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.
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.
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.
In a Dickensian fog I creep along the rocky road out of the Kookaburra Creek Retreat. I’m accompanied by a pair of roos bounding along the fence line. My headlights cut through the mist, even though it’s nine in the morning. It’s fifteen minutes into Melrose.
Mount Remarkable hangs over the tiny township, and is monolithic, majestic, defiant. It’s why we and the settlement are here. There’s watery sun and a cathedral of wintry blue sky. I’m here to run around the hamlet.
In the gums guarding the school the air’s alive with shrieking cockatoos. Suddenly, some fly off, zooming and swooping in formation, white smudges on the azure atmosphere.
A teacher strolls by, his satchel swinging with Friday jauntiness. He could be the principal. We offer each other a chirpy, ‘Morning.’
Outside the Over the Edge bike café stands a hoop of cyclists, drink bottles in hand, guts curving their black lycra. They’re in discussion.
On the Mount Remarkable pub veranda, a blackboard declares the brisket burger and chips are a special for Fat Tyre Festival visitors ($24). Seems a decent deal but I reckon we’re fully booked.
The streets of Melrose are broad and serene, and I have them to myself save for a nodding tradie in Jaffa orange. Heading south, Jacka Brothers Brewery swims into impressive view, a four-story basilica of historic brick. We’re pencilled in for Claire’s birthday on Sunday. She loves her breweries as much as I love a knitting museum.
Completing a circuit, I’m back on Horrocks Highway and peek in a bric-à-brac shop named Joe’s Corner. In the front window sits a Little Golden Book about Taylor Swift.
Ambling along, the North Star pub hoardings proclaim that it opened in the mid-1850s. Facing the mountain there’s a modern deck with gas heaters. Later today, we might find ourselves beneath the blue flames.
Every where’s dangerously dry and it’s utterly still as late autumn here can be. All is glorious and enlivening. Back at the car I’m puffing but eager to climb Mount Remarkable this afternoon. There’s much psychological benefit in being proximate to massive things for they bring wholesome perspective and dissolve some of your worries – at least momentarily.
Port Augusta parkrun
Another foggy dawn in the Southern Flinders Ranges and edging onto the highway I pass a whizzing line of cyclists, their lights piercing the snow-white air. I continue through Wilmington and then Horrocks Pass with its bitumen snaking beneath the rocky cliffs.
On the other side of the range the blue-brown earth slopes down to the sea. The sun is now up, with massive wind turbines and the landscape reminding me of Mykonos, all dusty and baked. I descend to Highway 1, a road I know well from my decade on the West Coast.
Fumbling in the predawn dark of Judith’s Hut (our accommodation) I forgot my pre-parkrun banana, so I get one from the Port Augusta Woolworths and pay the 74 cents on our credit card.
During briefing it’s glacial with the temperature frozen at 3.8 degrees but I later learn it felt like zero by the Joy Baluch Bridge (one of the Iron Triangle’s plainest speakers). All of today’s parkrun volunteers are female, but none cuss like Joy.
At 8am sixty-one parkrunners begin shuffling south alongside the gulf past Wharflands Plaza, the silent mangroves and rail yards. It’s pancake flat and calm and perfect for running. The landscape is an arresting hybrid of desert and the post-industrial with indeterminate sheds and mangled iron alongside the quiet sea.
The Yacht Club appears on its fetching point and then I spot the Men’s Shed and wondering about plural and singular nouns ask myself: what if there’s only one bloke? Does it regress numerically and socially to being a Man Cave?
As I’m still shaking COVID, I splutter and stagger on the return leg, towards the end.
Crossing the line in thirteenth spot, my hands remain icy. I chat with the chap who came twelfth. He’s also staying in Melrose and camping with mates who’re in town for the Fat Tyre Festival. He doesn’t ride so is just aboard for the giggles.
I drive to a café in town, for a medicinal cappuccino. I fear I may lose my fingers.
The Southern Flinders Rail Trail
I run part of this on the King’s Birthday Monday. Today’s my 408th consecutive day of running. No, thanks Chuck.
Just north of Goyder’s Line, the trail hugs the highway and has scrub to the west. I see nobody, not even a curious kangaroo. Jogging along I dwell on our weekend and am grateful for the mix of exploring and relaxing at our accommodation.
During the early afternoons we’ve read and then sat near the firepit underneath the heaven’s dark blanket, and her peppery stars. A mile from the main road, sometimes the thunder of trucks has rumbled into the surrounding hills.
We’ll be home just after lunch, and I’m keen to go to the Glenelg game against (the cock of the) North.
Farewelling our car at the North Star pub, we march off past the tennis courts and dissect the caravan park with all those swarming bikes.
Claire and I confess later to each other that we both instantly and secretly anticipated our return in several hours and couldn’t wait to plonk ourselves down in the pub. Is this wrong, we asked ourselves? No, we agree, it is not.
The sign at the trail head suggests four hours return for the 13.5k, ascending on the North trail and descending along the South. With some experience in traipsing about, we declare brazenly that we’ll be back in three. Fonzie couldn’t say it, but we can: we were wrong, and the official hiking information was correctamundo.
Trudging off with a vague sense of excitement but also looming doom, our hike quickly became demanding with wide sweeps of scree falls and narrow paths from which a tumble would send one cartwheeling down the slope a hundred feet. That’d be a messy opening to our weekend.
However, we enjoy views over the neat town and east to dehydrated Booleroo Centre (no Word, not Bolero).
After an hour, Claire proposes a mandarin stop to rejuvenate us. We later have a lollipop intermission and to the dismay of my wife mine’s gone in less than a minute. I nibble at lollipops like a rabbit.
As we see yet another long stretch of path ahead, dispiriting moments occur. These weren’t helped by signposts marking the distance to go with my inner voice – or maybe it was my spoken one – saying things like, ‘How the actual fuck can it still be three kilometers to the top?’ Tantrums were close, I think.
We arrive at the summit. We rest a moment and take photos, wanting evidence of this for any legal action.
There’s a sturdy historical monument. It notes that Edward John Eyre announced, ‘I name this Mount Remarkable’ to which I’m confident his colleague replied, ‘Mate, I’m guessing you’ve not been to the Himalayas? El Capitan in Yosemite? Or as American band Toto will sing in a century or so, Kilimanjaro (which) rises like Olympus above the Serengeti?’ Still, good on you, EJE.
Beginning our descent of 7.5 kilometres at 3.45pm, we reward ourselves with scroggin, which I scoop into my noggin. Thank you, Claire although I prefer the chocolate over the fruity bits.
We’re booked for the early dining session (5.30pm sharp) in the North Star pub. But we’re now in our very own reality TV show, competing against a cruel countdown clock. Will our heroes make it to the pub on time? Will they run out of scroggin? Will the guttural yelps of an industrial-sized sulk (me) wail out across the twilight?
To lighten our exertions, Claire sings a few kids camping songs and I say to her, ‘You should’ve hosted Play School.’ And, of course, I’m right, for she combines many showbiz talents and a fetching on-screen presence (as is already known). It’s a lovely interlude.
During the final two kilometres, our knees and hips and backs become personified and they’re not at all happy with us.
In the rising gloom and scrubby murk, I ring the pub to let them know we’ll be late. Louise says that’ll be fine. We later learn from the innkeeper, the abrupt and matronly, Jude/Rhonda/Gladys (Glad) that this is not the case.
*
Following our four-hour exercise episode, we swap our running shoes for boots (I have a sensible and incurable fear of sneans) and with unprecedented relief, lean on the front door.
It’s immediately engaging with a long bar, roaring fire, and rustic décor. Wool bales draped from the ceiling. Lots of iron. Floorboards, not sticky carpet. Bursting with folk from the Fat Tyre Festival. Are they cyclists or are they bikers? Invariably with beanies atop their crania, there’s a communal buzz. By the door someone’s selling raffle tickets.
We’re at table 2 and have never been so excited by the unpretentious, restorative joy of chairs. Easing into one is a Buddhist moment. For our knees, hips and (lower) backs we take hors d’oeuvres of anti-inflammatories and painkillers.
Refreshments. Pale Ale for self and Claire requests a sauvignon blanc, which is served in a 1970’s wine glass- the kind you might’ve received as a bonus with a (K-Tel) fondue set.
We evaluate our Mount Remarkable experience and finally, here’s the joy: the retrospective fun, the shared enterprise and how (as Clint Eastwood says) we’ve kept out the old man and old woman, at least for another day. Did I mention how after fifteen taxing kilometers we’re enjoying the chairs? Profoundly?
Having placed our order of chickpea curry and a burger with the aforementioned Jude/Rhonda/Gladys (Glad) she made it clear we need to vacate our table by 7pm, for the next session of diners. The subtext is gruff (like the ascent of Mount Remarkable) but the food’s good.
While Billy Joel approximately sung, ‘It’s five o’clock on a Friday and the regular crowd shuffles in’ this is not so for we have the joint to ourselves apart from the staff or as I once heard someone say of his daily pre-noon hotel visit, ‘The bloke what usually serves me, he’ll be there.’ The Port Admiral, perched on Black Diamond Corner—a quintessentially Port Adelaide location—was vacant.
However, contemporary punk music blasts throughout the barren bar. Formerly, I would’ve enjoyed this but not now as my Triple J days are increasingly done and we listen to Classic FM when driving. It keeps the pulse passive although I find it difficult to pronounce Shostakovich with any confidence. Too much sibilance. Rachmaninov, at least the way Scottish morning announcer Russell Torrance says it, is less knotty. I remember old school mate Davo pronouncing Chopin as choppin’. He was habitually phonetic.
Claire and I explore the pub up and downstairs: broad, inviting balcony, generous dining rooms, and even The Bottle Shop which is a bottle shop but also a snug chamber with every table home to happy folk. Squatting everywhere are bookshelves and I spy Tim Winton’s Cloudstreet; the story of two families sharing a sprawling old house in Perth: the deeply religious Lamb family, and the tempestuous, boozy Pickles clan. Gazing about, I reckon the Port Admiral’s the type of hotel protagonist Sam Pickles would frequent. Sam’s a ‘little truck driving bloke with no schooling’ who makes dreadful decisions but remains earthy and likable.
I love books in pubs and pubs in books.
At the top of the stairs there’s a scattering of games including Yahtzee. Claire confesses, ‘I’ve never played.’ I reply, ‘It’s a game with five dice.’ Claire adds, ‘I don’t like games of chance.’ I whimper, ‘Oh,’ glancing at the Connect Four box, thinking it might be more likely.
Mystery Pub’s singular purpose means I’m content there’s no wide screens showing footy or the Menangle trots or tachyon cricket from India. There’s also no TAB, meat trays or other distractions. Down the Port, there’s plenty of these, elsewhere.
The Port Admiral’s the rarest of pubs: just a pub.
Claire conjures a Martini Espresso to celebrate the week’s wins and I survey the rows of taps before buying an XPA. It looks like Grandma’s pea soup or melted honey or both. However, I think it’s the first beer of the day from this keg and sipping some, it presents like Shaun Tait on a lively deck: problematically. It’s rarely worth being a beer pioneer.
And so, in this massive, sprawling, mostly empty old pub we squirel into a nook by the staircase. It’s cosy and secluded and reminds me of Jordan’s observation in The Great Gatsby, ‘And I like large parties. They’re so intimate.’ Two old chairs are separated by an occasional table. Beneath the stairs is a cram of firewood, which is merely ornamental.
We speak of our afternoons, our weeks, tonight, and next month… There’s much to investigate. To enhance our empathy, we swap chairs after the first drink. We could be in a period drama set in Oxfordshire save for ridiculous bonnets and forbidden, urgent panting.
I then opt for a Two Bays Pale Ale from Mornington Peninsula while Claire returns with the hitherto unheard of Piquepoul. I learn it’s similar to Riesling and grown in Rhone and Catalonia and the Barossa by Lienerts. Meanwhile the front bar punk explosion continues for an absent demographic. We hear no Billy Joel or Shostakovich.
Trundling along the murky esplanade, dawn was hiding behind the Adelaide Hills. To the west the ocean lay as if it too were asleep making me the sole speck of animated life. Some mornings are crisp and the world’s in sharp, razored focus. Today, the sky was fuddled and uncertain.
A distant, descending plane hung silently; its light frozen against the darkness like a lamp. Looming over the seascape, the burning, off-white moon threatened as if in an old horror film. The ghostly glow illuminated my plodding path and connected night and day.
Considering nature’s ravenous fire and the minuteness of human life, I kept running.
*
As is my happy habit I’m eternally re-reading The Sportswriter series and am on the final novel. The prose is often startling in its magnificence and makes me inwardly gasp. I forever find literary diamonds in these and Be Mine offers this scene at Mt. Rushmore:
Just now, as if propelled from the mountain itself, a helicopter- tiny- materializes down out of the marbled heavens, high-tailed and insect-like, and for all of us along the viewing wall, soundless. It passes on string through the grainy air, tilts to starboard, seems for a moment to pause, then slides away, changes course and makes a dreamlike pass close to the presidential physiognomies, comes about again, tail swaying, makes a pass the other way, so that whoever’s inside get the fullest view up close.
The author, Richard Ford, has a rare sensitivity to the splendor and joy of words.
*
Originating in Athens, Georgia, REM was primarily a guitar band, and courtesy of singer Michael Stipe’s lyrics, they presented the world opaquely. Their jangling sounds were, for example, sometimes accompanied by a mandolin and sometimes by arena-sized grungy bombast, but REM’s most gorgeous track is one of which acclaimed keyboardists, Elton John and Ben Folds would be proud. ‘Nightswimming’ is a piano delight, penned and played by the band’s polymath bassist, Mike Mills. The circular motif is at once fragile but also driven, serenely.
It features on the album Automatic for the People, a meditative, melancholy record that gave opportune shape and meaning to my West Coast life when it was released three decades’ back. ‘Nightswimming’ is a prayer to nostalgia, friendship, and summer’s end. Spending time with the song this week, its embrace is that of a dear, old companion.
Nightswimming, remembering that night September’s coming soon I’m pining for the moon And what if there were two Side by side in orbit around the fairest sun?
This bakery isn’t actually on the Brighton jetty. Where would they put the oven? Next to the crab nets? Atop the mobile phone tower? Adjacent to yoof soaring off the end in their best swimming jeans?
Browsing the menu board, I note the sweets are decidedly Germanic with strudel (okay, Habsburg Empire) and Berliner buns but as we know, gobble down one of these for morning tea and by lunchtime you’ve invaded Poland.
This is balanced diplomatically with the euphorically English in buns both London and Kitchener; the latter named boldly in 1915 as a South Australian act of wartime alliance to geezer field marshal, Lord Kitchener.
I’ve not witnessed such graphic geopolitics since Sunday night’s Eurovision voting with the UK again achieving the ignominy of yet another nul points (in the public voting category). This means their (lame) entry has not been awarded a single point just like Bluto’s grade point average in Animal House as declared by Faber College head, Dean Wormer.
Zero. Point. Zero.
How fantastic was the late Sir Terry Wogan as the British host of the world’s most kitsch event? I still admire his tradition of pouring himself a drink immediately after the ninth song and maintaining a ferocious pace throughout the final. During a telecast he once asked,
Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? Actually, I do, I’ve seen the rehearsals.
My roadside table is magnificently located with endless blue sky above, the skating rink flatness of the azure sea to my west and northwards, the uncluttered BWS drive through, advertising cheap wine and a three-day growth.
Munch. The roll’s pastry is oilier than Estonia’s hip-hop entry called, ‘(Nendest) narkootikumidest ei tea me (küll) midagi’ which as you can visibly tell concerns drug horror. Oddly enough the song finished in twentieth place, and I rank today’s pastry also at twenty on the list of snag roll reviews. This is a spectacular achievement given this is my tenth such evaluation.
Whilst substantial of girth, the innards of my purchase are excessively reserved in their representations of flavour and aroma. From the proximate gutter I get a whiff of crushed Bundy can and decide the roll could use a little of its aggressive tang. Australia’s 2025 Eurovision entry should be an ode to crushed Bundy cans, everywhere, performed by Chad Morgan. He’s always in brash costume.
Still, it’s been a delightful autumnal outing for which I’m most pleased. Although he was referring to Eurovision, maybe Terry Wogan’s words apply here to my sporadically disappointing sausage roll escapades
Every year I expect it to be less foolish, and every year it is more so.
Sunset drapes our coach house garden as Claire and I push back on our chairs, having driven from Glenelg and taken lunch alfresco at Wangolina winery. Trucks rattle vaguely on the road to Beachport while cattle bellow out into the disinterested dusk and unseen sheep bleat. Surveying our setting Claire notes, ‘It’s a most beautiful place,’ as overhead honks a flying vee of ducks. Our holiday has begun.
*
During each day my anticipation simmers ahead of an elemental and enchanting ritual. Squatting by its open mouth I coax and urge with the black poker. Orange flares suddenly whoosh and cloak the room with warmth. Is there a more exquisite joy than kindling the fire in a pot belly stove?
*
In the morning, I steer into Robe for the first ever time. Taking in the painterly foreshore I run from the Cally pub to the Obelisk admiring its marinas and dotted coves and expansive sky water land. Passing stately homes, I rumble along the Arthur Fennell Way Board Walk and Lake Butler. On my right the jetty yawns, and here’s the Robe Gaol ruins. Hands on hips, I stagger about the headland while down below pounds the relentless, thunderous surf. Erosion will eventually triumph, and the proud 169-year-old Obelisk will tumble into the ocean.
*
Lunchtime is breathless and balmy. We picnic at Little Dip National Park and circumnavigate the lake. It’s rainforest-like and in my hyperbolic mind this trekking demands Bear Grylls skills. I’m sure we’re only halfway around when to my surprise we’re back at the beginning! The entire lush wilderness is ours and ours alone. Is this seclusion the deeper, necessary magic of holidays? Go somewhere new but see no-one old?
*
We’re bogged on Long Beach. I rev and rev again and the wheels spin and sink. Flinging open the doors we assess our position, and I mutter, ‘Poo.’ We kick and scoop sand from around the submerged tyres. Worried, I turn the key and gingerly toe the accelerator. The car lurches out. Whew! Surrendering I say, ‘I think we’re done.’ We slink back along the crescent of white coast.
*
Midnight brings a treacherous descent down the wooden steps from our coach house mezzanine bedroom. Claire’s brightened the shadowy stairwell with a thoughtful candle, but despite this it still commands a methodical and cautious approach. With the arrival of dawn’s tentative light, I puff out the flame. It illuminates all four evenings.
*
The gilded sun piggybacks in on the cascading waves and we sit in the twinkling beer garden, peering seaward. Inside thrums with hooting footy fans while we decant our day by the shore and about this silvery, sleepy town. Near the hulking utes, two dogs are tethered to veranda posts. Claire curves down and pats them with her customary affection. Late Anzac Day at the refurbished Robe pub.
With Coopers announcing that their newborn Botanic Ale is available for a strictly limited time, the following commentary is both festive proclamation and premature eulogy.
However, the phrase, ‘limited time’ makes me think of the Rolling Stones and how more than once Mick asserted, ‘I’d rather be dead than singing ‘Satisfaction’ when I’m forty-five.’ Both Coopers’ XPA and Session Ale (which transmogrified into Pacific/Specific Pale Ale) were also declared momentary but are happily still happening.
Clamping my peepers on a can the pink, purple, olive, and red markings conjure a nouveau psych-rock aesthetic. It’s visually reminiscent of the swirling guitars on Tame Impala’s Innerspeaker album and this is encouraging. Beer and music can pair well.
Having gathered ingredients to make a beef curry in the slow cooker (crock pot is too 1970’s a term) I swung past the Holdy to collect my debut four-pack of Botanic Ale cans. Home, I slid them into the garage beer fridge where, aside from some understandably abandoned lolly water, they were among friends.
With its deliberate Adelaide evocations, I pondered the name Botanic. Was it named for the much-loved public gardens or the adjacent pub I often haunted on Monday nights while at uni?
To stay open late in those heady, 1980’s times, The Bot was required to serve the punters a meal so at the prescribed hour we were obligated to queue, grab a paper plate, and witness a sullen worker slop out spaghetti Bolognese or, most often, an inferior replica. It was that or go home. On occasion I even saw people eat it. Salad days, indeed.
Back to the future and just down Chief Street in Brompton sits the elegantly renovated Brickmakers Arms. Their pristine beer garden recently provided some colleagues and me a celebratory context to acknowledge a curricular writing milestone. As we all know kegged beer is king so noting Botanic Ale on tap, I waved my phone at the dinging debit box and marched outside with a frosty tumbler.
Safely on my bum with cup in claw I considered the (late) London restaurant critic Victor Lewis-Smith and his frequent use of this question in his splendid reviews: what made me pleased?
Here goes. I remember a hot Barossa afternoon when old mate Holmsey told me of a now long-forgotten European ale that, ‘wasn’t sessionable.’ I think this may be true of Botanic Ale too.
In the glass it has a brooding yet bronzed presence, and this foreshadows its hefty 5.8% engine. Turning the key, the pint was zesty and gripping, and possessed an apt sense of occasion while also being fun. It provided citrus/tropical aromatics, all in the context of presenting as a bold beer and not just a cold beer. And it does suggest a nouveau psych-rock aesthetic, so I pronounce another Coopers triumph. It’s highly worthy of a gargle.
Snare a slab if you can and consume with slow-cooked vindaloo and Tame Impala. Or at a pinch, sloppy spag bog just before midnight.
It’s likely the best four-word sentence after, ‘I love you too.’ But it might be unsurpassed on a Friday at 5pm.
Of course I speak of, ‘Yes, it’s happy hour.’
Speaking to us the (responsible) server of drinks smiled and then we did too. What a marvellously imagined and wonderous abode was this world! Bursting with uncomplicated joys and happy whisperings.
And the clock had indeed struck five on Belair Road in Kingswood country. Claire requested a white wine while I went on beer holiday with a Pirate Life Pale Ale. We were in the Torrens Arms, home pub of my old footy club, The Unley Jets, which could be why despite my anonymity I was gifted a complimentary beer. Now I insert into this story the first in a series of outwardly random but thematically relevant song lyrics: My motto’s always been, ‘When it’s right, it’s right.’
Pulling into the carpark earlier, the tavern was snug and confident, a site of sanctuary, with its honeyed brickwork and pretty façade soaked in slanting autumnal light. Everything’s a little clearer in the light of day.
We scurried through the vacant dining room (too early even for fugitive Queensland pensioners) and arrived in the murmuring bar, ordered refreshment, and then decided where we’d drop anchor. Why wait until the middle of a cold, dark night?
With singlets stretched about truckers’ torsos and raucous toddlers and loud, unaware types, in this affluent suburb, beer gardens are instead known as courtyards. Likely lingering after lunch, some chaps occupy a neighbouring spot. Sunny weekend music coasts overhead. It’s a relaxed, alluring place and against the wall rests a bike and across the yard we see smears of vaguely green plants. In the outside dusk we claim a corner table.
Claire’s impressed and offered an affirming, ‘I could settle in here.’ I nod.
However, we hear grating traffic noise and our ill-disciplined eyes stray onto the vampiric screens and their Fox Footy pre-game jabber.
To better explore the Torrens Arms, we later relocate to a secluded nook near the bistro. Easing into the lush chairs by the fetching gas fire, we catch the distant, hazy tones of ‘Afternoon Delight’ by The Starland Vocal Band and are serenaded by its soft-focus lyrics
Thinkin’ of you’s workin’ up my appetite Lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight Rubbin’ sticks and stones together make the sparks ignite And the thought of lovin’ you is gettin’ so excitin’
How did Simon Townsend allow it to be the (admittedly short-lived) theme song to 80’s kiddy favourite Wonder World. Imagine Woodrow’s disapproval at its doggy-style suggestibility! Still, Claire and I agree it’s a fine, old, nostalgic song, inspired by a ‘happy hour experience’ in Washington, DC.
Jettisoning the pub, I note a poster advertising their Mother’s Day paint ‘n’ sip event. Is this the new communal knitting or line-dancing or pottery? For Father’s Day will I endure an awful Change the Roo-Shootin’ Ute’s Oil ‘n’ Drink Rumbo Experience? It’s a shame as I started out this mornin’ feelin’ so polite.
Otherwise, edition #42 of Mystery Pub’s been a genteel, calming affair in many senses – a true afternoon delight.
Adelaide’s oldest parkrun is along the northern bank of the Torrens. Officially a river, it masquerades as a serene, fetching lake or a dam. And during drought, a puddle.
Beneath the eucalypts at a quarter to eight there’s roughly one hundred people and it swiftly swells to five hundred. An expectant mob, connected by a single, voluntary purpose and it’s great to be part of a global movement.
I feel a propulsive, rousing energy.
The Run Director takes us through his script. It’s informative for new faces and provides moments of comedic engagement. After the Acknowledgement of Country, he does a roll call asking who’s from overseas. England, Canada, New Zealand, among others. Hands are flung up and we applaud. We’re then taken on a tour of the country.
‘Anybody from Victoria?’ Arms go skywards. Melbourne. Geelong. Ballarat.
‘New South Wales?’ Folks variously confess they’re from Sydney, Wagga, Byron Bay.
‘People from Queensland?’ Hands wave above the sea of heads and torsos, and I wonder how many have on matching shoes.
Each state and territory acknowledged our host then introduces himself with, ‘I’m Ojo Dojo.’ He asks, ‘Did you bring your?’ A crowd participation moment follows as the throng choruses, ‘Mojo!’
We’re east of the weir and the Red Ochre Grill, which might be as old as red ochre. Glancing about there’s a par 3 green with capped chaps putting, gliding rowers on the lake, while rushing by, and I understand this is the collective noun, are round-gutted lycras of male cyclists.
I stand by two lads wearing AUFC caps. One announces, ‘Let’s try to run 4-minute k’s.’ His mate giggles, ‘The coach won’t be happy if we blow up!’ They laugh as only the youthful in pre-season training can. I often hated it but would gladly swap. Considering their fresh dials, they can’t even imagine being retired from footy.
Briefing’s done and we’re away.
There’s an orange-vested pacer with 25 on his back, so I latch onto him like a docking mechanism. I keep him in sight. I’ve got a plan. I’d like to again run 24-minutes something.
Like trolls we go under bridges and soon pass the BBQ buoys all moored and obediently awaiting midday rissoles, snags, and onions. Inflatable boats laden with flammable cooking equipment and grog, skippered by yoof with massively undeveloped prefrontal cortexs: what could go wrong?
To the left is Memorial Drive, venue of my first concert in 1984. It was Midnight Oil’s Red Sails in the Sunset tour with school mates, Nick, Smithy and Frosty. The Drive usually hosts tennis, and this was not that genteel leisure. More dope than double faults.
We swarm under the Torrens foot bridge which transports punters to and from Adelaide Oval. Footy and cricket have revitalised the city and highlights at the redeveloped stadium include Travis Head’s NYE pyrotechnics, the Crows and Cats preliminary final of 2017, and both Glenelg flags.
Heading west along the riverbank, the 25-minute pacer’s still a bus-length ahead, and I want to pass him on the way back. I’m chomping after him like Pacman.
Albert Bridge’s now above us, with its stylish architecture. We’re by the zoo and I recall taking my boys and the African wild dogs and their ungodly stench. Closing my eyes, I recall my nostrils smarting at their flyblown meat perfume. It’s available at Chemist Warehouse. Back at parkrun, Mistletoe Park marks the turnaround.
Among this morning’s joys is the absence of traffic noise. However, swimming into view is the slanting expanse of Elder Park. Again, I’m back in the mid-80’s. Can you hear the spectral echoes of SA-FM’s Skyshow? Is that the sexual thump of INXS beneath the swirling hiss of fireworks? Look, so many tank tops, neon colours, and foam eskies!
I put on my indicator and pass the pacer! Sheltered by trees, the finish line startles me. I loathe when the end’s in widescreen, mocking sight a long way out and like an oasis in the desert, remains maddeningly distant. Today’s threshold jumps out, hugs me and this is splendid.
Not unlike an injured emu, I hobble with hands on hips, grabbing some air. I note a groaning table of food provided by the volunteers. What a community is parkrun and especially this effervescent Torrens group. I’ve broken 25 minutes.
After the insistent, whipping squalls and sullen clouds, our fretful phone calls and the unending wiping down of the rows of plastic chairs, we’re submerged in sunlight. It streams through our hair as we amble back down the aisle beneath the soft serenity.
I love how we’re laughing at someone off-stage. It’s a mystery starring an unseen, comedic protagonist. Is Lukey saying something brash? Or is JB making a quirky quip? Can you remember? Will we ever know?
I’m in the middle of a guffaw and you’re on the edge of chuckling. It’s an affirmation, the reassurance of our world’s axis spinning as it should, a sunny instant in an impeccable day.
Kapunda High, our joyous, kindly school, is in the background watching approvingly, nodding in wise appreciation having stood witness to our teenage lives and then from both near and afar, our adulthood. A mere twelve months after this special occasion the beloved building, Eringa, was devoured by those diabolical flames and we impatiently await its reconstruction.
See the fluttering flower petals caught delicately in your curled, tumbling hair, as it cascades onto your dress: impossibly pretty, bold and deeply considered, the turquoise an exquisite, arresting hue.
With hands clasped, we’re hitched triumphantly, at ease and brightly expectant, stepping into our afternoon.
Or at least according to the poet Philip Larkin. Fear lurks just beyond the horizon’s curve with the crawling truth that eventually everything will succumb. I’m certain I’ve played my final game of footy and probably cricket too. These are aggregated losses, joining the ever-lengthening string of diminutive deaths.
Instead, I now run thirty kilometres a week, partly driven by knowing of people whose knees or hips have called time on this. Every morning (lately under the cape of darkness) because I can, I stumble out onto the tarmac and trot beachward. I often wonder if I’m running towards a destination or from a spectre. The disquieting thought lingers: what if this is all halted? One day, of course, it will.
It’s easy to spot the opening to a sequence. A baby’s first steps, a first ever goal in a footy match, or a first love. These are commencements we can celebrate.
I love the first swim of the summer as the world opens up when the lengthy, lethargic days stretch out like a fluttering ribbon. While not endless, we sometimes pretend to ourselves that they might be.
For some pursuits, the last in a sequence can also be simple to note. Grand finals, New Year’s Eve, our last day on holiday. But for other activities, how do we reconcile not knowing which is the last? I like to think there’ll often be one more.
There’s always next year, until there isn’t, so I appreciate our beach. When I say swimming, not actual freestyle or breaststroke or anything as deliberate and exhausting as this. Just standing about in the greenish-blue shallows.
Late March and under the slanting sun, towelling off on Glenelg North’s crunchy sand, I promise myself with the next temperature spike I’ll be back down in the ocean. And then abruptly, summer vanishes and exquisite as it is, autumn arrives but swimming’s done. Some years, that anticipated next time just doesn’t come and I look back with minor regret.
To squeeze these moments like a ripe orange, I plunge in. Claire tip-toes along the sand and inches her way out, grimacing with every step. Waist-deep, we chat and look around us. My eyes dart about for stingrays and fins. I gaze north towards the West Beach Sailing Club and then south at the Marina. Flinging myself into a marching wave the salty stuff blasts by as, eyes open, I scan the corrugated floor.
Upright with water cascading off me, it’s a phantasmagoric instant and once more the beach, that narrow, ever-pulsing connector of ocean and earth, nudges me into gratitude and tranquility.
So, is adult life governed by fear? Only if we choose.
Smiling, I regularly think of the note you’d leave on the fridge whiteboard – a small yet significant gesture that speaks volumes about your character. Your ability to infuse humour into everyday life, coupled with your thoughtful nature is always a delight! The simple declaration became more than just a message; it’s a testament to your wit, your creativity, and your unique perspective on the world.
the cordial is pre-made
Watching you blossom in drama has been a joy. I like you telling me about the acting challenges you’ve been set and how these are progressing. I’m excited to see you on stage later this year, playing a character and entertaining the audience. Keep embracing those opportunities to express yourself and develop your skills.
And let’s not forget about basketball – a sport in which you truly have ability. Your talent on the court is undeniable, but what sets you apart is your understanding of teamwork and being able to bring others into the game. Of special interest is your ability to navigate both victories and defeats with grace. Remember, it’s not just about winning games; it’s about the lessons learned along the way, the friendships forged, and the growth that comes with every season.
Regrets are mostly not about the things we’ve done but rather the things we didn’t do. Given this, I believe you should keep playing basketball. You can do it!
In June I’m keen for you, Alex, and I to explore Bali together. Investigating new cultures, tasting exotic foods, and experiencing different landscapes will broaden our horizons. I hope during your life you’ll keep seeking out those adventures for it’s through travel that we learn about the world and ourselves.
Your imagination is limitless, and your ability to craft immortal expressions never fails to make me laugh. Hold onto that youthful spirit and sense of wonder, for it’s what makes you extraordinary. Lastly, I want to reminisce about that moment in a Singaporean swimming pool when you made that legendary declaration to me that you were
cooler than a robot, older than the wolf
As you embark on another year of new experiences, new challenges, and new triumphs, always remember how loved and cherished you are. You have a heart of gold, a mind full of dreams, and a spirit that’s destined to soar. Happy birthday, dearest Max.
mickeytales 