While Not Working

Barely 3km from McLaren Vale township lies the d'Arenberg vineyard with cellar door, restaurant, and the usual bits and bobs associated with the intersection of wineries and tourists. D'Arenberg has a long history in wine-making under the guiding hand of four generations of the same family (five if you count the one currently studying viticulture at University).  The first three generations chugged along producing wine and selling it to tourists and everything was hunky dory, and then along came generation number four and before you could say "You can't do that at a winery!" he had built a 4-storey Rubicks Cube in the middle of the grape vines and filled it up with a heap of surrealist art topped off with no less than a multi-million dollar Salvador Dali exhibition. We paid our $30 for a wine-tasting on the top floor, which gave us entry to the bottom floor and all the ones in between, so off we went for wee bit of culture and spot of wine-tasting (Roger) and givi...

Despite being mentally a long way from the sea, McLaren Vale was really quite close to the coast. In fact, if I walked the dog up the hill behind the house and turned my back to the vineyards, I could see the the flat silver sea out beyond the beaches of Moana and Maslin. In the early morning the sea was dull and dark with the last dregs of the night; in the late evening it glittered gold and pink as the sun said goodbye. This year summer took a while to get off the starting blocks but compensated by graciously extending itself past March and into the early days of April. "We should have a picnic at the beach," declared Roger. "These are the last warm days before winter."  Those of you who read this blog regularly will know that he declares the Last Days of Summer on a regular basis every year, and he has been proclaiming thus for the last three weeks at least. I didn't think to take a picture of the far-away sea: here instead is moonset over vineyards.  We too...

Back when I started this little adventure I bought two bananas and on the first day I ate one.  On the second day I looked for my second banana and couldn't find it.  After a little search I gave up, thinking that I had a) eaten it too and not remembered doing so or b) left it behind somehow.  The banana, forgotten, lurked in the side pocket of my pannier through many bumps and bashes and seven days of hot sunshine. In the bright Mclarenale morning I unzipped the side pocket of my pannier and stuck my hand in, confidently reaching for my hand cream and meeting instead a liquefied banana which had, until I poked it, been precariously contained within its black and fragile skin.  When all the squawking and flapping of hands and desperate seeking for water and paper towels was over I had a considerably cleaner pannier, a considerably cleaner rain jacket (which had been snuggled up to the banana during the process of decomposition), and paranoia related to stepping on a ...

Moana has a reputation as a hooner's paradise, so I would have been disappointed had I not been woken at some stage in the night by the squeal of tyres and the revving of engines. Rolling over and going back to sleep was made somewhat more difficult by the caravan park's injudicious placement of extremely bright lights such that I could, had I wanted to, have read the newspaper at 2am merely by the light that blazed through the walls of the tent. I was quite cold around the edges too, despite my multiple layers of clothing and the (clean) undies which I used as a blindfold to quell the blazing night-light. Thankfully the previous day's numpties all slept in, so when I got up early in the morning I was able to enjoy a walk on a numpty-free beach with no danger of being squashed by an errant 4WD. I watched the sun rise as people much older (and tougher) than me leapt enthusiastically into the chilly waters for their sunrise swim. Lackadaisical sunrise on an empty beach.   Wit...

I dawdled all day, having not far to go and all day to do it in. Not that it was hard to dawdle, given the long uphill slog from Hallet Cove railway station on the Coast toVines rail trail. Two small boys followed me on a scooter and bicycle, asking all manner of questions and, under the fanciful illusion that my bike had batteries, asking for a tow. They were so interested in my lights that I felt it prudent to cancel my planned stop at Woolworths, not being confident of their ability to keep their sticky little fingers to themselves should I leave the bike unaccompanied while I used the amenities. Officially on the trail. The path wound happily upward beside a creek embellished with playgrounds and over run with children and families spending Saturday morning out doors.  I crossed the highway at the high point and ran happily down the hill past Old Reynella I'd much rather be up here than down there. Old Reynella is considered the birthplace of the South Australian wine indust...