Category Archives: travel

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Sydney, 1985: Catch the Bus to Bondi

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Dramatis personae:

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. 

Part 2 coming soon!

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Jeff the Goat, Guitar Hero!

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Jeff the goat lived in Tiger Mountain State Forest near Seattle. He had a long, white, wispy beard and he played a guitar and sang.

Well, sort of.

When Jeff strummed his guitar and sang the bears and the cougars and even the fish in the streams would flee. He was truly, utterly, completely awful and the noise was like someone had thrown a bicycle into a nasty crushing machine.

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Jeff played it again. He liked the sound of it. ‘Gee, I’m so good,’ Jeff said to himself.

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Right then, two bears, four cougars and even the slowest fish in the Tiger Mountain State Forest fled.

Suddenly, Jeff stopped playing his guitar. He cleared his goaty throat and his long, white, wispy beard drifted about in the breeze. Turning to his goat-sister Peggy he declared in a squeaky, goaty voice, “I am going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!”

Peggy’s goaty eyes widened. “Oh, no Jeff. You can’t go! Your home is here in Tiger Mountain State Forest.” A tear ran down her goaty face towards her long, white, wispy beard. Peggy gulped, “I’ll miss you. Please stay here with me.”

Jeff reared up onto his back two legs and in his squeaky goat voice he shouted, “I am going to be a famous guitarist, and no one can stop me. Especially not you Peggy!”

And with a huff Jeff the Goat scrambled away, his hooves click-clacking on the rocks.

He did not look back at his sister Peggy. Her long, wispy, white beard was drenched with tears.

The air was fresh, and the sun sent down golden shafts of warm light as Jeff trotted along the track. In the distance he heard a bear growl and Jeff shouted to the sky, “You don’t worry me Mr Bear for I’m going to Seattle to be a famous guitarist!” He laughed and lifted his goaty hooves higher and faster. Fame and fortune would soon be his!

Goat-scurrying along Jeff stopped by a sign and read it aloud. ‘Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail!’ His beard danced in the crisp mountain breeze. ‘I’m going the right way if I’m on Poo Poo Point Hiking Trail. I’m close.’

Over the trees Jeff saw a shiny tower stretching towards the clouds. ‘Yes,’ he yelled, ‘The Seattle Space Needle! I’ll play my guitar and sing to celebrate.”

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch! 

The noise was so horrid that two sparrows flew away. They didn’t stop until they landed on the North Pole. Jeff didn’t hear them flap away as he was smiling at his own song. He trotted on.

Friday night in Seattle and cars honked their horns, and the neon lights blinked and shone.

Jeff the goat’s long, white, wispy beard quivered with excitement for in precisely twenty-eight minutes he’d be on Seattle’s Got Talent! He could taste the sweet taste of fame and fortune in his goaty mouth.

A voice boomed out. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from Tiger Mountain State Forest, will you please give it up for Jeeeeeeeefffffffff the gooooooooaaaaaat!’

The curtains drew back. The lights burned into his beady, blinky, goaty eyes and Jeff knew he’d win.

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  Now, the crowd at Seattle’s Got Talent was generous and happy but even they had a limit. The windows exploded at the horrible noise.

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  The stage curtains blew away.

Twangy-bangy-bah-boo-burr-chomp-crunch!  The lights went dark.

It was so truly, utterly, completely awful that the crowd couldn’t even boo. Jeff the guitar-playing goat was finished. He knew he wouldn’t enjoy fame and fortune.

Pushing open the back door of Seattle’s Got Talent, Jeff stepped into the drizzly alleyway.

‘Oh, Jeff,’ a goaty voice squeaked from beneath a streetlight. ‘Can I give you a hug?’

It was Peggy.

‘Oh, Peggy. I’m so sorry.’ Jeff put his hooves around his goat-sister. ‘I’ve made such a fool of myself, and I was horrible to you.’

Both their long, white, wispy beards were wet with rain and tears.

Peggy smiled at her brother. ‘It’s OK. Tiger Mountain State Forest and the bears, the cougars and even the fish have missed you. Let’s go home.’

4

Carrickalinga, Abbey Road, and the Visionary Pub Schnitzel

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During our annual Carrickalinga getaway I took some conscripts to parkrun at Myponga Reservoir, and I think we all enjoyed our ensemble endeavour. With water, stern hills, and forest it’s a fetching but searching physical test. Leonard rambled over the finish line and Claire and Trish then came down the final hill, legs whizzing not unlike the Tasmanian devil (Taz) in the Looney Tunes cartoons. It was a succession of warm moments across a brisk morning.

*

Cindy Lee is a Canadian band who’s come to recent global attention with their remarkable album Diamond Jubilee. It’s not on Spotify or vinyl but available as a single two-hour track on YouTube. Hypnotic and haunting, it evokes 1960’s girl groups and also features jangly guitars bouncing across its thirty-two songs. It put me in mind of buskers you might happen upon somewhere off-beat like Boise, Idaho.

*

Alain de Botton is an author I love to re-visit and this year he’s been in frequent demand. With Claire and I in an unbroken, anticipatory conversation about overseas trips, I was keen to purchase a book of his I’d previously appreciated. On level two of Adelaide’s Myer Centre is the most excellent Page and Turner, a sprawling second-hand bookstore and from here I bought The Art of Travel. The exquisitely observed prose possesses a deep, almost meditative fluency, and early in this work, he depicts the wonder of flight:

This morning the plane was over the Malay Peninsula, a phrase in which there lingers the smells of guava and sandalwood. And now, a few metres above the earth which it has avoided for so long, the plane appears motionless, its nose raised upwards, seeming to pause before its sixteen rear wheels meet the tarmac with a blast of smoke that makes manifest its speed and weight.

*

The glow from Glenelg’s SANFL victory continues. Given the ultimate margin of five points and with only one score in the final seven minutes, the tension was sustained at stratospheric levels. The sole behind came from Tiger forward Lachie Hosie hitting the post; itself among our game’s most theatrical events and a unique scoring outcome among world sports. Contrastingly, in rugby, soccer, and American football if a goal post is brushed, the ball’s destination is all that counts: inside the goal is good and deflected away means nothing. The notion of the behind as a reward for goal-kicking inaccuracy seems distinctly Australian and effectively announces, ‘That’s not a goal, but good effort. Here, have a point!’

*

Amidst the Carrickalinga escape, we spent a stout hour aboard the Yankalilla pub beer garden. This was an instructive text with the conversation moving from Asian and European travel to domestic matters. Returning to the holiday home, we’re welcomed by an array of aromatic curries which had been patiently preparing themselves in that most spiritually comforting of appliances: the slow cooker.

*

One Hand Clapping is a new Paul McCartney documentary I saw one Sunday with Max and his mate Ethan. It includes songs recorded in the Abbey Road studios for Band on the Run and we witness him playing the guitar, the bass, the piano, and singing in his honeyed, jubilant tenor. He appears ignorant of his own seemingly easy genius and captivating enthusiasm, and I was reminded of this: when his former band split, McCartney was devastated for more than anybody on the adoring planet, he loved the Beatles.

*

Alex and his school friend Judd camped in the Adelaide Hills to make a found-footage horror film for which Alex wrote an 8,000-word script. A chief challenge over the three days would be keeping phones and video cameras charged at their powerless camp site. I overheard Alex explaining how to solve this problem they would, ‘go to the pub for a schnitzel and plug in their devices there.’ First words, first steps, first day at school. Add to the accumulation of milestones: first pub schnitzel.

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My favourite annual pub visit

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It’s 5pm, on that first Wednesday in September.

My Dunlop Volleys bundle me into the pub and across the dark floorboards of the front bar. Happy Hour started at 4.30, but today this is too early.

Up to the altar to order my favourite beer of the entire calendar. Mine host smiles and asks, ‘What can I get you?’ I scrutinise the taps. Coopers? Something European? This changes from year to year. I’m flexible but decide. ‘I’d love a Pirate Life.’ It’s an occasion ale.

I’m in the Royal Family Hotel on Port Elliot’s main drag and (in Dale Kerrigan voice) this is my favourite pub visit of the year.

There are other much treasured annual beers such as the introductory ale of the Adelaide Test, Christmas Day festive cheer, and that nostalgic one in Kapunda at the Prince of Wales but tonight’s is especially elevated. It’s warm and familiar like a Beatles record.

2023

This is my annual retreat during which my hobbies come together: writing, reading, listening to music, and running. My established 5k route is across to The Strand and past the boutiques, and book and record shop then along Main Street with its brief knot of businesses and out to the hardware store on the Victor Harbor Road. Turning around I cut up Rosetta Terrace and then slip home by the booming surf.

The Royal Family’s beer garden is broad, with spongy lawn pushing out towards the low perimeter fence. There’s an immense pine so evocative of the salty coast and vast wooden tables have congregated around this tree, almost as if in prayer. Alongside are accompanying benches while above these are boxy umbrellas, leaning at jaunty angles as their blue and blackness smears across the pale sky.

I’ve spent the afternoon on the townhouse deck overlooking Knight’s Beach and its tumbling, roaring waves. Immersing myself in some words I’ve located a few obedient ones and invited these onto my page.

Peering across the pub grounds with lager in paw, I’ve gratitude for my gentle surrounds as well as our lengthening days with the sun now setting beyond six. Like so much of life, the encompassing context shapes the experience, and so it is for this restorative pub visit.

All is sunny.

These three days represent the longest unbroken stretch I have annually in just my own company and it’s productive, refreshing, and introspective.

But by Friday I’m keen for Claire to arrive. We’ve much to discuss and I’ll have a story for her.

2022
2

Sausage Roll Review: Ocean Street Bakehouse, Victor Harbor

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Of course, I’m here for a sausage roll but my problems are immediate for the menu board has two categories: plain or cheese and bacon.

This strikes me as a curious and oddly compelling way of organising us sausage roll-eaters. Those who know me well won’t be surprised to read that I’m in the plain camp (now, don’t say anything nasty).

Further menu scanning reveals differentiation between pies and steak pies. Does this infer that steak pies are somehow inferior? I’ve no appetite for apartheid.

And quiche. Let’s not start on quiche for quiche, dear reader, has its own category. It was always an attention-seeking food.

Purchase in hand, I claim a footpath (not pavement or sidewalk) table. There are signs taped everywhere begging me to not feed the birds. Baked goods, I learn from these instructive texts, are not naturally in the diet of birds.

So, if a magpie eats a pie, does it make him (or her) a cannibal?

Next door to the OSB (as I’m hereafter calling the Ocean Street Bakehouse) is a Subway. Suddenly, I feel as though I’m surrounded by conflict and longitudinal tension. I’m in a lunchtime warzone and can imagine an 80’s music video featuring a (soft-focus) dance off between the bakers and the sandwich artists.

With a seagull now menacing, I open the bag and there’s my sausage roll. It’s big and hot. Easing it out, I take a bite.

I’m disappointed to note that the record store across the road has newspaper all over its windows. Victor Beats had vast stocks of vinyl and a good array of guitars too. But it appears done. My bleak ponderings continue. Will physical shops even exist in a decade?

I look up and see the Thirsty Camel has a series of advertisements draped on the pub façade. These uniformly claim various, ‘Unseriously good deals’ for assorted drinks. Between sausage roll bites I try to fathom how ‘unseriously’ works in this slogan. I can’t grasp it and doubt that anyone on Gruen or within the grog or marketing industries could either. What does it mean?

My sausage roll is satisfactory but little beyond this. The pasty’s too flaky and I wear much of it on my freshly laundered shorts. The roll’s innards need some zing courtesy of a spicy additive like a waft or two of pepper. No, it shouldn’t hide (shamefully) behind some bacon and cheese.

Near my table stands a bicycle which could belong to one of the Famous Five. You know, the Enid Blyton books. Probably, only George, Julian, Dick, or Anne might own the bicycle, and not Timmy, for as clever as he is, he’s a dog. In self-pleased and conspiratorial tones, I think Julian would’ve said this about my sausage roll:

‘I won’t say it’s beastly, but Aunt Fanny makes sausage rolls that are far more splendid. Hers are tasty and it’s no wonder Uncle Quentin can’t keep his professorial hands off them. Don’t you think, Dick?’

And then they’d all row over to Kirrin Island and apprehend some rough-voiced smugglers.

The noon breeze urges the Norfolk Pines into waving about on the esplanade. A Putin lookalike exits the bakery.

Nanna and poppa are on a bench with a grand kiddy.

Ocean Street is a one-way street and despite their problematic nature, I quite like the unique charms of a uni-directional thoroughfare. This is good because we live on such a street.

I drive off to Port Elliot with crumbs of contemplation clinging to my shorts. I’ve stuff to write.

2

From Adelaide Oval to Chicago

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Saturday and we’re debuting at the Adelaide Oval Hotel. You’re in a seminar at Ayers House so I take the tram in. Waiting for you, I sit on a bench, the invigorating sun with a startling August burst. Our afternoon stretches out like a ribbon of time as I read my new (second hand) purchase, the funny and hundred-year-old, Three Men in a Boat. Leisure and royal indulgence await us.

*

Dragging our bumping cases, the glorious petite-train sound of the luggage wheels evokes the infinite joy of travel. We cross Hindley Street (stark by day) and then North Terrace, painterly as ever, before plunging into the railway station. Emerging in a balmy light we span the Torrens footbridge and photograph our progress. We’ve come to the Oval since we were kids but today’s like the first time.

*

Later in the winter balminess we appear on the stadium concourse before circumnavigating the oval. There’s no traffic noise in this village but we’ve chirpy birdsong for company. At Light’s Vision we peer over the city and discuss the Colonel’s life and legacy. Adelaide sits below, quietly confident but still small and welcoming. Complemented by gentle chat we arrive back at the East Gate and ascend to our room for Happy Hour by candlelight.

*

Thursday and we’re in the Festival Theatre for Chicago. Once upon a time you were in a production of this celebrated musical, and this delicious knowledge frames my experience. Before, during, and after the production, you whisper your theatrical insights to me, and these are magical, textual (and contextual) delights. I love the warmth of this secret discovery.

*

After the performance, we skate into the night and trudge soggily back to the car through the flooding footpaths. Hindley Street is smeared with neon and desperation and steering beachward through the sheeting rain, the wipers squark and flap.  

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To Alex and Max, on our Bali Holiday

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Hello there Alex and Max

I hope you enjoyed your trip to Bali. I learnt much about the island but more importantly the three of us and found it to be a holiday of fun and spirited, positive conversation.

That you both went on your first flight overseas by yourselves is of significance. You did well, especially given Max’s mid-flight mishap, and I was proud and relieved when you both strode up the airport’s departure corridor, looking relaxed.

Is there anything as exhilarating as that first crisp, new morning in a different country? Friday dawned in Kuta, and our hotel is a few minutes from the beach. We go along Poppy’s Lane past all the clothing stores and eateries and then explore the Beachwalk Shopping Centre. Pausing to check out Hershey’s and Starbucks, we have lunch at Avera where Max has margarita pizza and Alex has the first of many plates of Mee Goreng. I appreciate how curious and excited you are. There’s constant chatter. We spot the Bali Bomb Memorial and talk about this.

You both barter for the first time and show a confident, courteous grasp of how to do this. When I mention that it’s enjoyable for us but of great importance for the locals, you nod. It’s another step in becoming a global citizen. We visit the Jimmy Fooking Hendrix shop. With his well-practised routine, he makes us all laugh.

You subscribing with such enthusiasm to our Blue Lagoon trip was superb. We could’ve remained in Kuta in our established routines, but you expressed a keenness to venture beyond and I like this too. Snorkeling in the warm ocean on that Monday, it was terrific to watch you swimming above the coral with clown fish. We even saw some garfish! Sadly, no mantra rays. A wonderful morning!

I loved late afternoons on Kuta Beach when after a day of investigation, we’d sit on beanbags at the Fiki Fiki Bar. Young coconuts for you two and a (rare) beer for me. We’d discuss ways to manage the ceaseless stream of people selling things. How about Max’s pedicure? Big toes only (budget restraints). Alex hired a board and went surfing. These were entertaining moments in which the wider world was embraced by you both.

Our final day was invested at the fabled Waterbom Park. Despite my hesitations it was a fantastic afternoon, and I loved our shared rides on the Python and the Twin Racers. Barreling down those terrifying, often blackened tubes and being at the mercy of ruthless gravity, I found immense joy in doing this with you.

This conclusion to our time in Bali was deep in profound meanings about family and sharp mindfulness for me. I felt a delightful sense that it and our entire trip had been most triumphant, executed with eagerness and open-heartedness, and gave me a glimpse of your blossoming futures.

Love, Dad

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Three Balinese Beers

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Bintang

Rented daily at the Fiki Fiki Bar on the beach at Kuta, this was a functional and fun beer. Alex, Max, and I bombed onto the beanbags and the boys each had a (young) coconut as the sun submerged into the Indian Ocean. Somedays, Alex then surfed for an hour, while Max and I yakked and repelled the unrelenting torrent of often comical hawkers. There were cultural and interpersonal lessons for all. On successive days one fellow tried to sell us (purportedly) temporary tattoos featuring enriching life advice such as, ’Talk shit, get hit’ and ‘You wish, jellyfish.’ However, removed from a convivial context Bintang can be a dull, flavourless slog. It’s occasionally the sole option at local restaurants but let’s not be overly critical for a beer is a beer is a beer, as almost sung by a faceless German techno band in 1985.

Diablo IPA

An India Pale Ale in Indonesia? The homographic repetition of ‘Ind’ could be a good sign. And it is. On Saturday after yoga Claire investigated a Bintang supermarket (no relationship with the aforementioned beer) and bought herself a few treats (including a dress ring) before returning with a new beer for me to investigate. It was a restorative change and after dark, I scrutinised it as we collapsed in and out of the villa’s sparkling water. Gang of Youths soared into the sultry Ubud air. Invigoratingly zesty and aromatic with citrus, it’s well-suited to the tropics and at 4.9% comes with not inconsiderable clout (hence the name Diablo, even if a little overstated). I might try to get some in Glenelg.

Prost

Clean and crisp, this golden lager is amicable, and you know the name is German for ‘cheers.’ In Ubud, I’d collect a pair at the Ratna supermarket for poolside refreshment however there was early distress during our stay as I couldn’t find the villa’s bottle opener. So, despite my brash promises of cultivated behaviour, I had to knock the top off with a decidedly bogan methodology (no teeth were involved). Ultimately, this beer displays only minor charisma despite its slogan proclaiming the philosophically knotty and largely indefensible, ‘Good people drink good beer.’ I also read a suggestion that Prost has, ‘notes of corn and hay’ but remain unsure as I didn’t share my ale with any English-speaking local livestock.

2

Bali Hai Five

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Swim-up bar

A particular late afternoon indulgence was among Claire’s aspirations, and this informed our choice of Seminyak hotel (The Mercure). So, kitted out in our bathers, we tiptoed (Claire) and dove scruffily (me) into the unexpectedly brisk lagoon pool, waded about tokenistically, and then as the clock ticked over to Happy Hour, clambered onto our watery seats.

A swarthy DJ pumped rock classics out over the resort, but curiously he had just a solitary speaker hooked up, so we heard ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with only the vocals and guitar, and it was a monstrosity. Claire ordered a cocktail, and I took a Bintang. Although the actual beverages didn’t match the thrilling context, this occasion of fizzing, longitudinal expectation had arrived, and it was fun.

Our Balinese villa

Pressing apart the rustic wooden doors. As acclaimed travel writer Bill Bryson says the next moment is one of delicious anticipation and now our eyes dart about, skimming and taking in the sweep of our bungalow. Private pool, outdoor shower, wide kitchen, four-poster bed.

We swiftly began a routine in which I’d purchase our nightly beer and gin accompaniments on our way home at the Ratna shop. Gliding about in the warm pool on the blow-up bed, doing gentle laps as languid music (a LRB playlist) drifted out across our muggy night. Vertiginous geckos kept us company.

Scooter!

Even at unlikely hours, Ubud’s traffic is bunged up, and so we’d each hop onboard a green Honda Scoopy. These riders earnt our trust with their spatial awareness like surgeons and nimble zip like mosquitoes. Slung along Jalan Raya (the main drag), we’d squash between a stationary car and the gutter, breathing in but not shutting my eyes, so mesmerising was each buzzing little trip. They judge distance and opportunity like champion athletes but show ceaseless respect for all.

In Australia horns are tooted with aggression but here they’re informative and aimed at collective benefit not selfishness. Although Bali is Hindu, the road-users are on the path to enlightenment and liberation from suffering and this is vehicular Buddhism.

Pyramids of Chi

Dark inside the pyramid now that the neighbouring ignoramus has finally turned off his phone. On mats with little blankets over our legs, we’re here for aural healing and I need it as there’s lately been way too much Pink invading (guerilla-style) my distressed ears. Claire and I hold hands and the deep voice of the English guide (an Estuary accent) says she’ll begin our session with what will be my debut gong bath.

According to the website, ‘These waves interact both with the water in our bodies, with our DNA and with our chakra system aiding the intelligence of our bodies to feel, heal, relax & release.’ The bath’s dramatic but I enjoy no (aural) healing and have limited consequent need for the earnest (emailed) after-care regime. Still, it’s ninety minutes of shared peacefulness.

Daily walk in Ubud

Rice fields lazy-thick with watery mud. Heavy, wet air envelopes us, and our path is uneven and narrows between the villas. Buzzing, lime scooters politely pick their way past. Dogs roam but mostly ignore us and don’t seek a pat on the head. Dotted about are warungs or restaurants. We frequent one named Mesari which does delicious beetroot and pesto salad and nasi campur and beef rendang.

On the path’s another eatery cutely called Whole Egg in which we have Sunday breakfast. The café only seats eight and the owner prepares everything with calming patience. Chatting, we take in the fertile, sweet air and then Claire’s banana pancake and smoothie appears while I have granola with yoghurt and local fruit. Claire saw a review that suggested it was like being in your Mum’s kitchen.

It was.

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Running Around Melrose: Fog, Roos, and Mountain Views

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Town

In a Dickensian fog I creep along the rocky road out of the Kookaburra Creek Retreat. I’m accompanied by a pair of roos bounding along the fence line. My headlights cut through the mist, even though it’s nine in the morning. It’s fifteen minutes into Melrose.

Mount Remarkable hangs over the tiny township, and is monolithic, majestic, defiant. It’s why we and the settlement are here. There’s watery sun and a cathedral of wintry blue sky. I’m here to run around the hamlet.

In the gums guarding the school the air’s alive with shrieking cockatoos. Suddenly, some fly off, zooming and swooping in formation, white smudges on the azure atmosphere.

A teacher strolls by, his satchel swinging with Friday jauntiness. He could be the principal. We offer each other a chirpy, ‘Morning.’

Outside the Over the Edge bike café stands a hoop of cyclists, drink bottles in hand, guts curving their black lycra. They’re in discussion.

On the Mount Remarkable pub veranda, a blackboard declares the brisket burger and chips are a special for Fat Tyre Festival visitors ($24). Seems a decent deal but I reckon we’re fully booked.

The streets of Melrose are broad and serene, and I have them to myself save for a nodding tradie in Jaffa orange. Heading south, Jacka Brothers Brewery swims into impressive view, a four-story basilica of historic brick. We’re pencilled in for Claire’s birthday on Sunday. She loves her breweries as much as I love a knitting museum.

Completing a circuit, I’m back on Horrocks Highway and peek in a bric-à-brac shop named Joe’s Corner. In the front window sits a Little Golden Book about Taylor Swift.

Ambling along, the North Star pub hoardings proclaim that it opened in the mid-1850s. Facing the mountain there’s a modern deck with gas heaters. Later today, we might find ourselves beneath the blue flames.

Every where’s dangerously dry and it’s utterly still as late autumn here can be. All is glorious and enlivening. Back at the car I’m puffing but eager to climb Mount Remarkable this afternoon. There’s much psychological benefit in being proximate to massive things for they bring wholesome perspective and dissolve some of your worries – at least momentarily.

Port Augusta parkrun

Another foggy dawn in the Southern Flinders Ranges and edging onto the highway I pass a whizzing line of cyclists, their lights piercing the snow-white air. I continue through Wilmington and then Horrocks Pass with its bitumen snaking beneath the rocky cliffs.

On the other side of the range the blue-brown earth slopes down to the sea. The sun is now up, with massive wind turbines and the landscape reminding me of Mykonos, all dusty and baked. I descend to Highway 1, a road I know well from my decade on the West Coast.

Fumbling in the predawn dark of Judith’s Hut (our accommodation) I forgot my pre-parkrun banana, so I get one from the Port Augusta Woolworths and pay the 74 cents on our credit card.

During briefing it’s glacial with the temperature frozen at 3.8 degrees but I later learn it felt like zero by the Joy Baluch Bridge (one of the Iron Triangle’s plainest speakers). All of today’s parkrun volunteers are female, but none cuss like Joy.

At 8am sixty-one parkrunners begin shuffling south alongside the gulf past Wharflands Plaza, the silent mangroves and rail yards. It’s pancake flat and calm and perfect for running. The landscape is an arresting hybrid of desert and the post-industrial with indeterminate sheds and mangled iron alongside the quiet sea.

The Yacht Club appears on its fetching point and then I spot the Men’s Shed and wondering about plural and singular nouns ask myself: what if there’s only one bloke? Does it regress numerically and socially to being a Man Cave?

As I’m still shaking COVID, I splutter and stagger on the return leg, towards the end.

Crossing the line in thirteenth spot, my hands remain icy. I chat with the chap who came twelfth. He’s also staying in Melrose and camping with mates who’re in town for the Fat Tyre Festival. He doesn’t ride so is just aboard for the giggles.

I drive to a café in town, for a medicinal cappuccino. I fear I may lose my fingers.

The Southern Flinders Rail Trail

I run part of this on the King’s Birthday Monday. Today’s my 408th consecutive day of running. No, thanks Chuck.

Just north of Goyder’s Line, the trail hugs the highway and has scrub to the west. I see nobody, not even a curious kangaroo. Jogging along I dwell on our weekend and am grateful for the mix of exploring and relaxing at our accommodation.

During the early afternoons we’ve read and then sat near the firepit underneath the heaven’s dark blanket, and her peppery stars. A mile from the main road, sometimes the thunder of trucks has rumbled into the surrounding hills.

We’ll be home just after lunch, and I’m keen to go to the Glenelg game against (the cock of the) North.

Melrose, you’ve been magnificent.

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Conquer Mount Remarkable, collapse in the North Star Pub

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Farewelling our car at the North Star pub, we march off past the tennis courts and dissect the caravan park with all those swarming bikes.

Claire and I confess later to each other that we both instantly and secretly anticipated our return in several hours and couldn’t wait to plonk ourselves down in the pub. Is this wrong, we asked ourselves? No, we agree, it is not.

The sign at the trail head suggests four hours return for the 13.5k, ascending on the North trail and descending along the South. With some experience in traipsing about, we declare brazenly that we’ll be back in three. Fonzie couldn’t say it, but we can: we were wrong, and the official hiking information was correctamundo.

Trudging off with a vague sense of excitement but also looming doom, our hike quickly became demanding with wide sweeps of scree falls and narrow paths from which a tumble would send one cartwheeling down the slope a hundred feet. That’d be a messy opening to our weekend.

However, we enjoy views over the neat town and east to dehydrated Booleroo Centre (no Word, not Bolero).

After an hour, Claire proposes a mandarin stop to rejuvenate us. We later have a lollipop intermission and to the dismay of my wife mine’s gone in less than a minute. I nibble at lollipops like a rabbit.

As we see yet another long stretch of path ahead, dispiriting moments occur. These weren’t helped by signposts marking the distance to go with my inner voice – or maybe it was my spoken one – saying things like, ‘How the actual fuck can it still be three kilometers to the top?’ Tantrums were close, I think.

We arrive at the summit. We rest a moment and take photos, wanting evidence of this for any legal action.

There’s a sturdy historical monument. It notes that Edward John Eyre announced, ‘I name this Mount Remarkable’ to which I’m confident his colleague replied, ‘Mate, I’m guessing you’ve not been to the Himalayas? El Capitan in Yosemite? Or as American band Toto will sing in a century or so, Kilimanjaro (which) rises like Olympus above the Serengeti?’ Still, good on you, EJE.

Beginning our descent of 7.5 kilometres at 3.45pm, we reward ourselves with scroggin, which I scoop into my noggin. Thank you, Claire although I prefer the chocolate over the fruity bits.

We’re booked for the early dining session (5.30pm sharp) in the North Star pub. But we’re now in our very own reality TV show, competing against a cruel countdown clock. Will our heroes make it to the pub on time? Will they run out of scroggin? Will the guttural yelps of an industrial-sized sulk (me) wail out across the twilight?

To lighten our exertions, Claire sings a few kids camping songs and I say to her, ‘You should’ve hosted Play School.’ And, of course, I’m right, for she combines many showbiz talents and a fetching on-screen presence (as is already known). It’s a lovely interlude.

During the final two kilometres, our knees and hips and backs become personified and they’re not at all happy with us.

In the rising gloom and scrubby murk, I ring the pub to let them know we’ll be late. Louise says that’ll be fine. We later learn from the innkeeper, the abrupt and matronly, Jude/Rhonda/Gladys (Glad) that this is not the case.

*

Following our four-hour exercise episode, we swap our running shoes for boots (I have a sensible and incurable fear of sneans) and with unprecedented relief, lean on the front door.

It’s immediately engaging with a long bar, roaring fire, and rustic décor. Wool bales draped from the ceiling. Lots of iron. Floorboards, not sticky carpet. Bursting with folk from the Fat Tyre Festival. Are they cyclists or are they bikers? Invariably with beanies atop their crania, there’s a communal buzz. By the door someone’s selling raffle tickets.

We’re at table 2 and have never been so excited by the unpretentious, restorative joy of chairs. Easing into one is a Buddhist moment. For our knees, hips and (lower) backs we take hors d’oeuvres of anti-inflammatories and painkillers.

Refreshments. Pale Ale for self and Claire requests a sauvignon blanc, which is served in a 1970’s wine glass- the kind you might’ve received as a bonus with a (K-Tel) fondue set.

We evaluate our Mount Remarkable experience and finally, here’s the joy: the retrospective fun, the shared enterprise and how (as Clint Eastwood says) we’ve kept out the old man and old woman, at least for another day. Did I mention how after fifteen taxing kilometers we’re enjoying the chairs? Profoundly?

Having placed our order of chickpea curry and a burger with the aforementioned Jude/Rhonda/Gladys (Glad) she made it clear we need to vacate our table by 7pm, for the next session of diners. The subtext is gruff (like the ascent of Mount Remarkable) but the food’s good.

It’s been an afternoon.

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Robe, Recollected

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Sunset drapes our coach house garden as Claire and I push back on our chairs, having driven from Glenelg and taken lunch alfresco at Wangolina winery. Trucks rattle vaguely on the road to Beachport while cattle bellow out into the disinterested dusk and unseen sheep bleat. Surveying our setting Claire notes, ‘It’s a most beautiful place,’ as overhead honks a flying vee of ducks. Our holiday has begun.

*

During each day my anticipation simmers ahead of an elemental and enchanting ritual. Squatting by its open mouth I coax and urge with the black poker. Orange flares suddenly whoosh and cloak the room with warmth. Is there a more exquisite joy than kindling the fire in a pot belly stove?

*

In the morning, I steer into Robe for the first ever time. Taking in the painterly foreshore I run from the Cally pub to the Obelisk admiring its marinas and dotted coves and expansive sky water land. Passing stately homes, I rumble along the Arthur Fennell Way Board Walk and Lake Butler. On my right the jetty yawns, and here’s the Robe Gaol ruins. Hands on hips, I stagger about the headland while down below pounds the relentless, thunderous surf. Erosion will eventually triumph, and the proud 169-year-old Obelisk will tumble into the ocean.

*

Lunchtime is breathless and balmy. We picnic at Little Dip National Park and circumnavigate the lake. It’s rainforest-like and in my hyperbolic mind this trekking demands Bear Grylls skills. I’m sure we’re only halfway around when to my surprise we’re back at the beginning! The entire lush wilderness is ours and ours alone. Is this seclusion the deeper, necessary magic of holidays? Go somewhere new but see no-one old?

*

We’re bogged on Long Beach. I rev and rev again and the wheels spin and sink. Flinging open the doors we assess our position, and I mutter, ‘Poo.’ We kick and scoop sand from around the submerged tyres. Worried, I turn the key and gingerly toe the accelerator. The car lurches out. Whew! Surrendering I say, ‘I think we’re done.’ We slink back along the crescent of white coast.

*

Midnight brings a treacherous descent down the wooden steps from our coach house mezzanine bedroom. Claire’s brightened the shadowy stairwell with a thoughtful candle, but despite this it still commands a methodical and cautious approach. With the arrival of dawn’s tentative light, I puff out the flame. It illuminates all four evenings.

*

The gilded sun piggybacks in on the cascading waves and we sit in the twinkling beer garden, peering seaward. Inside thrums with hooting footy fans while we decant our day by the shore and about this silvery, sleepy town. Near the hulking utes, two dogs are tethered to veranda posts. Claire curves down and pats them with her customary affection. Late Anzac Day at the refurbished Robe pub.

2

Mystery and Murder in Moana

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Hurtling past O’Halloran Hill on the Southern Expressway and Alex slides in a Steely Dan CD. Although he views this dad technology with bemusement, he’s also a devotee of nostalgia, and I’m thrilled he can meld irony and joy. Their jazzy and bewitching song, ‘Aja’ fills the cabin, and he mentions, ‘Manny’s dad loves this. He reckons it’s goated.’ I say, ‘It’s great. When I was at uni, I played the cassette in my old Holden going to and from Kapunda.’

Earlier at Writers’ Week we heard my favourite ever novelist, Richard Ford. Alex came to this excursion (I see no other teenagers in the garden) knowing it’s significant to me and this is heartening. Listening to the author of The Sportswriter he made connections to his Year 11 English course, and these were deliberated over the day. We returned to Ford’s point that characters are not people, but instruments of language and I’m convinced this insight puts Alex in front of his ATAR competition, should this still exist, and not a few literature teachers.

When Alex turned thirteen, we spent a night in Hahndorf and then last year on his equivalent birthday Max and I stayed in Aldinga. Claire suggested acknowledging these rites of passage and for this idea I’m most grateful. Each is an occasion to pause and talk and contribute to our future selves in novel surrounds.

Yielding again to my paternal voice I declare, ‘I think we should swim between the flags.’ Alex nods. Late afternoon at Moana beach, it’s chilly in the water but splashing about we promptly acclimatise. Irregular sets of waves march in from the icy Southern Ocean and some hoist themselves up as green walls, while others crumple sullenly about us, all slovenly foam and disagreeability. This burst of activity provides a relaxing physical context on which to hang this sparkling day. We catch a couple each and are rushed shoreward like straw.

For dinner it’s the esplanade’s Deep Blue Café. We’re sat by the windows and the sun slants in, all gilded and promising. It’s a cheerful, assured place with table service and over pepperoni pizza and a fat burger talk moves to Alex’s favourite Beatle, George Harrison. While I’m a McCartney man I see the appeal of the band’s youngest Liverpudlian with his quiet genius and affable ways. I say, ‘How amazing that he was only twenty-six when the Beatles finished.’ Musically, Alex’s unquenchable and sees no generation gaps as his preferences range from Kanye to Miles to 1970’s Japanese avant-garde. Hopefully, this cultural inquisitiveness is a predictor of a hearty, fulfilling life.

Back in our dune-side cabin we speak of the soundtrack for the film Alex’s making and how esteemed directors Wes Anderson and Quentin Tarantino use wistful music in their art. He plays ‘Miserlou’ by Dick Dale, made famous in the Pulp Fiction opening credits. Intrigued by Bob Dylan, he’s shortlisted several of his tunes for their project and asks, ‘Do you think Paul Kelly is the Australian Bob Dylan?’ It’s an essential, probing question.

We then turn on the tele. As he’s about forty years too young for Escape to the Country, I surrender the remote.A Bond film. Skyfall. During a break, I show Alex a clip from The Trip to Spain during which over an entree of scallops Coogan and Brydon battle with their respective Roger Moore impersonations. He laughs at, ‘Come, come, Mr. Bond’ and reckons the next movie introduces Jane Bond.

Before 007 defeats the cyberterrorist in Scotland we hit our cots. Today’s gone well and there’s been lovely moments and also, I hope, fruitful investment.

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Ripper 76 to Patsy Biscoe to The Fonz

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I bought my new turntable a house-warming gift yesterday.

Lenny’s Records on Henley Beach Road is near my work and poking through the racks, I contemplated Aja by Steely Dan and Living in the Seventies by Skyhooks before deciding on Bob Dylan’s tour de force, Blood on the Tracks. Nothing says welcome like an iconic album.

Living (mostly) alone decades previously in a farmhouse south of Wudinna, this CD was a Sunday evening ritual. With its warm songs of love and looming heartbreak, Dylan was excellent company, and offered much to ponder every rich listening.

On wintry nights I’d get the fireplace a-roarin’ and his wit and poetry were cantankerous comfort as the acoustic guitar and Minnesotan twang sprung about my big, empty home.

‘You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go’ remains an uplifting song about impending hurt and there’s gleeful despair in the verse

I’ll look for you in old Honolulu

San Francisco, Ashtabula

Yer gonna have to leave me now I know

But I’ll see you in the sky above

In the tall grass in the ones I love

Yer gonna make me lonesome when you go.

Given the name’s lyricism, I’d like to visit Ashtabula, Ohio.

*

On Thursday evening with old Kimba friends Bazz and Annie we enjoyed the world’s greatest compilation album which, of course, is Ripper 76. Among its curios is the theme song from everybody’s favourite show, Happy Days.

Over Coopers and pepperoni pizza, we spoke of this, and I mentioned how The Fonz (Henry Winkler to others) is touring Adelaide next year to promote his biography and Claire will be the Auslan interpreter. How great is this? The other day I asked, ‘Happy Days began when we were about ten. Did you ever imagine you’d work with The Fonz?’ I hope she asks who’s his preferred Tuscadero: Leather or Pinky?

*

Having met Paul McCartney, the English singer Noel Gallagher from Oasis was asked how he felt and replied, ‘Macca’s a legend. It were fooking great. I mean my favourite band is Wings.’ Wednesday afternoon I popped on the triple live album, Wings Across America and loved side four’s closing track, ‘Listen to What the Man Said.’

Soldier boy kisses girl

Leaves behind a tragic world

But he won’t mind, he’s in love

And he says love is fine

It’s emblematic of McCartney’s enticing optimism and talent for a likable melody. However, Tom Scott’s soprano saxophone solo is the happy highlight, and I appreciated it soaring out across our summery garden.

My new turntable and I were getting on superbly.

*

I was reassured to read that Neil Diamond was in my top five Spotify artists for 2023 along with Karen Carpenter heir apparent Weyes Blood, Lana Del Ray, The Beatles, and Belle and Sebastian. This is largely founded on Hot August Night being our Friday evening ritual (imposed by me). It’s a splendid, intensely familiar way to farewell the week and muster in the weekend.

So last night on the patio with Christmas lights twinkling and candles flickering I dropped the needle on side three (it’s good to mix it up) and its exquisite ‘Play Me’ with

You are the sun, I am the moon

You are the words, I am the tune

Play me

Of course, on the second verse Diamond sings, ‘Songs you sang to me/Songs you brang to me.’ Brang? Yet again, Claire and I had the conversation during which we agreed passionately that English is a cruel language and yes, the past tense of bring should plainly be brang.

*

Late Sunday in Tanunda for a music festival, Claire and I had a brief chat with Here’s Humphrey star, retired naturopath and former deputy mayor of the Barossa, Patsy Biscoe.

It certainly was a memorable week in music.

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Mt. Lofty Majesty: A Week with My Boys

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Travelling to Hahndorf was a calculated venture, a precious escapade that I guarded with an awareness that our shared holidays are approaching their natural quota, and every moment counted.

One sun-kissed afternoon, Alex, Max, and I ventured to the tourist park’s flickering pool. In our aquatic triangle an American football sailed across the water between us three. This game, as I’d hoped, was just a pretext to indulge in teenaged chatter. They bantered with the bustling spirit of brothers, yakking about everything and nothing, their chat interwoven with pokey jests. When these sometimes targeted me, I was delighted.

Assuming the role of invested observer, my ears were sharply tuned to the cadence of their conversation, picking out words and tones that conveyed encouragement or concern. Pleasingly, all was as expected. My seismograph remained flat.

*

Our mini-golf tournament became the ‘Tronky Cup’. A tronky, should you be unaware, is a maddeningly marketed chocolate bar from the Kinder empire and doubtless a shrieking delight for the offspring of Jayden, Kayden, and Brayden. Home on the couch recently watching these being advertised, Claire and I pondered the accompanying sense of doomed entitlement and twee allure.

While us boys battled the miniature concrete course, I recounted my whimsical and unsuccessful quest to purchase one as a vaguely amusing gift for Claire. Today’s victor, I decreed, would claim the prestigious ‘Tronky Cup.’ It was just silly enough for them to agree.

Max held up a wet finger to the breeze on the 12th before lowering himself over his putt, a tricky nine-footer. This reminded me happily of how golf and droll humour belong together, and they appeared alert to this. Despite an earlier hole-in-one, Alex met with catastrophe on the 18th hole, taking eight shots, and so I was victorious. At the German Arms a dreadful beer was a cruel celebration.

*

After a substantial schnitzel at the Oakbank pub, we went to the local school. Like many built in the 1970’s, its façade projected unwarranted smugness, the campus set back haughtily from the road. Max and I strolled to the half court, for some one-on-one basketball.

He, the young aficionado, offered a constant stream of commentary as he gracefully schooled me on the court. Our conversation spanned the entire spectrum of the sport, from his lunchtime games to his local team, district competitions, the NBL, and his revered NBA.

Max’s roster of basketball heroes is impressive (MJ easily better than Lebron, he argues), though I couldn’t help but think that, at his age, mine was filled with footballers and cricketers. His passion is a globalised, contemporaneous expression, and that’s fine with me.

*

As the sun began its descent, and we were bathed in a muted afternoon light, Alex and I circumnavigated an ornamental lake to the giant chessboard. His moves were calculated, each one deliberate and considered. An Asian boy appeared, offering unsolicited advice, but Alex played a patient, long game, demonstrating impressive self-regulation before emerging as the eventual conqueror. It was an exquisite hour. We shook hands.

The thought crossed my mind that, as parents, we secretly wish for our kids to surpass us in life’s endeavours, and now, chess and what it symbolises, is added to the lengthening list of Alex’s triumphs.

*

Our week’s zenith was a hike from Waterfall Gully to the Mount Lofty Summit, during which we were immersed in nature’s grandeur. I mused to the boys about the psychological benefit of being occasionally dwarfed by colossal creations, whether natural or human. Wise beyond his years, Max summarised with an ironic wisdom I wish I’d possessed at thirteen, ‘So you can know that you’re just one of eight billion people.’

On our taxing ascent, Alex spotted an echidna, and Max sporadically sprinted ahead, his youthful exuberance propelling him up the tough terrain. I lurched along behind. We discussed school, past trips like this one, and the significance of reaching this summit, together. Our knees and ankles were tested on the descent, but I felt gratitude for this challenging, shared excursion, undertaken with a purity of purpose.

*

Throughout our trip, the boys had accepted my itinerary with happily natured grunts and shoulder shrugs, and these became wordless affirmations of the mottled good that just might come from a holiday with their dad.

Travelling back down the freeway, we nattered about where we could go next time.