4

Mystery Pub Madness: The Olivia Hotel and the General Havelock!

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With her now traditional misdirection Claire drives me up and down and around Hutt Street.

We circle many hotels and bars and so my uncertainty regarding tonight’s Mystery Pub is happily heightened.

Wife – 1, your correspondent – 0.

Parking on Carrington Street we then walk past the snug terrace homes and accountancy and law firms with their wintry windows all aglow.

The Olivia Hotel is new, but the interior design is deliberately shabby with intimate, living room atmospherics. Among former functions it was an Asian restaurant, and I can see it. Ambling in, we hear Feist’s excellent song called ‘1234.’

Given our Formula One bladders, we race at the loos through the courtyard. It’s compelling in a Mediterranean, film-set way, and we note that it’d be a decent garden for a summer’s evening. A century-old grapevine is the defiant, gnarly centerpiece.

A staircase spirals heavenwardly into the rooftop bar. I love the idea of these elevated areas but wonder if we’ll look back at some of them as our boozers’ skinny leather ties.

With hopping orange flames there’s two fireplaces, and these create an alluring mise-en-scène.

I order ale while Claire has a chardonnay and we get a table by a bookshelf, loaded with games like Scrabble and weighty, ancient cookbooks. Margaret Fulton’s surely in the ghostly pile.

Claire asks, ‘Do you think anyone actually plays these games?’ I reply that I don’t think it matters for their aesthetic value is symbolic. Rather than engaging in a boisterous bout of Monopoly, folks are comforted by knowing they could play. Ah, the sanctuary of proximate boardgames.

And then, dear readers, our afternoon took a curious turn.

*

Always capable of a sun-drenched surprise Claire declares, ‘After this we’re heading next door to the General Havelock.’ Such boldness, such cheerful extravagance. Two Mystery Pubs!

What a time to be alive on Hutt Street.

So, we decamp to the Havey and it’s quiet but still before six bells.

Standing at the bar I recall being here late last century and mulleted men in chambray shirts and women wearing rugby tops with upturned collars and Gumbo Ya Ya playing New Orleans rhythm and blues.

Above the fireplace there’s a topographic map of Adelaide in 1876 and Claire and I peer and point and examine in our almost superannuated way.

‘Where’s Adelaide oval?’

‘Do you think that’s Norwood?’

‘Why so many churches?’

Even for a June 30, Friday evening it’s fun.

Our geographical ponderings are disturbed when a loud conga line of young, drunk things evidently celebrating the end of the financial year (EOFY) bursts into the pub and wobbles out towards the beer garden.

Oh.

Partying to honour fiscal milestones is as mystifying as throwing a bash because you’ve just bought three cheap tyres for the Corolla. It may be brash and inappropriate, but I was reminded of this.

What do accountants use for contraception?

Their personality.

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To Max and Alex, on basketball and theatre

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Dear Alex and Max

I write about two major achievements of which I’m tremendously proud.

Max’s basketball

I knew you loved it when you spent long hours practicing down at St. Leonard’s. However, during your first game when I saw how advanced your skills are, I was still surprised.

Defensively, you complete towering blocks, and can seriously obstruct a dribbling opponent. Like a warrior you guard the key, while snatching impressive and inspiring rebounds.

I’ve also noted your teamwork. It’s characterised by generosity, and the constant empowering of those fortunate to be in your lineup. This is true leadership.

Beyond these, you have substantial offensive abilities, and I especially like your jump shot as well as your occasional three-pointer!

You have talent.

On the court you generate good.

In some ways the most stirring moment of your career was after the tie at Morphett Vale. While it’s agreed that the referee made the wrong call, I like how you displayed an acceptance of this. Many would’ve had a meltdown, but you showed great discipline and management of the disappointment.

These are vital attributes, and I am massively proud.

I want you to let this basketball confidence spill over to school and home and influence these areas of your life.

Allow it to be a happy infection!

Alex’s acting

The instant you entered the stage during The 39 Steps as a Scottish crofter was one of my life’s outstanding events.

Your talent for projecting character both physically and vocally was instantly obvious. I loved how you demonstrated great comedic skill with your confident and remarkable accent. Although you had told me you were pleased with this, I was stunned. Your next challenge is Michael Caine!

You also exhibited that unteachable quality of presence.

Comic timing, and generosity towards your fellow performers also caught my attention.

Weeks earlier when you described aspects of the play such as breaking the fourth wall, slapstick, and how the music and lighting functioned, I was deeply proud of your insights and capacity to assuredly use this theatrical language.

I can imagine how, just like us Kapunda kids, these friends might be ones you’re seeing decades after you all leave Brighton.

Now, I also want you to utilise these considerable skills across the rest of your subjects and at home. Collaborate and give to others just like you did on stage. Apply yourself totally.

Both of you possess significant advantages. You’re clever and perceptive; you’ve ready senses of humour and show the 21st century’s key skill: critical thinking.

Dad

X

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Open a Kissing Gate

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It’s dusk on a Friday.

Below us, and the tree-lined slopes, are the now-twinkling lights of the city.

Tramping along together in our cocooning coats, the creek’s interrupted by a stone wall. Behind us is the cottage’s yellowish beacon. Claire’s scarf bounces.

On the Heysen Trail, we’re approaching Norton Summit.

As we swing open a kissing gate it protests with a shriek. My phone light shafts over the scrub as if it’s generating suspenseful effect in a horror flick.

Upon arriving at Morialta Barns we ignited the fire. The redgum was now burning, but gently.

We heard the ghostly bleating of hidden sheep. The rounded hills were receding into the rising murk. Bushes swayed and jumped at the directive of a gust. Our hosts reckoned we could encounter a quietly twitching roo.

Chatting about the days we’ve had and the days we’ve to come, we clasp hands for affection, and warmness.

An hour earlier, having collected Claire from the city, we edged up majestic Magill Road, through the eastern suburbs and then suddenly, bottle-green paddocks were pushing back the forest. There we were, in the countryside. The transition was startlingly brisk.

We’d jettisoned.

Steering our way through another gate, there was the Scenic Hotel. My birthday dinner would soon be served.

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West Beach parkrun: cocooned in this calm esplanade

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An hour after Saturday’s slow dawn I edge into the throng at the Harold and Cynthia Anderson Reserve. On the neat lawns there’s people from across the athletic spectrum and dogs and dads with wide, black prams.

With a few hundred others I head north in the shared enterprise that is the West Beach parkrun. The congestion rapidly evaporates and peering ahead, the coloured stretch of joggers is elasticising along the esplanade.

To my right is a playground. With my teenaged boys having abandoned this age of innocence, I feel a saddening sting that comes from the despair of time moving quickly, too quickly. As I amble through, I can almost hear the spectral shrieks.

We snake by the Henley Sailing Club, all imposing and vaguely smug in its nautical whiteness. A greyish blue sea is on my left, and the trail chaperones us along the dune and among the hardy coastal vegetation. The city’s close by but we’re immersed in this surprising strip of wilderness.

Here the beach presents as serene and health-giving, somehow more encouraging of a life to be brightly lived. Then we take the bridge over Breakout Creek and the Torrens outlet. We often hear of the mighty Murray, and the mighty Mississippi; well, this is the tremendously modest Torrens but it’s our little river and makes for a fetching ecosystem.

A pair of female runners catches me, chatting about a casino win. Remember how going to a casino was once an event but now holds less ceremony than popping down to the servo in Ugg boots and shapeless trackies?

Pushing on, the Henley jetty swims into view. The talented local poet, John Malone, once wrote that jetties are umbilical cords attaching us to better versions of ourselves. Accepting this premise, every month I stride onto a jetty for the inner benefit of both gazing out to sea and back to the silent, sometimes worrying land. I think it works.

We pass the Henley Beach hotel. It’s a serviceable alehouse but fails to sunnily exploit its location. Rather than embracing the seaside and affirming breeze it seems to defy these. Maybe I should swing by soon to offer it redemption.

At Joe’s Kiosk I turn around and am southbound, encouraged by a clapping volunteer.

There’s an agreeable absence of metropolitan sounds. I’m cocooned in this calm esplanade and the solitude of running promotes a falling into yourself that’s neither acutely aware of the current slog nor meditative. This morning, running just is.

Gulf St. Vincent is gentle today and its mood washes onto me. Last week we had a rearing surf as a winter storm dumped mounds of brown seaweed. For all their ferocity, these tempests offer natural reassurance and a restoring intimacy.

Returning to the Harold and Cynthia Anderson Reserve I quicken and then cross the finish line. Knowing my time is modest I remember to focus on the act of having completed the run. The story’s narrative heave is often more important than the finale. I’m content.

Clumps of joggers again gather on the clipped lawns, their morning exercise now taken. Like me, some will disperse into satisfying and routine Saturdays. It’s the seventh birthday of West Beach parkrun so there’s cake for all. It’s a robust community.

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Pirate Life Brewery

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Listen. I’m hugely sympathetic to those affected by the potato shortage. I really am. I’ve got Irish ancestry.

But Saturday evening I was tackling my cheeseburger and fries in Pirate Life brewery when I had bad thoughts about my fries. Nobody should experience this. Meanwhile, Claire enjoyed her brussel sprouts. More on these later. Both Claire and the sprouts.

Like so many of you I’m a big fan of chips. More than I should be although I doubt this is a small, exclusive club. Despite the pony-tailed DJ pumping choons, the ambiance convivial and my ale a-tasty, I decided that fries, in this particular case, shoestring fries, are more than a little bit rubbish.

The surface area to actual spud ratio is poor. With an authentic chip, you can and should eat them singularly, but pesky fries require you to snatch them by the handful, like a lesser primate. They make you a greedy-guts and I’m reminded of the cafeteria scene in Animal House when prior to spitting a mouthful of cake over everybody and declaring, ‘I’m a zit, get it?’ Bluto Blutarsky is stared at by Babs Jansen who says, ‘That boy is a P-I-G pig.’

See, fries make us worse. Fries invite self-loathing.

Fries. They just ain’t no good, mama.

I love being taken on a secretive excursion, and despite my occasional affections for Pirate Life’s South Coast Pale Ale, hadn’t visited the source. So, ever mindful, Claire chaperoned me to the Port. With about two dozen beers on tap, choice was difficult, in that bounteous, contemporary way. For no good reason, I thought I deserved a treat.

I got underway with a Mosaic IPA, which was feisty entertainment if somewhat boisterous, weighing in at 7%. As is her ritual, my wife tried a squirt of cider, shook her golden locks and then asked politely for a glass of red.

The brewery’s a lively place and there was a 30th at a nearby table, and lots of unfettered kids scurrying about. Suddenly, our ears twitched like rabbits. Yes, the DJ was playing ‘Africa’ by Toto. But not the version we all know, which inexplicably has had more than a billion and a half plays on Spotify. How can this be?

While I decamped to buy an additional IPA, Claire approached the choon-smith and learnt that the funky version was by the Hackney Colliery Band, a modern British ensemble that’s, ‘inventing the brass band format for the twenty-first century.’ As it’s synonymous with our adolescence, we share some affection for the song however its enduring appeal ultimately escapes us. Yes, the musicianship is impressive, but the lyrics are among the most turgid slop ever imposed upon humans. Try this.

I hear the drums echoing tonight
But she hears only whispers of some quiet conversation
She’s coming in, 12:30 flight

The moonlit wings reflect the stars that guide me towards salvation.

Steaming, heaving nonsense, I hear you say.

I now ask: has anybody really seen stars reflected in the moonlit wings of, say, an Airbus A380? Agreed. No, not even by an aggrieved baggage-handler on a rainy Heathrow night as he drop-kicks your increasingly scuffed case across the tarmac.

In pleasing contrast to the lyrics and the shoestring fries were the aforementioned brussel sprouts. Did they ever really go out of style? When he was about eight, Max described them as ‘balls of leaves’ but either way these oval spheres are excellent, and possibly the new broccolini. Claire ordered a plate of them, and pan-fried and coated with garlic stuff, it was our meal highlight. Each one feels healthy to eat and a single sprout counteracts the harm of a hundred shoestring fries. It’s true. Ask your grandma.

Nearly out the door, we swung by the merch tent which was really an in-brewery shop. Some folks collect spoons or stamps or Nautical Sextant Telescopes, but I like to keep my stubby-holder stocks healthy. So, I left, rubber beer-drinking device in hand.

It’d been a fine hour.

2

Mystery Pub: Brickmakers Arms

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Mine host lent over and set the candle aflame. A small vase of fresh flowers smiled up at us from the table too.

Claire said to the proprietor, ‘Thanks for that. It’s rare to see candles in Adelaide pubs.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed thinking of Fitzroy, Carlton and Collingwood. ‘Melbourne does this well. We could learn a thing or two.’

The innkeeper then hoiked some blue gum into the fire, and we shared our approval of this with him too. What a sunny relationship we were forming with the proximate staff of the former Gaslight Tavern. Each of us now looked our glowing best in the candlelight.

Out on the footpath, the autumn leaves swirled along Chief Street. A couple punters sat in the fading day, nursing their beers. The working week was done for many. We were among this fortunate set.

One of life’s tiny joys is scanning the Friday beer taps, deliberating and finally choosing.

Mystery Pub silently demands some bravery, so I order beyond my usual home lagers. Claire selects an Alpha Box and Dice white from Mclaren Vale. I go local with a hazy ale from Findon’s Shapeshifter Brewery. It’s called Party Shirt. At 5pm on a Friday, I have no beer enemies. I save my disagreeability for the worksite.

The renovations are thoughtful. There’s considered use of timber to offset the white walls and a Scandi theme is clear. Happily, for us, no blonde, steely blue-eyed serial killers are in the house. The candles are burning brightly now.

In a quiet Mystery Pub revolution, I leap up to get us our second and final drink. Claire declares, ‘I’ll get these.’

Immediately, I retort, ‘No. As Mystery Pub host tonight, I think I should sort them.’ In June when I’m the guest I’ll just sit in my chair for the duration. Like Chuck at his coronation but with smaller ears, a reassuring ale, and fewer billions.

I return moments later with bounty. Another Alpha Box and Dice wine for Claire. This time a red while I escort a glass of Tiny Fish Pale Ale to our secluded spot. Both are adequate but not nearly as impressive as the candlelight about which during writing I seem to have developed a curious, unprecedented fascination.

In the Brickmakers (sic) Arms we continue to decant our week.

Leaving, we discuss how lovely it is to visit a pub where you wouldn’t expect to find one. Chief Street is sinking into the dark now.

0

Michelangelo, Da Vinci, and the Delight of Context

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On an ordinary street Claire and I went to a mostly forgettable Milanese church.

We’ve been to many spectacular places of worship in Europe but this one’s façade had less charisma than a suburban supermarket. Italy has a chain of these called Pam. I think this is funny.

Our visit wasn’t even really about the church, Santa Maria delle Grazie, but the nearby refectory.

The Mona Lisa is the star of the Louvre art museum, and the Queen Sofía National Museum Art Centre in Madrid is famed for Picasso’s anti-war satire, Guernica. But these are dedicated galleries, and within them we expect masterpieces.

Increasingly, I’m interested in the context of experiences, and the more unlikely the circumstances, the more compelling. One of the world’s great paintings, Da Vinci’s The Last Supper is on the dining room wall.

These unremarkable circumstances are remarkable.

The story of this magnum opus is as distinctive as the painting itself. Located next door to a medieval kitchen, Da Vinci finished it in about two years. The thinking behind it being on a refectory wall is that the monks would feel a divine connection with this painting of Christ at supper while they, in turn, gobbled their bread and stew. Unsurprisingly, The Last Supper suffered extensively from steam, smoke, and soot. And probably, if truth be told, cabbage odour.

Where the feet of Jesus should be in the painting is now a door, knocked through a few centuries’ ago because, you won’t be surprised to hear, the monks wanted better access to the kitchen. Later, Napoleon used it as a stable. It recently endured a twenty-year restoration.

As he was mastering the use of a single vanishing point our expert guide (she was terrific) told us that Da Vinci hammered a nail into Christ’s temple (ouch, irony!) and radiated string to assist with the perspective.

Apparently, the table at the centre of the painting wouldn’t have actually fitted in the portrayed room at Mount Zion, but there’s significant captivation as Jesus announces his looming betrayal. Da Vinci shows this with each disciple’s face and action a psychological revelation.

Despite the intolerable yelling from fellow visitors, it was extraordinary, and I felt privileged to see it. It speaks to my ignorance, but I was unaware that on the opposite wall is another painting, called the Crucifixion. We weren’t encouraged to view it.

The entire site was nearly destroyed by Allied bombing during WW2 and The Last Supper is conservatively valued at half a billion dollars.

*

On another Italian back street is an art gallery and the beige walls suggest a warehouse. There are fresh smatterings of graffiti by the entrance. We’re in Florence.

Claire booked our Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze tickets months ago and these were so tight that we could only get separate entrance times. Getting lost on our way, we clarified directions with a local and ran, backpacks a-jiggling, to make our 8.45 timeslot.

Got there. Seconds to spare!

Just like the Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan we went through airport-style security at the door and then rushed to the famed exhibit.

The first glimpse is arresting.

Among many ironies is that this version of David is indeed a Goliath. I’m confident that Michelangelo was entirely aware of this when sculpting his subject. Standing over five metres tall it’s inside a roped fence and so it’s impossible to stop beneath the marble colossus and feel fully shadowed.   

Immediately, I’m drawn to the massive hands and feet. David’s head is also immense and each of these, I’d suggest, indicates Michelangelo’s faith in human gifts. Communicated with Renaissance calm and intellect, the artist presents his subject with optimism and awe while reminding us of our potential for creating good.

Of note is the small genitalia which I reckon is emblematic of a modern, evolved masculinity. This is predicated on enlightened thoughtfulness that is freed from narrow constraints of sexual prowess. Michelangelo might be saying that regardless of David’s physical heroics we should look deeper for inspiration and ideals.

Most agree that David is presented in a theatrical moment: just as the youthful warrior has reached a momentous decision to go into battle against his larger foe. The statue weighs over six tonnes but emits a sense of almost celestial light, youthful beauty, and weightlessness.

Claire and I returned later to gaze again upon this mesmerising sculpture before continuing with our Florentine day.

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Three Italian Beers

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Varenna

It’s late afternoon in Lake Como.

Claire and I are sitting on our second-floor balcony and in the cool twilight, we help ourselves to dreamy snatches of the water. As the mist settles, snowy mountain peaks fade into the bluish light of Switzerland.

We listen to our scenery, the breeze, and the folks below.

Birra Moretti’s mustachioed mascot makes my beer instantly recognizable. He’s patriarchal, encouraging in that European way, and timeless. He’s urging me to be my best beer-consuming self. Luigi Moretti launched the brewery in 1857.

Our initial Italian meal was a belated lunch at a bistro on Piazza San Giorgio. We both had variations upon lasagna as, wide-eyed, and happy, we gazed at the cobblestones, the church, and the black scooters, lined up like fast, rebellious smears.

Given this postcardy context how was the beer? Moretti’s a fruity lager; energetic and offering of infectious excitements. Mine is in a cooperative tumbler.

Of course, it was great. How could it not be?

Vernazza

Arriving by train in the Cinque Terre we had to yank our luggage up a cliff around sunset. It was nearly three-hundred uneven and ancient steps, clinging to the rock face.

We struggled past two (American) couples, securely dining and wining in a café, and these both remarked helpfully on how our physical chore appeared as if it, ‘Sucked.’

My philosophical question remains: Is it good to warrant a holiday beer? Are they to be earnt while travelling?

Either way, sitting on our lofty terrace I had a Peroni Red. I can’t recall an unwelcome coastal beer and this one certainly wasn’t.

We also drank in the view of the rolling Mediterranean where to the north the blinking lights were the Cinque Terre’s first village in Monterosso. We’d explore it in a day or so.

The ale is slightly darker than its more famous stablemate, Nastro Azzurro, but is flavoursome and feisty. The brewery was established in 1846 in Vigevano, just south of Milan. Its aroma and palate are fetching.

As we sipped and chatted, we heard the bells ring out from Santa Margherita di Antiochia Church.

Glenelg North

Back home and it’s the Sunday before work. I’ve a near-fatal case of post-holiday dreads.

Dr. Dan prescribes a medicinal excursion to his liquor emporium. A variation on our Mystery Pubs and Mystery Days, I come home with Mystery Drinks. I get beer and on occasion, something tentative and spiritual (alcoholic not holy) for Claire. It’s an opportune distraction.

Pirate Life’s Italiana lager catches my mourning eye. It’s brewed down at the Port, the Napoli of Adelaide, or not.

At 5.2% take caution after a few so you don’t get lippy with Nonna. If you did, I wouldn’t want to be you.

A zesty beer, I found Dean Martin in my glass, and it made me think of zig-zagging home after the opera at La Scala; birdsong by a Lake Como church; scampering along the platform to make our train to Pisa.

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An Italian Arrival

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I am shaving while characters rush in and out. It’s seven in the morning, and I have spent over thirty hours travelling.

Here I am in Milan Airport. In the men’s bathroom/restroom/toilet/euphemism.

Since disembarking all is going well. Through a large window I’ve already seen the jagged and snowy Alps.

A sludgy sea of shuffling people at passport control. I hear someone say, ‘Australians come this way.’ My eyes dart towards the voice and about three minutes later I exit via the non-EU, or third countries lane and charge the world’s biggest baggage carousel. It’s the size and shape of the Monza formula one circuit.

Luggage is dropping onto the belt and shortly after, thud. My bag! And it’s not damaged.

I now brush my teeth, and this feels fantastic too. Rinse, spit, go!

As always, early morning is the best time to land in a new country so the day and your adventure can begin together. While airports can be viewed merely as venues for transition, right now all about me is invested with wonder. Stretching out with golden expectation, our Italian trip’s in front of us.

I remain alert to the terminal’s minor dangers but my surging notion is that strangers are kind. My fears submerge. With the rush of passengers, I sense the richness of universal narratives. How many stories have compelled them to this airport?

I’m enjoying the exhilaration of arrival.

Later tonight, in our Lake Como apartment, the toll for my voyage will be extracted, brutally. When I collapse at dusk, the violence of modern travel will come for me with little mercy. Waking abruptly at 3am I’ll find myself in the bathroom checking the weather back home, just stopping before I open my work email.

But in the terminal my mind buzzes, and I compare everything: the Italian and English languages, the café menu, the manufacturer of the cistern. Look, there’s a bidet! These are enchanted curios in a bold, bright world.

Claire suggested our reunion for Exit 5 of Terminal 2. Given my first hour in Italy had gone well, I’m now over-confident as I tow my case to the meeting spot. See! Easy!

Outside’s brisk in Milano. There’s a stream of pedestrian traffic, and my eye’s especially caught by a white-suited man. He also wears white shoes. I think of Dean Martin. Carrying himself past the forecourt with relaxed confidence I wonder if he’s meeting someone here, too?

To my west is a bus stop and a constant line of vehicles siphons through it. The success of my morning makes me certain that from here Claire will emerge. A dot at first. Then her familiar brisk gait followed by her hair and face, and finally the smile I know so very well. I haven’t seen her since Friday evening. I’m sure she’s on the bus that’s just paused. I peer across the traffic. Where is she?

And then suddenly, Claire’s sunny voice is behind me, coming from the terminal.

‘Hey, you!’

2

Milano parkrun

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I was an island in a lake of hugging and hollering and happy chaos, and the energy was catching.

I didn’t hear it, but Claire later told me a grab from, ‘The Final Countdown’ was blasted as we gathered. Given I was about to undertake the Milano parkrun its 1980’s bombast was probably a welcome supplement to the mise-en-scène.

By the start line was an Italian flag, and I joined the run briefing in English during which laminated maps were shared around. Unlike home there would be no defibrillator.

With a crescendo of noise, we were away! Fittingly, the initial dash was on cobblestones and these then trended to dirt with a high chance of puddles.

European parkrun time is 9am as opposed to the Australian start of 8am, largely I guess because during the northern winter it’s then still dark. Today’s idyllic with an invigorating air. Milano is famed for its windlessness; it’s the anti-Chicago. This pleases me.

Dominating the north of Lombardy’s central city, Park Nord extends over four municipalities. Our Uber out here was a Mercedes Benz Vito; it’s imposing black finish befitting this fashion capital. Milan seems a wealthy place with smartly dressed folks, stylish attractions, and high-end eateries. I’m yet to spy a K-Mart.

Around the back of my first circuit, I see that most Italian of sporting landmarks: a velodrome. It’s all whizzing blurs of lyrca and metal. I’ve seen very few cyclists in the city, probably given the narrow streets are bunged up with buses, cars, and trams. Being collected by an errant Fiat Panda can be nobody’s aspiration.

Moving past the fields of wild grass into the home straight, I jog through a grove of trees. Glancing at my old Swatch, I’m making reasonable time given we’ve both been crook with colds and I’m still shaking off jetlag. Being in Europe during our footy season I’m always a little surprised upon a weekend awakening that it’s half-time at the MCG. That’s an arresting symbol of our planet’s vastness.

One lap done and from the volunteers I hear lively Italian urgings and I’m electrified for these anonymous gestures. And there’s Claire waving, taking photos and calling out, ‘Go, Mickey Randall!’ How great to be unreservedly supported in this Saturday pursuit.

It’s both a blessing and a curse that I know what to expect on my second trip around.

I push on.

Although I’m about as competitive as lettuce there’s a healthy sense of rivalry in parkrun. I try to keep close to a guy in orange but can’t. The Patawalonga run in Glenelg appears to attract a wider variety of participants. Here, they’re all athletic and coolly confident.  

T-shirts are instructive texts and there’s a few about today. I spot a couple geezers in garb advertising Sussex’s Run Wednesdays and a white-bearded fellow with one announcing he competed in a 100k event (or at least paid his entry fee). As it’s bright yellow and obviously declares my Australian citizenship, I’m in my Singapore Sharks footy shirt. Did you know the Sharks host the world’s biggest Auskick programme?

Exhausted, I cross the line and find Claire. I’ve extended myself and am pleased. I’ve really enjoyed the various enthusiasms of the morning, and how these exist beyond language. I remain embarrassingly monolingual.

Fellow competitors help themselves to a complimentary drink that looks like cola. Curiosity urges me to claim one. It’s boiling and black and I wonder if it’s coffee which isn’t what I’d generally take after hard exercise. Sipping hesitantly, I discover it’s a sweet tea. Nearby is a plate of pastries.

Ahh, Italy.

During my run Claire spoke with a volunteer and of course he has a friend running a bar in Adelaide and I love this universal desire to locate connections.

Despite feeling lousy it’s the fifth best time of my brief parkrun career. Today, Milano hosts a compact but classy field with nearly two dozen runners getting around the five-kilometer course in under twenty minutes. I finish mid-field.

We head south through the park to the Metro and the lilac line. Duomo, mid-afternoon gelato, and the Last Supper await.

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Reasons to be Cheerful

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Old Noarlunga Hike

Immersion in nature. It’s profoundly important as both prevention and cure. Late on a recent Sunday Alex and Max accompanied me down to Old Noarlunga where following some detective work we located the hiking trail. A narrow path took us along the river by some ancient gum trees. All during the hike there was a stream of natter. School, basketball, friends, basketball, stuff. With dappled light drenching us we worked hard to climb the steep rise by the pipeline and were rewarded to our west with the silently glistening sea.

Kitchen Confidential

Although I’m not a foodie (my greatest passion is getting my schnitzel off the poor chips) I’ve long been a fan of Anthony Bourdain’s storytelling and crisp, assured language use. Drawing me to his cinematic travelogues his skill in locating the story within the story was always a joy. So, I finally got my hands on his celebrated memoir and will attack it over the next week.

Glenelg Scoreboard

Professional sport increasingly seeks to cannibalise its competition and footy is no exception with the AFL beyond shameless in this. I reckon winter sport should begin in April, and it was Good Friday when I ambled down for the Tigers’ first home game. The sun set just before half-time. The new scoreboard grabbed my focus with its dazzling imagery and was a lighthouse in the oceanic dark. Old scoreboards sometimes attract more affection than deserved and Glenelg’s new screen is a bold addition, especially when we’re spanking the Filth in front.

Winery Picnic

Cheese, olives, chutney, crusty bread. Evil, magnificent, cured meats. A secluded table. Sheltering trees. A frisky cabernet sauvignon. Sunday lunch at Golding.

Lana Del Ray

Just released, (I won’t say dropped like the kids) the ninth album from the New York-born but West Coast resident continues her lush arrangements, engaging vocals and deepening, Hollywood-noir mythology on Did You Know That There’s a Tunnel Under Ocean Blvd. Among many highlights is ‘Let The Light In’ featuring harmonies from Father John Misty and this is a pairing of two terrifically matched voices, equal parts honey, murky sultriness and soaring elegance. It’s a Leonard Cohen nod to forbidden love and as always, the lyrics leave plenty of space for the listener to wander the landscape of broken dreams.

Anniversary

April 10. The deep and joyous value of our wedding anniversary is being rushed back to the time and place when the often-unknowable universe finally consented to my simplest, most profound dream. How great to experience this wonder every year.

Italy

Departing Adelaide, we’ll enjoy Lake Como. Cinque Terre. Pisa. Milan. Florence. The Last Supper. The Statue of David. West End Draught. Opera at La Scala.

6

Sausage Roll Review: Linke’s Bakehouse & Pantry, Nuriootpa

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As a Kapunda kid I had many sausage rolls in the Barossa, but never with any ceremony.

I’m quite sure today’s the first I’ve eaten while sitting down. As a nod to the late Lizzie, I use a knife and fork.

Launching into my plate of tucker, I imagine myself sipping a 2016 Louis Jadot Gevrey-Chambertin while the wait staff hover about all subservient, and if tittering into their hands is any indicator clearly thrilled to be in my lordly presence.

In Nuriootpa for work, I’m at Linke’s on Murray Street. Once just a bakery now it’s a ‘bakehouse & pantry.’ Murray Street is wide and handsome, and it’s down the road from the petite Angas Park pub, or AP, and the cavernous Vine Inn, or Slime Inn as some used to call it with gentle mockery and ultimately, generous affection.

It’s Friday lunchtime.

There’re about six exceedingly effervescent staff behind the counter dealing out the pies and lamingtons and irresistibly fat, evil buns and they’re all a-gallop. At a nearby table, a visiting American is telling some locals about his travels. He sounds Californian. All retirees, they conduct their chat with a relaxed rhythm. Lunch can go for as long as they wish. How lucky?

I’ve a cappuccino. I won’t admit it to anyone, but this new enthusiasm is really about the chocolatey foam and not the beverage. Linke’s do a most tidy one.

Researching for our upcoming Italian trip I learn that it’s impolite to have a cappuccino after 11am. I’ll observe this cultural expectation as I don’t want to be scolded by a wildly gesticulating Milanese barista. Who does?

As the great English restaurant reviewer, Victor Lewis-Smith often (nearly) asked: what made me pleased about my sausage roll?

The size was right. Too small and there’s instant, irrecoverable disappointment. Too big and I’m suspicious because, I’ll bet, the fatal tastelessness is being compensated with bulk. This, of course, is a cynical marketing strategy to make you vapidly pleased, like a breathy Kardashian.

Pastry is tricky. Flaky and dry is bad, as is oiliness. Sausage rolls in contemporary, post-pandemic Australia is a tough gig. Linke’s are fine exponents of this delicate craft.

The first incision of the knife (or tooth) is telling. You don’t want the baked good to collapse at the introduction of pressure, like Port Power, but equally you don’t want the utensil to buckle in your mit at the resistance of a house brick masquerading as food.

This goes well too.

With an underlying hint of pepper in the mince the taste is also impressive. But not too much spice given our local palates aren’t accustomed to unexpected confrontation, especially in the conservative context of a bakery set in a German-settled wine region.

It’d been most tasty.

When I was a boy, this town was hostile, largely because of the football rivalry and I was tainted. Home of the Nuriootpa Tigers, it’s now more kittenish. It’s a gentle and welcoming place.

Later, I drive around the town oval, and through the surrounding caravan park. Across the decades this has been a vivid, telling location. My memories flicker in sepia, and then in colour.

0

Max and I hung out in Aldinga

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Glenelg? Mykonos? Venice Beach?

Nup.

Port Willunga’s my favourite beach on the planet.

Sizeable sets of late-March waves roll in and it’s chilly when the first of these curling walls topples against our legs. The weekend straightens out in front of us. Max and I quickly tolerate the cold but then a rip drags us along the coast. I’m alarmed.

Max says, ‘We’re going north up the beach, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, we are, that’s right Buddy,’ I reply. ‘You’ve got a good sense of direction.’

‘I just sort of knew which way it was.’

Drying off on the dazzlingly white sand, we then set off towards the famed jetty ruins. I wonder how long until these are finally claimed by the wind, the sand and the water.

On the cusp of his thirteenth birthday, I remind Max that we were last by these wooden relics with his brother Alex. It was a few years’ ago on our way back from a Victor Harbor holiday. He recollects.

Plucking our way beneath the chalky cliffs, across the rocks and through the seaweed, we delve into our past. There’s talk of Bear Grylls. We know his documentaries well, used to discuss the narrative formula. Every Tuesday we’d watch one and have a home-barbequed burger.

I feel a pang.

‘Alex likes the ones set in the snow and ice, but I prefer those in jungles,’ Max says.

I propose, ‘Maybe we should watch some again, you know, for old times’ sake?’

Our weekend is about offerings and gentle explorations of our past, and our futures. As suggested by Claire, it’s a rite of passage, and I want Max to feel relaxed and loved. So far, Year 8 has been rough. I’m worried but hope together we can command our boat through the storm.

At the headland we turn around.

*

In the Aldinga pub, we’re perched at a tall table on high stools. It’s teeming with families, but we’re cocooned in a corner. In tribute to Bear we have burgers. A significant occasion, it washes over me like rain.

Back at our apartment we chat in the Balinese hut, all bamboo and blonde light. Max is invested and appreciative. The sky is smeared with the white dashes of screeching cockatoos. The sun’s now sinking, and it’s been a terrific afternoon. I’m thrilled.

My world shrinks to Max while I again try to open up his like a flower, encourage him to see the adult opportunities for travel, for work, for life. It’s both a privilege and a fearsome burden.

*

Sunday morning and we drive onto the wide, flat beach at Silver Sands. A sign demands our speed must be at walking pace and this suits me. I ease down our windows, let in the salty breeze. Invite in the quietening, deep sea.

There’s many joggers and dogs. Cars are sprinkled along the beach. I pull up and turn off the engine. We talk of New York, Paris, Salt Lake City and basketball. Max loves the NBA. Speaks the language fluently. He asks me for my all-time top 5 basketballers.

‘Michael Jordan.’ I think back and rattle them off. ‘Larry Bird. Kareem Abdul- Jabbar. Magic Johnson. Dr. J.’

‘Dr. J,’ Max repeats. He smiles. I do too.

This extends to a moment, a sharing, and we both silently acknowledge the cool of his name. I remember him from when I was Max’s age. A keen student of basketball history, he knows him too. Julius ‘Dr. J’ Erving, was a star for Philadelphia in the 70’s and 80’s.

It’s just a name, but it hangs warmly in the beachy air, and we connect.

*

Within the weekend the heavens present as a comforting character in our story. The gentle blue atmosphere of late summer affirms, and like a wise old priest, encourages our conversations. The beaches, the dark-green vineyards, the twinkling ocean, all seem to be attending to our confessionals.

Packing the car, I’m suddenly awash in a tumble of loss, fear, and happiness. I pause and take a slow breath. Aldinga has been an escape while also a glimpse into the next decade.

I tremble and trust it looks promising.

0

Mystery Pub: The Joiners Arms

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Mystery Pub tonight saw the inclusion of four old friends Mozz and Kath, and Paul and Ali.

As such they’re special guest stars. Just like Jonathan Harris on Lost in Space when he played the outrageous villain Dr Smith. Pleasingly during our time at the pub, nobody is called a ‘bubble-headed booby.’ We all share an ancient Kimba connection. Claire, of course, was a star of the TV show Cartoon Connection.

Yet again, Claire has done a tremendous job in organising Mystery Pub. Here are some, but not all, of this episode’s key decision-making criteria:

  1. Close to my work given I was travelling back from the Barossa
  2. Accessible by public transport for Mozz and Kath who are staying on King William Street
  3. Proximate to the Northern Expressway for Paul and Ali
  4. Near the tram stop for Claire, who works by Light Square
  5. An open and trading pub, unlike the Land of Promise which given its current boarded-up status is particularly unpromising
  6. A front bar free of wandering livestock, given an undisclosed number of our entourage may suffer from capraphobia, or fear of goats
  7. Beer.

Paul is nervous that we might break a number of the rules governing Mystery Pub. He states, anxiously ‘Your one-hour limit rule could be ignored.’

Channelling Meatloaf, I reply, ‘I’ll do anything for love, but I won’t do that.’

Today’s our last opportunity to see Mozz and Kath as they’re going overseas for six months to visit New Jersey (lots of turnpike action), Canada, the UK, Scandinavia, and continental Europe (inexplicably not Wank Mountain in the Bavarian Alps) among other varied destinations. They’re only avoiding Abyssinia, Persia, and the Ottoman Empire as these all, sadly, no longer exist.

Upon arrival I duck out to check the beer garden. It’s a big and functional space entirely devoid of any living plant or vegetable which in my book makes it not a garden but an ode to cement. There is a group at a table and they’re overseen by an odd-shaped and silvery helium balloon and this screams, ‘Private function. Stay away.’

We do.

Inside the pub is warm and charismatic. Exposed bricks, beautiful stain-glassed windows, a range of curious craft beers on tap. A point of difference is their Happy Hour runs from 3 to 5. With mere seconds remaining, we sneak in a couple quick refreshments so as not to embarrass ourselves (spiritually and fiscally) and settle into our table’s compelling Friday rhythm.

Outside it’s Hindmarsh.

The pub appears to the world as modest, reserved, and almost a little shy. Across the road is the soccer stadium where Adelaide United play while it’s also a drama and music hub with the Entertainment Centre, live music mecca The Gov and the always fun Holden Street Theatres all nearby.  

We have known each other for decades but haven’t assembled since our dear, absent friends Annie and Bazz (currently perspiring profusely in Darwin) had their Adelaide retirement party at the Broady on a wintry November afternoon last year.

We used to share tales of footy and golf and cricket and associated late night exploits. Now we provide retirement visions and medical updates (executive summaries only).

Once upon a time this could evolve into a elongated evening. But Paul and Ali are off to a McLaren Vale wedding tomorrow, Mozz and Kath are heading home to sort things ahead of their vast international odyssey, and Claire and I have Escape to the Country obligations. Will that hugely self-pleased couple from Canary Wharf buy a six-bedroom property in Shropshire?

It’s been a lovely, affirming time with friends. We see the very best versions of each other.

4

After we left the pub

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Easing the car to a stop in the garage I say, ‘Right, here we are. Let’s now just have a quick chore frenzy.’ Claire nods or smiles or laughs. Or all three.

We’ve enjoyed an hour at the pub, sometimes The Broady, sometimes not. My favourite time of the week is when we’re home and undertake the tasks necessary prior to relaxing. It’s the transition from workday to weekend.

There’s great comfort in the routine.

Is there a sweeter expression of civic and domestic pride than strolling to your curb, grabbing a red, green or yellow plastic handle, surveying up and down the street, nodding at a distant neighbour, and happily walking your bins into the garage? Does anything signal contentedness and community with such affirming simplicity?

No, of course not.

Setting an industrious and effervescent tone, this gets us off to a bright start. Meanwhile, in her office Claire is dropping off her work basket and dumping the day’s detritus. She’s also disengaging from her professional labour.

I check the letterbox. No friendly cards, but no nasty windows either. Whew.

Our happy transmogrification demands a change of uniform to complete the purge, so I peel off my office attire and pop on a pair of shorts and a polo shirt. It’s what Buddha would do.

Work shoes are slid away, and I consider my thongs. No, instead I get out my volleys, each with the inescapable hole, just by the little toe. What if someone bought a pair of volleys and they didn’t develop these holes? The absence of holes would itself make a psychological hole. Could you bring legal action against Dunlop over their failure to provide this expected longitudinal failure?

Open doors and windows allow the beachy breeze to explore the house, and it’s now time to practise my modest bartending skills. A robust tumbler, an ice cube, brandy and coke. Tumbler is an evocative term conjuring coastal afternoons and picnic race meetings. With careful tuition, Claire has taught me how to prepare this most important beverage. In these matters, I’m a model student. Tink, tink, tink. I give it a stir, as tutored.

Heading to the patio, I light a candle. I’ve also learnt that regardless of weather or time of day, these can lend a gentle and welcoming light to a space. I switch on the water feature and enjoy its faint tintinnabulation as there’s a cascading down and across the pebbles.

Our evening is stretching out.

I then swing open the garage fridge, home to good beer (the real stuff), bad beer (light ale as urged by the authorities) and other assorted love songs. Like a babe grabbing a rattle I grasp a sparkling ale longneck and flip off the top with an ancient rusty opener or church key as called by my old friend Richard. The frosty bottle is delivered to the patio table with Michelin star restaurant aplomb.

Glassware is important here too. I often pick my Southwark mug, Tasmanian cider glass or an old English imperial pint. Variety is key in this although overthinking is avoided.

Both Claire’s brandy and my old-fashioned big bottle speak of a distant time. These seem like post-war drinks, or the tipples of our grandparents or props from the original set of Don’s Party. As Lafayette County, Mississippi’s finest writer William Faulkner claimed, ‘The past is never dead. It’s not even past.’

Our early evening soundtrack must be nostalgic. Something from the easy past that suggests innocence and unprickly escapism. It’s often Hot August Night and Claire’s favourite is the stirring instrumental that opens the album. We agree that ‘Girl You’ll Be a Woman Soon’ has a beautiful melody but creepy lyrics. ‘Play Me’ is another romantic highlight. Inspired by a chat with a colleague, tonight we listen to the Bee Gees’ live record One Night Only.

Then, we sit and talk for an hour or so. It’s my favourite part of the week. Claire asks, ‘So, what are our plans for tomorrow?’

A lone Piping Shrike bobs about on our darkening lawn. Gazing out, I take a moment to consider the possibilities.