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.
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.”
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.’
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
mickeytales 