Triumphant and a little startled, we strolled into Kapunda Foodland. A supermarket, yes — but that day it felt like a secret cathedral, as though the ordinary had been quietly transformed just for us. We glided through the aisles, past magical shelves, freshly stocked and bold. It was a vivid intrusion in that old town: affirming light catching on the joyous earth, revealing colours and fragrances previously unknown. The trolley rolled easily before us, as if it, too, wished to blaze our celebrations.

Our congregation assembled on the croquet lawn of Kapunda High School while we stood within an intimate orbit, newly bound and certain. On that Saturday afternoon, beneath a leaden sky and the wide, welcoming arms of the Moreton Bay Fig, we traded whisperings during the ceremony — small, private currents skipping through a most public moment. A joke passed between us, barely audible, yet enough to capture and delight.

In the midnight quiet, the walk home from Dutton Park. We crossed the railway line, passing the train in its silent playground and Rawady’s Deli — all of it seeming to conspire, finally, in our favour. The world had softened into black velvet, the sky dusted with a delicate pepper of stars. The town slept, offering a kind of reverence, and Baker and then Hill streets became church aisles of their own. We walked them together, up and down the gentle rises, the trees along the footpaths like chaperones, bearing witness as we began.