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.
Sedans feel selfish in Bali. The local brothers picked Claire and me up at the Taksu Sanur Motel in their boxy people mover. Here, there are only two types of vehicles: scooters — cheap and nimble — and people movers that carry half a dozen or more.
Heading north up the east coast the brothers queued up some music on a phone. We immediately recognised the twangy guitars of a beloved American performer. The brothers sang along in broken but affectionate ways. You know the words. Join in!
Almost heaven, West Virginia Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Claire and I suppressed our giggles, barely. What better way to engage with Western culture and to learn English (should you wish) than courtesy of the clear-eyed melodies of John Denver’s ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home.’ I do think it’s a terrific song about the love for home with its introspective, soaring bridge that often makes me misty and want to jump in my car and hurtle up to Kapunda.
I hear her voice, in the morning hour she calls me Radio reminds me of my home far away Driving down the road I get a feeling That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday
Lunchtime on Monday and the traffic’s dense but moving as we slowly weave our way to Sideman, east of Ubud. The song finishes and I wonder what will be up next. To our aural surprise we have: ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home’ by John Denver. Except it’s not JD on repeat but the tune’s been pinched by some gormless baritone, likely with a too large hat draped on his too large, empty (Texan) bonce.
It’s a wonderful song, of course, but nothing should be played twice in a row. The second listening is always diminished, an entirely foreseeable disappointment. Still, for us in the back seat, it’s an intercultural education. Finally, the Appalachian Mountains have come to south-east Bali.
Tragedy! One of the brothers — he has pretty good English due to his stint on a cruise ship — was poking about in the console and glovebox when he timidly announced, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I left my phone at the hotel so we’ll have to go back.’
Rather than spend an unnecessary hour in the car, Claire and I are deposited at Sanur Harbour. Strolling around, we’re constantly asked if we’d like a taxi. It’s like being questioned in a bakery if you’d like sauce on your sausage roll. I want to scream, ‘Yes, I’m so unspeakably dim that I need a stranger to alert me to my condiment requirements. Of course! Sauce. Thank you kindly retail assistant.’
Sometime later the brothers return in the people mover, all phones now present. We’re hot so it’s a relief to be in the cool of the car. Again, we steer north. The brothers both fumble with their phones — driving’s no impediment to this — and for our shared, involuntary pleasure, they recommence the tunes.
We then hear that familiar guitar picking — in the key of A minor — and the warm vocals of one Henry John Deutschendorf Jr whom you may know better as John Denver.
Almost heaven, West Virginia Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Three times in under an hour — and we were still stranded in Sanur, vehicularly and musically. Claire and I squeeze each other’s hand in silent, intimate acknowledgement. We’ll hear it twice more before we leave — drifting from waterfalls and restaurants, the song now a comical motif, an improbable Asian companion.
Listening to the song in the future, I’ll remember those lovely brothers and that captive drive along the coast of a small Indonesian island.
Music really does surround our tiny, receptive world.
Congratulations on your appointment as Claire Louise’s sommelier, barista, mixologist (oh) and general drinks help. Of course, it’s not really about beverages. It’s about knowing someone’s favourites, their rhythms, their fussy preferences — and loving them not in spite of them, but because of them
To assist you in your duties here’s a (brief) list of requirements.
1. Green tea. Taken regularly throughout the day. Any number between 4 and 7 cups. Teabags must undertake multiple tours of duty. Tea strength, as Goldilocks knows, should not be too weak nor too strong but just right.
2. Coffee. Taken morning (one at breakfast) and afternoon (also one). As per tea should be moderate in strength. Sometimes, the afternoon one is purchased from a café or the evil Scottish corporation (drive through, not walk-in) and must be nice. As in a nice coffee. A chocolate muffin might accompany the later. Pro tip: Half the muffin is to be taken home and graciously offered to the husband. This, too, is nice.
3. Water. Above all else this cannot be yukky. Filtered water that has fallen as gentle, nice rain in a country location is best. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Repeat. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Unless circumstances demand. These may include hikes in Europe across especially rocky terrain like the Cinque Terre.
4. Orange juice. Taken in a small glass upon rising. Must be diluted (not overly) to allow for ease of consumption and to avoid citrus shock. NB- this is in stark contrast to #9.
5. White wine. Must be cold but not too cold. 8 degrees Celsius seems ideal. Fill to (Rodney) line if using glass acquired* from pub. Do not add ice, regardless of outdoor temperature. But it’s nice to ask.
6. Red wine. If using glass acquired* from pub fill to just below the Rodney line. No, I don’t know either. Add a single magic drop—no one really knows what it does, but it feels important.
7. Sparkling white. Occasionally taken as first drink in pub. Only one glass and this is described as nice.
8. Sparkling red. Despite early enthusiasm, this is now shunned. No loss.
9. Brandy. In order to obtain your mandatory Cert IV, the Brandy unit must be passed at a minimum B level. Large, wide-mouthed tumbler. Substantial ice cube. Ice first to allow for spirit-cooling. How much brandy? Covering the brandy and ice, but not really, only conceptually. Then add new coke not pre-opened coke for it’ll be flat. Then again, the new coke will demonstrate a disappointing lack of fizz (see enshittification). Take care to not over-fill the tumbler to leave room for coke-topping to alleviate the intense brandy hit. To support you with this, a range of face-to-face and online groups are available such as the Brandy Assistance Division (BAD) who meet every month on the second Tuesday and 1 – 800 – BRANDYHELP has proved useful to some.
10. Gin. Similar to but not quite the same as #9. Probably less spirit but with the addition of botanicals — though don’t let Miss overhear you saying that word, a dehydrated lemon wheel — don’t let Miss overhear you saying that either, mint et al.
11. Cocktails. No genuine insight. Just make ‘em strong. Unless 10% ABV, don’t bovver.
12. Pimm’s. (correct use of possessive apostrophe, thanks) See #11.
13. Beer. The sole exclusion. Simple rule to remember.
14. Hot chocolate. Taken mid-evening (mostly during the southern hemisphere winter) around 9pm. Sometimes as early as 8.30 and as late as 9.30. Never a giant mug’s worth. Regardless of the temperature, microwave for an additional 30 seconds (minimum) but do not allow to boil. May be accompanied (irregularly) by treats.
15. Baileys et al. Taken occasionally, mostly on a Sunday. Often with an ice cube. Do not be alarmed when, days later, you find a glass with a barely-there centimetre of (diluted) milky beverage hidden away (in seeming shame) on a low fridge shelf. Sometimes poorly sealed with a sad square of cling wrap.
I wish you well and trust you’ll enjoy this lively and exciting role.
Happy birthday! I thought it a fine moment to pause and raise a glass (West End if available) to a few tremendous memories from the vault…
Let’s begin with the ongoing tradition of our SANFL Grand Final texts in the case of Sturt or Glenelg winning. You had the upper hand in 2016 and 2017; I had a turn in 2019, then received a text in 2023 and 2024. Surely one of us gets a message this year. Watch out!
*
I still think back to those Adelaide Oval Test matches of our youth. We loved the cricket, of course, but also the economy of the cheap kid’s ticket. More cash for beers. I can see us now at the Victor Richardson Gates — me first, just 17, sliding through. Then Davo. Taller. He’s waved in too. Chrisso, taller again, gets the nod after a suspicious squint from the bloke on the gate. But then comes you, all six-foot-five of you, last in the queue. The old guy takes your ticket, peers up, irritated, and says, ‘Are you sure you’re all under sixteen?’ Davo doesn’t miss a beat: ‘Yeah, we’re from the country. Breed ’em big out there.’
We all then galloped straight to the hill and set up shop just in front of the Duck Pond. We heard the whistling of stems being pulled from empty kegs. Shortly after one of us came back with a plastic cup holder bursting with beers, slopping West End Draught onto the sloping lawns.
*
A highlight was most certainly the trip Chrisso, and I made to Coffs Harbour in July of 1990 to visit you and Michelle. We had a great week. I recall Mutton Bird Island, Par 3 golf in Coffs, the cocktail party with your footy club friends, going to the Sawtell RSL and Joe Bananas for dinner, lots of fun along the way and — of course — the triumphant meat tray at a local pub.
Good people, good weather, and that ancient stubby holder still tells the tale!
*
A less successful expedition was the 1982 Lutheran Youth trip to Naracoorte with Stephen in the Gem. Ending up in a ditch and travelling home by train! Found sanctuary on the Fanks farm. In between was a theological and beery blur. But we survived — just.
*
Then there was Melbourne in 2017 — you, me, the Hayward brothers, Lukey and Nick. Listening to Phil Carmen at the North Fitzroy Arms. He was truly compelling. It was a great event and as people say, you know it’s a big day when you get to the pub at noon and next thing, you’re ordering dinner there too before zipping into Young and Jackson’s for a midnight nightcap. Collingwood and Port the next day! Free bird seed. A funny weekend.
*
It was also terrific to be part of two Senior Colts cricket premierships. Fergy our coach. Tanunda and Angaston Ovals. I had a stint at silly mid-on when you charged in. No helmets in those days — and no shortage of courage. Both the Tanunda batsman and I in danger of fouling our whites. Especially when he defended one of your short balls using only his (four-cornered) head. I was sure it’d come straight off his double scoop Gray Nicolls.
*
But it wasn’t all bouncers and meat raffles. That you and Michelle asked Chrisso and I to act as ushers at your wedding ceremony in Hamilton remains an utter honour. The Yalumba reception was also excellent!
Thanks for all this, Rod — the cricket, the laughs, the travel, the stories we can now retell like old blokes at a reunion. Hang on! Enjoy your extended birthday celebrations. Well played!
From the top of Gundry’s Hill, Kapunda lies soundlessly below — half-hidden in its jumbled valley.
The topography gifts this view — and encourages a certain kind of reflection. I consider how some of the nearby towns such as Freeling, Nuriootpa, and Tanunda are largely flat — perhaps a little reserved in their landscape. Our steeper hills allowed for a testing upbringing of bike and billycart riding.
Once, the surrounds of Gundry’s Hill were simply paddocks — rolling and empty. Now, a housing estate sprouts, improbably dense. There’s about twenty homes hounded in together — you’d struggle to swing a nine iron between them. However, unlike other locations further north, the population’s climbing.
Driving about I’m gladdened by the early-week industry. People on foot and in vehicles are moving about collecting and depositing stuff, accomplishing transactions, making things happen.
A blue sky presses down on Kapunda, dragged by an icy wind slashing at the trees and roofs. I remember days like these from my childhood. A friend once called it a lazy wind — ‘It doesn’t go around you, just straight through your torso.’ She was right.
I’m curious — profoundly invested — in the high school’s rebuild after the 2022 fire. Eringa now looks familiar and is regaining much of its grandfatherly glory. It’s reclaiming its place as the town’s reassuring heart. The croquet lawn lies beneath a compact row of building site offices and the apron sloping from the grand front steps is crowded with what I hope are temporary structures. The old palm tree stands noble by the basketball court.
*
Idling through the Dutton Park gates I take a slow lap around the sporting precinct, passing the clubrooms where Claire and I had our wedding reception. I then see the sleek bowls club, tennis and netball courts, and sadly becalmed trotting track — remembering long, dust-kicked laps in the heat of footy’s pre-season. The encircling gum trees bend in the crisp June gusts.
I veer past the old Railway Hotel. Most of it’s intact behind some hopeful orange bunting. I wonder for a moment at what it could become. A motel? Café? Restaurant? I then shake my head. It’s been decades since the pub fire and nothing’s happened.
Across the road is the Railway Station. It’s now luxury accommodation but I remember Mum taking my sister Jill and I to collect our monthly parcel of State Library books and cassettes. There was always excitement in pulling open the brown paper wrapping to see what’d made the train trip up from North Terrace.
I note mechanics garages all around town. A number have sprung up to service patiently waiting trucks and utes. Diesel motors have feelings, too. A boxing club’s in a shed across from Bald Hill.
The North Kapunda pub is shut although the forlorn loss is yet to drape itself glumly over the veranda and windows. I hope it reopens but Kapunda has probably always been overserviced by pubs. Smiling at the thought of Saturdays in there during the 1980’s — the rowdy white smear of a couple dozen cricketers and I hear, ‘Where are you goin’? You owe me a beer for the Schooner School!’
In contrast, Puffa’s drive-through has been trading steadily since dawn and just over on Clare Road’s a flashing sign urging punters to drop by for morning coffee and afternoon delights. I love pushing through the front door into its cosy bar but before noon on a Monday’s not really the time. One day soon.
Turning onto Hill Street I spy the sporting mural about which I’ve heard much. I’m carried back to the past and beam at Rocket Ellis, Paul O’Reilly, Davo, and other portraits. Macca — iconic teacher and sportsman — is also there and he once told me, ‘You’ve got it arse about. You hit a cricket ball in the air and a golf ball along the ground!’
I smile at the adjacent mural more broadly acknowledging Kapunda’s story. Much-loved deli owners and revered citizens Eli, Brian, and Reg Rawady are at the rightful centre. I can still hear their distinctive voices, especially Reg’s bellowing baritone. A town that appropriately praises its people and history is surely a healthy place.
At Litl Mo’s bakery, I park outside the former Eudunda Farmers store. Inside’s noisy with older folks concluding their morning tea. As I’m ordering most amble towards the door — leaving behind their coffee cups, chatter, and crumbs. A murmuring din bounces around. ‘See you next week, Bill. Enjoy your golf on Thursday!’ It’s an encouraging hub for the town and a bustling café.
Deciding to eat on the balcony, I spot the dental clinic across the Main Street. It’s new although Dad later tells me it’s been open a while. After too many of Mo’s chocolate donuts, stride across the road to get your teeth fixed.
My sausage roll is excellent. Scrutinising it after a bite or two, I’m thrilled to spot that neglected ingredient: carrot! The taste is delicate and flavoursome. It’s not massive — no need to compensate for tastelessness or oily pastry. It’s a treat.
*
Monday mornings teach you things in a country town. I’ve taken a tranquil drive through memory but have also glimpsed something of Kapunda’s boisterous and bright future. There’s movement beneath the quiet.
Each of us studies the lunch menu like it’s a sacred text, applies some unnecessary critical thinking, and in succession — as anticipated — orders a schnitzel. It’s a collective declaration of mateship, and an acknowledgement of being deep into our sixth decade. Growing up in Kapunda, we’ve a lengthy and easy friendship.
Outside’s blustery but we’re in the pub’s cosiness.
With the dining room’s blazing fireplace, pot belly stove in the front bar, and rib-ticklers (for her pleasure) soliciting purchase in the toilet’s vending machines ($2 each) there’s still much that appeals. Happy groups are dotted about the tables amidst a humming Thursday ambience.
In a world hurried by notifications, noise, and busyness, the Greenock pub resists performative velocity. Storytelling is our afternoon’s purpose and theme, and we’re now less about bedlam and more about meaning.
Chris (Rohde) tells us of his recent trip to Europe and Berlin, of steins and asparagus, and staying a drop-punt from Checkpoint Charlie. Of Copenhagen and the Tivoli Gardens. We also hear more about Chris and Letitia Hayward’s golfing and post-golfing explorations of Ireland, Scotland and London. All described as, ‘magnificent.’
A photo shoot’s happening in the neighbouring anteroom, and I spy etched glassware filled with wine the colour of ox blood, arranged in a pretty tableau. A silver reflecting umbrella illuminates the human and vino talent, and I nod into my ale at the prospect of a glossy double-page spread. It’s as deserving as any pub. I wonder if there’s a magazine in Germany called Schnitzels Monthly.
A log shifts in the fireplace, and there’s a scrape of cutlery. Easing my chair back, and with our beer rhythm wordlessly established, I fetch another pint of Coopers Draught for Lukey and a Pirate Life for me.
Chris (Hayward) continues his animated observations. ‘We found a great pub in Soho, and I thought that’d be our local for the week. But then we came across another that was even better!’
Our schnitzels arrive and these, too, are magnificent. Lukey says, ‘Good that everyone has a schnitzel. About time you all got with the programme.’ Pepper gravy sweetness wafts through the snug air along with the hot comfort of chips and steamed broccoli. These hearty plates — though probably not us — could star in the magazine shoot.
Talk accelerates to footy and the upcoming Kapunda Bombers premiership reunions. Teams from 1965, 1985, and 2005 will gather in the club. With this comes the mandatory story of Lukey’s stratospheric hanger in the 1985 grand final. It was a colossal mark but the sole VHS tape of the game is lost. I can see the back-slapping, and hear the bellowing laughter erupting above the din of the Dutton Park clubrooms. That the 2025 Bombers are struggling won’t matter one bit.
We consider relocating to the front bar but linger, preferring the stillness. I love how the Greenock pub is humbly and wilfully unrenovated. In middle life, competition yields to communion — and today and annually for us, this is a chapel. It hosts our companionship and remains a landscape for thought and gratitude.
This annual lunch is where we reconnect with younger versions of ourselves, even as we sit with our shifting adult responsibilities. It’s also a place to remember who we were — teenagers piling into dusty Holdens blasting Midnight Oil — and to marvel at how this whole scrappy, beautiful mess is turning out.
In this City of Churches, stained-glass adorns religious buildings but also those devoted to sinful pursuits. Some argue that pubs and places of worship offer the same functions, but the former attracts a better standard of employee.
The Arab Steed on Hutt Street is in the bohemian quarter of Adelaide and upon arrival I note the dreamy autumnal light refracting through the bar and am instantly gladdened. Announcing the pub was established in 1849 and depicting a galloping horse, the glass above the doors and windows elevates my hospitality expectations to stylish and sophisticated.
Claire and I then enjoy a Catholic hour of sorts—communal, confessional, and consisting partly of (holy) wine.
Late Saturday afternoon can be fraught in a boozer. It’s not our preferred Mystery Pub day and time, as it’s often a twilight when the lunchtime lunchers and piddled punters have departed, and the evening’s effervescence remains remote.
It can be a bleak, betwixt period of sludgy purposeless and ennui.
But inside’s a big table encircled by animated diners. They’re female, of a certain age, and generate a heartening front bar context. Strolling through on a quick Cook’s tour, I reach the TAB section.
The screens cycle from Randwick to Flemington and over to Ascot. A handful of rumpled blokes is cheerfully strategising their next bets while bemoaning their losses. Punting’s a narrative pursuit where the protagonist scripts their own saga of triumph and ruin, all dictated by huge horses and the tiny people perilously astride them.
Barkeep is young, beardy and kind. He asks what Claire’d like. ‘Just a glass of sauvignon blanc, thanks,’ comes her bright reply. I’ve scanned and evaluated the taps and say, ‘Tell me about the Ocean Alley Ale.’ He explains that it’s a new ‘collab’ between the Sydney psych rock band and Coopers that recently ‘dropped’. The lingo of yoof! I later read the beer’s, ‘a sessionable tropical pale ale that will set you and your best mates up for sunny afternoons that roll into balmy nights.’
For mid-April, it’s troublingly hot out (and in) and feels like January. However, the pub ceiling, veranda, and alfresco section by Hutt Street are garlanded with atmospheric strings of warmly glowing globes. This is an inviting setting, so we claim a footpath table. Adelaide pubs are notoriously indifferent regarding this, and all the guilty mine hosts should undertake a compulsory study tour of Fitzroy hotels in Melbourne to research evocative lighting design.
My heart’s then further a-flutter at the sight of an old-fashioned wooden refrigerated cabinet, fitted with chrome hinges and latches, giving it a vintage, almost maritime aesthetic. The top section glows with a striking blue light through glass-fronted doors, illuminating a neat arrangement of beer glasses inside. Beneath this, a row of solid wooden doors with metal fittings suggests older refrigeration units—reminiscent of the iceboxes of earlier decades.
I recall how all the pubs in Kapunda’s main street had these—the Clare Castle, Sir John Franklin, North Kapunda (recently kaput) and the Prince of Wales. I can still hear the affable closing and opening clangs as frosty glasses were retrieved following cricket on those now hazy Saturdays.
To the right, a rack is filled with classic Aussie snack options, including Smith’s chips and Twisties, adding a colourful contrast and casual charm. The whole scene is nostalgic and cinematic with Australiana, blending functional hospitality with retro ambiance.
Meanwhile, I get Claire an espresso martini and myself another Ocean Alley Ale. How is my beer? A zesty, fruity, summery cup although it’s of concern that Coopers now need to so nakedly chase the kids. The old world’s racing away—maybe in a canter, maybe flat out.
We chat of work, play, loved ones and (checks notes) make mandatory mention of The Pina Colada Song. Today included an Auslan job for Claire at Gather Round, preceded by an earlier session interpreting for a beekeeper down at Pennington. How uniquely clever!
Me? I mowed the lawn (badly).
With the stained-glass light suspended gently like the final note of a hymn, we head home from the Arab Steed for hot chips, our Saturday evening lounge, and The White Lotus.
You wear an elegant, off-the-shoulder sequined dress—sparkling, even in monochrome. In your left hand is a small bouquet of white roses. Your right hand rests gently on mine.
We are gazing at each other with affection, both smiling softly—it’s a candid and heartfelt demonstration of connection.
The setting is outdoors, beside Kapunda’s duck pond. In the background gum trees contemplate while the island’s soft, weeping branches add to the serene, almost dreamlike atmosphere. Late afternoon light filtering through bathes everything in tranquil reverence.
As kids, how many times had you and I walked, rode or driven here? It was always evocative but I dared not imagine it as a setting for such a photograph.
You exude warmth, elegance, and joy. Even in the black-and-white image, you are catching the autumnal light. Your hair is styled in soft waves, loosely pinned back with a natural, graceful finish that frames your face with an artful, effortless beauty. As you look up at me, beside you, you have a luminous smile and your expression is one of affection and contentment. Your face, as well-known to me as my own thoughts, is wholly familiar but somehow brand-new.
With this, my world is remade.
Your posture—relaxed, leaning slightly into our embrace—conveys ease and deep correlation to this instant. The sparkle of the dress, paired with the tenderness in your eyes, contributes an almost cinematic glow. There’s an attractive balance of glamour and surrender in your appearance, making the scene striking.
We had a timeless and profound minute—the photo’s composition accentuates love and natural beauty.
Your face is turned slightly toward me, and you’re looking with a warm, affectionate smile. There’s a calm confidence in your gaze—you look truly content and immersed. You are muse and memory, myth and moment.
For this moment, my life had been a faltering, often uncertain rehearsal.
On this day of orchestration and meticulous planning and staging it is an improvised tableau. A reverential moment at a childhood location. Late afternoon you and I drove past and were drawn to this poignant place. An intermezzo between the ceremony and the reception. It is a place that catches the magical narrative of our wedding.
And here, in this quiet place, is where the light found us.
Well, the South side of Chicago is the baddest part of town And if you go down there, you better just beware Of a man named Leroy Brown Now, Leroy, more than trouble You see, he stands, about, six foot four All the downtown ladies call him ‘Treetop Lover’ All the men just call him ‘Sir’
We were beneficiaries of Kapunda High being a progressive school with teachers who were innovative. When I was in Year 11, vertical homegroups became part of the ongoing reform and this meant students from Years 8, 9 and 10 joined us in the Home Economics Centre under Mrs. Trinne’s watchful and occasionally fierce eye. This arrangement was representative of our bold education.
Mr. Schell was influential in setting up a daily fitness programme. Every day we’d have a different activity and the entire school would rotate through these, including all the staff. Most of this happened on the oval. But one memorable— if haunting session— was scheduled weekly in the former stables.
It’s called the Health Hustle, comprised three or four songs and each tune had a set workout routine. Our class members would claim their space on the rough concrete floor of the Stables and Schelly played the songs on a boombox. For some in our class this was fun and for others like me, it marked the beginning of my descent into dancephobia!
Technically, it’s known as chorophobia and yes, I’ve been attending the Monday meetings for many, many years. No, not really but to describe my dancing as uncoordinated would be a gigantic underrepresentation.
The mere mention today of Health Hustle prompts Claire and Trish to leap up from their otherwise comfy chairs and give a hilarious recreation of me feebly trying to dance in the stables all those years ago. All done with uncontrollable laughter. Look! There they go mimicking me and my tangle of disobedient, droopy limbs. Arrythmia not of the heart but of the body. Still, our friendship, if not my choreography, flourished.
Catching the opening notes of ‘Mickey’ or ‘Teach Your Children’ nowadays I’m sure many of the class of ‘83 also have a Pavlovian response that causes them to break into those deeply embedded routines. But I somehow retain affection for the Chicago gangster jaunt of ‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.’ The marriage of the Scorsese lyrics and the wide-eyed piano stomp is terrific.
He got a custom Continental He got an El Dorado too He got a 32 gun in his pocket full a fun He got a razor in his shoe
*
Resuming our drone flight over Kapunda, we’re now on the Main Street and peer under the veranda of Rawady’s Deli. Pausing at the front window we see sporting team sheets sticky-taped to the glass. Handwritten names on a paper footy oval or for cricket, a list of eleven boys along with details of when and where. If it was a summer’s Saturday morning, there’d be a white huddle on the veranda, ready to head to Eudunda or Angaston or maybe Truro.
Gazing further into the shop we witness a constant flurry of activity behind and in front of the long counter. Reg is moving about, helping people with his baritone that always seemed too large for his tiny frame while out the back Brian’s endlessly cooking chips in the deep fryer. Rawady’s Deli was the town’s heartbeat and epicentre for much communal good.
On any given day, my Mum or sister, Jill could be working or it might be Claire making me a post-cricket milkshake. If I was in there with Greggy Higgins getting mixed lollies before Thursday afternoon RE with Mrs. Schultz at the former convent then we’d see this transaction-
‘Yes, thanks. Can I have ten cobbers?’
‘Sure.’ Ten cobbers would then be shoved into the white paper bag by someone like Eli. ‘Okay. What’s next?’
‘How about some of those red ones?’
‘Which ones?’ This question would emerge from deep in the lolly cabinet. A headless voice.
Greggy would sometimes say, ‘See where your hand is? Not there. Over to your left.’ We’d then both giggle.
‘Okay. These?’ An impatient finger would point at a box of bananas or teeth or red snakes.
‘No. Not my left. Your left.’
We then fly down the street to the outskirts of town and the Esso service station. A man of relentless motion like the Rawady brothers, the owner, Rex Draper was also a Musical Society devotee. Like Rawady’s Deli many locals worked there. The girl fourth from the left (here too), Damian Trotta (still there) Nevvy Ellis, Grantley Dodman— who called himself a petroleum transfer engineer—and for about six years, me.
Most Sundays around six my cousin Paul ‘Boogly’ Ryan would drive in, piloting his HQ Holden Kingswood. Hearing him before I saw his car, he’d cruise past Trotta’s Hardware and swing up the volume on his Kenwood stereo and it blasted across the dusty, otherwise tranquil townscape. This ritual always made me laugh.
We were massive fans of the Rolling Stones and knew how cool they were. From their last great album, Tattoo You, ‘Slave’ was a blues jam and part of our shared vernacular. It was always greeted with nodding heads and wry smiles.
Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it Do it, do it, do it, do it
Don’t wanna be your slave Don’t wanna be your slave Don’t wanna be your slave
Let’s zoom in now as a sinister black motorbike has rumbled onto the forecourt of Rex’s servo and shuddered noisily to a stop. In 1983 full driveway service was expected. Fill her up, check the oil and tyres, clean the windshield. I recall my utter terror when a bikie—always fat and gruff and menacing—would scowl before murmuring instructions to me. This was scarier. Their lifeless eyes always hidden by impenetrably black sunglasses.
He’d order, ‘Fill it up.’ I’d gulp, knowing what was next. My hands shaking as I eased the now unwittingly weaponised nozzle into the tank of the Harley. Brain surgery would’ve been less intimidating. They’d often be returning from a day trip to Cadell Prison. He’d then whisper in a barely disguised death-threat. ‘Don’t spill any on the tank. I’ve just had it repainted.’
Of course. These feckers had always just repainted their tank. They lived only for their Harleys. They didn’t have lives or hobbies or volunteer to goal umpire the junior colts. Just repainting the fecking tank on their fecking murder machines.
*
Late in 1983 we had our final school social. These were terrific fun and the last dance was always ‘Hotel California.’ With the duelling guitar solo still ringing out as the lights came up in the Parish Hall, Davo, Chrisso, and I pointed my sky-blue HR Holden towards our friend Stephen’s unit in Plympton where we spent the night.
The next day was Friday and our last at Kapunda High. Some like Chrisso didn’t appear fussed and Paul Hansberry was already working at the silos for the summer. I remembered my first day in year 8 when I was scared at what high school would hold. Now, on our concluding day I was scared at what life beyond school might hold as the world opened up in vast and uncertain ways.
I’m quite sure I didn’t thank my teachers—Mrs. Schultz, Miss Searle, Ali Bogle (she was young so didn’t have an honorific, sorry), Mr Krips and Mr. McCarthy. Macca—who would speak at the footy club wedding reception Claire and I would have many years into the future. So, I thank them now.
Trish and Claire and Belly and Lisa and Davo and Penny and Chrisso and Crackshot and I would’ve said things like this to each other-
‘Well, we’re done. See you round.’
‘Bye, you.’ Accompanied by a friendly punch and a grin.
‘I’ll see you soon, probably before Christmas.’
And that was it.
I didn’t realise it then but Kapunda High—indeed the entire town—had prepared me well. They had accomplished that most miraculous feat, the very thing that every day drives our teachers, parents and coaches. Despite our frequent resistance, they persevered. They had helped create our lives.
1983 was soon replaced and off we all went. Uni, the air force, nursing, work. The world was waiting. Kapunda High had been great.
Gundry’s Hill is the natural place for it to commence with its views across our undulating town. There’s St Roses’ spire, a patchwork of roofs, and the silos standing quietly down near the road to Freeling. The vista is smeared green from the trees lining Clare Road, Mildred Street, and Hill Street which is home to the ancient playground and its old black steam train.
We’re now above Dutton Park and its fetching oval protected by those silent eucalypts. If we listen carefully, we can hear the Mickans chuckling and telling stories. It’s a short flight then to the Duck Pond and if it’s a weekend evening there might be half a dozen cars parked haphazardly on the southern bank, near Dermody Petroleum. There are teenagers draped all across the lawns. My friends. From the tape deck of a car, possibly a Gemini or a Kingswood, you hear this soulful song
Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma chameleon You come and go You come and go Loving would be easy if your colours were like my dreams Red, gold, and green Red, gold, and green
We then zip over to the swimming pool. On this hot afternoon we see dotted on the grass untidy groups of kids. Zoom in and they’re munching on Bush Biscuits or a Zooper Dooper before running to the diving board. From this they leap off aiming desperately and adolescently at the canteen, run long-sufferingly by Mrs. Chappell. They try to splash her by doing a storkie, arsey or a coffin. They’re tiresome but determined. The supervisor—an elderly Englishman—yells to the skinny boys, ‘Pack it in!’ They ignore him but he yells again. ‘Pack it in or you’ll have a rest for five minutes!’
A short journey and we pause over the Pizza Bar on the Main Street. Johnny Guzzo is the boss. Again, inside there’s some of the town’s youth and they’re huddled about the Formica tables. Some spill onto the footpath, weighted by black duffle coats and ripple boots. With P plates blutacked to their windows, assorted cars lined up outside. There’s a knot of motorbikes too.
Inside by the windows and next to the pinball machines, a mate’s trying for his best ever score on Frogger. He’s trying to cross the river on logs and—be careful—skip over on the backs of hopefully drowsy crocodiles. But he gets munched and the game’s over. He thumps the glass top of the arcade machine. Johnny’s throwing pizza dough up into ever widening circles and hears the racket. ‘Hey! Do that again and I kicka you out!’
It’s 1983 and for one group of kids, they’re in year 12. Seventeen is an age when much happens but you’re no longer a child and not yet an adult. It’s a fraught, fantastic time. Let’s zoom in and see who they are.
*
Here’s Kapunda High’s class of 1983. There’s only thirteen of us although this was boosted by the subsequent return of one Paul Masters, and arrival of Eriko, our Japanese exchange student. Then, of course, most of the fifty-odd who began with us in year 8 had left school for a job. Year 12 was matriculation which meant qualifying for university. It an innocent and wonderous time.
This photo was taken on the croquet lawn at the front of the school. I never saw any croquet but sitting on its grass under the autumn sun was calming and peaceable. And it’s such a picturesque setting that a few short decades later it was where the girl fourth from the left and I would be married. No other location presented itself.
There were only fifteen of us, but I thought us an unruly collective. All day long we laughed and yelled and interrupted each other. Thirty years on, talking in the footy club with Macca—our beloved History teacher Paul McCarthy—he told me we were, ‘bright and well-behaved. A really great group.’ In 1983 I sat in a corner next to Chrisso and Davo and we did much together.
Claire and Trish and I had long enjoyed our triangular friendship, and this continued. There were a couple of classmates with whom I barely exchanged words. I didn’t dislike them; we just had little in common and I hope they’re happy and well.
*
Our matric centre was at the front of the school just near the croquet lawn. It was down the cement steps and in Kidman’s bequeathed mansion, Eringa, it had been a servant’s bedroom. A tiny room, it could only fit ten or a dozen of us around the little student tables.
A blackboard hung to the side and an old gas heater sat above the mantle and we’d use it to toast sandwiches until we weren’t permitted. A corridor ran around two of the walls and our individual carrells were lined up there. How lucky that we had our own private desks? Much of our year was spent at these.
In that little classroom we’d conversations which influenced us. Mrs. Schultz, our gentle and wise English teacher, chaperoned us through The Grapes of Wrath with the Joads as they made their emblematic and weighty way from Oklahoma to California through the Mojave Desert.
I recall my terror as she and Trish talked at length about the novel’s symbolism, focusing upon the turtle crossing a highway and how it represented struggle, determination, and hope. Committed to making my own life difficult, I read many Steinbeck novels over the summer and loved them. But, of course, I didn’t finish the compulsory Grapes of Wrath, and generally only saw the turtle as a turtle.
Our Australian History teacher, Mr. Krips, escorted us through a study of our national identity and the apotheosis of the nomad tribe. I’d not encountered the word apotheosis before. It wasn’t used on the cricket, even by Richie Benaud or by Graham Kennedy on Blankety Blanks. It impressed me and I vowed to keep it in my vocabulary as I thought it could have future value. I swiftly forgot it.
Of equal value was the extra-curricular stuff we learnt from our teachers. The girl fourth from the left and Trish always had enthusiasm for curating our experiences and so set up communal diaries in big scrap books. Quickly becoming known as the Crap Books, these enjoyed daily entries, with some contributing more than others. Occasionally Kripsy did too. How great was he? Early in the year he noted the discovery of a musical gem.
Last night I saw Marvin Gaye on TV singing, ‘Sexual Healing’ which was terrific. What a voice! What a performance!
It is a great tune and now when I hear it I instantly think of Kripsy and that tiny, windowless classroom. I hear it with fondness for my classmates and teachers and that fleeting, singular time and place.
Get up, get up, get up, get up Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up
Oh, baby now let’s get down tonight!
*
The Coorong is a distance from Kapunda, south of the mouth of the Murray. Until our matric year, school camps had been breezy and amusing affairs. More like holidays than educational experiences. As we had to study both a science and a humanities subject, I found myself in Biology and had to undertake a special personal project. For reasons which over time have only become more bleakly absurd, I was about to immerse myself in the heady, sparkling world of Banksias.
Yes, my teenaged fantasies were all becoming real. I would undertake a vegetation transect. It’s not, however, as glamorous as it sounds.
We stayed in rustic accommodation with Mr. Zanker and Miss Searle. Curiously, I would work with Mr. Zanker decades later at Marryatville High where I taught his daughter in year 12. In 1983, there were about eight of us in Biology and we drove down on Sunday. I recollect none of the journey.
It was cold and grey but one night by a shared metal sink I had a novel experience. One of my classmates, the girl fourth from the left, leant towards me, giggling, and announced, ‘Hey you. Listen to this!’ A brief subterranean rumble followed. We both collapsed into laughter. It was the first time I’d heard a girl fart.
This remains the clear highlight of that camp.
Monday morning was grim and wretched, and it began to rain. I was utterly alone in the middle of a forest of banksias. My task was to measure all sorts of variables like tree height, number of banksia flowers, distance between trees, and other things too hideously dull to itemise for you now.
Until then I think I was a kid who just got on with stuff. But this was new for it was an obligation in which I had zero interest. It was a necessity and there was no escape. I sat on the wet ground and my bum became damp. Three more days of this! I reckon it was the first time in my life I was truly bored. Even now I twitch if I see a Banksia. They’re for life, not just the Coorong.
It gave me a glimpse into the dark world of adulthood responsibility. I didn’t like it.
As I stop the car in the national park, wistfulness arrives. I’m in the Adelaide Hills for the park run event at the old Belair golf course.
The landscape’s changed. I’ve changed too.
On my previous visit around the change of millennium it was a lush and brilliant sea green and rightly respected as a golfing postcard. That day my leisure buddies were chaps I went to school with from our hometown of Kapunda.
Crackshot. Puggy. Bobby.
I love the pre-run buzz as clusters of runners collect and dissolve, collect and dissolve. Much anticipatory and animated chatter. At the bottom of a brown hill two hundred of us congregate on the parched apron.
Belair golf course was closed about a decade back. The clubhouse is also gone—replaced by the bumps and swooping curves of a BMX track. I recall post-round beers on its balcony overlooking the final hole and watching other groups approaching the green. We’d admire the parabola of a successful shot but also feel solidarity with those spraying into the foliage. Our conversation might’ve gone thus:
‘That’s a nice shot into the green. Just like yours, Puggy,’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t three putt as well.’
‘Harsh. How many balls did you hit out of bounds today, Mickey?’
‘Careful. Whose buy?’
‘Crackshot’s.’
I remember playing the Friday after my graduation; a mild winter’s day in 1988. These were good times. My world was necessarily opening up, but the Belair golf course remained a comforting, occasional alcove.
*
Our 5k run begins with an alarmingly steep climb up the 18th. The track’s loose with sandy rubble so I watch my feet. The Run Director had cautioned the throng: ‘It’s a trail and most weeks someone comes to grief.’ Despite this his briefing was generous and encouraged a cuddly sense of togetherness.
We then cut across half a dozen holes and it’s frequently 4WD terrain. Among the inclines and undulating gum forest we’re sheltered from the wind but it’s nonetheless demanding.
At the teardrop turn, we swivel and retrace our steps. As always, there’s a broken stream of elite runners who skate ahead and illuminate the way.
It was nostalgic and my old affection for the course surged. The golf holes remain and some of the greens are now home to frisbee golf buckets and nets. So, it’s still golf Jim, but not as I know it.
Kangaroos hop here and there or lounge about indifferently like (muscular) bogans in Bali. They still own the place.
Scampering across the ex-fairways, I was teleported back decades and considered The Great Gatsby. I appreciated those, ‘riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart’ and could almost hear the ghostly rifle crack of an errant Hot Dot clunking onto a gum tree trunk— accompanied by a groan and paddock language.
Pushing along beneath the trees and through the balmy shade, I wondered about the lost world of my youth. Where had it and the verdant fairways gone? Here I was in my new (parkrun) life but was there loss and also emergent reward?
Is the past really a distant, gaseous planet and we’re forever marooned on Earth? TS Eliot once wrote:
Time and the bell have buried the day, the black cloud carries the sun away.
Perhaps he was right. Or perhaps the past never fully leaves us. No to all that, for my life (now) is radiant, kaleidoscopic, and rich.
I’d enjoyed peering into my youth on this parkrun which had masqueraded as a museum tour. Was I sad the old golf course was gone? Yes, but I was happy for the fun of playing there with childhood friends when a lazy afternoon could be gladly lost on the fairways.
Tumbling back down the final hole, I collapse through the finish gate. Hands on hips, I pull in some air and gaze about Saturday’s temperate, misty morning.
On my way back to the car I hear (I think) a percussive burst of spectral golf club on ball.
Not an ideal time to visit a bakery and expect the full range of offerings.
I ask, ‘Can I have a sausage roll?’
‘We’ve only got the cheese and bacon ones left.’
‘Yes, that’s fine thanks,’ I reply although it’s not my preference.
It’s Wednesday and I’m in Tanunda, at the highly recommended Apex Bakery, just off Murray Street and on the way to the town oval.
*
As a Kapunda Bomber I played in an Under 15’s football final against Tanunda. It was close all match. The full back had kicked out well, and late in the last quarter we got a rushed behind. As he prepared to kick the footy back in, I was on the mark just outside the goal square. There wasn’t much time left.
It was a fine late August morning and I put my arms up and to the surprise of everyone at Dutton Park the fullback miskicked it straight onto my chest! Still in shock I put the ball back over his dismayed head for the lead. Shaking his hand after the siren, I felt sorry for my Magpie opponent, but we’d won and advanced to the next week. We didn’t go top.
*
Taking my seat outside the Apex Bakery I slide out the lunch. It’s certainly had too long waiting quietly in the warmer. A lazy car eases past. My cheese and bacon sausage roll is sweaty, limp, and weary, like I imagine most of us would be! However, it’s the perfect size— not too big or small. Those with serious girth and length like an axe handle are making a feeble attempt to disguise the limited taste and aroma. I take a bite.
*
Growing up I had occasional Saturday nights at the Tanunda drive-in. I recall seeing—or not seeing— Wargames,Octopussy and Porky’s! But I also remember after it closed in the 80’s the site became the Barossa Junction, complete with railway carriages.
On Thursday nights there was free beer for a couple hours to entice people to the Junction disco. One summer evening a few of us went across from Kapunda in my mate’s old Alfa Romeo. We applied ourselves vigorously, but I don’t remember there being much dancing on those nights…
Before we knew it, the free beer nights were over.
*
My sausage roll was tasty with delicate smoky bacon flavours combined with gooey cheese. It had subtle filling but again it would’ve been best eaten around midday. I enjoyed it to a degree but knew it wasn’t at its best. It was probably like listening to a much-loved band’s new album but with only the left speaker working.
With memories of footy, drive-ins, and those fleeting free-beer nights swirling in my head, I head for Nuri, ready for a coffee with Mum and Dad.
I’ll return soon and try the sausage rolls again. We’re all entitled to redemption, especially underage Tanunda fullbacks.
The attendant mythology grew when he announced his molted skin was being kept in a bedside cup. For some days he’d been adding to his store of discarded epidermis. Happily, his flesh was less burnt than another friend who was hospitalised after a scorching, shirtless day at the cricket.
But one afternoon we returned to the Sydney apartment and from Brendan’s room there were shouts of horror. ‘No, no, no!’ Someone, likely Woodsy or Swanny, rushed to his aid. ‘We’ve been burgled,’ he cried, ‘Someone’s stolen my cup of skin.’
We’d all enjoyed many days together during cricket season at the Adelaide Oval so welcomed a Day/Night fixture against Sri Lanka. Earlier that day Claire and Trish arrived by train, and joined Chrisso, Woodsy, Swanny, Trev, Paul, Stephen, Brendan, and me. The girls had an epic adventure, and they’d already been to Ballarat, and Melbourne.
It’d be our collective SCG cricket debut. We won and the eternally salvaging AB made 79, while the eternally angry RM Hogg took 4/47. It was punishingly hot, and even our eyeballs sweated as we sat in front of the mammoth scoreboard on their Hill.
Like Sydney itself, it was fun and filmic in scale and more vivid than conservative Adelaide. Leaving, the Hill was a graveyard for countless, abandoned thongs. It seemed to be where all rubber footwear went to die. ‘Hey, you,’ smiled Claire and promptly whacked me on the leg with a thong. She was always doing stuff like that.
Back at the Gem, it was so humid the dew was draped on the roof and windows as if there’d been a monsoon. What a strange, sultry country Sydney was! It was also the era of Derek and Clive, so waiting for the traffic, Stephen, Trish, Claire, and I listened to those horrendously drunk British men known properly as Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.
…he come up with the name of ‘John Stitch’. He come up to me. He said, “I’m John Stitch and I, I do non-stop dancing.”
Trish laughed in that bright, instantly infectious way that always amplified the fun of the joke. We cackled as if we’d never previously heard a word of it. As is her way, Claire didn’t get why we were snorting and giggling so we’d take turns explaining. Often this was unsuccessful.
*
Specialising in jazz, The Basement is an iconic music venue, essential for anyone wanting to immerse themselves in Sydney’s culture. We went along one night, just to take it in. Vince Jones, Don Burrows, or Galapagos Duck weren’t playing, and while this was disappointing, it was something we did in our unquenchable desire to extract what we could from this alpha metropolis. I can’t remember the music but the distillation of memory remains: we saw live music at The Basement.
Later, crossing the Harbour Bridge, we climbed up inside a pylon to take in the panoramic sweep of the city. As we gazed down at the traffic and water, some (me) were fearful of heights, while others like Paul (assisted by being in the Air Force) and Brendan (assisted by being unfathomable) welcomed the flirtation with the deathly descent.
The Centrepoint Tower also afforded dizzying views and at the top I was a screen showing how many centimeters the tower swayed in the wind. I don’t recall the number, only my deep, unsettling fear. I didn’t like it.
Varied groups visited Luna Park, Taronga Zoo, the Moore Park Golf Club, Manly Beach, and Kings Cross where a burly bouncer asked us, ‘Is this your first time in the Cross?’ to which Woodsy replied with nodding honesty, ‘Yes!’
Then, in The Rocks, we stumbled upon a Rolls Royce, its blue elegance gleaming like a jewel. The licence plate declared a single word: Kamahl. It seemed an odd name for a car, but we later realised this referred to its singing owner! We stood by it, all thin limbs and emergent irony. His music meant nothing to us, but he was famous, and this regal car added a sparkle to our kaleidoscopic view of the city.
*
Beach culture was inescapable in Sydney. Courtesy of the 2Day FM radio surf updates and Stephen’s knowledge — as an air traffic controller he’d lived there a while — Curl Curl Beach presented itself to us as a (satirical) pilgrimage. Open to all things local, we ventured there simply because we could. A couple of carloads headed, en convoy, over the Bridge, through the leafy streets of Mossman and past painterly Manly.
We didn’t even swim at Curl Curl — something about the waves didn’t look overly inviting and we carried fresh scars from Bondi — but did pose for a photo by the modest brown sign. Chrisso snapped it, and while Paul and Brendan lingered to the side, it captured us at that exact instant: young and fresh-faced and with our categorically eighties hair.
In the photo a tanker drags itself across the horizon while below us in the carpark is the now retro cool of an EJ Holden. It has roof racks so likely is anticipating the return of its surfer-owner. Claire and I are the bookends. Huddled close together are Stephen, Swanny, Woodsy, Trish, and Trev, their faces now fuzzy, washed in the soft, faded colours of the photo. It projects a wistful affection, a feeling that belongs to the past, even as it unfolds.
Gleefully oblivious, we were on the edge of things — not just a shallow cliff at Curl Curl.
We were untouched by the weight of the world, and unburdened. A modern view might be that we were merely living in the moment. We were about to plunge into adulthood, but that morning, standing above the beach, responsibility was as distant as Vladivostok.
A twentysomething birthday gift from Claire and Trish, a block-mounted copy of this photo now sits on my desk. It reminds me quietly of my privileged youth and favourite people. I don’t have a witty or poignant story about that visit to North Curl Curl and I’m perfectly content with that. What does it mean to look back and know that we were unaware of how precious those days would become?
What matters is the warmth of attachment and love that stays, how this now blurry image, taken decades ago on an East Coast beach, has come to embody our teenage years — our abundant fortune, and the deep connection we shared in Kapunda.
This summer, I’ll look at the photo again, and, outrageously and sadly, it will be forty years since our Sydney trip. Time moves like that — faster than we ever expect. One day soon, I’ll go for a drive, pick up Trev, and put on Midnight Oil.
After lunch, he might announce, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’
Chrisso- ridiculously smart, dry of wit Woodsy- upbeat, an enthusiast Trev- funny, beyond naughty Swanny- convivial, night-owl Paul- plain speaker, machine-gun laugh Stephen- our host, gentle Brendan- enigmatic, fatigued by the stupidity of others Trish- quick to laugh, dramatic Claire- cute but required explanations for most jokes The Gem- Stephen’s bright green Holden Gemini Your correspondent- always first asleep, silly.
*
The girl pointed at Chrisso but spoke to all four of us.
‘Are youse from England?’ We’d done a 900k day and here we were in West Wylong (pop – 2,500 odd) and some girls thought we were British. She was barefoot and continued. ‘Youse have got an accent.’ Someone, probably Trev said, ‘No, we’re from South Australia. Kapunda.’ He may have then added, ‘Where they have hot cars.’
We were a long way from home and here was an indicator of how wide the world was.
Idle chat with locals done, we decamped to our onsite caravan. I doubt there was a TV, radio, or home cinema. So, in that time-honoured way we inhaled pizza — likely ham and pineapple; mercifully eggplant hadn’t been invented — and the national beer which is now rarer than rocking-horse droppings; Foster’s Lager. I’m trusting it was from the Royal Hotel on Main Street (true; look it up).
We sat at the tiny table, and I’m quite sure, said things silly and then things sillier. This was best illustrated by Woodsy saying to me, ‘Your face is red,’ and catching his reflection in a mirror, then asking, ‘Aren’t I?’
Aside from the Foster’s Lager, on the trek to Sydney there was only one injury. As he slept in the back, Woodsy had a bad dream (doubtless being naked in a public place), threw out his leg, and cut his toe on the driver’s seat assembly. Ouch.
The next morning, we went through Bathurst, and all took turns driving the famous circuit. Speaking of hot cars from Kapunda, we were in Woodsy’s Datsun 180B. Bathurst was far steeper than imagined — TV tends to flatten these things — and as we whizzed along Conrod Straight at 140k, the little Japanese vehicle must’ve sounded like an oversized, determined mosquito.
*
The following tradition began, I think, in Katoomba.
We called into Macca’s, had lunch (two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles…), and leaping up from our red chairs, were keen to finish that final leg, and motor to Stephen’s. We were Sydney bound!
I pushed open the door when Trev announced suddenly, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’ And so he did. We watched him eat it. Every deliberate mouthful. Some would say Trev ate it with a Zen approach. Some would say it was excruciating. It was a scene from a future Tarantino movie where characters chat in pop culture but strangely menacing ways before most are messily dispatched.
Regardless, once Trev eventually finished, the little plastic container could’ve been immediately and hygienically reused. Not a speck of sundae remained. Across the trip and indeed, the years, when we were halfway back to the car after a meal, we’d often hear Trev declare, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae!’
Having passed the medical following his toe injury, Woodsy was ruled fit to drive. Back behind the wheel and with Sydney tantalisingly close, he chirped, ‘Let’s get there!’ and out into the honking traffic lurched the little Datsun. From the rear Chrisso murmured, in that distinctive Chrisso way, ‘Yeah, let’s get there.’
*
As a Kapunda kid, Bondi was among the most thrilling places I’d been.
The boisterous, teeming crowds on that striking, sandy crescent! With my saltwater swimming mostly restricted to gentle Glenelg and Horseshoe Bay, the Pacific was intimidating. The surf was enormous with towering waves rolling in and dumping us, metronomically. We bodysurfed and it was exhilarating but we were all dragged into a brutal rip.
Late afternoon with the marching breakers crashing on our heads, Trev and I tried to stand there and ignore the swell, mock-heroically. Amusing ourselves tremendously, we had the most mundane conversation as the azure walls collapsed onto us.
‘Yeah, I reckon Weetbix is the best breakfast cereal,’ I said, just as a massive wave nearly swept us off our feet.
‘Don’t forget CoCo Pops®,’ Trev added, as another tonne of blue-green water dumped onto us.
‘Cornflakes are overrated,’ I evaluated, fighting for balance.
*
It was also the summer of Midnight Oil.
They were everywhere and our unofficial soundtrack to Sydney. One of their early songs, ‘Section 5 (Bus to Bondi)’ became an anthem for us. In the carpark overlooking Bondi Beach we all heaved ourselves at Stephen’s silent, rolling car — known with great affection as the Gem; short for Gemini — in a theatrical, utterly unnecessary attempt to jump the engine into ‘life.’ Onlookers gawked as we performed our dramatic tribute, the song blasting from the open windows
Push start that car tomorrow I’ll take it to the tip yard We’ll leave it as a metal wreck For cats to sleep Then I’ll catch the bus to Bondi Swim the beach and wonder Who can wear the fashion when The place is oh so hot
It felt like a scene from an arthouse film — but possibly not. Back then, we excelled at amusing ourselves.
*
Stephen lived in a high-rise apartment in the inner suburb of Drummoyne.
He’d been joined by our somewhat mysterious friend, Brendan, who’d abandoned his law degree and moved to the Harbour City. During our stay Brendan introduced us to British post-punk band, The The and such is this legacy that Swanny and I are seeing them later this month.
Like Hugh Hefner or The Dude, he seemed incessantly attired in his dressing gown, and with his nocturnal leanings, translucent face, and Morrissey-like melancholy, Brendan was more Manchester than Manly Beach. He was the most cynical person I’d met. He was already fatigued and world-weary. He was twenty.
Meanwhile, we grew a green mountain of empty beer cans in Stephen’s lounge room. It was an especially adolescent achievement, and the ring pulls from the cans were strung into lengthy chains and festooned about the flat like bogan Christmas tinsel. I guess they were. These were christened by Swanny, I think, as ‘Ring Mans.’
*
Sydney was an exciting but principally alien city. Unlike Adelaide, it was lush and brazen, seductive and dangerous. There was water everywhere. The Western Distributor — a bold, elevated boulevard — led us in and out of the city, curving dramatically above the buildings below.
On a sharp bend in Darling Harbour, a huge advertising billboard swam into cinematic view. And every time it demanded a theatrical response. It warned us with a menacing image straight from the film, Arachnophobia, of the threat we needed to take with extreme seriousness: Funnel web spiders! This was worrying. Home, we had friendly huntsmen. Our routine soon became that when the large, hairy arthropod came into startling sight — all beady, black eyes and dripping fangs — we’d shriek in chorus, led, of course, by Trev!
EEEEEEKKKKK! FUNNIES!
Paul and Swanny drove from Kapunda in Paul’s VK Brock Commodore. When they arrived, we were out, so with no mobile phones — those only existed on The Jetsons — they exercised their only option: wait in the grounds of the apartment block. With a slab of VB but no ice. They braved the beer. Back then simmering lager held no fears.
Now, there were six of us crammed into Stephen’s compact lounge room. We flopped about, foul boys in our now-illegal adidas shorts which revealed many things about us and none of them were healthy. The trapped odour must’ve been monstrous with lager, pizza, humidity, and ripe adolescence. Belated thanks, dear Stephen for your tolerance.
But, gee, it was fun.
Among the many delights was playing cricket in the hot and plush surrounds at Drummoyne Oval. Bare-footed and juggling beers, we batted and bowled and laughed, surrounded by all that sky and all that cobalt water. The details of the cricket don’t matter, but I recall the white picket fence, our lazy bliss, and VB in naval quantities.
It was another golden moment, and these stretched across that endless summer.
After the insistent, whipping squalls and sullen clouds, our fretful phone calls and the unending wiping down of the rows of plastic chairs, we’re submerged in sunlight. It streams through our hair as we amble back down the aisle beneath the soft serenity.
I love how we’re laughing at someone off-stage. It’s a mystery starring an unseen, comedic protagonist. Is Lukey saying something brash? Or is JB making a quirky quip? Can you remember? Will we ever know?
I’m in the middle of a guffaw and you’re on the edge of chuckling. It’s an affirmation, the reassurance of our world’s axis spinning as it should, a sunny instant in an impeccable day.
Kapunda High, our joyous, kindly school, is in the background watching approvingly, nodding in wise appreciation having stood witness to our teenage lives and then from both near and afar, our adulthood. A mere twelve months after this special occasion the beloved building, Eringa, was devoured by those diabolical flames and we impatiently await its reconstruction.
See the fluttering flower petals caught delicately in your curled, tumbling hair, as it cascades onto your dress: impossibly pretty, bold and deeply considered, the turquoise an exquisite, arresting hue.
With hands clasped, we’re hitched triumphantly, at ease and brightly expectant, stepping into our afternoon.
mickeytales 