I loved living in Kimba, but after five weeks without leaving its tiny township, I was beginning to feel claustrophobic.

We’d even played every February cricket match in town. I hadn’t been home to Kapunda since Christmas; it was time.

I needed some restoring.

At lunch on Friday, I filled the petrol tank at Maurie and Clappy’s roadhouse on the outskirts of Kimba. Back at school, I parked my car facing Highway 1.

A siren finished the week’s last lesson, and I sprinted for my Nissan Exa — a most ridiculous vehicle, but fun to drive. Pushing in a Skyhooks cassette, I cranked up the volume. It was brutally hot and the paddocks were brown and barren. Decent rain was months away.

Within an hour, I was whizzing past Iron Knob. Roger Hansberry’s son Paul once bought, from its roadhouse, a tank top emblazoned with Greetings from Iron Knob. It may have been Hypercolour. He wore it when we were in Las Vegas. I think the locals were too scared to ask. Even in Vegas, some topics are taboo.

Port Augusta is on the gulf but somehow still simmering and oven-like. The ocean offers it no earthly relief. I steered over what’d eventually become the Joy Baluch Bridge. As you drove over it, I’m sure it’d often swear at you. Just like Joy.

Past Warnertown, Crystal Brook, and then Gulnare. I called into the pub there once but not tonight. There’re three utes out front. Seven o’clock already.

Clare Valley.

It’s hilly now and my journey’s more laborious. Although it’s scratchy, I can get Adelaide radio now, so I find Triple J and say farewell to 5AU and its ads for chicken shops and local retailers — Thinking of new tyres? Come say hello to Wayne and Sue…

Rhynie. Alas another country pub that’s gone and with less chance of resurrection than a Betamax VCR. Sweep around Giles Corner — easing around this bend always meant home was close.

And then through Tarlee. The searing sun is low in the sky now, but I glance over at Tarlee Oval where old Kapunda mate Davo dropped a simple catch when a bloke had just got in. By mid-afternoon he’d made 295.

Bounding past The Pines. On our year 9 camp we spent the last night there. A whole week of hiking and no showers! Many visits to this reserve since, often around a winter’s fire, a bushy. Almost home.

I’m on Clare Road. The high school’s on my left, part way up Gundry’s Hill while Dutton Park’s to the right, asleep behind the rows of trees.

Finally, Kapunda.

By the pub a dozen or so cars are lined up on Mildred Street. I’ve driven four and a half hours, evading wildlife and berserk truckies like the faceless one in Spielberg’s Duel. Friday-weary, I tumble into the Prince of Wales front bar at 8.11pm.

‘Hello West Coast smack-head,’ greets mine host. ‘Gee, you’re getting fat, Mickey.’ Puffa continues. ‘Are you still driving that dopey sports car?’

This is what I came for.

Outside, the sun now sinks below the horizon. Familiar faces surround me. A one-day cricket match is on the TV above the bar. The sound’s turned down and the Waugh brothers are batting. Fresh from the small oven near the till I smell a toasted ham and cheese sandwich. A game of spoofy is underway, clenched fists thrust into a circle. Hollering erupts from them.

Soon enough, the old stories will be told again.

With a flick of a beer tap, Puffa streams the amber into a schooner glass. I take in this snug, unremarkable country room. It understands who I am. Nothing has changed. That’s precisely why I’m here. I slide a five-dollar note onto the bar towel.

The first mouthful tastes exactly like home.