Category Archives: travel

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Etna parkrun: Laps on the Lava (No Fire in the Sky)

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The mountain dwarfs Catania, a city of a million. Snow-capped and pyramidal, Etna looms moodily, shifting endlessly from shrouded and mysterious to clear and triumphant. We’re winding our way to it.

On the Uber ride up from our apartment, the driver, Mr Orazio, turns up Spotify. His car is a suitably Sicilian shade of black. He loves Queen, Pet Shop Boys, and Sowing the Seeds of Love by Tears for Fears — a glorious 1980s song I’d forgotten, all late-Beatles melody and borrowing the trumpet line from Penny Lane.

Decanted near a forest by Mr Orazio, we’re rescued by a pair of parkrun locals.

The pre-run briefing is punctuated by one-liners from local senior men. A dog is introduced and becomes comic material too. Most laugh. I do, too, although the jokes are in rousing, excitable Italian which is beyond me. I suspect this is true for many as we’re from Dublin, Poland, and Lincolnshire. Oh, and Austria — Australia.

The ceremony concludes with the Run Director holding up his phone and pushing play on a robotic but impeccably Oxford English translation: ‘You are warned to take care. The path can be dangerous.’ With ample reason, as we were about to discover.

Four laps on Mount Etna, Europe’s largest active volcano. The course twists through pine forest over black volcanic soil and scattered lava rocks, with tree roots and rough terrain. Camp firepits dot the forest floor. Broken glass prickles around these. Watch out!

The Ionian Sea, cobalt and shimmering, lies quiet and to the east. Below, Catania is still awakening on its smoggy coastal plain. It’s too early, I imagine, for our neighbourhood cats to have begun meowing to each other in their feline chorus.

Nearby, roaring engines from the Italian South Mountain Speed Championship provide an appropriately seismic soundtrack. Whilst the throaty crackle of automotive speed surrounds us, nobody here seems overly concerned with swiftness.

Claire decides to walk a lap. Generously, she takes photos and videos. We intersect twice and each time she chirps marital encouragement through the trees like, ‘Ole, ole!’ and ‘Go, you!’

There is welcome shade although this provides me with limited athletic assistance. I stumble my way along the forest trail, twisting and climbing before descending into a grassy field. The motorsport enthusiasts have helpfully backed their trailers onto our already narrow path. Meanwhile, Fiat fug smothers the course.

Crossing the finish line for the fourth and final time, volunteers wave and applaud with affectionate energy. I stagger to my water bottle. I’m cooked. At least, Etna hasn’t erupted, hurling lava onto my now simmering head. One of the English runners has taken a tumble and her knee and palm are reddened.

Afterwards, cake and biscuits are shared, and stories are traded beneath the pines. We record our names in an exercise book — relevantly enough — and leave comments in another notebook like we’ve been to a holiday house and had a grand weekend of laughter and communal meals and carafes of wine. In a way, it is. Scribbling a few kind words, I feel appreciative.

I finally meet core volunteer Mimmo with whom I’ve exchanged messages. He hugs me warmly. Twice.

Claire and I stroll down the mountain to the unclouded village of Nicolosi for coffee and pistachio cannoli.

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Brettos, Plaka, Athens

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Slipping in off the cobblestones, Claire and I are in Brettos. It’s the Plaka bar that’s nearly as ancient as the Acropolis.

Two walls are lined with vividly coloured bottles, backlit into a festive and wistful glow. At the rear, a bold wooden bar anchors the room; the place is theatrically staged yet quietly welcoming while the city outside thickens into evening.

It’s Saturday night in Athens. Brettos is the size of a modest lounge room and is intimate in ways that most Australian boozers fail: too much space and harsh light.

Michael Brettos opened it in 1909 as a distillery — now relocated. Tastings remain: olive oil, ouzo, wine. However, it’s rare that I have a swig of olive oil when in a pub. There’s excellent table service and the staff leave your receipt coiled in a shot glass.

We claim twin stools by a kaleidoscopic wall. This affords us slight elevation and vision over the crowd, so we people watch. All are well behaved and happy to be here — devoted to a good evening and each other. Being here makes us grin. Nearby a couple of Scandinavian girls break into Greek spirits-inspired song. It’s a joyous moment although they’re no Abba nor Nana Mouskouri. The Greek capital’s a long way from Stockholm.

There’s an agreeable sonic bed of chat and laughter which is neither too loud as to make our conversation difficult nor too quiet so there’s constant and involuntary eavesdropping. Vintage pop music plays in English — at just the right volume. It, too, is archaeological. We hear ‘I Try’ by Macy Gray from her album On How Life Is and it underscores the effortless coolness of this place. Not having heard this bluesy soul in decades, I vow to play it later. I do.

After a day of traipsing about, my local beer tastes like exotica. Claire’s cocktail’s comforting. It’s a snug coda to our time in Athens. The airport bus leaves Syntagma Square early tomorrow.

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A Run on Tianzhu East Road

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I see no one else on Tianzhu East Road, running in a Glenelg Tigers jumper.

It’s a wide and attractive thoroughfare, lined with parallel sweeps of evergreen trees. On the city side are colossal buildings, dedicated to aviation and aeronautics. To my east is the Beijing Capital International Airport.

It feels later than it is. Probably as I’ve flown from Adelaide to Melbourne to Beijing. At 3am the cabin lights came up ahead of a compulsory chicken or pork breakfast. Once customs, visa, and quarantine were complete, I had to catch a train from the terminal to a distant hub to retrieve my luggage from the carousel. This is a serious place.

Flying from Adelaide to Beijing to then get to the Mediterranean (Athens, Milos, Santorini, and Sicily) might seem desperately circuitous. That’s because it is. An unexpected bonus was that we’d visit China. The Great Wall beckons on our homeward leg. That’s the ancient fortification not the affordable family vehicle.

Between me and the airport lie enormous, empty blocks — menacing in their scale. I doubt they’ll remain vacant for long. I feel tiny here, as I imagine many of the 1.4 billion do. Nation is everything. The Cotswolds could be replicated on any of these blocks within a month, also leaving plenty of room for Clarkson’s cows and tractor.

As we taxied to the gate I could see a brown smear of smog over Beijing, but pale blue now paints the sky. The breeze is stern and crisp and unpolluted. Come winter, when it blasts in from Ulaanbaatar, I reckon my Glenelg Tigers jumper, despite its triple premiership warmth, might be a little thin.

My running streak nears 1,100 days, so I press on and suddenly a mountainous fence stops both vehicles and modestly exercising comrades. Some fences wink and invite you to sneak around or over and continue your business. This one does not. While I can see no glum-faced guards, I decide to return to my hotel. I leave the fence’s deeper symbolism uninterrogated.

I’m accompanied by streams of modern cars, all SUV-sized and finished in black, white, or grey. The footpath beneath my Brooks shoes is smooth and clean and there’s a peculiar near silence. I’m unsure why I’m surprised. Often, on our vast planet, similarities are more striking than differences.

My mind is sharply aware of others when travelling. Claire’s in Athens asleep by the Acropolis, my boys are moving through their Mondays in Adelaide, and many other dear ones are commencing their week, scattered about this bluish green sphere.

I veer across the concrete prairie of the hotel car park, obedient buses awaiting duty.

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Gather Round – Aural Tattoos and Antique Hair

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Noon and I am at Barossa Park after a voyage by foot, tram, train, and bus. My unicycle tyre is flat. As she’s today’s Auslan interpreter, Claire arrived separately, around breakfast, for a succession of production meetings. My journey’s highlight was, of course, the psycho-geographical pull of the Womma train station and its triumphant desolation.

Lyndoch #2 hosts a gluttony of food trucks — or as they were known effectively for millennia, stalls. A stage awaits the post-match concert. The coffee van’s doing a brisker trade than Pirate Life. As the official beer of the Fringe and now Gather Round, these ale arrivistes are everywhere. Once compulsory at Adelaide events, Coopers is now vanquished. But not on my Friday veranda.

It’s 9 degrees with an apparent temperature of 2.9. Gloomy clouds are menacing over Nuriootpa. When I was a kid, this was always the way. Last year Gather Round witnessed cricket weather. I’ve missed the footy’s start but large screens —are these Jumbotrons? — show the Fox telecast. On the wing, an opportunity for face-painting. I resist.

Inside, the crowd throbs about the fence. The scaffolded stands have empty seats. Brisbane gets a goal although I can’t see who. I know neither the goal celebration song grab, nor the player for whom this is an aural tattoo.

I circumnavigate the ground once known, with admirable topographical honesty, as Lyndoch Oval but now recast for the viniculturally vulnerable of the eastern seaboard as Barossa Park.

On a grassy expanse called the Barossa Terrace, I note outdoor lounge settings along with bar tables and stools. Of this languid arrangement, I approve. Wine barrels punctuate the vista.

There’re additional purveyors of sauerkraut and shiraz (not in the same glass). I’m pleased that the local footy and cricket clubs have fundraising booths providing tasty grub. But I wonder how much they had to pay the AFL for the right to do so on their own ancient soil.

Beyond Kangaroo blue and white and Brisbane Lions jumpers and scarves, the bouncing throng is flecked with Freo colours and Carlton kit, Hawks beanies, and the clashing colours of the Crows and Power. Gather Round might be the truest meeting of all the tribes. A bloke on the concourse sports a retro tracksuit with Fitzroy Runner on the back. It could only be improved if he were in Ciak shoes and dragging on an Ardath.

I’m tracking towards the south-eastern goals when an arm shoots out of the crowd and apprehends me. A voice then chirps, ‘How are you, fella?’ A circle of chaps, some of whom I’ve not seen in a decade. We’re all burdened by antique hair but otherwise are in acceptable nick, given weight for age (WFA) provisions.

I talk to Jason about recently completing the New York marathon. I ask if he hit the wall.

‘Yeah, about thirty-five k in.’

‘You got through it?’

‘The worst bit is the finish. You go over a bridge, look up and there’s a sea of bobbing heads. It’s a really cruel hill.’

I offer, ‘Nothing like making it easier at the end.’

Meanwhile, as Stephen Colbert says (at least for a few more weeks), the footy continues. Swells of pop songs tell me Brisbane is surging. If I were a Lion and launched a successful bomb from twenty-five, could I use Frank Zappa’s Billy the Mountain? I imagine rookies have had Kevin Bloody Wilson rejected.

I chat with Fish about the charms of country footy, especially when you’ve no investment in either team. Squally Saturdays, sitting in the car, wipers slapping, honking appreciation before a half-time canteen dash.

Fish and his wife have taken in local footy on the Yorke and Eyre Peninsulas, the Clare Valley, the Riverland. He tells me, ‘We kept notes for a while on the various pies and sausage rolls and if they’d Southwark Stout in the bar.’ I say, ‘There’s a book in this.’ Fish nods.

After the final siren, I glance up at a big screen on my way to Gate 2. Charlie Cameron’s being interviewed. On the other side of the host, my wife is interpreting. I pull out my phone to take a photo of nine-foot Claire. It’s flat.

But I’ve got a shot of Womma. That might be enough.

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The Eighth Caller Through: The Cars, Neil Young, and Goanna

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Aside from Derek and Clive, Caddyshack, and late capitalism, old mucker Lukey and I natter and laugh about music. He played drums in 90’s Adelaide bands Imelda’s Shoes and Fuge. I remember my late-night excitement at hearing him keeping time on a song Richard Kingsmill introduced on Triple J. At 10pm on a Tuesday, it was fame by association.

Last Christmas, Lukey dropped off a stack of old vinyl — hefty, musty, and packed with sentimental promise.

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The Cars – Greatest Hits

I recall Shake It Up as a mood-lifter, and I’m sure the Grand Prix night of 1986 when Chrisso, Lukey, and I were in Nick’s unhinged Honda on the Freeling straight, there was plenty of brotherly love. Doubtless, The Cars roared out the open windows of that hatch-back as we hurtled past the darkened barley.

Can you imagine how many Triple Tracks of The Cars were rolled out on SA-FM across the 80s? If I had an icy-cold can of coke for each one then, well, I’d be diabetic and dead. I connect this Boston band with adolescent summers and oddly enough being in cars — like Nick’s Honda — rushing to the cricket, the drive-in, the beach at Port Willunga.

The songs are mostly upbeat with guitars and robotic Roland synths. Although I’ve made no deep investigation, the lyrics were the usual love’s good or love might be good or love’s a mess formula. Yes, mostly empty but we were nineteen, music didn’t need to be apocalyptic and Dylanesque. Solemn examinations of the human condition optional.

Uh well dance all night and whirl your hair
Make the night cats stop and stare
Dance all night go to work
Do the move with quirky jerk

Given The Cars drove, err, in a tight lane, you could be forgiven for thinking it’s all the same song, but I like Just What I Needed, You Might Think, and My Best Friend’s Girl.

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Comes A Time – Neil Young

The muted tone of the sleeve triggers a memory of a TDK C-90 tape, though I can’t remember who dubbed it for me. I was fourteen — an age when life arrives without notice. Side 2 could’ve been Glass Houses by Billy Joel. How does music find us?

Unlike his noise-guitar work with Crazy Horse, this is mostly quiet — occasionally country, but entirely Sunday afternoon.

Lotta Love is a favourite song from it. He sings in a fragile, upper-register voice that threatens to fray into a whine. But doesn’t. Nicolette Larson provides harmony vocals on it and across the album. She covered it soon after and it became her signature song. Melburnian Courtney Barnett did a worthy version too.

The title track, Peace Of Mind, and Four Strong Winds are other standouts.

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Spirit Of Place – Goanna

Arriving during the summer I turned sixteen, whenever I flick across my car radio at the lights and the urgent drums of Solid Rock pound through the speakers, I’m instantly back in hot and hilly Kapunda.

It was among the first pricks to my conscience regarding the harm caused to Australia’s original inhabitants. The satirical use of marketplace warned me that money could be more important than people.

Out here nothin’ changes
Not in a hurry anyway
You can feel the endlessness
With the comin’ of the light of day
You’re talkin’ ’bout a chosen place
You wanna sell it in a marketplace, well
Well, just a minute now

I haven’t dropped the needle on it since I had nut-brown hair, so I’m gladly startled by its warmth. Burnt country and ragged outsiders hang in the melodies. I partly expected it to feel dated, but the songs and the storytelling are timeless. Shane Howard’s vocals are gracefully commanding, all woodsmoke and Kimberley sunsets.

Razor’s Edge, On the Platform, and Four Weeks Gone are my top picks.

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Thanks, Lukey, for rocketing by in the DeLorean/ Black Thunder to drop off my prize pack. I must’ve been the eighth caller through to Vinny and Cameron on SA-FM’s Morning Zoo. Vinyl isn’t just a nostalgia machine — the needle, the hiss and crackle come first, and then the music — and for a heartbeat, it isn’t the past at all. It’s right now — the way it found us in the first place.

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Waiting Under the Bucket

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Steering away from Becks Bakehouse, my bland sausage roll begins its sluggish transit. I turn up the Mississippi bluesman, Elmore James, so Max and I can hear the chugging genius of Dust My Broom

I’m gon’ get up in the morning
I believe I’ll dust my broom.
I’m gonna get up in the morning
I believe I’ll dust my broom.

Our trip to Victor Harbor had begun.

It was time to talk against the rhythm of (hopefully) agreeable activity, to gently explore Max’s inner and outer worlds, to scrutinise his present and point an encouraging telescope towards his future. We go nowhere new. Sometimes the best excursions are to known places.

Granite Island is everybody’s favourite isle and we’ve circumnavigated it often. On the ocean-side I realise I’ve not looked at the rolling waves, rocky cliffs, or blue sky, extending above us. I am immersed. We are talking and walking.

We stop at a gnarly tree, years ago its horizontal trunk the setting when Alex slipped while climbing. His tumbling then straddling generated much hot grief. Max and I laugh at the image.

Our holiday cabin is agreeably spartan, so we sling in our stuff and venture to the waterslides. Hopping out of the pool, I point to the big bucket, tilting slowly, thrillingly on its hinge. ‘It’s been a while since we stood under a bucket,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’ Max follows me there.

I can see him there as a five-year-old — smaller, impatient, bouncing with limitless energy. We step underneath it now. There’s no one else waiting. The mechanism teeters as it fills. It takes longer than I remember. ‘It’s going to go,’ Max says. But it doesn’t. Not yet. Then it does — all at once — a hard, cold weight of water, and I let out a yelp I didn’t mean to make.

A late afternoon drive to Goolwa wharf and its bars and cafes. Max remembered a school excursion here to ride on the old paddlewheel ship, the Oscar W. A riverfront German bar is selling litre steins of beer for $25 each. The straggly-bearded bartender asked, ‘Can I get you one?’ I decline and later say to Max, ‘One of those bad boys and I couldn’t drive home!’

We pulled up outside the Port Elliot townhouse which hosts my annual writing retreat. I wanted to remind Max of life’s possibilities. Then a lap of Horseshoe Bay. The swimmers had all gone. The short jetty we’d leapt from that cold January day was empty. Max said, ‘I like this beach.’ I smiled, ‘Me too.’

With shadows stretching by the games room and the camp kitchen we hit the ignite button and barbecued our dinner. Park dwellers scurry past us. We devour the meat and token salad.

In our cabin Eminem rapped as we scanned the rules of backgammon. Max likes chess, so I thought another strategic, quietly played pastime might suit us both. Accompanied by the regular percussion of rattling dice, we enjoy a couple of lingering games. Neither he nor I is especially competitive and so we play kindly, even cooperatively. The scoreline is 1-1.

Throughout there’s easy talk about cars, footy, travel. Max asks, ‘Would you go to Berlin or Munich?’ I offer what I can. He nods, carefully. I fear he’ll soon be in Germany.

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Running along the esplanade in the windless dawn, I feel a melancholic gratitude. Max is asleep back at the cabin. We’ve had a sparkling series of chats against this coastal backdrop.

Parenting, though, guarantees a background anxiety. I try to picture the next time Max and I might escape like this, just the two of us. But I wonder how many chances we’ll have to huddle under a tipping, giant bucket.

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A Brief History of the Triple Jump and Human Suffering

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Today I made a return to Sports Day. Some things have changed. Others absolutely have not.

The digital watch had just struck ten when the first vomiting incident was reported. A technicolour hula-hoop on the freshly mown turf. He’d not over-exerted nor breathed in his body-volume in energy drinks. Just an early morning vommie. To open proceedings.

I wandered to the fundraising BBQ. This year it was burnt by the Art Faculty. Disappointingly, I could buy no Picasso Chicken Patties or Last Supper Sausages.

In a relaxed corner, under some trees, there were games for those who find traditional sports unappealing. These included Giant Jenga and Connect Four. These are, of course, London beer-garden pursuits and should be encouraged as they develop essential life skills.

Meanwhile the resident DJ played Eminem, who would appreciate the irony. I imagine he has little truck with athletes and enthusiastically despises them. Even if some now sport Mum’s spaghetti on their singlets — courtesy of an early morning puke.

Much of my day was officiating the triple jump or as it’s variously known: the hop, step and jump, or in certain depraved circles, the hop, skip and jump. For most, it’s an exercise in assured humiliation as the poor souls approach the take-off mat with halting trepidation, their adolescent eyes wide with fright.

Often, instead of the triple jump, they then perform a sad sequence of biomechanical accidents borrowing from John Cleese’s Ministry of Silly Walks, a little boot-scootin’, and the dying buffalo in Apocalypse Now. Participants have three attempts but while I was on rake and tape measure duties, it was mostly one and done.

They fled the triple jump as if a spitting cobra was loose.

There must’ve been an Ancient Greek who drunkenly happened across this, in dusty Athens, following much ancient vino.

Christos: Watch this, Aristotle. I call it the triple jump.
Aristotle: Why not simply run from Point Alpha to Point Beta?
Christos: Too sensible. My invention will inflict psychological suffering on schoolchildren for millennia.

Christos then invited others to try it. Some thoughtlessly agreed and inexplicably, it caught on. Hereinafter was set loose centuries of global misery which continues unchecked to this day.

I love many sports and am sympathetic to many athletic pursuits. Running, jumping and throwing all have worldly value. But the triple jump, unlike other physical disciplines, is utterly non-transferable to real life. It may be the most futile human endeavour imaginable. If a ravenous beast — real or mythical — were on your Hellenic tail, who would break into a hop, skip and jump?

I enjoyed Sports Day. Congratulations to all who won a blue ribbon.

Thus, the ancient suffering continues.

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To Alex and Max, on our Hobart Holiday

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Dear Alex and Max

If Bali was about tropical warmth and Sydney was about the mesmerising beauty of the harbour, Hobart was something else entirely — a trip defined by the vertical. From the bonkers sub-zero winds atop Mount Wellington to the windowless caverns of MONA, we spent our days either climbing or descending.

There’s something generous about arriving in a city on a Friday. Irregular seagull cries above our heads — oddly rare in Glenelg — heightened the maritime atmosphere. On Elizabeth Street, we explored Tommy Gun Records from which Alex emerged with the vinyl of Spiritualized’s classic album Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space. You’re certainly an audiophile or crate-digger! How you spoke about its musical and cultural qualities was astonishing. I also liked our first trip to Banjo’s bakery — which originated in Tasmania. Max’s comment that, ‘There’s nothing here I wouldn’t eat’ is a truism.

Down by the Brooke Street and Elizabeth Street piers, we strode about. Admiring a giant ocean liner at Macquarie Wharf no. 5, Max told us he’s planning a cruise once school is done. I’m always heartened by this kind of aspiration and the widescreen and global nature of your hopes. Pepperoni pizza from Medici — conveniently located on Murray Street for all your Italian cuisine needs — and inhaled in our Allurity Hotel room was an excellent conclusion to our first day.

Half of the Apple Isle squeezes into the Salamanca Markets on Saturday mornings, all there for gin, juice, and scallop pie tastings. Max and I hung back while Alex bought himself some outrageously overpriced (artisan) biscuits. Aboard the MONA ROMA fast ferry, we took in the River Derwent — low-rise bungalows on modest hills, the jaunty angles of Bellerive Oval’s light towers. After sightseeing at ground level, then came our descent into the subterranean playground of the museum.

I loved watching you both interrogate that place. It’s a confusing, jarring, and often brilliant maze. Whether we were traversing the colossal concrete war — evoking, for me, the brutality of a concentration camp, the sparks installation, or the Fat Car Porsche, I appreciated how you engaged with both heart and head. We talked about what constitutes art and what does not. Another highlight was the psychedelic band Spooky Eyes and their boisterous set on the MONA lawn.

The Uber drive up Mount Wellington was unforgettable. Terror always does this to me. Leaving the gentle suburban streets, we watched the trees shrink until there was only ancient, shattered rock and a sky that felt far too close. Standing at the summit, looking down at the tiny toy-town of Hobart below — the three of us were, momentarily, the highest beings in the city.

Hiking down was a test of more than just our legs; it was a test of our resilience against that piercing Tasmanian wind and for me alone, the fear of tumbling into the abyss and becoming wallaby food. Watching you both steer between the boulders — Alex leading the way and Max offering the dry commentary that has become his trademark — I was struck by how appreciative you both are of the wilder parts in this world.

Battery Point provided a genteel contrast. Wandering those handsome streets with the sandstone cottages and a southerly sun on our faces, it felt like we’d stepped into 1800s Cornwall. It’d been a bakery trip, and our grand final was at Jackman and McRoss, surely a Michelin-starred pie shop! With table service and desserts for both younger Randalls, this was a triumph.

Pausing in Arthur Circus, you both jumped on the swings and suddenly, it was a decade ago in any of a dozen playgrounds. For the final time in Hobart, we’d another vertical moment.

Thank you for liking the steep climbs, and the strange art. You both have a knack for turning a simple walk through an old suburb or a trek up a mountain into a shared event. It’s not just about the destination; it’s about the moments in between.

And this, my witty, kind, dear boys, is all I can ask for.

Dad

xx

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50,000 Residents of Corny Point Can’t Be Wrong

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Woodsy was from Kadina and moved to Kapunda. We hung out. He was always bumping into people from Corny Point. We’d be at a Gold Coast theme park, clambering off a rollercoaster, and Woodsy would spy a bloke from there. Or walking through Kings Cross in Sydney, he’d run into two more. Always spotting somebody, he’d tear off to chat and upon his return Lukey or Chrisso or I’d inquire, ‘Corny Point?’ — and Woodsy would reply, ‘Yeah.’ And then tell us all about it. After a while, I wondered if 50,000 people must have lived there.

Claire and I stayed in Marion Bay and drove to Corny Point. The first Friday of this year seemed perfect for this. I expected the township to be by the beach. Instead, it was inland, at the crossroads — caravan park, CFS, community church.

The Corny Point Cricket Club is also in the middle of town. Two sprinklers gallantly try to brighten the grass around the pitch. There are cosy clubrooms with old wooden benches and a couch in its alcove. I imagine the clatter of a bat being flung by a disgruntled batsman. Then, a spurt of applause for a crisp drive scurrying over the baked outfield — someone encouraging, ‘Yeah, good shot, Blue.’

A neighbourhood book exchange sits by the cricket oval entrance — a windowed wooden box on a stand. We see these in many towns during our holiday. How great to have one right by the cricket ground? Claire and I flick through the collection. You could select a historical fiction title, park beneath a tree, and with the first innings underway, lose yourself in a few chapters, only glancing up when the thud of ball on willow disrupts your sleepy immersion. Later, just after tea, you could amble into the clubrooms and say, ‘I’ll have a shandy, thanks Fred.’ Cricket was always the most literary and dignified of sports — even here, in dusty Corny Point.

Parking on the beach, we absorb the panorama. The sand is crunchy beneath our toes. We’re both instantly delivered to our childhoods. The salty afternoon breeze is resuscitating. We wade about, the water shimmering. Claire remembers a holiday in Cooboowie. ‘It was one of the few times I remember Dad swimming,’ she offers. The wide and clean sand takes me to a place too. When I was ten, Mum, Dad, Jill, and I went to Port Vincent. I recall my plastic bucket of tiny crabs, scooped from the balmy sea. At Corny Point boats glide in. A tractor tugs out a fishing vessel. With the promise of fish, pelicans gather patiently. It’s among the best beaches I’ve visited.

The Howling Dog Tavern is named for a mention in Matthew Flinders’ journal. It was five-ish, so we veered into the carpark. Ours was the smallest vehicle there. Happy hour, and a noisy crowd’s in. The new owners dart about behind the taps, eagerly dispensing refreshment. With a Pike’s white and a Pale Ale, Claire and I take a pew on the veranda — where the ceiling fans bother away the flies. Folks drift in from the caravan park, or on Saturdays, from the cricket oval. For the hundredth time, I ask Claire, ‘What’s the difference between a pub and a tavern?’ We still don’t know. I wonder how many people in the buzzing bar know Woodsy. I’m sure at least one or two.

Driving out, I scan the crossroads one last time. I don’t see Woodsy, or too many of the 50,000 residents, but I finally understand.

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Cricket by the Sea

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A white picket fence encircles Point Lonsdale Oval, lending the ground an idyllic English geometry. It’s Saturday afternoon and, lured by a cricket match, I drive in and park by the mid-wicket boundary. Snatching ten minutes to take in a genteel encounter — any venue and contest will do. The trend for picket fences is heartening; simple wooden slats bring an elegance to our increasingly coarse world. They also suggest quiet expectations of courteous behaviour for both players and spectators.

I love country cricket but understand many find it incomprehensible. As a sporting contest it is often ritualised rather than wild battle. To the uninitiated, nothing appears to be happening on the field, but in truth everything is transpiring with absorbing compulsion. It’s a psychological feast of anticipation and patience, punctuated by staccato bursts of movement — then lengthy, enigmatic lulls.

Bowling and fielding, characterised by a cheerful mellowness, suggest this is a B- or C-grade fixture, a suspicion confirmed by the participants — grey-haired and slower of limb. Of course, the chubbiest chap keeps wicket, and he’s unexpectedly spritely, crouching behind the stumps before bouncing in to scoop up the return throws. His nickname is surely Nugget.

The scrubby surrounds are unmistakably coastal Australia, and the scene reminds me of the one time I played cricket by the sea. This was at Elliston, after a Friday night at the Port Kenny pub with my Wudinna CC teammates. The next morning, a tinny putted out into the bay and we went fishing — Stink, Ning, Jock, Snook, Chess and me, crowded onto the tiny deck — during which the bird’s nest I made of my line earned me a new nickname: Tangles, in honour of the beloved Max Walker. Winning late in the day, I recall hearing the crashing surf in sonic contrast to the dusty breezes and magpie warbles of landlocked Kapunda.

Gazing again at those sharing the patchy grass and leisurely privilege, I think of the joyous belonging cricket clubs can gift their members. It’s only partly about what happens on the field; the spirited and forgettable exchanges at training and in the clubrooms matter just as much. Bumping into your teammate — the mechanic — outside the post office on a Tuesday lunch confirms this bond.

On Point Lonsdale Oval, the placid medium-pacer saunters in and overpitches just enough on a decent line. Seagulls dance on the salty air as the batsman steps into an off drive, but it rambles over the rough turf straight to a fielder and I hear the shout of, ‘No!’ This is representative of the even contest during my stay: no wickets or chances, but no boundaries either — just a handful of modest scoring shots. Was it dull? No. Utterly engrossing and healthily diverting.

Claire is shortly due on stage at the Queenscliff Music Festival, so after half a dozen overs I turn the key in the ignition. This brief cricket excursion has returned me, happily, to the languid Saturdays of my youth.

0

Mystery Pub: HYMN to Her

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‘I like jazz in this context,’ says Claire. ‘It’s creating a nice atmosphere in here.’ I nod. At HYMN, an upstairs bar on Grenfell Street, a smoky sax slithers above a mid-tempo, New York swagger. I try to pick the artist. Coltrane? Monk? I’m an enthusiast but hold no deep expertise in this genre. I wonder how well music catches the mood of a place. A Beatles song works almost anywhere, anytime — such is their irresistible charm and sparkle. Jazz can be petulant and angular like a prickly dinner guest. But not here, not now. The sax is warmly insulating.

The owner explains how his bar is a former law firm and glancing about the peaceful loft, we take in the stained glass and holy interplay of light and shadow. Distinctive church motifs surround us. All traces of legal smugness and imposing suits are gone. Two or three lone men are dotted about. They sip neat spirits, luxuriate at their tables, and then drift downstairs. A half-full pub never works — it’s better when these are swarming with parties or empty like a desolate street. Both present as tantalisingly intimate. Meanwhile, merchandise is available and beyond shirts and caps are HYMN branded guitar plectrums. Christmas is now sorted.

Claire and I then have a nostalgic, encompassing conversation about a photo we know well. It has become an emblem; though neither of us appear in it, it evokes a moment of almost unbearable intensity. With Pale Ale in hand, I was suddenly misty with grateful memory. Having just returned from a trip to Bali, we were planning a Mediterranean tour next autumn. However, as becomes increasingly clear, life unfolds mostly in our everyday and simple spaces. This is true late on an afternoon when we’re between things: work and home for me, and for Claire an intermission before an interpreting job at Town Hall.

Travelling together in this gilded cocoon, I hope it is another enriched scene we’ll fold into our mutual narrative. In a Friday twilight, HYMN feels tenderly triumphant.

0

Watch Out. There’s a Snake Right There.

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Weaving through the punishing heat past the Quick Shop, on my two-wheeled international debut. Claire, on the back of the scooter, squeezed my arm and said, ‘Watch out. There’s a snake right there.’  

And there it was, a long, green-brown thing, slithering across the road we were troublingly also on. My eyes darted, scanning. Cold fear. It was moving quickly — even for reptiles a good idea when traversing any Indonesian thoroughfare — it’s green-brown length whipping into a bush and rustling it wildly. It was big — I only saw the back end of it and that was all of six feet. How long overall? I shuddered in my seat. My distinctly un-altar boy response was, ‘Oh, no.’ Though to be fair, among St. Roses altar boys, this was conventional.

Seconds earlier and we’d have run over it — subsequent pictorial investigations suggest a cobra — and doubtless it’d have been flung up by the front wheel of our scooter so, like Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, I was face-to-fang with it. We were far from a hospital.

*

Kicking my fins, I tapped Claire before pointing to the ocean floor. Fluttering about, she turned and we now saw it together. A black and white, striped sea snake. It was small and ignored us before zig-zagging off into the warm murk of the Bali sea.

Back aboard the boat and describing it to the local in charge of our snorkelling trip he cheerily explained, ‘If one bites you, you have about five minutes.’ I frowned and he smiled. ‘Enough time to say goodbye.’

It was a Banded Sea Krait and they’re highly neurotoxic, causing paralysis and respiratory failure. A CV to make the entire family proud. Each year hundreds of Thai and Indonesian fishermen perish when dragging up their nets and surprising one of these shy reptiles. They prefer life on the seabed. We all have our limits.

*

In east Bali my running streak broke through the psychological barrier of 900. I mapped out a route through the village and into the deep green countryside and rice fields. It was tough in the harsh humidity and already blaring morning sun — upon returning to our bamboo villa I’d instantly fall into the pool. Of greater concern were the dogs along my daily trail.

Some were apathetic but others were territorial and guarded the narrow path past their homes and temple. These barked with menace, so I avoided eye contact. The hounds were often in poor health and appeared unloved. While I felt sorry for them, I was more worried about my exposed, spindly legs which through canine eyes may have presented as a KFC snack pack.

Rabies is common in Asia and each day on the island there’s an average of 183 suspected rabies bites. Recently, before the authorities intervened — think Atticus Finch — a rabid dog bit eighteen people. Was my running streak worth this risk? If treated quickly, most recover. For others, however, an especially gruesome death arrives following seizures, paralysis, delirium, coma, and most worryingly, excessive salivation.

*

Jogging beside a lush field, I wondered if a muted, underacknowledged purpose of travel is this: to confront our own mortality. Especially as our seemingly gentle tourist activities on this tropical paradise revealed startling, wilder threats.

Is this also why we temporarily abandon the security of our lives — to glimpse, however briefly, the slender edge between beauty and danger? To immerse ourselves in a more brutal ecology — to glance timidly at death while being hand-in-hand with your wife as you swim among the deadly reptiles? Snakes on the good earth and in the usually restorative ocean. Ominous dogs. These encounters jolted me toward gratitude — for the calm, suburban safety of home.

It seemed the island, for all its beauty, had its own curriculum for the living.

2

Country Roads, Take Me Home — Again and Again

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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.

0

Before Breakfast, You

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I wondered about you as I ran along the Balinese boardwalk. I imagined you in our room — fixing your hair, brushing your teeth, tidying up a little like Ann in The Famous Five. I hoped we’d cross paths. I liked the quiet intimacy of that thought.

The context of the moment matters; it offered a hopeful glimpse of our future. Up early, somewhere tropical. Taking our exercise — as you sagely remarked while coming down the stairs, ‘Even on holidays, we probably need to stay active.’

Running along the boardwalk, after peering in at Pier Eight — we’d have a late-afternoon drink there during our stay — I felt pleased about the morning ahead. Swim. Reading. Breakfast. You.

I had on my Glenelg Footy Club 2024 premiership guernsey. Running in it’s great. It’s lightweight and often a conversation-starter. Just by a beach hotel an older chap and his wife hollered across at me, ‘Is that a Glenelg top?’ I was lost so welcomed a break. ‘Yes,’ I panted, stopping with them by the boom-gate. He continued, ‘I’m from Mundulla, near Bordertown. They’re the Tigers, too.’ We swapped footy histories and off I trudged through south Sanur.

If Claire and I were to meet, I hoped it would be along what I’ve now dubbed the Police Path — no cars, few scooters, only the odd dog ambling along with no real morning agenda and the tourist police office right there. I sensed you were close, just as you had sensed me that summer afternoon, watching the world’s slowest cricket match.

Blue denim shirt. Sunglasses. A singular freely offered smile. Coming around the corner, in the dappled morning sunlight, there you were.

6

Time on a Myponga Hill

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Claire and I stand side by side on the ochre path, a splash of red and a patch of navy against the panoramic landscape. Her coat flares like a small flag of likable boldness, while beside her I carry — optimistically — the casualness of weekend ease.

The land unfurls in layers: first the pale grass sprinkled with dew, then a row of shrubs in muted gold, and behind that the uncompromising wall of dark pines, straight as sentinels. Beyond, the green hills roll upward, their ridgelines softened by distance and a sky pressed with a haze of placid, reassuring cloud.

The coloured cones at our feet — blue, yellow, scattered like afterthoughts — are relics of the parkrun, yet in this setting they appear ornamental, like petals casually dropped along the path.

Together, we seem anchored but at peace with the vast quiet extending out all around, an image of warmth set against nature’s wide canvas.

It’s a moment on our annual Carrickalinga escape with dear old friends during which certain traditions have taken happy hold. Pizza Friday night, Saturday morning market, evening cocktails. As with most traditions, the joy comes largely from shared anticipation although the rituals remain delightful in their luxury.

That the photo was taken by Trish is special. She has known us both so long and so well and caught this moment as a gesture of kindness, an unspoken but mutually understood gift. The picture isn’t of us alone; it carries Trish’s affectionate eye.

Photos make permanent the ephemeral, and cryogenically freeze us all, sometimes against our will. Are these images dishonest in their fleetingness or quiet protests against life’s cruel acceleration? We look eternal but already the past has fled, with tempo like a chariot.

After, we ambled back down the hill in our chatty knot and past the retreating parkrun crowd of huffing participants and hovering volunteers.

Saturdays, at their best, spread out from dawn with kaleidoscopic possibility, hours to be coloured, festive windows through which to view self and others.

We go from forest and reservoir to coffee and toast. Like time, we are never still — least of all when we believe we are — and I consider that boundless, comic truth. I feel this thought prickle, until for a breath, I outpace it.