It’s dusk on a Friday.

Below us, and the tree-lined slopes, are the now-twinkling lights of the city.

Tramping along together in our cocooning coats, the creek’s interrupted by a stone wall. Behind us is the cottage’s yellowish beacon. Claire’s scarf bounces.

On the Heysen Trail, we’re approaching Norton Summit.

As we swing open a kissing gate it protests with a shriek. My phone light shafts over the scrub as if it’s generating suspenseful effect in a horror flick.

Upon arriving at Morialta Barns we ignited the fire. The redgum was now burning, but gently.

We heard the ghostly bleating of hidden sheep. The rounded hills were receding into the rising murk. Bushes swayed and jumped at the directive of a gust. Our hosts reckoned we could encounter a quietly twitching roo.

Chatting about the days we’ve had and the days we’ve to come, we clasp hands for affection, and warmness.

An hour earlier, having collected Claire from the city, we edged up majestic Magill Road, through the eastern suburbs and then suddenly, bottle-green paddocks were pushing back the forest. There we were, in the countryside. The transition was startlingly brisk.

We’d jettisoned.

Steering our way through another gate, there was the Scenic Hotel. My birthday dinner would soon be served.