Those of us who drink red raised a glass to our patriarch. We enjoyed a glug of the 2006 Rockford’s Basket Press Shiraz — purple, velvety, immediately seductive. Dad, Claire, my nephew Mitchell, his girlfriend Alisha, and my son Alex all nodded their approval as Sunday lunch settled in with warm ease.

Under my sister Jill’s veranda, the cold November rain pushed in rudely — the kind that makes you reconsider going to the footy. We traded stories of Balinese dangers with cobras and scooters (Claire and me, imperilled), Kuta escapades (my cousin Ben, curious) and brazen prostitutes (Dad and Mum and my Uncle John and Aunty Liz, bemused).

Then, naturally, we drifted to Kapunda stories: antics in adolescent cars, the burning rubber of Uncle John’s Ford Zephyr (allegedly), and my HQ Holden versus the high-school fence (guilty, Your Honour). The following morning, I had to front, in glum succession, the school headmaster, the local Senior Sergeant, and of course Mum and Dad. All before breakfast.

A tickled Alex outlined his gap-year plans — Europe and the Stans: Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan. I was suddenly distraught. Here was aural proof that he would soon be in the other hemisphere, an alien time zone, and forever vanished into adulthood.

Lunch was superb: lamb shoulder, roast chicken, and salads — vermicelli my standout — all made by Jill, a self-declared lover of cooking. She finished with a classic country pavlova piled with whipped cream and strawberries.

Still around the table, we sang Happy Birthday to Dad. I now remember that Americans don’t do the Jolly Good Fellow coda, which has always struck me as the spirited, fun bit of the tradition — the tune barrelling home, people lifting their volume and arm-swinging gusto. Ideal for the tone-deaf like me.

The previous afternoon, I’d gone in search of a shiraz, declaring that Dad’s birthday deserved a generous red and wandering the aisles of Dan’s, I spied some plonk that reminded me of an ageing bottle on the rack in the spare room. With that I left the store empty-handed, rushed home, rescued the dusty Basket Press Shiraz, and told Claire, ‘I was keeping it for a big occasion — and surely Sunday qualifies.’

It was instantly the best glass of wine I’ve ever had — and I hope everyone else felt the same. Context is everything, and it was superior to the Grange I’ve tasted on a couple of occasions. I reckon past a certain age, birthdays narrow into the things that matter: the closest people, engaging wine and food, and old stories we’ve all heard before — and will gladly recite again, with delighted ritual, next year.