Friday lunchtime at the Geelong Yacht Club.

It’s a bright day and there’s optimism everywhere; ideal to begin the summer of Test cricket. The city by Corio Bay’s vibrant and cheerful people stream up and down the waterfront. I’m dining with eight chaps, and we’re all connected by the communal and effervescent Footy Almanac. Today’s lunch is all about conversation: a delightful jumble of 1970’s SANFL, Gough, and the far-flung places we’ve lived from Darwin to Tassie to England.

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I love cricket. I love going to Adelaide Oval and feeling its captivating pull as I cross the Torrens footbridge. I love watching it on TV—especially when Tim Lane’s commenting. But cricket on the car radio is a unique joy. Following the Geelong lunch, I’m driving back to Point Lonsdale, and I poke at the hire car’s screen and get Australia v India on. The first session’s underway, and I’m eight again. Through the speakers flows the crowd noise with its comforting hum, the whip crack of willow on leather, even the aural assurance of the hyperventilating commentators with their, ‘Starc in, bowls… Big noise! There’s a shout…’

It’s as summery as slamming screen doors, fish and chips by the beach, and those ticking nights when it’s still thick and pizza-oven hot at midnight.

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We’re here as Claire’s the Auslan interpreter for the Queenscliff Music Festival (the Auslan). Murray Wiggle and Jeff Wiggle are doing a DJ set. Claire gets a backstage photo and chats with them. Her brother Geoff knows both and decades ago they were all in a band. In the big tent young troubadour Jack Botts is playing his wistful guitar pop, and Murray’s just in front of me with his shoulders like a rangy country footballer. I imagine him somewhere like Angaston pulling in a few casual grabs at centre-half forward. As he takes in the music, there’s a ceaseless trickle of fans and he’s kind to all, smiling for a selfie, offering each a few minutes. It’s lovely to see.

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Saturday morning and I’m in Portarlington for their park run. It’s a quarter to eight and the air is dense and unmoving. Gathering by a tree on a gravel path we’re alongside Port Phillip Bay and just under a hundred of us set off. Ambling along, I peer through the close murk and see the Melbourne CBD, a silhouette of grey and black and imposing quiet. There are dual hills to finish the course, but these are gentler than I’d heard. Making my way back to Point Lonsdale I listen to 3RRR and drive through Indented Head and St. Leonards. Both are daggy—unpretentious and a little outdated—but hugely appealing.

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Watching Claire perform at the festival is a joy given her distinctive skill and focus. It’s mesmerising and humbling for I understand not a single sign. She interprets for CW Stoneking, a Katherine native who adopts a Southern persona complete with Mississippi drawl. He plays hypnotic blues music that could be a century old. Backstage, Claire asked him to explain one of his lyrics, and he replied, ‘I don’t know what it means.’ Sometimes, on stage when speaking between songs, he slips briefly, almost imperceptibly, back into his Territorian accent.

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Other mornings in Point Lonsdale I run along the beach or through town. The town oval hugs the bay, and an underage cricket match is underway. The pitch is Gabba grass. Most of the players are in whites but the batsman’s in jeans. Nostalgia pricks at me as I pass. I also run west past the lighthouse and down onto the endless beach. I don’t usually run on the sand, instead preferring an esplanade but this morning’s forced path’s a revelation. Rather than being by the beach, and a spectator to the surf, I’m a participant. The waves are closer, their roar is louder and the air’s muggier. I’m now converted to sand running, immersed rather than observing, and it feels enlivening—physically and spiritually. Vast cargo ships pull themselves sluggishly in and out of the bay.

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Monday, we zig and zag across the peninsula through towns like Clifton Springs and Wallington. It seems to function like the Fleurieu: a relaxed retreat for the neighbouring city folk. We take our lunch at the Rolling Pin bakery in Ocean Grove. My pie is massive and collapses on my plate, so I collect a knife and fork. Claire’s baked good is more cooperative. A PE teacher tramps in, local primary school polo shirt on, a Cleveland Cavaliers lanyard dangling, and a silver ring of keys jingling in his pocket.

The Bellarine’s an assured, slow sanctuary.