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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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Mystery Pub: Corner Booth Reflections at The Elephant

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Friday afternoon and we’re strolling through the heart of the city ­­— on the edge of the weekend, the edge of gentle possibility, and the edge of restoration.

Claire and I pass the infinitely charismatic Malls Balls and enter Rundle Street before making a sharp left at, but not into, the Exeter.

Claiming a corner booth, I glance outside and consider the Elephant is that rarest of boozers — it’s not on a street but a pedestrian lane. In contrast to my previous visit in July of 1997, it’s now bright and airy as opposed to somber and gloomy, presumably in former imitation of a Tottenham tavern.

That was just prior to the Ashes when Mark Taylor and his team thrashed England, again. Back then a group of Kapunda chaps engaged in a Wednesday ritual called Schnitzel Club during which we visited over one hundred and fifty pubs.

At that point, the England cricket team was sponsored by Tetley’s Bitter Beer and as a British boozer, the Elephant had it on tap. To heighten the pre-Ashes anticipation, we ordered one each.

How was it?

It was tepid like Tibooburra tap water and stank (tasted is too generous a verb) of late-capitalism collapse, murky Yorkshire moors and Thatcherite despair. It remains the worst beverage I’ve ever put in my (chiefly) undeserving gob.

Tonight, gladly, I’ve the immeasurably superior Coopers Pale Ale and my imperial pint is only $9. Claire has a white wine. We discuss the usual suspects — work, family and how Escape to the Country might later unfold (with the scarcely disguised disappointment of the house hunters, the host, or most likely, both).

There’s a lively (non-suit) crowd in and the atmosphere’s propulsive. A DJ is on the decks and doing a fine job. He plays an underappreciated track by The Beatles in ‘The Night Before’ before spinning Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again’ with its decidedly cinematic opening and Arabesque atmospherics

In the mornin’ you go gunnin’ for the man who stole your water

And you fire till he is done in, but they catch you at the border

Fireball Fridays have arrived, so Claire buys one (it may have been a double, Your Honour) with a squelch of ginger beer. It’s whisky with hot, spicy cinnamon and accordingly, the late afternoon sun bends in through the ample windows. It’s an immediate hit.

Our Mystery Pub fare (ye olde fayre) is sausage rolls with fennel, and arancini balls. The plates come with three items, so having had one of each we agree to divide the remainder. Claire says, ‘Which one would you like?’ and I reply, ‘I think you know.’

And she does.

Concluding our second cups, we press out into the sparkling evening. Our weekend’s underway.

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Meet Me at the Malls Balls: Life and Phones

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We talk about it every now and then. How, before mobile phones we’d make an arrangement with somebody and just have to stick to it.

‘Meet me at the Malls Balls at noon.’

Done.

‘See you tonight at the pub.’

Sorted.

Technology now allows us to break these agreements. Some might say mobile phones encourage rudeness. Or maybe they’ve made us more responsive to life’s twitchy demands. Is constant communication healthy? The social landscape has shifted.

*

‘I’ll meet you at the finish line,’ I said to Claire.

‘About 9,’ she confirmed.

It was the morning of the City Bay Fun Run. Same as the year before, we’d a plan. Claire would be easy to spot in her pink jacket. I also liked to think that there’d be some mysterious, undeniable connection, a marital telepathy that would bring us together, despite the swarm of 25,000 runners and their innumerable hangers-on.

Exhausted, ruddy of cheek, and hands on hips, I was funnelled along Colley Terrace, peering about, trying to spot the pink jacket.

Where was she? Maybe over by the roundabout. No, she wasn’t.

Continuing to the race village in Wigley Reserve, I hunted among the marquees and food trucks and bibbed joggers. No luck. Back to the finish line. Same. No pink jacket.

What to do? That’s it! I’d borrow a stranger’s phone to ring Claire.

5AA had a MC at the music stage, and away he honked. He was pleased with himself and pleased with his voice. ‘Well done to all the participants. It’s been a great morning. Up soon we’ve got the Flaming Sambuccas who are going to play for you…’

I wondered if he might help me, but he barely drew breath, so I walked off.

A safety of blue-uniformed police officers (nice collective noun) stood at a display, chatting among themselves. Approaching an officer I said, ‘Hello there. Hoping you can help me…’

Now, we don’t usually need to remember phone numbers. Who knows anybody’s number, beyond their own? It’s a redundant skill. How would I call her?

On the friendly officer’s phone, I pressed the buttons. How had I memorised the number?

Claire’s the holder of the Dan Murphy’s membership and if I pop in late Saturday morning (as I sometimes like to do) the cashier will say, ‘Do you have a membership?’ to which I reply, ‘Yes, I do’ and then I recite Claire’s phone number.

I’ve now heard myself say this dozens of times; just like my Grade 5 class learnt by heart, ‘Mulga Bill’s Bicycle.’ There’s an everyday intimacy in it and it’s a little prayer. And what better place for this oration than Dan’s?

Shortly after, heading towards me I saw a pink jacket.

*

Later Sunday I was at Adelaide Oval, while Claire attended day two of a conference at the convention centre on North Terrace.

The Tigers and Dogs were in a close one and I moved restlessly around the ground trying inanely to escape the foghorn chant. ‘U Dogs! U Dogs!’

Just after half time Claire called to say that her phone was about to die. What to do? We’d planned to head home together. Ordinarily, we’d sort this much later.

So, again we made an arrangement. Two hours before hand! Then followed two hours during which we had no contact! I watched the footy and Claire did conference things at the conference.

It seemed pioneering and almost dangerous. But there we were in this psychological uncertainty, both adrift, both untethered. Miraculously, we just went about our afternoons. It was thrilling and magical.

We’d decided on a time and place to meet and after a gap of a few hours, we were going to have to honour it. Just like it was 1987 and we were meeting at the Malls Balls before going to Brashs to buy an Uncanny X-Men CD.

Leaving the footy a few minutes early, with Glenelg off to the grand final, I made my way over the sunlit footbridge, up through the majestic railway station, across North Terrace and into the Strathmore Hotel.

Just as planned, Claire was there. Sitting on a stool, smiling, with an espresso martini in hand.

2

The Last Moments of the 2024 Grand Final

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Norwood swarms forward, and with a brutal bump at half-back flashy nugget Mitch O’Neill flattens Dr. Chris Curran. It’s ferocious but ill-disciplined and the umpire’s whistle arrests this menacing surge. For long, agonised seconds the gentlemanly Tiger is on the ground before he enacts the biblical instruction, ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ rises and takes his deserved free kick. In the Sir Edwin Smith Stand, we exhale.

*

Hunter Window streams around the eastern flank adjacent to the scoreboard and kicks, somewhat optimistically, for goal. Begging the ball to go through and confirm our seventh flag, we hold our breath. Glory sours to deflation as it sails mockingly across the goal front and out on the full. Despair! Norwood claims the ball and relaunches down the western wing. We again swing psychologically from the elated promise of attack to the gloomy duty of defense.

*

Reigning Jack Oatey Medalist, Lachie Hosie, had no first-half possessions, but we all knew this would change, likely in spectacular style. It did. Imposing himself late, he slots two goals and then with an athletic leap at the point of the pack, he grabs a rousing mark. It lifts the Tiger faithful. The final score of the season is this kick for goal but it wobbles off the woodwork! Is there a more theatrical moment in footy than the Sherrin crashing into the goal post? The narrative effects are multiple. The scoring side claims what could be a telling single point addition, but the ball is given to the opposition, who steal it forwards like surprised thieves. Minor reward is replaced by the torment of major risk.

*

There’s a menacing wave of red and blue as Norwood again flows through the centre square. Baynen Lowe launches the ball long and high. Like an American football kick, it achieves good hang time beneath the Riverbank Stand and both teams run on to it. We’re now inside the final minute and the execution of his disposal seems more prayerful than geographic precision. We need someone to scramble back and intercept this indiscriminate bomb. We’re five points up. And in what could be the concluding gesture of his 191-game career, Max Proud materialises miraculously by the goal square to rescue us yet again. With superior anticipation, he minsters customary relief. Norwood is thwarted.

*

Time stretches cruelly, advancing at a glacial pace. The ball’s on the members wing. A desperate Redleg kick—but Will Chandler smothers it! There’s an appreciative roar for this startling defensive action during which the ball is arrested before it commences its trajectory. On all fours, Chandler leaps up and across at the kick and there’s a near-catastrophic but selfless beauty in his diving at a violently swinging boot. In that brief space and moment, danger and grace co-exist but only one can prevail. It’s grace.

The siren sounds.

photos courtesy of the author and screenshots from Channel 7

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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
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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.

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Mystery Pub: The Hotel Royal

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She was one in a million
So there’s five more just in New South Wales

This is from the song, ‘Up Against the Wall’ by The Whitlams and stick with me as I connect it arithmetically, if not desperately, to The Hotel Royal in the Adelaide suburb of Torrensville. On Henley Beach Road, of all places.  

So, nationwide, how many Royal Hotels are there?

As Deane Hutton used to say on The Curiosity Show, ‘I’m glad you asked’ and I can tell you in Australia there’s roughly 240. In the 19th century even Bendigo had four such pubs: Royal Duke, the Royal George, The Royal and the Royal Mail which made bewildering the generalised if earnest invitation, ‘Let’s meet at the Royal.’ Especially if all communication was by telegram.

On this 26-degree winter’s afternoon (weather both welcome and existentially troubling) Claire and I navigate through this renovated pub to the Back Pocket sports bar. The roof’s open, there’s chirpy folk about, and a girl’s strumming a guitar and applying herself to some Friday tunes.

Having secured our corner table, I set off bravely to buy booze and returned in minor triumph with a Sauvignon Blanc (never to be described on this website as Savvy B. Oops, failed.) and one of my preferred occasion beers, a Stone and Wood Pacific Ale. However, while at the bar I had this conversation.

Me: I’m unsure what beer to buy.

Barkeep: Hahn Super Dry is only $9.

Me: It’d still be over-priced if it was a dollar.

Barkeep: Oh.

Pleasingly, our chosen drinks were comforting if unspectacular. Festooned across the walls on the TV screens, Fox Footy talking heads ‘provided’ pre-game ‘content.’ Mercifully, the sound was on mute.

On the ceiling were some electrical appliances which rank highly for me. Yes, I know, the accurately and funnily named, Big Ass Fans. While these were still, it was of considerable comfort to see them sitting above us with quiet majesty. Next time you’re at the Adelaide Oval (or in The Hotel Royal) check them out for these are truly Big Ass Fans.

With, ‘I was tired of my lady’ the singer then played ‘Escape (The Pina Colada Song)’ which despite its depiction of a largely grim marital situation, I always find amusing. I do enjoy some aural pub nostalgia, and this ranks highly on my list of 1970’s one-hit wonders.

I’m not much into health food and I’m not into champagne so it was timely that our plate of wedges then appeared. Like that first opening of your motel room door, the delightful arrival of food’s one of hospitality’s petite joys.

I tried to order the wedges (Wedges? We don’t need no stinkin’ wedges!) using a QR code but our table number wasn’t included so I had to walk upwards of seven metres to the inside bar and place the order by actually speaking to the barkeep. I thought of sending a telegram but this wasn’t on the app. No-one was harmed and you’ll be relieved to learn, I did recover. Can’t life in 2024 be tricky?

They were, I’m thrilled to report, most succulent spud segments.

The bacchanalia continued with Claire then buying me a second beer and an espresso martini for her kindly self. Our corner table now resembled Caligula’s palace on a most raucous Thursday (well, not entirely). What an hour we were having!

With that twilight moment arriving when the afternoon folk depart and the dinner crowd’s still in transit, we took our leave. Mystery Pub was done for August.

We had things to do, and in front of Escape to the Country with its reception rooms and chickens and ruddy-cheeked village lifestyle, I was scheduled to take my obligatory Friday nap.

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.  

0

You and I Colour in the Hours

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The beach, our beach, lies serenely under the mild weather and is sparsely populated.

Awaking early, you urge me to accompany you. We’d not been for months. Trackies and coats, and off we went. Coffee would wait and welcome us back home, warmly.

Three D radio plays in the car and you ask about Classic FM. I reply that it’s most needed for the monotony of workday commutes.

Stormy weather’s dumped seaweed along the sand, and you wonder if this is the culprit of your recent mystery (leg) bites. Shortly after, I feel a scratch at my ankle but it’s a false alarm or a sympathy sting. We survive.

There’s a urine odour coming from the rocks by the ramp. Its stink is still there upon our return. We speculate about its origin: canine or (yuk) human?

We see a woman named Sara and her dog, part poodle, part Golden Retriever. In its mouth is a tennis ball and not a nugget of gold (disappointing as they promise to retrieve gold).

I’m pleased to have started this day by surveying our beach. It’s a treat.

*

I love how a Sunday can unfurl with only minor obligations and the buoyant opportunity during which you and I colour in the hours.

There’s such domestic intimacy in the gentle rituals of coffee, oats, and toast (these last two a half-rhyme). Sharing breakfast with you is rich with subtext because of the closeness of dawn. I’m newly grateful that this is part of our morning.

Our chat topics meander from Greece to the day’s chores including brasso and handles and watch bands (only briefly considered for ‘My Favourite Things’) to the Meg Ryan airport film we watched last night and the various personal connections we unearthed.

There’s mostly affirmation and encouragement of each other. It’s a healthy and kind exchange as befits a weekend day before lunch.  

*

With ladder and baskets and Mum’s good scissors (similarly rejected by Julie Andrews) we tramp next door to Mrs. Hambour’s as requested by her son, Nick. You climb the ladder, and I steady you during your ascent. This, too, is a privilege for which I’m pleased. You flick open the latch and in we go.

It’s still and quiet.

Beneath the lemon tree, I pluck off some sizable specimens while you snip some camelias. It’s joyous foraging and a perfect way to invest some languid moments. The simple rhythm of our dual labours is meditative.  

The tree has presented with a substantial crop, and I remark that we should return in a few weeks. You make the kind comment that the camelias would be nice for Mum’s birthday, but I suggest by then they could be finished. I note how like so much of what you offer others, there’s endless generosity in the promotion of happiness.

I also contemplate my blessing in finding you here with me on this calm and tender morning. It’s miraculous and soaring evidence of how wonderous our little planet can be.

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The Pink Pig: You Take a Piece of Meat with You

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Meanwhile, we hear a song from acclaimed Vegas lounge act, Midnight Oil.

With twinkling ivories and a Sinatra swing, it’s a jazzy version of ‘Blue Sky Mine.’ But this searing satire and call for social justice is somehow oddly appropriate in a wine bar as an accompaniment to our Friday evening entertainment.

How exactly? I’m unsure.

Welcome to The Pink Pig on O’Connell Street in North Adelaide. It’s both mythic and material, and timeless but everlastingly preserved in 1986. Glimpsing myself in a mirror, I’m surprised to not see a boxy Ferris Bueller shirt and skinny leather tie upon my chassis.

Opened in 1973, it enjoys unparalleled affection. It’s comforted us all across the long decades, even Claire and me who’d between us have only visited once prior to tonight. One could argue that if it didn’t exist, it’d be necessary to invent it, or at least apply for the liquor licence. Nobody who draws breath can dislike The Pink Pig.

We take our (reserved) seats overlooking the street. There’s a small, round window and it’s like being in a submarine. ‘So, tell me about the times you’ve been here,’ I ask Claire, certain to evoke a rich response. Then, not for the first time, my wife surprises me by saying, ‘I don’t reckon I’ve ever been here.’ That’s our mission at Mystery Pub Inc: to right individual wrongs, or at least conspicuous hospitality omissions.

The tap beer is a house XPA. I say to mine host, ‘I’ll have one of these, thanks. Can I ask where it’s from?’ and am confident this is a courteous question, even at 5.15pm on a winter afternoon. Barkeep pauses dangerously, eyebrows narrowing, and this gives our exchange some minor Goodfellas menace. With vague caution he replies, ‘A craft brewer up north.’ Mmm. Up north, I wonder. However, I leave it alone as I don’t wish to get wacked. Especially on a Friday.

Without additional mobster subtext, I get Claire a sauvignon blanc.

Back by the window in our burnt-orange submarine the casino tunes continue with a hep-cat cover of Paul Young’s 1985 hit, ‘Every Time You Go Away.’ As the chorus begins, I giggle (internally). I know what’s coming.

Every time you go away

You take a piece of me with you

Of course, the celebrated mondegreen (misheard lyric) is

Every time you go away

You take a piece of meat with you

And this will always be funny.

Out the back there’s sporting memorabilia including framed photos of (the nephew of dear friend) Port Power icon Justin Westhoff, Arsenal FC, and a sweaty box (surely an acceptable collective noun) of Australian cricket teams.

The Pink Pig must’ve been compulsory for visiting Test sides and I imagine Beefy Botham, I.V.A. Richards, and Bob Willis among its enthusiastic patrons. Well beyond any modern curfew, Ian Chappell would’ve quarreled with each of them here over pork and pilsner.

As is now customary, Claire procures a cocktail (strawberry daiquiri) and having enjoyed the first, I opt for a second XPA. These, too, are satisfactory.

We need nourishment and could get an entire pig on a spit (with potatoes, seasonal vegetables, salads and sauces) for $1200 but don’t as we’re 28 short of the suggested dining party of thirty persons.

Claire and I chat further about the pig on a spit, but I can imagine the barkeep saying, perhaps in a sinister way, that in selecting this option we’d likely need to, ‘take a (terribly substantial) piece of meat with you.’

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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.

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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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Mystery Pub: Fat Cat Goes to Bed

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In April a spoken sentence by Claire included this clause, ‘and to make Mystery Pub a real celebration we should have hot chips.’ Thinking this a most appealing idea I nodded, then likely added, ‘I love me a chip’ and with this the matter was immediately and forever decided.

But sometimes, despite the early enthusiasms of all participants, some traditions splutter and stall. Our monthly hot chip ritual ended with its streak at one. Perhaps it was rash and reckless. And then this happened…

The Royal Oak on North Adelaide’s O’Connell Street does a tidy line in share plates. Enhancing the mandatory mystery but forsaking chips, Claire clandestinely ordered a serve of honey-roasted carrots and lamb sausage rolls. Both were minor key triumphs although about the carrots there was a faint suggestion of hot carnival doughnuts. Chips were now dead.

Beyond the CBD, North Adelaide’s our finest suburb for pubs, with The Kentish, Queen’s Head, and The Wellington all at Group 1 level. The Royal Oak holds its own as a confident, independent pub.

Inside, it’s the aesthetic inverse of all those cavernous and charisma-free supermarket pubs. The interior functions as a contemporary art gallery, and we could be in one of MONA’s G-rated colonnades (there aren’t many). In the dining room various constructed lobster hang off the walls, in an intriguing tangling of text and context. Their meaning is that they are devoid of any meaning, but this renders them intriguing.

TV screens often reflect a pub’s heart. Boozers with monitors crowding every wall, multiple Medusas tempting with horseracing odds and assorted sports inducements. However, the Royal Oak’s home to old B&W television sets. In a dark nook, one has silent static racing across the curved glass. High in the front bar another shows a test pattern. Had we lingered until 7pm we could’ve seen Jane Riley and (forever mute) Fat Cat urging us to bed with a mellow, ‘Good night, girls and boys.’

An additional consideration is the pub soundtrack and tonight, we have the blues. Professor Longhair. Dr. John. A highlight is, ‘Let the Good Times Roll’ by Louis Jordon as featured (ironically) in The Blues Brothers. This swampy music triggers conversation about Claire’s four musician brothers (Don, Geoff, Brian, and Matt) and their bands such as The Sensational Bodgies, The Tremolo Men, and Lost Romaldo Groove.

A blackboard’s advertising upcoming musical acts and there’s a modest stage by another fireplace. An awkward tuba, confident trumpet, and other brass instruments jut from the walls as a commemorative tableau to performers both local and distant. Fairy lights are festooned on wagon wheels and across doorways.

A young bar staffer lowers a log into the glowing fireplace. There’s an easing, murmuring momentum in the bar. Maybe this unhurriedness suits the solstice with today being the true beginning of winter (for those of us who value science and enlightened thinking).

Our second and concluding drink comes courtesy of table service (in a pub, I know!) with a green cocktail named for the Mississippi (it’s New Orleans night in here) for Claire, and a Pale Ale for me. I’ve eschewed the craft beer offerings for the metronomic safety of a Coopers. But then for my wife, the cocktail aficionado’s dilemma: drink as is and preserve the pretty appearance or stir and ruin the visual art but agitate the beverage to achieve its intended palate?

The Royal Oak’s an exquisite environment in which to devote a Friday hour. I’m most pleased we did.