24 Hours in Kapunda

Sleeping, dusty streets. Saturday afternoon like a still creek.

Kapunda.

Memories, rushed and gentle on every corner. Footy, cricket. Bikes.

A pasty each up by the high school lawns. Awash with grey Midford shirts. Roman sandals. Unfinished essays. The poetry of Gerard Manly Hopkins. Year 12 Biology and a vegetation transect on Banksias.

A cricket match shout from the oval. Share a beer and chat in the pub later with my cousin, Froggy. The captain. Rolled for bugger-all.

Visit our history teacher, Macca and his wife, Kerry. Discuss 1983 and everywhere since. Feel seventeen again.

Dinner around a big kitchen table with old friends, Woodsy and Sue. Happy collision of past, present and future. Not enough time to see others. Next time.

Sunday morning. Out to scan the golf club. Admire the lush fairways and nod at the greens which replaced the scrapes of my youth. Recall the handful of 21sts. White HQ Holdens lined up like butchers of West End. Hoodoo Gurus blasting into the cold night.

Drive back across the River Light bridge towards the city.

Back soon.

The footy club is a vast ark of memory. Always nice to see RW Randall on the board too.
No visit to the Duck Pond is complete without seeing (but not eating) a local duck.
Kapunda High School has a croquet lawn although some would prefer a croquette.
In 1980 we slept at The Pines on a bush-walking camp. Today, for the first time we returned, together.
Some call this a Pump House, but, of course, it’s The Turncock House. Don’t ask.
As law-abiding citizens we know a visit to the Prince of Wales pub is compulsory.

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