Tag Archives: Greenock

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Our Annual Pilgrimage to the Greenock Pub

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Each of us studies the lunch menu like it’s a sacred text, applies some unnecessary critical thinking, and in succession — as anticipated — orders a schnitzel. It’s a collective declaration of mateship, and an acknowledgement of being deep into our sixth decade. Growing up in Kapunda, we’ve a lengthy and easy friendship.

Outside’s blustery but we’re in the pub’s cosiness.

With the dining room’s blazing fireplace, pot belly stove in the front bar, and rib-ticklers (for her pleasure) soliciting purchase in the toilet’s vending machines ($2 each) there’s still much that appeals. Happy groups are dotted about the tables amidst a humming Thursday ambience.

In a world hurried by notifications, noise, and busyness, the Greenock pub resists performative velocity. Storytelling is our afternoon’s purpose and theme, and we’re now less about bedlam and more about meaning.

Chris (Rohde) tells us of his recent trip to Europe and Berlin, of steins and asparagus, and staying a drop-punt from Checkpoint Charlie. Of Copenhagen and the Tivoli Gardens. We also hear more about Chris and Letitia Hayward’s golfing and post-golfing explorations of Ireland, Scotland and London. All described as, ‘magnificent.’  

A photo shoot’s happening in the neighbouring anteroom, and I spy etched glassware filled with wine the colour of ox blood, arranged in a pretty tableau. A silver reflecting umbrella illuminates the human and vino talent, and I nod into my ale at the prospect of a glossy double-page spread. It’s as deserving as any pub. I wonder if there’s a magazine in Germany called Schnitzels Monthly.

A log shifts in the fireplace, and there’s a scrape of cutlery. Easing my chair back, and with our beer rhythm wordlessly established, I fetch another pint of Coopers Draught for Lukey and a Pirate Life for me.

Chris (Hayward) continues his animated observations. ‘We found a great pub in Soho, and I thought that’d be our local for the week. But then we came across another that was even better!’

Our schnitzels arrive and these, too, are magnificent. Lukey says, ‘Good that everyone has a schnitzel. About time you all got with the programme.’ Pepper gravy sweetness wafts through the snug air along with the hot comfort of chips and steamed broccoli. These hearty plates — though probably not us — could star in the magazine shoot.

Talk accelerates to footy and the upcoming Kapunda Bombers premiership reunions. Teams from 1965, 1985, and 2005 will gather in the club. With this comes the mandatory story of Lukey’s stratospheric hanger in the 1985 grand final. It was a colossal mark but the sole VHS tape of the game is lost. I can see the back-slapping, and hear the bellowing laughter erupting above the din of the Dutton Park clubrooms. That the 2025 Bombers are struggling won’t matter one bit.

We consider relocating to the front bar but linger, preferring the stillness. I love how the Greenock pub is humbly and wilfully unrenovated. In middle life, competition yields to communion — and today and annually for us, this is a chapel. It hosts our companionship and remains a landscape for thought and gratitude.

This annual lunch is where we reconnect with younger versions of ourselves, even as we sit with our shifting adult responsibilities. It’s also a place to remember who we were — teenagers piling into dusty Holdens blasting Midnight Oil —   and to marvel at how this whole scrappy, beautiful mess is turning out.

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A Butcher of Victorville Pale Ale at the Greenock Brewers

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It was a perfect half hour.

We strolled in, exchanged greetings with mine hosts and were offered a beer. It was then that we learnt the nostalgic truth.

At the Greenock Brewers Chris and Lisa Higgins sell tremendous beers in bottles and on tap. And, most wonderfully, they can offer you a butcher of beer too.

In a world where the blind madness of upsized consumption has held us to ransom by making us believe we need more and bigger serves of everything from homes to cars to buckets of popcorn at the cinema, being served a beer in a 200ml glass is of great comfort and wistful joy.

Urban myth suggests the Newmarket Hotel in Adelaide first served a butcher of beer to workers from nearby cattle yards, and so the term entered the local vernacular.

Garden-fresh from lunch at the Greenock pub, Nick, Chrisso and I wandered through the shadows of Laucke’s flour mills having decided upon a quick visit and concluding refreshment.

I’m confident it was the first butcher I’d had this millennium. Most pubs no longer stock schooner or butcher glasses and therefore it’s a pint or you’re spitting feathers.

It was instantly the mid-1980s and I was being taught to pull a beer (along with old mate Davo) at the Kapunda Golf Club by Gus Higgins (who was Chris’s uncle). Suddenly all of us were far skinnier but had fatter hair. Allan Border was Australian cricket captain. There were Kingswoods parked outside too.

The Victorville Pale Ale is fiendishly easy to consume. It’s zesty and agreeable and sparkles with citrus notes. I also purchased a six pack for medical and research purposes. If it’d been an hour later, we might’ve dropped anchor and cancelled our evening plans and had a second butcher.

With this nostalgic tone set we spoke of our past, most notably Kapunda icon Skeeta and shared stories of his footy exploits and his drinking exploits and his drinking at footy exploits. Many of us associate Skeeta instantly with the Holden Torana, more particularly his being driven and then not being driven, largely as it frequently ended up in exotic places where a Torana shouldn’t be.

With the golden Barossa light bending across the brewery and through the windows we shared more stories and then it was time for Nick, Chrisso and I to point our non-Torana cars homewards.

I’d enjoyed the beer, and the company enormously. I couldn’t wait until the next time I’d drink a butcher.