The White Stripes are blasting from the stereo with drums pounding and guitar screaming.
There you are in your car, revving the engine, also disturbing the neighbourhood. Your casual confidence in the driver’s seat is both reassuring and mildly terrifying. It’s Tuesday evening, and you’ve been cleaning the interior: scraping off stubborn gunk, spraying the console, wiping the trim.
Suddenly, you’re a motorist and a car owner.
How did this happen? And why did we get here so quickly? Childhood, for the helplessly watching parent, is a succession of joyous and heartbreaking moments so fleeting, so enormous—that most of us are forever exhilarated and exhausted.
Regardless of these thoughts, your 2012 Ford Festiva will soon carry you away into your newly made world. And this is how it should be.
On Wednesday, you and Max are side by side at Pastagogo— or as I prefer to write it, in full Vintage Vegas style: Pasta-A-Go-Go. It’s been hugely positive for you both and you’re learning about hard work, the value of money (not quite there yet), teamwork, flexibility, and much more that will be useful across, let’s say, the next fifty years! In the meantime, go gently with the gnocchi.
I’ve a profoundly moving image of you on the back lawn, in the beanbag. It’s a summer’s morning during the last holidays and you’re reading a book. Not any book but the 500+ page magnus opus that is Donna Tartt’s The Secret History. Reading celebrated literature is hard. But the cognitive struggle is rewarding and has benefits in many different ways. It might take you a while but persevere, finish it and you’ll look back with an enduring sense of achievement.
Even more important than cars, pasta, and weighty novels are relationships. In these I see you growing in skill, self-awareness, and respect (mostly). Relationships are the beginning and ending of all the things in this life that are of value. I notice you learning and applying this to friends, work, love, and family. It makes me proud.
So, dear Alex, on your seventeenth birthday, I’m grateful for this moment, wistful about your fading childhood, and hugely excited for your future. Enjoy your last birthday as a secondary schooler.
This time in 2026 we’ll be looking back on Year 12. This will be a deeply significant event for you and I’m confident you’ll shape it into a remarkable one, bursting with learning, memories and life-changers.
The word ‘tavern’ may have comforting ye olde worlde connotations of open fires, and stables for your fatigued horse, and roast beef, parsnips and Yorkshire pudding but in contemporary Adelaide it often translates to a bland boozer with less appeal than a particularly bleak Big W.
Welcome to the Hyde Park Tavern.
What is the answer to the ageless dilemma: hot chips or wedges? Tonight, it’s the latter.
Can it really be called a happy hour when there are thirteen beers on tap, but only two begrudgingly make the cut—and one of them is West End Draught?
Do we love the pavers that compromise the southern section of King William Road? Are these uniquely elegant or annoyingly pompous?
The Hyde Park Tavern is God’s waiting room, and the next black bus is coming in a minute—I can hear its brakes squealing now.
As is now tradition, Claire enjoys a cocktail—actually a pretty good cocktail— an espresso martini despite the crushing absence of either Bryan Brown or Tom Cruise.
I had a golden hour, easily the loveliest of the week, as in our warm cocoon we wove together the slight and sizable detail of our lives and relished the absorbing music of each other’s thoughts, apprehensions, and cheerful, radiant hopes.
It’s true: it really is a blessing to have somebody who’s interested in all the stuff that runs through your head.
It’s always a time for contemplation, the pub.Happy Hour proudly brought to you by John Howard.Cold, metallic, impersonal.
I appreciated the experiences we shared during our visit to Sydney and from start to finish, our trip was filled with your curiosity, infectious enthusiasm, and so many moments of fun. You subscribed to each day and excursion with open hearts and minds and for this generosity, I thank you.
It began (intentionally) with our exploration of Circular Quay and the Opera House, followed by the awe-inspiring sight of Ovation of the Seas. Taking your debut ferry ride to Luna Park and walking back across the Harbour Bridge was an adventure in itself, and Alex and I enjoyed the thrill (terror for me) of climbing the Pylon lookout for those tremendous views over the harbour. From there, the stroll through Hyde Park to our accommodation provided the perfect balance of excitement and exercise!
All the while you’re both nattering away to each other; to me; talking about what’s in front of us, work at Pasta A Go Go—your sense of teamwork and camaraderie is impressive—and so much other stuff. I was constantly reassured by your brotherly relationship, and how you look out for each other. This joint resourcefulness shone when you returned from the op shops with your new finds. Shirts, pants, tops.
One particularly dramatic moment came in Bondi. Jumping off the bus onto the footpath, Alex immediately realised the problem. ‘Dad, I’ve left my video camera on the bus.’ The 333 omnibus promptly roared off down Campbell Parade—with the camera still on the back seat. I said, ‘You better run off after it!’ Watching you both dash off, cinematically, to catch the bus—and succeed about 500 metres later—was a heartwarming moment although Max hurt his calf (too many weights and insufficient cardio). I was reminded of Jason Statham in The Framer.
Though the weather tried to challenge us, it never dulled our eagerness. We then explored Bondi Pavilion’s art gallery and walked along the vacant beach up to Icebergs, marvelling at the raw beauty of the coastline, even in the abysmal conditions.
The opportunities for learning and reflection were abundant. From the Sydney Museum’s stories of the First Fleet and Indigenous history to the Museum of Contemporary Art’s powerful environmental themes, there was so much to absorb. I liked how you both were particularly captivated by the MCA’s bookshop if not the rebirthing film. Exploring The Rocks, Barangaroo, and the surrounding areas deepened our connection to Sydney’s geography and culture.
There were ferry rides aplenty too and how excellent are these?
A highlight was our trip to Balmain. Going along Darling Street was great, as was stopping by the Hill of Content bookshop, where Max picked up a Jack Reacher novel. It pleases me profoundly that you’re both happy to engage with ideas and writing—a bookshop hosts all of these. Our visit ended with schnitzels and T20 cricket from New Zealand at Dick’s Hotel—a perfect end to a day of discovery, despite the beer garden being closed due to storm damage.
Manly was another adventure entirely, with its jaw-dropping weather. We were bemused by the surf lifesaving carnival, witnessed the heaving ocean swell, and encountered a just fallen tree blocking our path on the way back.
As we bounced along on the ferry, Max’s Sam Pang-like quick wit in hoping the owners of a small boat, ‘hadn’t left any eggs on the kitchen bench’ was a moment of humour on the stormy seas. And though Alex’s new/old 49ers cap now resides in the Pacific, the voyage on the Manly Fast Ferry, especially past the Heads, was exhilarating. The skipper’s skill in navigating the massive waves was impressive.
Culminating with a salty coastal walk along Bondi, Tamarama, Bronte, Waverley, and Coogee— was a fitting finish to a shared adventure that was as scenic as it was fun.
A final stroll around Surrey Hills record stores and op shops. Flicking though the vinyl Alex paused and said, ‘Dad, here’s Skyhooks!’ There was the black lamb on the cover of Straight in a Gay, Gay World. He continued, ‘You’ve already got that one.’
Thank you for being a part of this experience. It’s an incredible destination that offers so much—beauty, history, learning, and exciting connections. Sydney gave us that and beyond. More vitally, you both offered your willing participation and your faith.
Alex, Max, and I were staying by Hyde Park so strode past twice daily going to and from Circular Quay.
The St James Station on Elizabeth Street is part of Sydney’s underground system. It’s my boys first visit to the Harbour City and I’ve not been there in over a decade. My previous time was a day trip for an (unsuccessful) interview.
It grabbed me instantly. As art, it’s beautiful and transportive to multiple personal destinations. It’s heritage listed (1938) and draws upon an Art Deco aesthetic. The pale blue of the Chateau Tanunda lettering and the Vintage Vegas orange tone of The Brandy of Distinction juxtaposed with the (formerly) white tiling. The neon colours are joyous and sentimental.
The station itself is mimicry of London’s Underground.
Staring at it from the edge of Hyde Park, I wondered about the naivete. Although dating from just prior to WW2, there’s an innocence at play. Over time do even the darkest of eras become prone to unsophistication? With the painterly mise en scène does it also evoke the often-quaint cinematography of Wes Anderson?
I thought about my own (brief) brandy drinking career. After cricket, and a meal in the Wudinna Club, my captain, Peter ‘Honey’ Boylan would often say, ‘Beer’s no good after a steak. I get too bloated. Buy you a brandy.’ I didn’t especially love nor hate it, but I’ve not had one since.
I do love the persistence of analogue clocks in railway stations despite the difficulties of moving parts, manually adjusting the time, and keeping all of them accurate. I read that railway station clocks, ‘provide optimal time awareness to patrons.’ The sign and the clock are pleasingly synchronous.
With the Barossa adjacent to my hometown of Kapunda, my parochial self was also activated. It makes me proud that Tanunda’s conspicuous in Sydney and I feel a swell of nostalgia for growing up. Is it true that the older many of us become, the more magical appears our childhood? This neon display in Sydney certainly had this effect.
Of course none of this mattered to my boys who were impatient to get over to Luna Park. I tore myself away, but the image stayed with me.
In this bejewelled alpha city with curving harbour views, this is a gently magical interior vista.
Claire’s hat blew off and the man passing us on the footpath bent to pick it up.
I also stooped over, but Claire was quicker than both of us. He was a tall, older fellow, wearing boots and jeans. Elegant. As we all straightened up— in slow motion it might’ve been a quirky moment in a music video for a band like The Go-Betweens— I caught his eye and felt an instant rush of excitement.
Almost immediately I whispered to Claire, ‘Did you see who that was?’ No was her reply.
With festive excitement I announced, ‘It was Rampaging Roy Slaven!’ Or rather John Doyle, who plays the much-loved sporting colossus (and trainer of equine star, Rooting King).
In our shared instant Roy shot me the look I’ve seen a thousand times on TV—the eye-twinkling, self-aware grin when he’s already amused by what’s to come and hopes you will be too.
Within our first hour in Balmain I had the best Sydney experience. Roy!
*
With time before check-in, we explore Balmain’s snaking thoroughfare, Darling Street. It was hot with punishing humidity and sinister sun. For days, my shirt—and probably night tools too as described by Roy and HG—would be soaked. In the airconditioned library I found the New Yorker and read a Haruki Murakami story while Claire browsed.
Back outside there’s dogs everywhere. Friendly, trotty ones who are nearly laughing. Flopping by their owner’s feet at sidewalk cafes and, as we later learn, spreading across the ancient carpet of pubs. How great? Dogs aren’t generally resident in Adelaide boozers.
Coming from tree-lined Darling Street is a constant, subtropical score of birdsong with happy chirping suggestive of alfresco evenings and catchy melodies. It’s a bubbling soundscape of butcherbirds, boobooks, and frogmouths.
*
In the heart of the village is The Cricketers pub. Inside’s cosy like a lounge room. Travel’s core principle is to mimic the locals, so I buy my debut schooner of Resch’s. Sipping tentatively, Claire says, ‘How’s your beer?’ Taking another slurp I reply, ‘I think it similar to West End Draught. It serves a purpose.’ Claire has a utilitarian white wine.
The patrons seem happy to be in and unlike some Friday night crowds, it’s not just fugitive old men. There are agreeable groups of young and not-so gathered and the murmuring percolates up from the dappled tables.
On the bar is a tips jar filled with gooey pink liquid, Claire’s told, to repel thieves from nicking the donated coins.
*
Balmain’s best on foot, so Claire and I saunter along Mort Street to the ferry, noting the conical but dead Christmas trees on the footpaths and bougainvillea too. The trees are erupting with reddish pink flowers. The carpet of colour punctuating our stroll like a minor film awards event.
The ferry wharf houses a community library with hundreds of books lining the wooden walls. What an emblem of civility and hope! My joy deepens when I note that it’s also catalogued. My eye’s caught by the weighty tome, London: The Biography by Peter Ackroyd. It’s long tempted me but being restricted to hand luggage renders its 884 pages unlikely to accompany me home. Might be a retirement book. When we next visit it’s gone.
The obsolete Maths and medical textbooks remain available.
*
My run streak continues (624) and Sunday morning I jog along Darling Street through the village. How fantastic to live here? Flog the car, walk to the ferry, waddle to the pub!
Passing the Hill of Content bookshop I’m struck by the cleverness of the name with (apologies for this) content being happiness and content also being included material. Just across the street is another bookshop. What a literate and literary location is Balmain!
After the crest of the first hill emerges the appealing London pub with its Sparkling Ale sign nodding under the veranda: it was once owned by the Coopers family. I also take interest in the Balmain Bowls Club (oldest in NSW: 1880) which offers jazz on Sunday afternoons, and a chicken schnitzel on Thursdays for $19.90. I vow to take a photo and send it to Mum and Dad (for decades he’s played first division for Nuriootpa).
Hearing St Mary’s church before I see it, the pumping pipes of the organ and resultant hymn swells over the bougainvillea.
The East Village Hotel is almost hiding from view, crouched by the boulevard although there’s tables on the footpath and empty beer barrels squatting in the lane. It’s picturesque, melts into the streetscape and could be in Hertfordshire.
I’ve gone up and down two serious hills, and my unaccustomed calves are mooing. Back home in Glenelg, the terrain’s cricket pitch flat. Approaching the wharf, I get a glimpse of a sail and pylon, so cross the street and there it is. Along the silent horizon’s a panorama of the bridge.
Falling down the sheer incline, I arrive at Balmain East ferry wharf, peer through to Barangaroo and the Crown Casino. Nicknamed Packer’s Pecker, the architecture’s a combination of blatantly penile and Dubai-lite aesthetics.
*
With all the water surrounding us on the Balmain peninsula we needed to get wet, so Claire suggests the Dawn Fraser Baths for a cooling splash. On our way home we spot the neighbouring Riverside pub where she was the publican for a stretch. She truly was the queen of all things liquefied, our Dawn.
Popped into the Unity Hall pub where the Labour Party has deep connection. Claire asks (reasonably), ‘Do you have a wine list?’ The youngster says, ‘No but tell me what you’re after.’ It’s a pub fiercely for locals (men) and we overhear a lively chap announcing like he’d just mowed the lawn that he’d, ‘been arrested on Saturday.’
*
Following a BBQ at Claire’s brother Matt’s we wander home along an insect-buzzing and hot Darling Street.
Tomorrow night two inches of rain will fall from the swollen skies. The village of Balmain is to be awash.
A waterfall of noise is tumbling off the balcony of The Colley.
From the footpath I cannot see our spot, but the sonic assault means it’s already unappealing despite the promised view across Moseley Square and the twinkling ocean.
We’ve a table booked.
Claire and I are here to talk over a couple beers with dear old friends, Bazz and Annie, Paul and Ali, and Mozz and Kath.
During the previous month I made multiple calls to The Colley to reserve and confirm our balcony booking. Mystery Pub* demands administrative effort especially as tonight we’ve special guests. An email was promised by the pub on each occasion.
Nothing bothered my expectant inbox.
Racing towards the Colley’s stairs (you know what I mean) we’re stopped by the authoritative hand of a bouncer. Black trousers, straining shirt and ancient Nikes block our path. ‘There’s no thongs in here, sorry.’
No thongs in a beachside pub?
It’s like making a po-faced demand that all who come to your Sunday BBQ wear a collar and tie.
No mention of this during any of my careful phone calls or those sweetly literate and informative emails that the pub never feckin’ sent.
Just a short time ago, the Colley had a different name, and the front bar gleefully threw open its doors around dawn, welcoming in all every ratty type for whom thongs were aspirational wedding attire. There wasn’t even a ‘No shoes, no service’ sign.
We’ve promoted our gathering as Mystery Pub* and suddenly for Claire and me it is too. I panic: where will we go? The Moseley? Rush around to the Broady? Surely not the Watermark!
On the Mystery Pub* satisfaction scale the Colley scores 3/100.
Like a trusty old B grade footballer, the Grand could be the last chance saloon. We stride down there past Mama Carmela’s (serving Italian cuisine since 1974). Security waves us in, the (evidently) unspeakable horror of our menacing thongs (used by FBI profilers as a key indicator of future trouble) in full sight.
It’s quiet (sort of), so we claim a table by a front window. Outside, the pines are buffeted by the stiff wind. Yes, it’s much better here than on the (moronically pretentious) pub balcony back up the street.
Paul and Ali are back from Abu Dhabi, and we hear of their plans. For them, too, they’re racing towards retirement. How did this happen? Minutes ago, it was the New Year’s Eve of 1994, and they were getting married on a hot afternoon in Kimba.
Mozz and Kath are here from Pinnaroo, having driven up for the night. On Sunday Mozz reaches a landmark (pension) birthday. This prompts much discussion about their intentions. As always, what do these things also mean for us?
Annie and Bazz now live in Moonta Bay with their dog, Reggie, and some (non-laying) chooks. We’re all here for a Christmas drink (not the chooks). Bazz, Annie, Ali, Kath, and Claire gather around the table and chat away. Our group variously enjoys Pirate Life, sparkling white and shiraz among other refreshments.
Mozz, Paul and I are on our feet by the windows. In groups, I like to stand in the pub. It seems more conducive to conversation. We discuss superannuation, work, and our offspring before moving to travel.
‘How’d you find Geelong?’ I ask Mozz.
‘A bit subdued. Not much going on. Pubs were unremarkable.’
I offer, ‘I liked the yacht club but didn’t see much else. The waterfront looked good.’
Our discussion migrates to Melbourne. ‘Jed’s a big North Melbourne fan so last visit we went to Arden Street,’ Paul suggests. ‘Walked straight in off the street. Sensational.’
‘Footy’s everywhere there. I love it.’ I note of the Victorian capital.
After an hour we’re done. We’re all heading around home so on the way, pizza’s collected.
There’s nothing quite like the deep enveloping comfort of old friends. Moving through our decades and across the country and planet, we’ve maintained connections. Our veranda chat’s funny and warmhearted and familiar.
To recycle an old joke, I’m going to try to write this without mentioning the Himalayas. Oops, failed already.
The Barahsinghe is a swamp deer that’s native to Nepal. It has given its name to a craft beer brewery located three hours from the capital Kathmandu in Kurintar. Founded in 2016, it has a modest range of products including a dark wheat beer, fruit beer and pale ale. Should the words swamp and beer co-exist in the same sentence? Let’s find out.
Claire and I are not in Nepal.
We’re just across the road from the Coles supermarket in Glenelg at the Sherpa Kitchen and Bar. It’s long held curious appeal, and we decided to visit early Saturday evening (our dining hours are veering dangerously toward that of Queensland pensioners). We had a minor celebration to acknowledge.
Taking our chairs on the alfresco area the menus soon materialise. Our server is affable and answers our questions. For starters we settle upon some dumplings. We can select ten or five. We ask for five. The smiling staff says, ‘Would you like six?’ As the Dalai Lama noted in his cricket diary, ‘Kindness is my religion.’
‘Yes,’ we chorus, knowing he’s saved us from the interpersonal calamity of an irreconcilable fifth dumpling.
Claire orders a white wine. I follow with, ‘I’d like the Barahsinghe Pilsener, please.’ Having completed our order, we chat among ourselves.
There’s modest frisson for I’m about to make my Nepali beer debut. Cars come and go from Coles. There’s a river of foot traffic past the restaurant. Modern music plays throughout, presumably from Nepal. Doof, doof but Buddhist.
We speak of Christmas, NYE cricket, The White Lotus (we’re late to streaming TV) and our impending trip to Sydney. Hot on the heels of our 1985 adventure to the Harbour City (it’s been forty years, so hot like tundra) and it’ll be fresh and distantly familiar as teenaged memories largely are.
Next to appear is my beer.
The label tells me it’s made with German hops and natural spring water, and I wonder if spring water can be unnatural.
The Pilsner’s bright and appealing in the glass. Entirely unlike a swamp deer I quietly imagine. The aromatics are zesty, and this builds my expectation. It’s hoppy and refreshing to sip. Does the Dalai Lama approve? Should he?
My ale from the foot of the Himalayas is going well. Can’t believe I did it again!
While our starters of Sherpa Momo (dumplings with curry sauce) were excellent our main courses arrived prompt and hot but presented as a little bland (like the early evening view of a Coles supermarket).
The Barahsinghe Pilsener was a highlight and in our globalised world it has made its way from Nepal to Glenelg (likely via Dan’s at the execrable Watermark pub).
This is Blog #500. Thanks for reading and your words of encouragement. Here’s to more stories, and adventures.
Historian (and darts champion) Herodotus once noted, ‘Pubs are markedly different at 5pm on a Sunday compared with after work on Friday.’
The former timeslot is disposed towards anticipation and the later, reflection. Friday pub crowds are singular of purpose whereas those in the Woodville Hotel as Claire and I stroll through late Sunday seem assembled for a variety of intentions.
The Terrace is new to the pub, and its roof, open. This affords the place far more exhilaration than it probably should. Feeling the sun upon your face in a pub is somehow elevated magic and any breeze drifting through a hotel courtyard becomes bewitching and rare.
By a Port Road window there’s a gathering, each woman with an adjacent and empty cocktail glass. A late afternoon malaise has drooped over these patrons. Maybe it was the cocktail they thought they wanted but didn’t actually need or possibly it’s the Sunday night dreads that haunt working folk like prodding ghouls.
A fellow with a prosthetic-leg scurries past and such is the fluency and speed of his gait that if he’d been wearing trousers, we wouldn’t know he’d an artificial limb. Science has done well here—now if we could hurry up with hoverboards.
All clad in basketball singlets, a team of young bucks saunters in from their Sunday fixture. I suspect the match is just a pretext to the post-game pub visit as it’s difficult to tell if they won or lost. I think this is a good approach. They’re all energy and young buzz. A few have moustaches and these have gone beyond irony and are now just fashion.
Earlier, a couple had come in, ordered drinks and wedges, and without difficulty, claimed a table close to the bar. They chat easily and constantly, ranging over topics both personal and global.
The woman detects a plastic sign on a neighbouring table. It says: $5 schnitzels. The man goes over, interrogates it and learns that on Tuesdays folks can dine on schnitzels with the second offered at the advertised price of $5. I can imagine Protagoras being excited by this.
Back up at the bar and in the proliferation of beer taps, the man notes both Coopers Vintage Ale and Sparkling Ale. On this drowsy afternoon he has no use for either but is reassured by their presence. It’s nice to know they’re available. This reminds him of Nick, the narrator of The Great Gatsby, who writes
My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
A second drink for the woman is a Frozen Key Lime Pie cocktail. The ingredients include a dehydrated lime wheel— surely not a DLW—which was formerly known to most as a slice of lime. Linguistic dishonesty continues apace, even in the pub.
The bowl of wedges arrives, and this is also exciting beyond comprehension. How on earth did sweet chilli sauce and sour cream come to be the preferred condiments for this? It must’ve been a party accident, likely in a share house of law/arts undergraduates.
And so, this couple—your correspondent and his wife Claire—drove home, pleasantly buoyed by a Socratic hour in the hitherto unvisited Woodville Hotel.
Not an ideal time to visit a bakery and expect the full range of offerings.
I ask, ‘Can I have a sausage roll?’
‘We’ve only got the cheese and bacon ones left.’
‘Yes, that’s fine thanks,’ I reply although it’s not my preference.
It’s Wednesday and I’m in Tanunda, at the highly recommended Apex Bakery, just off Murray Street and on the way to the town oval.
*
As a Kapunda Bomber I played in an Under 15’s football final against Tanunda. It was close all match. The full back had kicked out well, and late in the last quarter we got a rushed behind. As he prepared to kick the footy back in, I was on the mark just outside the goal square. There wasn’t much time left.
It was a fine late August morning and I put my arms up and to the surprise of everyone at Dutton Park the fullback miskicked it straight onto my chest! Still in shock I put the ball back over his dismayed head for the lead. Shaking his hand after the siren, I felt sorry for my Magpie opponent, but we’d won and advanced to the next week. We didn’t go top.
*
Taking my seat outside the Apex Bakery I slide out the lunch. It’s certainly had too long waiting quietly in the warmer. A lazy car eases past. My cheese and bacon sausage roll is sweaty, limp, and weary, like I imagine most of us would be! However, it’s the perfect size— not too big or small. Those with serious girth and length like an axe handle are making a feeble attempt to disguise the limited taste and aroma. I take a bite.
*
Growing up I had occasional Saturday nights at the Tanunda drive-in. I recall seeing—or not seeing— Wargames,Octopussy and Porky’s! But I also remember after it closed in the 80’s the site became the Barossa Junction, complete with railway carriages.
On Thursday nights there was free beer for a couple hours to entice people to the Junction disco. One summer evening a few of us went across from Kapunda in my mate’s old Alfa Romeo. We applied ourselves vigorously, but I don’t remember there being much dancing on those nights…
Before we knew it, the free beer nights were over.
*
My sausage roll was tasty with delicate smoky bacon flavours combined with gooey cheese. It had subtle filling but again it would’ve been best eaten around midday. I enjoyed it to a degree but knew it wasn’t at its best. It was probably like listening to a much-loved band’s new album but with only the left speaker working.
With memories of footy, drive-ins, and those fleeting free-beer nights swirling in my head, I head for Nuri, ready for a coffee with Mum and Dad.
I’ll return soon and try the sausage rolls again. We’re all entitled to redemption, especially underage Tanunda fullbacks.
It’s a bright day and there’s optimism everywhere; ideal to begin the summer of Test cricket. The city by Corio Bay’s vibrant and cheerful people stream up and down the waterfront. I’m dining with eight chaps, and we’re all connected by the communal and effervescent Footy Almanac. Today’s lunch is all about conversation: a delightful jumble of 1970’s SANFL, Gough, and the far-flung places we’ve lived from Darwin to Tassie to England.
*
I love cricket. I love going to Adelaide Oval and feeling its captivating pull as I cross the Torrens footbridge. I love watching it on TV—especially when Tim Lane’s commenting. But cricket on the car radio is a unique joy. Following the Geelong lunch, I’m driving back to Point Lonsdale, and I poke at the hire car’s screen and get Australia v India on. The first session’s underway, and I’m eight again. Through the speakers flows the crowd noise with its comforting hum, the whip crack of willow on leather, even the aural assurance of the hyperventilating commentators with their, ‘Starc in, bowls… Big noise! There’s a shout…’
It’s as summery as slamming screen doors, fish and chips by the beach, and those ticking nights when it’s still thick and pizza-oven hot at midnight.
*
We’re here as Claire’s the Auslan interpreter for the Queenscliff Music Festival (the Auslan). Murray Wiggle and Jeff Wiggle are doing a DJ set. Claire gets a backstage photo and chats with them. Her brother Geoff knows both and decades ago they were all in a band. In the big tent young troubadour Jack Botts is playing his wistful guitar pop, and Murray’s just in front of me with his shoulders like a rangy country footballer. I imagine him somewhere like Angaston pulling in a few casual grabs at centre-half forward. As he takes in the music, there’s a ceaseless trickle of fans and he’s kind to all, smiling for a selfie, offering each a few minutes. It’s lovely to see.
*
Saturday morning and I’m in Portarlington for their park run. It’s a quarter to eight and the air is dense and unmoving. Gathering by a tree on a gravel path we’re alongside Port Phillip Bay and just under a hundred of us set off. Ambling along, I peer through the close murk and see the Melbourne CBD, a silhouette of grey and black and imposing quiet. There are dual hills to finish the course, but these are gentler than I’d heard. Making my way back to Point Lonsdale I listen to 3RRR and drive through Indented Head and St. Leonards. Both are daggy—unpretentious and a little outdated—but hugely appealing.
*
Watching Claire perform at the festival is a joy given her distinctive skill and focus. It’s mesmerising and humbling for I understand not a single sign. She interprets for CW Stoneking, a Katherine native who adopts a Southern persona complete with Mississippi drawl. He plays hypnotic blues music that could be a century old. Backstage, Claire asked him to explain one of his lyrics, and he replied, ‘I don’t know what it means.’ Sometimes, on stage when speaking between songs, he slips briefly, almost imperceptibly, back into his Territorian accent.
*
Other mornings in Point Lonsdale I run along the beach or through town. The town oval hugs the bay, and an underage cricket match is underway. The pitch is Gabba grass. Most of the players are in whites but the batsman’s in jeans. Nostalgia pricks at me as I pass. I also run west past the lighthouse and down onto the endless beach. I don’t usually run on the sand, instead preferring an esplanade but this morning’s forced path’s a revelation. Rather than being by the beach, and a spectator to the surf, I’m a participant. The waves are closer, their roar is louder and the air’s muggier. I’m now converted to sand running, immersed rather than observing, and it feels enlivening—physically and spiritually. Vast cargo ships pull themselves sluggishly in and out of the bay.
*
Monday, we zig and zag across the peninsula through towns like Clifton Springs and Wallington. It seems to function like the Fleurieu: a relaxed retreat for the neighbouring city folk. We take our lunch at the Rolling Pin bakery in Ocean Grove. My pie is massive and collapses on my plate, so I collect a knife and fork. Claire’s baked good is more cooperative. A PE teacher tramps in, local primary school polo shirt on, a Cleveland Cavaliers lanyard dangling, and a silver ring of keys jingling in his pocket.
With immense kindness, you bought me a Coopers Glass.
While you were out, you drifted into an Op Shop and thought of me—a simple transaction yet one abundant with love. You bought this because as we sat outside, you knew I’d be able to pour a beer into it, and for me it would enrich that place.
And you know so well how I love place—especially, our veranda.
It’s a bid that arrived without complication or messy context and simply says, ‘I love you and hope this brings you joy.’ It’s a declaration of devotion and consideration. In a world often filled with loud gestures and grand expressions, its slender elegance and humility hold appeal.
With its fetching, silent curves, it doesn’t beg for attention. The glass is efficient but wants no boisterous recognition. Free of ostentation, there’re no unnecessary embellishments but it catches my eye with its allure, every time.
Quietly, it holds profound enchantment—a meaningful investment of thought and care.
Out back, on the table, with Neil Diamond as the heartening soundtrack, the fading light dances with the garden—a scene both painterly and idyllic. The dark will shortly rise from the lawn. It transcends, a poetic expression of intimacy.
The attendant mythology grew when he announced his molted skin was being kept in a bedside cup. For some days he’d been adding to his store of discarded epidermis. Happily, his flesh was less burnt than another friend who was hospitalised after a scorching, shirtless day at the cricket.
But one afternoon we returned to the Sydney apartment and from Brendan’s room there were shouts of horror. ‘No, no, no!’ Someone, likely Woodsy or Swanny, rushed to his aid. ‘We’ve been burgled,’ he cried, ‘Someone’s stolen my cup of skin.’
We’d all enjoyed many days together during cricket season at the Adelaide Oval so welcomed a Day/Night fixture against Sri Lanka. Earlier that day Claire and Trish arrived by train, and joined Chrisso, Woodsy, Swanny, Trev, Paul, Stephen, Brendan, and me. The girls had an epic adventure, and they’d already been to Ballarat, and Melbourne.
It’d be our collective SCG cricket debut. We won and the eternally salvaging AB made 79, while the eternally angry RM Hogg took 4/47. It was punishingly hot, and even our eyeballs sweated as we sat in front of the mammoth scoreboard on their Hill.
Like Sydney itself, it was fun and filmic in scale and more vivid than conservative Adelaide. Leaving, the Hill was a graveyard for countless, abandoned thongs. It seemed to be where all rubber footwear went to die. ‘Hey, you,’ smiled Claire and promptly whacked me on the leg with a thong. She was always doing stuff like that.
Back at the Gem, it was so humid the dew was draped on the roof and windows as if there’d been a monsoon. What a strange, sultry country Sydney was! It was also the era of Derek and Clive, so waiting for the traffic, Stephen, Trish, Claire, and I listened to those horrendously drunk British men known properly as Dudley Moore and Peter Cook.
…he come up with the name of ‘John Stitch’. He come up to me. He said, “I’m John Stitch and I, I do non-stop dancing.”
Trish laughed in that bright, instantly infectious way that always amplified the fun of the joke. We cackled as if we’d never previously heard a word of it. As is her way, Claire didn’t get why we were snorting and giggling so we’d take turns explaining. Often this was unsuccessful.
*
Specialising in jazz, The Basement is an iconic music venue, essential for anyone wanting to immerse themselves in Sydney’s culture. We went along one night, just to take it in. Vince Jones, Don Burrows, or Galapagos Duck weren’t playing, and while this was disappointing, it was something we did in our unquenchable desire to extract what we could from this alpha metropolis. I can’t remember the music but the distillation of memory remains: we saw live music at The Basement.
Later, crossing the Harbour Bridge, we climbed up inside a pylon to take in the panoramic sweep of the city. As we gazed down at the traffic and water, some (me) were fearful of heights, while others like Paul (assisted by being in the Air Force) and Brendan (assisted by being unfathomable) welcomed the flirtation with the deathly descent.
The Centrepoint Tower also afforded dizzying views and at the top I was a screen showing how many centimeters the tower swayed in the wind. I don’t recall the number, only my deep, unsettling fear. I didn’t like it.
Varied groups visited Luna Park, Taronga Zoo, the Moore Park Golf Club, Manly Beach, and Kings Cross where a burly bouncer asked us, ‘Is this your first time in the Cross?’ to which Woodsy replied with nodding honesty, ‘Yes!’
Then, in The Rocks, we stumbled upon a Rolls Royce, its blue elegance gleaming like a jewel. The licence plate declared a single word: Kamahl. It seemed an odd name for a car, but we later realised this referred to its singing owner! We stood by it, all thin limbs and emergent irony. His music meant nothing to us, but he was famous, and this regal car added a sparkle to our kaleidoscopic view of the city.
*
Beach culture was inescapable in Sydney. Courtesy of the 2Day FM radio surf updates and Stephen’s knowledge — as an air traffic controller he’d lived there a while — Curl Curl Beach presented itself to us as a (satirical) pilgrimage. Open to all things local, we ventured there simply because we could. A couple of carloads headed, en convoy, over the Bridge, through the leafy streets of Mossman and past painterly Manly.
We didn’t even swim at Curl Curl — something about the waves didn’t look overly inviting and we carried fresh scars from Bondi — but did pose for a photo by the modest brown sign. Chrisso snapped it, and while Paul and Brendan lingered to the side, it captured us at that exact instant: young and fresh-faced and with our categorically eighties hair.
In the photo a tanker drags itself across the horizon while below us in the carpark is the now retro cool of an EJ Holden. It has roof racks so likely is anticipating the return of its surfer-owner. Claire and I are the bookends. Huddled close together are Stephen, Swanny, Woodsy, Trish, and Trev, their faces now fuzzy, washed in the soft, faded colours of the photo. It projects a wistful affection, a feeling that belongs to the past, even as it unfolds.
Gleefully oblivious, we were on the edge of things — not just a shallow cliff at Curl Curl.
We were untouched by the weight of the world, and unburdened. A modern view might be that we were merely living in the moment. We were about to plunge into adulthood, but that morning, standing above the beach, responsibility was as distant as Vladivostok.
A twentysomething birthday gift from Claire and Trish, a block-mounted copy of this photo now sits on my desk. It reminds me quietly of my privileged youth and favourite people. I don’t have a witty or poignant story about that visit to North Curl Curl and I’m perfectly content with that. What does it mean to look back and know that we were unaware of how precious those days would become?
What matters is the warmth of attachment and love that stays, how this now blurry image, taken decades ago on an East Coast beach, has come to embody our teenage years — our abundant fortune, and the deep connection we shared in Kapunda.
This summer, I’ll look at the photo again, and, outrageously and sadly, it will be forty years since our Sydney trip. Time moves like that — faster than we ever expect. One day soon, I’ll go for a drive, pick up Trev, and put on Midnight Oil.
After lunch, he might announce, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’
Chrisso- ridiculously smart, dry of wit Woodsy- upbeat, an enthusiast Trev- funny, beyond naughty Swanny- convivial, night-owl Paul- plain speaker, machine-gun laugh Stephen- our host, gentle Brendan- enigmatic, fatigued by the stupidity of others Trish- quick to laugh, dramatic Claire- cute but required explanations for most jokes The Gem- Stephen’s bright green Holden Gemini Your correspondent- always first asleep, silly.
*
The girl pointed at Chrisso but spoke to all four of us.
‘Are youse from England?’ We’d done a 900k day and here we were in West Wylong (pop – 2,500 odd) and some girls thought we were British. She was barefoot and continued. ‘Youse have got an accent.’ Someone, probably Trev said, ‘No, we’re from South Australia. Kapunda.’ He may have then added, ‘Where they have hot cars.’
We were a long way from home and here was an indicator of how wide the world was.
Idle chat with locals done, we decamped to our onsite caravan. I doubt there was a TV, radio, or home cinema. So, in that time-honoured way we inhaled pizza — likely ham and pineapple; mercifully eggplant hadn’t been invented — and the national beer which is now rarer than rocking-horse droppings; Foster’s Lager. I’m trusting it was from the Royal Hotel on Main Street (true; look it up).
We sat at the tiny table, and I’m quite sure, said things silly and then things sillier. This was best illustrated by Woodsy saying to me, ‘Your face is red,’ and catching his reflection in a mirror, then asking, ‘Aren’t I?’
Aside from the Foster’s Lager, on the trek to Sydney there was only one injury. As he slept in the back, Woodsy had a bad dream (doubtless being naked in a public place), threw out his leg, and cut his toe on the driver’s seat assembly. Ouch.
The next morning, we went through Bathurst, and all took turns driving the famous circuit. Speaking of hot cars from Kapunda, we were in Woodsy’s Datsun 180B. Bathurst was far steeper than imagined — TV tends to flatten these things — and as we whizzed along Conrod Straight at 140k, the little Japanese vehicle must’ve sounded like an oversized, determined mosquito.
*
The following tradition began, I think, in Katoomba.
We called into Macca’s, had lunch (two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles…), and leaping up from our red chairs, were keen to finish that final leg, and motor to Stephen’s. We were Sydney bound!
I pushed open the door when Trev announced suddenly, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae.’ And so he did. We watched him eat it. Every deliberate mouthful. Some would say Trev ate it with a Zen approach. Some would say it was excruciating. It was a scene from a future Tarantino movie where characters chat in pop culture but strangely menacing ways before most are messily dispatched.
Regardless, once Trev eventually finished, the little plastic container could’ve been immediately and hygienically reused. Not a speck of sundae remained. Across the trip and indeed, the years, when we were halfway back to the car after a meal, we’d often hear Trev declare, ‘I’ll just get a nut sundae!’
Having passed the medical following his toe injury, Woodsy was ruled fit to drive. Back behind the wheel and with Sydney tantalisingly close, he chirped, ‘Let’s get there!’ and out into the honking traffic lurched the little Datsun. From the rear Chrisso murmured, in that distinctive Chrisso way, ‘Yeah, let’s get there.’
*
As a Kapunda kid, Bondi was among the most thrilling places I’d been.
The boisterous, teeming crowds on that striking, sandy crescent! With my saltwater swimming mostly restricted to gentle Glenelg and Horseshoe Bay, the Pacific was intimidating. The surf was enormous with towering waves rolling in and dumping us, metronomically. We bodysurfed and it was exhilarating but we were all dragged into a brutal rip.
Late afternoon with the marching breakers crashing on our heads, Trev and I tried to stand there and ignore the swell, mock-heroically. Amusing ourselves tremendously, we had the most mundane conversation as the azure walls collapsed onto us.
‘Yeah, I reckon Weetbix is the best breakfast cereal,’ I said, just as a massive wave nearly swept us off our feet.
‘Don’t forget CoCo Pops®,’ Trev added, as another tonne of blue-green water dumped onto us.
‘Cornflakes are overrated,’ I evaluated, fighting for balance.
*
It was also the summer of Midnight Oil.
They were everywhere and our unofficial soundtrack to Sydney. One of their early songs, ‘Section 5 (Bus to Bondi)’ became an anthem for us. In the carpark overlooking Bondi Beach we all heaved ourselves at Stephen’s silent, rolling car — known with great affection as the Gem; short for Gemini — in a theatrical, utterly unnecessary attempt to jump the engine into ‘life.’ Onlookers gawked as we performed our dramatic tribute, the song blasting from the open windows
Push start that car tomorrow I’ll take it to the tip yard We’ll leave it as a metal wreck For cats to sleep Then I’ll catch the bus to Bondi Swim the beach and wonder Who can wear the fashion when The place is oh so hot
It felt like a scene from an arthouse film — but possibly not. Back then, we excelled at amusing ourselves.
*
Stephen lived in a high-rise apartment in the inner suburb of Drummoyne.
He’d been joined by our somewhat mysterious friend, Brendan, who’d abandoned his law degree and moved to the Harbour City. During our stay Brendan introduced us to British post-punk band, The The and such is this legacy that Swanny and I are seeing them later this month.
Like Hugh Hefner or The Dude, he seemed incessantly attired in his dressing gown, and with his nocturnal leanings, translucent face, and Morrissey-like melancholy, Brendan was more Manchester than Manly Beach. He was the most cynical person I’d met. He was already fatigued and world-weary. He was twenty.
Meanwhile, we grew a green mountain of empty beer cans in Stephen’s lounge room. It was an especially adolescent achievement, and the ring pulls from the cans were strung into lengthy chains and festooned about the flat like bogan Christmas tinsel. I guess they were. These were christened by Swanny, I think, as ‘Ring Mans.’
*
Sydney was an exciting but principally alien city. Unlike Adelaide, it was lush and brazen, seductive and dangerous. There was water everywhere. The Western Distributor — a bold, elevated boulevard — led us in and out of the city, curving dramatically above the buildings below.
On a sharp bend in Darling Harbour, a huge advertising billboard swam into cinematic view. And every time it demanded a theatrical response. It warned us with a menacing image straight from the film, Arachnophobia, of the threat we needed to take with extreme seriousness: Funnel web spiders! This was worrying. Home, we had friendly huntsmen. Our routine soon became that when the large, hairy arthropod came into startling sight — all beady, black eyes and dripping fangs — we’d shriek in chorus, led, of course, by Trev!
EEEEEEKKKKK! FUNNIES!
Paul and Swanny drove from Kapunda in Paul’s VK Brock Commodore. When they arrived, we were out, so with no mobile phones — those only existed on The Jetsons — they exercised their only option: wait in the grounds of the apartment block. With a slab of VB but no ice. They braved the beer. Back then simmering lager held no fears.
Now, there were six of us crammed into Stephen’s compact lounge room. We flopped about, foul boys in our now-illegal adidas shorts which revealed many things about us and none of them were healthy. The trapped odour must’ve been monstrous with lager, pizza, humidity, and ripe adolescence. Belated thanks, dear Stephen for your tolerance.
But, gee, it was fun.
Among the many delights was playing cricket in the hot and plush surrounds at Drummoyne Oval. Bare-footed and juggling beers, we batted and bowled and laughed, surrounded by all that sky and all that cobalt water. The details of the cricket don’t matter, but I recall the white picket fence, our lazy bliss, and VB in naval quantities.
It was another golden moment, and these stretched across that endless summer.
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