‘I like jazz in this context,’ says Claire. ‘It’s creating a nice atmosphere in here.’ I nod. At HYMN, an upstairs bar on Grenfell Street, a smoky sax slithers above a mid-tempo, New York swagger. I try to pick the artist. Coltrane? Monk? I’m an enthusiast but hold no deep expertise in this genre. I wonder how well music catches the mood of a place. A Beatles song works almost anywhere, anytime — such is their irresistible charm and sparkle. Jazz can be petulant and angular like a prickly dinner guest. But not here, not now. The sax is warmly insulating.
The owner explains how his bar is a former law firm and glancing about the peaceful loft, we take in the stained glass and holy interplay of light and shadow. Distinctive church motifs surround us. All traces of legal smugness and imposing suits are gone. Two or three lone men are dotted about. They sip neat spirits, luxuriate at their tables, and then drift downstairs. A half-full pub never works — it’s better when these are swarming with parties or empty like a desolate street. Both present as tantalisingly intimate. Meanwhile, merchandise is available and beyond shirts and caps are HYMN branded guitar plectrums. Christmas is now sorted.
Claire and I then have a nostalgic, encompassing conversation about a photo we know well. It has become an emblem; though neither of us appear in it, it evokes a moment of almost unbearable intensity. With Pale Ale in hand, I was suddenly misty with grateful memory. Having just returned from a trip to Bali, we were planning a Mediterranean tour next autumn. However, as becomes increasingly clear, life unfolds mostly in our everyday and simple spaces. This is true late on an afternoon when we’re between things: work and home for me, and for Claire an intermission before an interpreting job at Town Hall.
Travelling together in this gilded cocoon, I hope it is another enriched scene we’ll fold into our mutual narrative. In a Friday twilight, HYMN feels tenderly triumphant.
Mystery Pub #58 was at The Archer, in North Adelaide. We enjoyed our time there at a small table by the front door. It’s a monthly event during which Claire and I happily immerse ourselves in ourselves while about us strangers come and go. We had hot chips.
Dadaism is an avant-garde intellectual movement. It began around the time of the First World War. Although not at first an art movement, it did influence art greatly for a time and Salvador Dali was a follower as was Samuel Beckett.
Buckethead is an American guitarist and multi-instrumentalist. He grew up near Disneyland. In 2011, Buckethead started releasing albums in the Pikes series, mini-albums usually around thirty minutes in length. He has released 655 Pike albums, 175 of which are live albums.
The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) is the world’s largest and highest-energy particle accelerator. It was built by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) between 1998 and 2008. It lies in a tunnel 27 kilometres in circumference and as deep as 175 metres beneath the France–Switzerland border near Geneva.
Pulsing with purpose. Chirps off-stage. Little eruptions of colour, of movement. Bars and secret nooks and tiny eateries.
It and Leigh Street run off Hindley Street and these evolving clusters also show Adelaide’s bold new face. Not just the ever-sprouting steel and glass towers or modern bowl of the cricket ground. The fizz is affirming.
Claire instructed me kindly to ‘walk down the street’ — and I did, trusting her logistics. Stepping along the gray pedestrian lane, a voice called out to me. I know this better than a Beatles’ song.
The sky stretches upward as it can in late August, promising rebirth. It’s crisp — pyramidal heaters guard the doorway.
I’ve been summoned to a bar called Bckyrd. I gather wine and beer. We sit. It’s the bubble to which I’ve pinned my week — Claire’s hand warm like a winery fireplace.
As a linguistic device, Bckyrd appeals to me. It’s an example of consonantal abbreviation and is a marketing tool. Think of Tumblr, Flckr, or the Primal Scream album, XTRMNTR. Also known as disemvoweling (Freddy Krueger areas) or graphological deviation (worrying if suggested by your proctologist). Drop one of these terms into the chat when you’re next at the footy club.
Fairy lights above. Open sky. Three levels of Bckyrd, but we stay grounded. Can a bckyrd really have three stories?
Exchanging thoughts, little prayers to each other. Conversation like Sunday tennis — parabolic lobs, wayward shots, long rallies.
It’s a heartening hour. Tonight I’m Mcky Rndll. Vowels gone. Age gone. Almost.
Friday afternoon and we’re strolling through the heart of the city — on the edge of the weekend, the edge of gentle possibility, and the edge of restoration.
Claire and I pass the infinitely charismatic Malls Balls and enter Rundle Street before making a sharp left at, but not into, the Exeter.
Claiming a corner booth, I glance outside and consider the Elephant is that rarest of boozers — it’s not on a street but a pedestrian lane. In contrast to my previous visit in July of 1997, it’s now bright and airy as opposed to somber and gloomy, presumably in former imitation of a Tottenham tavern.
That was just prior to the Ashes when Mark Taylor and his team thrashed England, again. Back then a group of Kapunda chaps engaged in a Wednesday ritual called Schnitzel Club during which we visited over one hundred and fifty pubs.
At that point, the England cricket team was sponsored by Tetley’s Bitter Beer and as a British boozer, the Elephant had it on tap. To heighten the pre-Ashes anticipation, we ordered one each.
How was it?
It was tepid like Tibooburra tap water and stank (tasted is too generous a verb) of late-capitalism collapse, murky Yorkshire moors and Thatcherite despair. It remains the worst beverage I’ve ever put in my (chiefly) undeserving gob.
Tonight, gladly, I’ve the immeasurably superior Coopers Pale Ale and my imperial pint is only $9. Claire has a white wine. We discuss the usual suspects — work, family and how Escape to the Country might later unfold (with the scarcely disguised disappointment of the house hunters, the host, or most likely, both).
There’s a lively (non-suit) crowd in and the atmosphere’s propulsive. A DJ is on the decks and doing a fine job. He plays an underappreciated track by The Beatles in ‘The Night Before’ before spinning Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again’ with its decidedly cinematic opening and Arabesque atmospherics
In the mornin’ you go gunnin’ for the man who stole your water
And you fire till he is done in, but they catch you at the border
Fireball Fridays have arrived, so Claire buys one (it may have been a double, Your Honour) with a squelch of ginger beer. It’s whisky with hot, spicy cinnamon and accordingly, the late afternoon sun bends in through the ample windows. It’s an immediate hit.
Our Mystery Pub fare (ye olde fayre) is sausage rolls with fennel, and arancini balls. The plates come with three items, so having had one of each we agree to divide the remainder. Claire says, ‘Which one would you like?’ and I reply, ‘I think you know.’
And she does.
Concluding our second cups, we press out into the sparkling evening. Our weekend’s underway.
She was one in a million So there’s five more just in New South Wales
This is from the song, ‘Up Against the Wall’ by The Whitlams and stick with me as I connect it arithmetically, if not desperately, to The Hotel Royal in the Adelaide suburb of Torrensville. On Henley Beach Road, of all places.
So, nationwide, how many Royal Hotels are there?
As Deane Hutton used to say on The Curiosity Show, ‘I’m glad you asked’ and I can tell you in Australia there’s roughly 240. In the 19th century even Bendigo had four such pubs: Royal Duke, the Royal George, The Royal and the Royal Mail which made bewildering the generalised if earnest invitation, ‘Let’s meet at the Royal.’ Especially if all communication was by telegram.
On this 26-degree winter’s afternoon (weather both welcome and existentially troubling) Claire and I navigate through this renovated pub to the Back Pocket sports bar. The roof’s open, there’s chirpy folk about, and a girl’s strumming a guitar and applying herself to some Friday tunes.
Having secured our corner table, I set off bravely to buy booze and returned in minor triumph with a Sauvignon Blanc (never to be described on this website as Savvy B. Oops, failed.) and one of my preferred occasion beers, a Stone and Wood Pacific Ale. However, while at the bar I had this conversation.
Me: I’m unsure what beer to buy.
Barkeep: Hahn Super Dry is only $9.
Me: It’d still be over-priced if it was a dollar.
Barkeep: Oh.
Pleasingly, our chosen drinks were comforting if unspectacular. Festooned across the walls on the TV screens, Fox Footy talking heads ‘provided’ pre-game ‘content.’ Mercifully, the sound was on mute.
On the ceiling were some electrical appliances which rank highly for me. Yes, I know, the accurately and funnily named, Big Ass Fans. While these were still, it was of considerable comfort to see them sitting above us with quiet majesty. Next time you’re at the Adelaide Oval (or in The Hotel Royal) check them out for these are truly Big Ass Fans.
With, ‘I was tired of my lady’ the singer then played ‘Escape (The Pina Colada Song)’ which despite its depiction of a largely grim marital situation, I always find amusing. I do enjoy some aural pub nostalgia, and this ranks highly on my list of 1970’s one-hit wonders.
I’m not much into health food and I’m not into champagne so it was timely that our plate of wedges then appeared. Like that first opening of your motel room door, the delightful arrival of food’s one of hospitality’s petite joys.
I tried to order the wedges (Wedges? We don’t need no stinkin’ wedges!) using a QR code but our table number wasn’t included so I had to walk upwards of seven metres to the inside bar and place the order by actually speaking to the barkeep. I thought of sending a telegram but this wasn’t on the app. No-one was harmed and you’ll be relieved to learn, I did recover. Can’t life in 2024 be tricky?
They were, I’m thrilled to report, most succulent spud segments.
The bacchanalia continued with Claire then buying me a second beer and an espresso martini for her kindly self. Our corner table now resembled Caligula’s palace on a most raucous Thursday (well, not entirely). What an hour we were having!
With that twilight moment arriving when the afternoon folk depart and the dinner crowd’s still in transit, we took our leave. Mystery Pub was done for August.
We had things to do, and in front of Escape to the Country with its reception rooms and chickens and ruddy-cheeked village lifestyle, I was scheduled to take my obligatory Friday nap.
At the pub’s posterior is a tiny beer garden with capacity for a dozen. Its wall is festooned by a black outline painting, intriguingly of the hotel itself. This seems redundant marketing. Surely, if you’re clasping a refreshment in a shady nook, you don’t need to look at a visual rendition of the pub, to entice you to swing by that very venue. You’re already sorta sold. While Claire’s buying our second and ultimate round, I peer at this meta-painting, zeroing in on the beer garden and try to find the artwork on the wall.
Tradition demands when in an Empire-themed North Adelaide boozer for Mystery Pub I’ve a Heineken. In 2021 I commenced this at the Kentish, Mystery Pub #9. I insist that Heineken is European VB, but without the sophistication, presence, and contextual glamour. Claire arks, ‘Why do you buy this?’ Thinking deeply about her question, I contemplate my life’s story, good and varied fortune, and not inconsiderable world travel before declaring, ‘I dunno.’
An older couple’s in the courtyard. Cautious and tentative with each other, Claire wonders if they’re on a date. Hang on, the man’s on his phone while she patiently waits, her face poised between a smile and a frown. There’s significant physical and, it would seem, interpersonal distance between them. We speculate again: date or comfortable couple? He’s finished texting and now they’re talking again and finally, she’s smiling.
In the corridor by the front bar hangs a framed print of the London Underground map. I love maps and this is the best. It’s even more evocative of the British capital than a Monopoly board. While the Friday cluster goes to and from, I drink in the details. The Tube stops are splendidly poetic and offer complete, expressive itineraries. St John’s Wood. Alight here for Harrods, Lords Cricket Ground, and Abbey Road Studios and its pedestrian crossing. And then there’s Waterloo. Hop off for a promenade along the Thames, ride on the London Eye or visit to the Dali Universe.
North Adelaide’s a superb suburb of opulent mansions and the front bar is today colonised by a boisterous, self-important consortium of suits. We squash past. An easy guess is they’re legal eagles whose long lunch is elongating. We note one of this throng untimely begripped by chardonnay. She’s making abundant but thus far utterly unsuccessful advances towards a colleague. His uninterest is apparent. Tonight, there’ll be tears and also likely Monday in the office.
Earlier, we visited a Light Square gallery where Claire met the artist and comedian Sam Kissajukian as she’s soon interpreting at his exhibition. Meanwhile, I wandered around, examining and reading the painting’s narratives. One mentioned liminality, which means, among other things, the state, place, or condition of transition. Later in the beer garden liminality applied to us as in our evening culinary evolution, we contemplated pub foods and then surrendered to a blissful bowl of wedges.
We spoke of their initial popularity, ensuing fall from grace, and their recent and happy reappearance in taverns just like The British. Despite this perpetual flux, the sour cream and chilli sauce work in humble tandem.
Stepping through the hotel lobby onto Hindley Street, I then creak into a trot. The stained footpath looks like a tangle of Rorschach inkblot tests. It’s Sunday morning.
Adelaide’s most notorious street is freshly circumspect after another torrid evening and moving east, I pass a café of breakfasters demolishing their eggs and bacon, their arms pumping up and down like fiddlers’ elbows. At King William Street the pedestrian lights blink to green so over I shuffle.
Until now, I’ve never run through Rundle Mall, and its reddish-brown pavers. It’s wet this morning so I’m cautious and wish to avoid splaying myself outside of Lush for the satisfaction of shoppers seeking locally-sourced, preservative-free stinky stuff.
Reaching Gawler Place, Nova FM is promoting this week’s tennis at Memorial Drive. A good-natured queue snakes across my path, Dads and kids spinning the chocolate wheel for tickets or an icy cold can of coke, assuming this remains the base metric for radio station giveaways.
Glancing south I see the Mall’s newest resident: a pigeon. Or rather a two-metre reflective metal sculpture of one. It’s curiously compelling and I could be in The Land of The Giants. The sculptor says, ‘I see pigeons as proud flaneurs (loafers), promenading through our leisure and retail precincts. They are the quiet witnesses of our day-to-day activities in the city, our observers from day through to night.’
I then note a store called Glue. That’s intriguing but why not call it Clag? That’s a word which is always funny, especially when you use it to secretly stick shut the pages of your Grade 3 friend’s exercise book, or their copy of Let’s Make English Live Die.
The Malls Balls appear in their enigmatic majesty. Fashioned by Bert Flugleman, they’re the nation’s most iconic pair of balls. I’ll leave it to you to insert a joke of your choosing.
With another green light I scamper over Pulteney Street to Rundle Street before passing the distinctive green exterior of Adelaide’s finest pub, the Exeter Hotel. Inside it’s always the 90’s and our nation’s best wine writer, Philip White, is by the bar. Straining my ears, I’m disillusioned to not catch gliding up from the beer garden some ghostly wafts of Nirvana.
Taking coffee on the footpath are a clot of Sunday suits while over the road a rotund woman of Caribbean appearance is urging us all to, ‘Repent, repent.’ She’s sure our timeframe is only forty days. ‘Repent, repent’ she repeats. I best get on with it.
Over East Terrace sits the Garden of Unearthly Delights, the focus of the Fringe. Now it’s lush-green and empty. Next month it’ll be buzzing, and any surviving grass will be brown. To my right is Rymil Park, annual host of Harvest Rock. Again, it’s morning mass still. How these micro-cities appear and disappear! Despite their fleetingness, they shape our city in enduring ways.
I turn left by the brewery apartments and am halfway through my run. It’s both astonished discovery and a comforting repetition. The O-Bahn tunnel runs beneath me. Last week with Claire I first rocketed the twelve kilometres to Tea Tree Plaza on its clever, Germanic bus.
Drizzle smears the sky as the National Wine Centre swims into view. It appears as a Noah’s Arc for plonk. When those antediluvian rains came what if the 600-year-old skipper had to usher onto his boat two bottles of every wine varietal? Sorry, Grange, back down the ramp for you as we’ve already got some shiraz.
We know well our CBD, but there is something magical about staying in the city that sprinkles enchantment over the recognisable buildings and boulevards. I’m now on North Terrace by the Botanic Hotel. After 4th year English between 4 and 8 on Mondays my old friend JB and I would drive to the Bot while I would soothingly play her Bob Dylan cassettes. Sorry, JB.
I peer into Ayers House trying to recall how many wedding receptions I’ve been to there. I can’t and then above me stretches Adelaide’s tallest building, the Frome Central Tower One. Not tall by global measures but the skyscraper’s emblematic of Adelaide’s revitalised confidence. Claire and I went up there recently and gazed out over the eastern suburbs, spotting landmarks. Ah, there’s Norwood Oval!
I pass 2KW which is a roof-top bar. Are these elevated boozers the new Irish pub? Will we tire of these too? I often try to look at our city as might an overseas tourist. What would I think?
A compact, fetching metropolis, without the glamour of Sydney harbour or geographic clout of Brisbane’s river, Adelaide’s quiet beauty and ease of lifestyle would progressively reveal themselves. I’d be impressed by North Terrace’s elegant institutions and the Torrens and Adelaide Oval precinct. If I wandered in on for a beer, I’d love the Exeter and its eccentricity.
I ease up Bank Street and, in the hotel, click open the door to our twelfth-floor room.
Claire and I share a monthly tradition in which one takes the other to a secret pub for a Friday hour. But Mystery Pub has a less frequent and more leisurely sibling we call Mystery Date.
Saturday was my turn to be indulged.
Some loathe surprise but I love to bask in the underlying kindness. Parking the car at Light Square I’m then on foot and chaperoned through our handsome city. The clouds made a low, grey ceiling and the streets were emptyish. Claire wondered if the subdued, barren landscape were still plagued by the pandemic.
North Terrace is an elegant boulevard befitting Paris or Madrid and as we scurried past the casino, art gallery and assorted statues of older men, less-old men and dead men on horseback I was curious about our first stop.
Our Footy, Our People, Our Stories was an invitation to drift back gently to my childhood. The SANFL exhibition features photos and sound archives and film footage. We watched the highlights of Glenelg’s 1986 triumph and then saw Port Adelaide win the 1988 flag, the first of nine premierships in about a decade. I understood Macbeth’s despondency upon seeing that Banquo’s offspring would reign forever when he mutters in disgust, ‘Will the line stretch out until the crack of doom?’
How great to then pause in the Library Café and peer out across the wet courtyard and admire the museum and meditate upon the joyous escapism these majestic buildings provided us when we were kids. They still do.
After some sneaky misdirection and circuitous driving to preserve the mystery Claire pulled up on Magill Road. Drifting east and in and out of some antiques stores we also gazed in the windows of boutiques and restaurants and speculated upon their offerings. We chatted constantly and made connections to our surroundings, and each other.
Wolfie’s Records occupies an entire cottage and sells vinyl, vintage clothing and used turntables. In a small room Claire and I flicked through the racks of albums and here’s a snippet of our conversation-
C- Rod Stewart. Yuk.
M- Here’s a Jackson Browne record I’ve been after.
C- Great. I like him too.
M- Phil Collins. One word- why?
C- Oh, God. Dr. Hook!
M- No, we already have the Sherbet Collection.
C- Ripper ’77?
M- Has the entire country flogged off their LRB collection?
And then in another cottage crowded with audiophiles we repeated the process a few doors up at Big Star Records. It was a lovely, diverting hour and I was keen to play my new/used $10 copy of Running on Empty. Over a warming shiraz later that night it would teleport me back to Kapunda and Year 11 when I understood little of it but tried to imagine its palm-treed Californian world.
Having gifted me an afternoon of footy and music, with her unparalleled kindness my wife then drove me through Stepney’s narrow streets to the Little Bang Brewery at which she’d made a reservation for two.
It was bursting with good fortune and a thrumming din. A sign announced a party that had assembled for ‘Mitch’s 30th.’ With Pinto Gris and IPA refreshments aboard we decamped to our cosy balcony space and surveyed the steel beer vats.
Suitable menu items were selected and we dissected our excursion and considered the evening. Identifying Mitch we note that his wife appeared to be about 8 and 3/4 months pregnant so we silently wished them joy and patience from our lofty location.
The fare was fine and as always I enjoyed my beery excursion into novelty. Steering through the mid-winter dusk and thrilling despairing at the radio’s description of Port losing, I contemplated the spring edition of Mystery Date which I’d curate for Claire.
Quick! There’s only 113 shopping days until Christmas. Let’s make a list. Let’s all watch Love Actually every day between now and then! Let’s eat some rambutans. Let’s write a letter to every winner of Eurovision. Let’s write a poem as if we were a cat. Let’s pretend P!nk is good.
Here’s some photos I took in August.
We love Onkaparinga and ventured down into the gorge. This West Beach sand graffiti is both innocent and menacing. It’s a symbol of modern life. Or just a picture done one Sunday morning by someone with a stick.Mystery Pub was at the Historian. How curious that the wall-art depicts people in a pub. Post-modernism, dudes.Remember that episode of Bear Grylls’ Man v Wild when he makes camp in the Barossa and survives only on mettwurst and big Shiraz?At the Broady Claire silently recreated her favourite mime. More post-modernism.Edging the lawn is an endless and futile attempt to control one’s inner and outer worlds.
Happy with our city car park. Number 157 would’ve been a psychological and logistical nightmare.
Like the chorus of The Knack’s solitary 1979 hit “My Sharona” July was a rollicking treat as the following photographic record will attempt to show.
It was cold, but if we’d Icelandic guests I’m sure I’d have gotten up in the mornings and found them on the back lawn, sunbathing and sipping a drink through a curly novelty straw while playing Bjork on an old ghetto-blaster they’d found in my shed next to the mower and by the skimming shovel I bought at the Cleve Field Days.
A poet once described jetties as being “umbilical cords” to our better selves. They’re also freezing in winter. Jetties, not the cords.While on our bi-annual Carrackalinga escape we popped in at Forktree Brewery. One reviewer labelled it, “beery.” On our annual city trip we went to the museum, home of the Giant Squid. Alas, no accompanying Giant Chips.The city trip began at the Tree Climb and this involved climbing trees.July’s Mystery Pub was the Lady Burra and there were candles. NB- Claire suggests the Apple Cider could drop a horse. Caution urged!This shark swallow you whole! Lockdown required a fire and a Southward mug (c. 1992) of Sparkling Ale (c. 2021)
And so, the year rushes on. I pause to consider and be still.
Benjamin on Franklin is a fine city pubI was forced to eat this like a hostageGlenelg North esplanade, Saturday eveningEverybody, have you heard?Sibling settingWindow Boo!
It’s instructive, every now and again, to enjoy some sunny elevation. Not so much that you become disconnected from the good earth and its human endeavours, but just enough.
There’s a glorious, painterly aspect and my canvas bursts with sun and sky and sea. I look down the fairway, across the seventh green to the ocean and then to Brighton jetty with its abrupt pier and somewhat sinister telecommunications tower pushing upwards to transmit the city’s texts and calls and photos, and finally off towards the middle distance of the emboldened Glenelg skyline, behind which sits our modest bungalow.
I’m at Marion Golf Course on a bright Wednesday morning strolling the primary school cross-country track that Alex and a host of unknown competitors will soon tackle. Much of the running circuit is out-of-bounds for the golfers, although probably well explored by high-handicapped hackers like me whose Hot Dot is drawn to the fierce wilderness like a goat to the roof of an abandoned car.
Later, I’m by a green with the loose knot of our boys and a tall, kindly grandfather who offers grandfatherly pre-race wisdom.
“Just do your best.”
“Where you finish is irrelevant.”
“The main thing is to enjoy yourself.”
You can imagine my surprise when he then channelled Walter from The Big Lebowski and barked:
“Dude, this is a league game, this determines who enters the next round robin. Am I wrong? Am I wrong?”
Actually, I just made this bit up, but enjoyed the generosity of his encouragement, and hoped the boys, now squirming with energy and anxiety, did too. We were, for that moment, a little community. It was lovely.
About three dozen boys from half a dozen schools strained across the line, gawping at the official’s earnest, controlling remarks.
“Don’t sneak over or there’ll be a false start.”
“When you hear the Robin Hood horn, go!”
Alex was mid-line, tall and tense. On his left was a small lad who was sporting that most ridiculous of hair sculptures, the man-bun. Oh, dear.
A minute or two in and a number had already surrendered to their personal galaxy of defeat and were walking, some distraught and slump-shouldered, while others, without an outward care, were happy to be out of school, and in the perky, breezy, coastal morning.
Running, of course, is the original and most pure of sporting pursuits. There’s no ball, or inferior teammates: just you, your legs and a relentless, unyielding terrain. I reminded myself that this is a gruelling event, especially for a ten year old, and requires uncommon resilience. How many young kids really want to run long distance?
On his final lap Alex emerged from the hilly scrub, exhausted, but still running. And while he’d finish mid-field it was his first cross-country race, and he showed impressive grit. I hoped that this was a metaphor for his inner character and a likely predictor for how he’d face his future. Who could tell? At that point, I was proud.
In the car on the way back to school I offered him an apple, but he was busy with a bucket of orangey sports drink. He didn’t even mind that the radio was on Triple J.
“Dad,” he noted, “You’ll have to run faster when we go to the beach. If you were out there today, you’d come last.”
“I reckon you’re right.”
“I’m gonna train 355 times before next year’s race. So I can do better.”
Would he be an Olympian? Possibly not. Had we handed him the key to an active, participatory life? I hoped so.
From our elevated spot we drove down to the flat and into the rest of the day.
This week the Footy Almanac sought opinion on our favourite pubs. I instantly penned a digital love letter to some cracking watering holes. How could I refuse?
Ye Olde Fighting Cocks- St Albans, Hertfordshire
England’s oldest and most charismatic boozer. Ceiling so low it made me feel like a centre half-forward when I walked in, and most certainly as I left. We lived about a Par 4 away, and invested some time there on weekends. When we returned in 2014 it was the only pub in town we visited twice with Alex and Max.
The Magpie and Stump- Mintaro, Clare Valley
Gum trees and vineyards; idyllic beer garden. No aural pollution from within or without, just birdsong. Happily by its bar on a rainy Sunday morning before the SANFL grand final I first heard a publican say, “Another cup of tea, Vicar?” which amuses me more than it should.
Prince of Wales- Kapunda, South Australia
Hometown favourite. Colossal former mine host. When I lived five hours away in Kimba, and would visit, he’d greet me with, “Hello, West Coast smack-head.” I knew then that he missed me. Also home of spoofy.
The Kings Inn- Mousehole, Cornwall
Redolent of pirates and rum, romance and treasure. Of course, it’s pronounced Moz-all.
The Exeter- Rundle Street, Adelaide
Eclectic perfection. Once, this happened: Dawn’s closer than dusk. Only Nick and I remain, our Doc Martins moored to the floorboards. He’s from a farm in Shea-Oak Log. We met in school. Years ago, we saw the Rolling Stones at Footy Park.
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Honourable mentions
The Goat- St Albans, Hertfordshire
The Taminga- Clare
All Nations- Richmond (frequently home to Mick Molloy and Bill Hunter, drinking in concert)
Greenock Tavern- Barossa Valley (mine host Norton, and then Mick)
Lemon Tree- Carlton (sadly now gone; snuck in there when in Melbourne during my mulleted 1980’s)
Seacliff Hotel- Adelaide
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What’s your top battle-cruiser?
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The original Footy Almanac post is worth a look and you can find it, and other great stuff here-
This story is from the change of millennium when old mate Bob and I used to run early mornings along the Glenelg South esplanade. There’s surprising stuff happening by the beach at dawn.
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It is like facing up to an appointment with the dentist. You know that it is going to hurt, that you will make some alarming gurgling sounds and that when it is finished, you will try, with ample humiliation, to spit.
Friday. Dawn. Moseley Square. I twist and fold in a feeble attempt to prepare. Peering into the dark space of the Grand’s Pier and Pines bar, I see a lone cleaner vacuuming away the last scraps of yesterday’s conversation. “Let’s do this,” urges Bob- my accomplice.
With a beep my stopwatch is blinking and running and so are we!
At 6am the Esplanade is two babbling streams of people and dogs: one flowing toward Brighton and the other; lazily at the Patawalonga. We surge southward and a dribbling hound lumbers into my lane and then across to a yawning pine. He autographs it with the shamelessness of a footballer on an end-of-season trip.
On the horizon a tanker drags itself noiselessly toward the refinery. The breeze is crisp. A lanky teenager shuffles plastic tables outside the Broadway café, his black beanie pulled so low that some could suspect him of arranging a bank robbery for mid-morning. I spot a Chupa-chup poking jauntily from his jaw and relax, pleased that he is unlikely to feature on tonight’s TV news. He nods, “G’day boys.” We nod back.
Knots of chatty walkers drink up the seaside zest and provide welcome entertainment. It’s like spinning a radio dial across endless talkback stations- and not without intrigue. A Reality-TV producer (still in plague numbers) could comfortably fashion a dozen gripping episodes from the random snippets we steal each morning. Ambling into Somerton Park I catch:
“…but you’ll never guess,” (an elderly gent to his grandson) “he made the putt!”
“I told Doreen that there-is-NO-WAY-I’m-going.”
“So, do you think his wife knows?”
And a boisterous woman in a pink tracksuit gives her arteries some extra traffic by broadcasting, “and that bloody plumber still wanted to charge me!”
My stopwatch offers no quirky grabs. It only rudely demands acceleration. The yacht club sails toward us. Finally halfway, we anchor and embrace our minute’s rest. “A visit to the dentist’s is less painful,” I splutter, hands on hips- hungry for air.
Bob wheezes, “At least you get plenty of oxygen in the chair.” His hair is stuck firm to his head. We devour the sixty seconds, then turn, resolved, homeward bound. The wind, previously an ally, is now aggressive. I immediately feel I’m towing an old wooden bar fridge. An old wooden bar fridge bulging with brown rows of Coopers Stout.
The Esplanade’s skyline changes constantly. Majestic villas bravely protest the spread of Tuscan packing crates. A developer’s billboard stands loud among the concrete and the mesh of a building site. “Hurry! Only ONE left,” it screams impatiently.
“Now that’s optimism,” snorts Bob. This anorexic block is apparently destined to feature all of two yellow townhouses.
A cheery clot of ruddy sixty-somethings is caught by their chain of cars on a rise. T-shirts cling and drip and they chat brightly in the golden light of the sunrise as only the retired can. A champagne cork, sorry- Australian Sparkling Wine cork cuts an arc across the footpath like a failed firework. Each gent tips a crystal flute into which the hissing fizz is energetically spilled. “What’s the occasion boys?” I ask.
“Friday,” celebrates one of this chirpy clan as he hoists his breakfast drink. A gesture of sweaty fellowship.
“Amen,” I return.
“That will be us in thirty years Mickey,” puffs Bob.
“The cheapest champagne will be a hundred bucks a bottle by then.”
“Plus twenty five per cent GST.” But Bob is given to political alarm.
Pushing on towards the Broadway, we abandon our role models to their refreshments and their broad, leisurely days.
The stopwatch sternly announces that a scant two minutes stand between us and our best time of the summer. The Grand’s sandcastle shapes loom and I try to push myself quicker. “No,” my legs scream. I know deep in my soul that a root canal treatment is better than this.
“Listen legs,” I assert, “do as you are told. And stop talking. You can’t speak. This is not a Douglas Adams’ novel!”
Our finishing line (in many senses of the phrase) swims into happy view. I glance at my now completely despised watch. The Town Hall clock frowns down at us like a disappointed Senior Colts football coach. Again I spy the wandering hound, eagerly leaving his name on a sullen lamppost.
Swerving around some swaying walkers gobbles critical seconds.
“Eleven dollars for O-Rings! What’s the hell is an O-Ring?”
It’s the pink tracksuit, still expounding on the Secret Horrors of Dishwasher Repairs.
We make a desperate, final lunge- and are outside our target time. It was, however, another vigorous run and my pounding pulse is electric and exhilarating. We savour our slow cool down on the bumpy lawn that separates the Norfolk Island Pines from the sloping sands. After, easing along the veranda of the Grand, Bob inquires, “See you in here for a beer tonight?”
“Magnificent idea,” I agree.
Yes, it is the weekend. The glorious escape. Promise and anticipation.
mickeytales 