on a highly enjoyable holiday.

The spring days were glorious. Mornings were occupied surfing and walking along the beach, watching the dolphins dive and play. There were lazy lunches, bomb dives in the pool, bike rides down to the shops and fishing.

The junior Jarvis Walker flexed as the little flathead tried to run. The charge of electricity it sent up the line illuminated the face of the eight-year-old angler on the other end.

“Wow. My first flattie,” he buzzed, flipping the flighty lizard onto the sand.

On Thursday morning, we woke to rain and the trip to the movies was planned.

At first we went to the original little timber place in town but Ratatouille wasn’t playing there, just another one with penguins in it which the kids weren’t too fussed about.

The friendly bloke behind the counter said we had to go out to the main drag, near the Bi-Lo. There was another cinema there, he said, where the rat movie was on. He didn’t say it was a shed, but we found it anyway.

A shed works extremely well as a cinema. Once we were inside, the place came out of its corrugated shell and revealed all the charming attributes of movie theatres past.

We relaxed on the green velvet couches with our popcorn and tickets, waiting to take our place at the looped red chord which led to the cinema door.

Kids in their best boardshorts checked the pinball machines for secret change.

Mothers shushed the little ones hoping to set a silent tone early.

Cockatoo tails were flattened on blond heads and tissues licked for the removal of remanent toothpaste from the corners of young mouths.

I hit rewind.

As a kid, there were few things better than going to the pictures – me and my brother in our best denim shorts and checked Midford shirts. In the cool confines of the Sundale theatre, we would escape with a bag of Minties and Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines.

Then we walked into the stark reality of a hot summer’s afternoon to be confronted by the familiar yet horrifically embarrassing sound of mum tooting the horn on the Morris.

The sequel, when we were young teenagers, meant breaking out your best Crystal Cylinders T-shirt, stepping into your Amco Ryders and pulling on the ugg boots.

Kiss, Attack of the Phantoms would be calling. or possibly Amityville Horror, The Breakfast Club, Valley Girl, Jaws or The Karate Kid. It was a cinematic smorgasbord.

In my town you could choose from the Regal with its stiff, studded-leather seats, where 500 head of cattle died for Molly Ringwald, or the Capital, which had tiers of canvas benches that smelt like rum and Rexona.

There was also a venue known colloquially as Berts. Bert had a habit of getting the reels in the wrong order or falling asleep and forgetting to change them altogether.

You could be caught up in all the tension of the Wanderers being trapped deep in Ducky Boy territory when the action would be interrupted by the sound of flicker, flicker and muffled swearing from the projector room before being confronted with a blaring white screen.

These scenarios induced some of the most menacing Lolly Gobble Bliss Bomb riots of the early ’80s.

At Yamba, the mood was more serene. Even though there was an extended period in the middle of the film where everything went blurry – as if a pair of spectacles you might buy from a service station was being held in front of the lens – nobody got too ruffled.

Afterwards, we stepped out to a day which had taken a dramatic turn for the better, weather wise.

We went fishing and then to the Pacific Hotel for a cold drink and one of the best ocean views you could imagine. The kids sipped raspberry lemonade between bouts of rolling the white ball around on the pool table.

It was a great show. I can’t wait for the encore.