A waterfall of noise is tumbling off the balcony of The Colley.

From the footpath I cannot see our spot, but the sonic assault means it’s already unappealing despite the promised view across Moseley Square and the twinkling ocean.

We’ve a table booked.

Claire and I are here to talk over a couple beers with dear old friends, Bazz and Annie, Paul and Ali, and Mozz and Kath.

During the previous month I made multiple calls to The Colley to reserve and confirm our balcony booking. Mystery Pub* demands administrative effort especially as tonight we’ve special guests. An email was promised by the pub on each occasion.

Nothing bothered my expectant inbox.

Racing towards the Colley’s stairs (you know what I mean) we’re stopped by the authoritative hand of a bouncer. Black trousers, straining shirt and ancient Nikes block our path. ‘There’s no thongs in here, sorry.’

No thongs in a beachside pub?

It’s like making a po-faced demand that all who come to your Sunday BBQ wear a collar and tie.

No mention of this during any of my careful phone calls or those sweetly literate and informative emails that the pub never feckin’ sent.

Just a short time ago, the Colley had a different name, and the front bar gleefully threw open its doors around dawn, welcoming in all every ratty type for whom thongs were aspirational wedding attire. There wasn’t even a ‘No shoes, no service’ sign.

We’ve promoted our gathering as Mystery Pub* and suddenly for Claire and me it is too. I panic: where will we go? The Moseley? Rush around to the Broady? Surely not the Watermark!

On the Mystery Pub* satisfaction scale the Colley scores 3/100.

Like a trusty old B grade footballer, the Grand could be the last chance saloon. We stride down there past Mama Carmela’s (serving Italian cuisine since 1974). Security waves us in, the (evidently) unspeakable horror of our menacing thongs (used by FBI profilers as a key indicator of future trouble) in full sight.

It’s quiet (sort of), so we claim a table by a front window. Outside, the pines are buffeted by the stiff wind. Yes, it’s much better here than on the (moronically pretentious) pub balcony back up the street.

Paul and Ali are back from Abu Dhabi, and we hear of their plans. For them, too, they’re racing towards retirement. How did this happen? Minutes ago, it was the New Year’s Eve of 1994, and they were getting married on a hot afternoon in Kimba.

Mozz and Kath are here from Pinnaroo, having driven up for the night. On Sunday Mozz reaches a landmark (pension) birthday. This prompts much discussion about their intentions. As always, what do these things also mean for us?

Annie and Bazz now live in Moonta Bay with their dog, Reggie, and some (non-laying) chooks. We’re all here for a Christmas drink (not the chooks). Bazz, Annie, Ali, Kath, and Claire gather around the table and chat away. Our group variously enjoys Pirate Life, sparkling white and shiraz among other refreshments.

Mozz, Paul and I are on our feet by the windows. In groups, I like to stand in the pub. It seems more conducive to conversation. We discuss superannuation, work, and our offspring before moving to travel.

‘How’d you find Geelong?’ I ask Mozz.

‘A bit subdued. Not much going on. Pubs were unremarkable.’

I offer, ‘I liked the yacht club but didn’t see much else. The waterfront looked good.’

Our discussion migrates to Melbourne. ‘Jed’s a big North Melbourne fan so last visit we went to Arden Street,’ Paul suggests. ‘Walked straight in off the street. Sensational.’

‘Footy’s everywhere there. I love it.’ I note of the Victorian capital.

After an hour we’re done. We’re all heading around home so on the way, pizza’s collected.

There’s nothing quite like the deep enveloping comfort of old friends. Moving through our decades and across the country and planet, we’ve maintained connections. Our veranda chat’s funny and warmhearted and familiar.

Mystery Pub* #50 has been an (ultimate) success.