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Running Around Melrose: Fog, Roos, and Mountain Views

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Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Port Augusta parkrun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Southern Flinders Rail Trail

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

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

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

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

Melrose, you’ve been magnificent.

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Conquer Mount Remarkable, collapse in the North Star Pub

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been an afternoon.

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Mystery Pub: Shostakovich liked a snort

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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.

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Three Moments of Beauty

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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?

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Brighton Jetty Bakery: a Eurovision black site

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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.

Goodbye, Malmo! Hello Zürich!

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Robe, Recollected

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

*

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

*

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

*

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

*

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

*

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

*

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

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Spag Bog at The Bot: A Coopers Botanic Ale Tale

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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.

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Sky rockets in flight, Mystery Pub delight

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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.

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Midnight Oil, African wild dogs, and Skyshow: Adelaide’s Torrens parkrun

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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.

I take half a banana.

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We’re Submerged in Sunlight

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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.

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last swim

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Life is boredom then fear.

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.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

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.

Love Dad

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Mystery Pub: The Curious Case of the King William Hotel

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‘What’s this King William pub?’ I hear you inquire. As Daryl Somers used to remark, ‘I’m glad you asked.’ The CBD has a new boozer but is it just the old Ambassadors tarted up and rebadged? We were about to find out.

I’ve limited recollection of the former tavern but know it was one patronised by our old school friend Davo when he wasn’t wading through an elongated Friday lunch at The Griffins Head. Come to think of it, not a traditional culinary meal as I’m confident Davo doesn’t eat food.

Claire suffered a morning blowout on her acutely heeled shoe and like the Better Home and Gardens craft-segment host she secretly aspires to be, taped it up with clandestine assistance from some borrowed office supplies. It was fortunate that we only needed a brisk stroll from her Light Square workplace and so the only victim was the reduced opportunity for mystery to build for Mystery Pub (a key ingredient), but like Tom and Daisy in The Great Gatsby, neither of us cared.

Aggregated on the wooden bar were three softly glowing lamps offering unexpected contribution to the ambiance. Adelaide pubs are over lit (fluoro the darkest crime, ironically) and could learn from the moody atmospherics of hotels in Melbourne’s Fitzroy. Once, inside two evenings I visited ten of these for research purposes although the resultant scientific paper remains troublingly unpublished or even peer reviewed.

Featuring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, I lately read ‘The Hound of The Baskervilles’ and wondered what the Londoner sleuths would make of the pub’s beer situation. I probed, ‘Why don’t you have Coopers Pale Ale on tap?’ Mine host retorted, ‘We’re having trouble getting any.’ Peculiar, I thought, doffing my woollen cap, and extracting a pipe from the pocket of my houndstooth jacket. Noticing my appearance in the barroom mirror I was baffled to observe that in the hour since leaving my employment I’d grown a dapper, entirely Edwardian, moustache.

Safely in the beer garden there was however a sharp smell of fresh paint and utilising my detective skills I rapidly deduced that a person or persons had applied tint to the walls, probably during this past day. Inspecting the exposed bricks and decorative ladders which added to the interior design, we procured a table and during our two-drink sojourn, multitudes of Crows fans arrived with sunny expectation upon their faces, and this proved, of course, to be wholly without logic or reward.

The relationship between text and context is at its most fascinating when the boundary between these is indistinguishable. If the pub was our text and the context was our discourse, I then relished that fantastic experience of the immediate surroundings essentially vanishing as Claire recounted several items from her day. This was a delight.

A rotund troubadour then commenced a set of songs on his guitar to which he added his unexceptional singing. He played Vance Joy’s ubiquitous ‘Riptide’ and later, ‘Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)’ by the Beatles. While it incorporates splendid sitar moments from George Harrison, I newly learnt that my wife finds little value in this tune and admit that it wouldn’t make my top fifty of the Liverpudlians. Their number one? ‘And Your Bird Can Sing.’

Our scrumptious but wretchedly delayed potato dinner devoured, we farewelled the ghastly paint and the visible bricks and the now vanished musician and the ghostly lamps and the lack of kegged Coopers beer and ventured once more into the pulsing, discordant Friday city.

Alighting onto the footpath I said to Claire, ‘Careful in those shoes.’

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Three imaginary beers with my favourite author, Richard Ford

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The premise of Independence Day, Richard Ford’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, is simple. Frank Bascombe takes his sixteen-year-old son Paul on a road trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, which ends badly. In Be Mine, the final instalment of the series, the narrator and his dying middle-aged son embark upon a last road trip, this time to Mt. Rushmore.

My son Alex and I are going on a short road trip to Moana, but our first stop is Writers’ Week as I want him to again witness the merits of a life with conversations and stories. He’s largely agreeable so with little persuasive effort, we’re here to listen to Richard Ford speak about his writing and probably, the characters of Frank and Paul.

While that’s fiction and our experiences are (aspirationally) real, the parallels seem both captivating and unsettling. The thought comes to me again: I’ve delayed a road trip with my sixteen-year-old son to hear a novelist enlarge upon a father and son on two heart-breaking road trips. I trust I’m not tempting any type of cosmic irony to drape its wicked self over this bonding weekend away.

Lunchtime underneath the canopy in the Pioneer Women’s Memorial Garden. That Alex is here with an open mind and open heart, and willing to indulge his dad strikes me as a scarce act of teenaged generosity. I vow to afterwards buy him a coke for the drive. I spot the Footy Almanac’s editor-in-chief Harmsy and we’ve a quick chat.

Richard Ford is interviewed for about forty minutes, and it’s engrossing. Profoundly considered and droll and pleasingly, approaching stern when provoked, he makes references to Virginia Woolf (he’s a fan) and Samuel Beckett (he’s not a fan). I record the discussion on my phone, and Claire (elsewhere unavoidably) and I will listen to it one night soon over a Shiraz as if it’s an unedited podcast.

I rarely carry my backpack but do today just in case there’s a book signing and in it’s my beloved copy of The Sportswriter. I’ve not anticipated an autograph since Joel Garner at an Angaston Oval cricket clinic in 1975. He was the biggest human I (or likely the Barossa) had ever seen. Following our applause, the interviewer invites us to form a queue.

Rushing politely, I find myself about a dozen deep in the line. Alex stands with me. He’s a Beatles fan (for which I’m also thankful) and I say, ‘You know that chatting with this writer will be my meeting McCartney moment?’ He nods.

Introducing ourselves, we shake hands. He’s sitting at a table. Eighty-years-old and greyhound fit, Ford has hypnotically blue eyes (matching his socks) reminiscent of the late Bond but alive actor, Daniel Craig. I’ve hazily rehearsed what I say, and the opportunity doesn’t get to me as I imagined it might.   

I begin, ‘I’ve read all the Bascombe novels three times except for the last. But I will. They’ve made such a huge impact upon me, and I’ve happily accepted that I’ll pretty much re-read them constantly from here on in.’

Desperately gushing? Probably.

Richard (we’ve progressed to first names) replies with an affirming chortle, ‘Well, some books can hang around.’

I tell him the story of a Saturday night last autumn just prior to the publication of his final Bascombe novel. I explain, ‘I’d read a preview of the book and was telling my wife Claire about it over a Shiraz (now a theme, I know). And I mentioned the central tragedy of the father and son relationship and the son dying. I then realised that all this represented a loss for me too as a reader, so I shed a few tears.’

Richard continued peering at me fixedly with what I imagine’s a blend of deeply practised writerly attention and unshakeable southern manners. Acknowledging my revelations, he nods.

I’m now in full Sunday confessional mode, for I need this man to know how important his creations are to me. Perhaps I’m epiphanic, emblematically at large in New Jersey, like Frank Bascombe himself. ‘It’s the only time I’ve cried at a book before I’ve read it, such is the power of your storytelling, and the remarkable insights. Thank you for this.’

As he signs the title page, I feel a sense of gifted camaraderie. The waiting line is lengthy, and so I conclude, ‘I’m urging my wife to read your books when we retire. I talk about them so much.’

Richard laughs, ‘You’ll hand her a list!’

I also cackle, ‘I think so.’

He thanks me for coming and again we shake hands. The adage cautions against meeting your heroes but encountering this literary giant has been joyous. Alex and I stroll through the garden’s dappled light and up sundrenched King William Street.

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Mystery and Murder in Moana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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