Summer in Sorrento

Posted on 6 March 2022 by sheg4184

This week, the One & Only flew to Europe. I am calling it his ‘Gap Year,’ as I am not remotely convinced by his return ticket at the end of March.  I have every expectation he’ll stay away till Christmas – partly to manage expectations (mine), partly because he has been grounded for over two years and has had ants in his pants for months. So, he will be in Florence for my birthday and our anniversary. I’m jealous, of course, but not annoyed. I could have gone, too, but I had other things to do.

It has, however, dredged up memories of our early days of backpacking, which was also the last time the One & Only saw the Medici’s glorious city. I look through old diaries and discover, not Firenze, but a trip to Naples in the summer of 1991. We were on our way to meet our newly married friends. As we hadn’t been able to make it to the wedding, I teased them about crashing their honeymoon instead. They accepted the challenge with surprising enthusiasm. So, we set off across Italy, a journey of some 750 kilometres from Verona to Salerno, on a sluggish train that took a lazy ten hours to get us there. From Salerno, we piled onto a bus that would scoot us around the Amalfi Coast to Sorrento.

We are on a local bus, driving along a precariously steep and winding coastline with jagged cliffs dropping into deep blue sea hundreds of feet below. Houses perch perilously close to the edge, reached by long flights of stone steps. Bougainvillaea and large purple wallflowers grow up every retaining wall and rock face. Grape vines stretch across spindly frames that look as if someone tossed a packet of matches over the edge. The road twists and turns like a serpent, and the bus seems only inches away from disaster. Tiny beaches on narrow spits of sand are covered with neat rows of navy blue umbrellas, and rocky outcrops on which sun bathers balance nervously. Palm trees. A flotilla of small sailing boats. Pedestrians of all shapes and sizes, who meander along the promenades in minimalist garb. Ruined forts lean out over the sea on every rocky point.

I remember stopping for a break at Amalfi, that tiny pink and white town wedged into a ravine between vertical cliffs. As we climbed queasily from the bus, we saw a wedding party stepping cautiously down the steep stone staircase from the 11th century Duomo (a staircase clad in red carpet for the occasion). The bride was a veritable bouquet of frills and flounces and heavy makeup. A video camera followed her along the boulevard recording every step of her new life as a wife, draped ostentatiously over her husband’s arm. We found a café on the piazza where we sat and observed the procession of wedding guests promenading along the quay.

As I write, another bus offloads its passengers, who all converge on the café where I am sitting, and settle down for the afternoon. One family pushes several tables together, lays out a pretty pink cloth, and brings forth a huge dish of lasagne and two bottles of homemade wine, sandwiches, fruit, and no qualms whatsoever about upsetting the staff. Who would dare argue with a four foot, fiercely voluble Italian Nonna?

I am mad about Italy. The people are so warm and friendly and love to help. There was that kind lady in Milano, a mother hen who hurried us like chicks through the traffic to catch the tram. Then, there was a long queue of Veronese waiting at a bus stop, debating endlessly about which bus we must catch to il campeggio. I think we would have got there quicker if we’d walked. Back on the bus, we careered around the coast, our driver obviously determined to break all speed records, tempting fate at every sharp turn not to tip us into the sea. And somehow, we arrive in Sorrento in one piece, although our stomachs might beg to differ. I felt decidedly sea-sick, and the One and Only was a ghastly shade of pea green. Life quickly improved, however, and we were soon comfortably ensconced above the sea in our little two man tent..

It’s a lovely cool evening in Sorento among the orchard of olive trees at our campsite. Our tent site overlooks the Bay of Naples and when the heat haze lifted this evening, we could actually see Mount Vesuvius across the water. We will visit Pompei when we have recovered from the heat and those wriggly roads. Tonight, we will stay close to home, as the campsite has a bar and restaurant with a pizza oven, where the tables are set beneath a canopy of wisteria.

We did make it to Pompeii, although in my diary, the heat got almost as much airplay as the historic ruins. Nonetheless, it proved a fascinating place to visit. I had never realised Pompeii was a whole town and not just a few decaying ruins. I remember being particularly keen on the cobbled streets, with stepping-stones for the ladies to get across without dirtying their feet, and deep grooves in the stone where 150 years-worth of carts had passed by. Sadly, our northern European complexions wilted fast in the midday sun, and none of us had the wherewithal to climb up Mount Vesuvius. One day I will go back in winter…

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A Whistle-Stop Trip

Posted on 21 February 2022 by sheg4184

‘You can’t roller skate in as buffalo herd
But you can be happy if you’ve a mind to…’

What have we been up to lately? A whirlwind trip east to Melbourne: four days in the car, visiting friends en route; a bakery or three; endless coffees and wine on tap. No time to pause. Driving, eating, talking non-stop. And, before we could gather our thoughts, we are home again, feeling as if we just stepped off a long haul flight, with gritty eyes and greasy hair.

Eric the Echidna… or maybe Erica… hard to say!

Despite the pace, it was a terrific trip: the joy of the open road, glimpsing kangaroos and emus, llamas by the bucket load, and a small, determined echidna, rooting for ants on the side of the highway; catching up with friends and talking a mile a minute to make sure we had covered the weeks, months, years since last we spoke; a picnic in the park with our boys, somewhere on a back street in Brunswick, nibbling on prawn crackers, dumplings and steak in black bean sauce while critiquing the graffiti – it is EVERYWHERE in Melbourne!


Frantic, out of focus, sleeping poorly (too much wine) but oh! so much fun. Putting the world to rights with friends, hearing details of new jobs, new adventures, reminiscing about past lives. It was an exciting, enervating, eclectic mix of food, farming and famille.

In a country town somewhere south of Ballarat, we indulged in two delicious dinners, made from scratch from the veggie patch outside the kitchen window. It may have been a slap in the eye for the One & Only, who has struggled to grow anything much in the sand dune we live on, but nonetheless, there is something inspiring about eating a meal created from home grown produce: beans, zucchini, figs, fresh pasta, even homemade ice cream.

Likewise on a cattle farm near the Coonawarra, a barbecue of perfectly cooked beef steaks and salads concocted from myriad ingredients freshly plucked fifty metres from the back door. And playing with some mad kelpies who jumped into trees and begged us to throw them grapefruit to catch.

We may not need to eat for a week, but while we are detoxing, we’re determined to revive our sandy garden beds, to wrestle with the tomatoes, the fruit trees and the herb garden, to charge in with pony poo and mulch and plenty of patience. And maybe, by next summer, I too will be making primavera pasta from our own produce. I may even invest in a pasta maker – but possibly not the roller skates! Any advice welcome…

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A Café by the Sea

Posted on 7 February 2022 by sheg4184

The sun is up and the early morning swimmers are trudging up the beach, damp and dripping, to gather for coffee on the veranda at the Normanville Kiosk & Café. In dribs and drabs, the dawn patrol of dog walkers follow them in. Later, as the sea begins to glitter in the morning sun, a stream of beach walkers from Carrickalinga arrive. By ten o’clock, the café is awash with swimmers, walkers, families, and exhausted puppies dozing under the tables.

The café has been here for years and is something of a local icon. Casual and comfortable, it provides a view to the south along the worn cliffs beyond Lady Bay, and north over the sand dunes to Carrickalinga. And of course, there’s usually a fisherman or two on the jetty.

It also provides good coffee and tasty meals of sumptuous proportions.

We sat on the veranda for dinner last night as the sun set into the sea, turning the sparse clouds a glorious shade of peach. This morning I am back for morning tea, as the One & Only marches off down the beach to infinity and beyond.

Last night, on the lawn in front of the café, there was a guy with a guitar and small groups of picnickers. Others climbed the wooden staircase to the bar above the surf lifesaving club. Everything is a bit tatty, a bit weather worn, but that is half its appeal. Normanville has never been a destination for the flashy city slickers. It’s a family beach where children can paddle in the gentle surf and build sandcastles, where dogs frolic gleefully, and horses appear occasionally to gallop along the sand or take a sedate dip in the sea.

I adore this haven by the sea. It warms the cockles of my heart to sit out on the veranda with a coffee, a sea breeze and the sound of the waves and giggling kids washing up from the beach. Last summer, a new ‘container’ kiosk was set up on the side of the building last summer and it is great for a quick fix of takeaway fish‘n’chips, an icecream or a coffee. Picnic tables are set up in the sandpit outside and there is something incredibly soothing about eating with sand between your toes.

The café is open seven days a week, 8am – 4pm, except on weekends when it stays open until 8pm – at least in the summer. I have generally found the food tasty, the coffee hot and the service friendly. There are vegetarian and gluten free options, but otherwise I can highly recommend the fish’n’chips and the red velvet cake, the likes of which I haven’t tasted since we lived in the Philippines.

It can be busy, and service may be slow – but if you’re on holidays, does that really matter? Certainly, far from the hustle and bustle of city living, I am in no hurry.

Sadly, the café has recently been dealt a potential death blow, as the council seek approval to rebuild the Surf Life Saving Club, against the oft-expressed wishes of many locals, including the current café owners.
According to the 2020 council report, the Council committed to the future allocation of $1,600,000 for the rebuilding of the Normanville Café/Kiosk and target grant funding opportunities for the spend. [and that]… the rebuilding of the Surf Club and Kiosk be a combined building and subject to a design brief to be agreed upon by the full Council.

Sounds fabulous, doesn’t it? A better designed, brand new building with all the mod cons? But word on the street is less optimistic. The kiosk owners understand that the new design will be a ‘glass castle’ which will limit their space and the customers access by putting the cafe upstairs behind huge plate glass, with only one lift. We will lose the veranda and probably the easy-going joie-de-vivre of the generous space below. How will that better serve the customers, especially the elderly and the disabled, the mums-with-prams and the pets, all of whom so enjoy the open air veranda every day? Is the Yankalilla Council truly going to swim against the tide and insist upon investing millions in a project over which so many locals are baulking? And how can they allocate such enormous amounts of taxpayer dollars to redevelopment, and yet struggle to ensure the bins are emptied daily during the summer season, when we are flooded with holiday makers? The debate has been raging for months, and yet conclusions are thin on the ground. It is limbo land out there.

For my money, I love the down-to-earth, mixed demographic we find here. And with the best intentions in the world to develop tourism and capture more of the leisure market, the council doesn’t seem to appreciate how many of us feel about the current lack of fuss on the Normanville foreshore. Its old-fashioned simplicity is a joy to behold, with its bucket-and-spade beach and user-friendly, open-air café. Sure, the surf lifesaving club could do with an overhaul, but perhaps a lick of paint and some new equipment would do the job? The café owners certainly believe so and are more than happy to renovate the café at their own cost.

So, do we really need the designer glass house the council has promised us? And who would actually benefit from such a lavish make-over, other than city visitors? Not the local community, it seems, who didn’t move here to recreate a Somerton or Semaphore on the Fleurieu. We love the ambiance of our more rural and cosy setting, the warm welcome and the family-friendly space. Sadly, the new café and lifesaving club looks set to pack us behind glass so we can sit in a microwave oven and look out at the world, instead of being in it. Here’s hoping the Council are listening, and will see fit to adapt their plans a little…

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Ekhidna Wines

Posted on 17 January 2022 by sheg4184

A sunny day. A back road in McLaren Vale. A vast fig tree giving off a juicy scent of summer. An open air space tucked in among the grapevines. The view is sublime, the staff are terrific – cheerful and welcoming- and the wine is the stuff of dreams.

According to its website, Ekhidna Wines gets its name, not from our local monotreme, but from the Greek goddess Ekhidna, half nymph, half serpent: beautiful, immortal, fearsome. Our echidna was named after this Greek Myth because it is also something of a chimera: a warm blooded mammal that lays leathery eggs like a reptile. And the sign for the winery is not a terrifying Greek goddess but a stylized echidna with curly spikes ‘like a slinky’ and a long nose.

We are given a long table under the fan on the terrace. Through the huge picture windows, we see vines stretching away to the horizon. Out on the lawn, tables are set up under the gum trees. Armed with either  a chilled glass of Ekhidna’s own ginger beer – which rated very highly with our connoisseurs of ginger beer –  or a dry, watermelon pink rosé with a fruity lift from the Shiraz grape from whence it comes, we eagerly explore our options for lunch.

It’s a simple menu: four entrees, four main courses and four desserts. Perfect for sharing on a summer afternoon. This is a belated birthday celebration, and we are feeling happy and relaxed, if a trifle overheated.

Our entrées arrive, prettily presented, on wooden boards. We have chosen to share the whole selection, as we all enjoy the tapas approach to eating. Seeing ceviche on the menu gives me happy memories of a sumptuous ceviche in Palawan, where the Filipinos have adapted the South American recipe to mix calamansi with coconut milk, which takes the edge off the sour citrus and gives it a creamy softness. The Peruvian method uses straight citrus juice, so it needs to be added sparingly, or the tartness can be too sharp and – particularly with squid – risk ‘cooking’ it too much and turning it to rubber. However, it worked well with the sea trout, with snippets of fresh chilli providing an added zing.

The duck liver pâté is presented on homemade, thick, seeded biscuits. Decadently rich and creamy, I would have preferred plainer biscuits to dip lightly into a deep bowl of this luscious, ruinously calorific pâté, all the better to savour it. Nonetheless, it is a generous mouthful of flavour.

The calamari come three ways. As our daughter’s One & Only catches it fresh from the sea and cooks it superbly, there is always going to be a sense of competition when we order it elsewhere. However, the competition today is stiff. The best of the three types is charcoal grilled to perfection, with just the right amount of mild chewiness. The crumbed salt and pepper squid is not quite as good as Ben’s, but it gets a thumbs up, too. But those three thin strips of squid, pickled or cured in lemon juice, miss the mark, being overly tart and verging on rubbery.

Unfortunately, the beetroot tartare – a mound of grated beetroot too lightly spiced to taste of anything much and sprinkled in rice bubbles  – is an uninspiring nod to vegetarian guests.

 The main courses are generous and filling, but received mixed reviews: a chicken dish, steak, fish and – again a nod to the non-meat-eaters – a huge head of cauliflower in the middle of the plate, spiced with garlic chive miso mayo & sesame cabbage salad. We leave the cauliflower for the vegans, but order everything else.

My fish of the day – sea trout – is cooked beautifully, with a crisply crunchy skin and served on a bright green sea of fresh peas and pea puree. Roast pumpkin and a sprinkling of crunchy samphire complete this colourful picture, and it is the perfect dish for a warm, summer day.

The birthday girl loves her Angas eye fillet, served with roast spuds, cherry tomatoes and plenty of local olives, but, sadly, the chicken breast is dry and overcooked, its heap of corn salsa adding texture but very little flavour.

The desserts are a delight, however, and received rave reviews. We decide to share the two dessert platters: one consisting of all things chocolate and another of lemon flavoured morsels. A chocolate brownie wins a resounding 10 out of 10 from the tasters, and from the sidelines looked deliciously rich and moist. The chocolate ice cream also gets a round of applause. The white chocolate cup, a macadamia and white chocolate crunch and the chocolate rum ball disappear before I can evaluate them or gather an opinion, but I’m guessing the platter, all but licked clean, tells me all I need to know!

The lemon ensemble wins enthusiastic accolades too: a scoop of sweet and sour lemon sorbet cleans the palate nicely; the lemon curd is finger-lickin’ good, and goes well with a gobstopper sized lemon ball; the lemon sponge is moist and zesty. A lemon slice comes in a fierce shade of yellow, and the One & Only polishes it off.

But the stars of the show are -without the shadow of a doubt – the wines. And their creator, Matt Rechner. Matt is proud of his collection and obviously enjoys sharing his babies with his guests. I follow up the rosé with a crisp, fresh sparkling chardonnay – another good choice as we soak in the sun.

As we tuck in to our main courses, Matt begins a tasting for our Calamari King, starting with a full bodied, flavourful sparkling shiraz, concocted from five different vintages of his renowned Linchpin Shiraz.

This personable wine maker has had an eclectic career that has bought him full circle from Tatachilla Winery to California, the Barossa and back to McLaren Vale. His Ekhidna wine list is impressive, ranging from a small selection of lighter, whiter wines to a broad variety of bold reds, which includes one terrific sulphur free Shiraz.

The GSM – a favourite blend of mine – is 60% Grenache and 20% each of Shiraz, and Mourvèdre, beautifully combined to highlight its fruity, mouth-filling flavour, with glorious aromas of stone fruit and nutmeg.

Matt passes time and again to pour, evidently pleased with our enthusiasm. Later, he comes by with a map and a marker pen to provide a quick geology lesson on why McLaren Vale is the best wine growing region in the world.

Given the long tables and the sense of long, lazy lunches by the Mediterranean, appetites may be better served with a set menu of antipasti, pasta and steak. But this alluring wine is a siren call few could resist.

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Shakespeare in the Rain

Posted on 7 January 2022 by sheg4184
Carrick Hill, Adelaide, South Australia

On a prime position, in the southern foothills above the Adelaide plains, sits a beautiful house that looks more like it belongs in the lush green English countryside than in the hot, dry southern hemisphere. Built in the late 1930s, it belonged to a well-to-do Adelaide couple, Sir Edward and Lady Ursula Hayward. The couple travelled to Europe for their honeymoon, and returned with a wooden staircase, fireplaces, doors and oak panelling from a stately home in Staffordshire that was being dismantled and demolished. Local architect, James Irwin, then designed a house to match its Jacobean plumage, using a creamy stone from Basket Range that was reminiscent of that honey gold Cotswold stone. When the Haywards died, not having had any children, they left their home to the people of South Australia. Almost seventy five years later, the property, in the care of the Carrick Hill Trust, is one of the few period homes in Australia to survive with its original contents almost intact and its grounds unabridged.

Edward (Bill) Hayward’s father owned the Adelaide department store, John Martin’s. At his father’s request, Bill joined John Martin’s in 1931 and soon became a director. In 1933, during the Depression, he initiated the store’s annual Christmas pageant, to lift the spirits of Adelaide’s children. The floats and costumes, and the ‘magic cave’ in the store, where the children could visit Father Christmas, were designed and produced by John Martin’s, and the ‘Johnnie’s’ Christmas Pageant continued to be an annual event in the city until the government took it over in the 1990s when John Martin’s was sold.

Ursula Barr Smith, Bill’s wife, was the daughter of a wealthy South Australian pastoralist. She and Bill were married in 1935 and her father presented the couple with one hundred acres of land at Springfield as a wedding present.

While it was made to look as if it has stood on the hillside for centuries, Carrick Hill also boasted the latest 1930’s technology: heated towel rails, ensuite bathrooms and electric bells to summon servants. Ursula designed a gorgeous garden around the house, in the style of an English manor house, and the views from the terrace across the city to the sea are spectacular.

As the Haywards prepared to move into their new home, war broke out in Europe, and Bill was soon on his way to serve with the Australian Imperial Force in the Middle East, where he became one of the famous ‘Rats of Tobruk.’ Later, he transferred back to Australia and his duties as a Lieutenant Colonel took him all over the Pacific.

After the war, the Haywards began collecting art and antiques that reflected their personal tastes and broad interests: from Georgian and Victorian furniture inherited from Ursula’s family to the Jacobean oak furniture they bought in England to match the fittings at Carrick Hill; from souvenirs of their travels to the paintings of close friends such as William Dobell and Russell Drysdale, Hans Heysen and his daughter Nora, Ivor Hele and Jeffery Smart.

I went up to Carrick Hill recently for a tour of the art works there and instantly fell in love with this bright and elegant house that combines history and modern luxury so beautifully. Entry to the house is $17 for adults and includes a guided tour of the house at 11.30am or 2.30pm Wednesday to Sunday. The gardens are open to the public from 10 am to 4.30 pm on those days, and there is a Literature Trail for children, where scenes from 20th century children’s books have been created for the kids to discover.

Through the 1950s and 60s, Carrick Hill was a focal point for the Adelaide Establishment, artists, musicians and actors, the house constantly filled with sophisticated guests, music and dancing, fine wine and food. Visitors included such famous names as Sir Robert Helpmann, Katharine Hepburn, Sir Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, and Barry Humphries.

This week, continuing past traditions, the guests at Carrick Hill were a troop of multi-talented Shakespearean actors from England, Australia and Africa, performing Twelfth Night in the natural amphitheatre behind the house. At twilight, the audience set up their picnics and deck-chairs on the lawn and crossed their fingers that the wet weather would pass quickly and quietly. It didn’t. It continued to drizzle until the actors sang their last song and danced up the steps to dry off in the house. But no one seemed to mind. The audience was responsive and enthralled throughout, and the actors’ spirits were unquenched despite the damp, monotonous drizzle, somehow maintaining a high level of energy and joie de vivre from start to finish.

Cast of Twelfth Night

Shakespeare South Australia have had a sell-out run at both the Botanic Gardens and Carrick Hill this summer.   The show features original music – a delightful blend of modern and mediaeval –  by Michaela Burger on the dulcimer, who also plays the Fool, Feste, with exuberant brilliance, in colourful pantaloons and a quilted jacket I long to own.

Artistic Director, Alys Daroy, also plays Olivia, the reluctant focus of Orsino’s besotted courtship, who then falls violently in love with Cesario. Alys is a recent ‘boomerang,’ a term to describe one born in Australia, who has travelled overseas and returned home years later. She found herself back in Adelaide in 2019 for a short visit and ended up staying. Last year, she founded Shakespeare South Australia which opened at the Botanic Gardens in October and has just completed ‘an encore’ at Carrick Hill, most fittingly on the Christian twelfth night. Originally a Catholic holiday, the twelfth night after Christmas was an excuse for pantomime and revelry, when servants often dressed up as their masters, men as women, and women as men, a ‘traditional atmosphere of licensed disorder.’ Already a play about the cross-dressing Viola, other gender-swapping included the Fool and Antonio, who were both played by women. Although we only saw ‘Antonia’ briefly, Britt Plummer plays the very bolshy and articulate pirate queen with aplomb.

Other great performances came from Paul Westbrook as the irrepressible drunkard, Sir Toby Belch, and Michael Baldwin as the pompous, over-bearing Malvolio in yellow stockings and cross garters, cut down to size by the cruel but clever antics of Sir Toby and Mariah, (local actress Kate Van der Horst). And David Daradan put in a dazzling, quick change act when he doubles as Sebastian and Sir Andrew Ague Cheek battling behind a bush.

After surviving a grizzly childhood in war-torn Liberia, and grim years as a refugee, Shedrick Yarpai has found a new home in Adelaide, and does a superb job as Orsino – although in my humble opinion, we didn’t see nearly enough of him! (Apparently, his life story has been told by American playright Charles Smith, in his play Objects in the Mirror.) And of course the Anne Hathaway look-alike, Melanie Munt, did a great job of the Viola/Cesario role, sent to woo the lady Olivia on Orsino’s behalf.

It was a splendid night of fun and high jinks, despite the poor weather, and I wish the company continued success in presenting us with choice Shakespeare productions in such glorious outdoor settings.

*The photo of the SSA is borrowed with thanks from their programme.

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What Price to Pay?

Posted on 30 December 2021 by sheg4184

What on earth did we all talk about before Covid? Every conversation these days starts with the latest update. In every newspaper or TV report there is high drama about the latest figures and the latest advice on crossing borders. It’s the new political weapon and everything is a tragedy and a disaster, as we, the general public, are being broken down by superlatives that have created monumental levels of stress and anxiety.

Personally, and I am well aware I am not the only one, it has got to the point that I no longer listen to the news, as it’s become overwhelming. Friends on Facebook will alert me to any important details just as fast, anyway. I have to admit that the Australian government has done a phenomenal job of containing the spread of Covid, compared with other countries. But at what cost? As state politicians squabble over current border controls and the media compete for the highest number of Covid cases, the crisis lines are running hot. Lifeline has had a record number of calls this year – and please note, this is not a good thing. This is not a competition anyone wants to win.

This current Covid plague – not the first in human history by any stretch of the imagination – has been relatively controlled compared with past plagues and lethal diseases. And one bonus everyone tends to overlook is that it doesn’t come within a million miles of affecting our youth as severely as previous illnesses. In Australia, there is no longer – or very rarely – a single case of polio or diphtheria, meningitis, leprosy or rabies, smallpox or malaria, and little is heard of pneumonia that kills more than one child every minute around the globe. Does anyone ever think about all those diseases that used to wipe our children away without a backward glance? And who has even heard of the bubonic plague that once razed whole cities to the ground? (My spell check didn’t even recognize it!) This new plague is like a nastier form of influenza – a virus that largely affects the old and the physically vulnerable; a Darwinian virus that culls the human race as Nature intended it to. And doesn’t it sometimes feel as if the world has forgotten there may be other diseases and disasters in the world? When did we become so sanitized to death and disease that we appear to dread even the common cold?

OK, before you all jump down my throat, I am not for a minute suggesting that the effects of Covid bear any resemblance to the common cold – although for the lucky ones, it actually isn’t much different. And I certainly don’t mean to detract from the grief of those who have had to watch loved ones die. But those of us in the first world are inclined to forget that we have eliminated a plethora of lethal diseases, or at least blocked them from general circulation, with those wondrous, miraculous vaccines that were largely discovered in the 20th century, along with a modern awareness of hygiene.

So, I come back to those who are vulnerable, not to The Virus itself perhaps, but to isolation and despair; to those who had (or who have developed in recent months) mental health issues. To those who cannot find anyone to whom to reach out because, in the outside world, everyone is in too much of a frenzy about Covid to pay any attention.

Yes, of course, many have got very sick, and many have died from Covid. But what are we doing for the living? For those who have suffered because we have chosen to shut down our world into minuscule boxes, where even the healthiest of us are struggling with anxiety and depression from lack of employment, lack of human contact, or just the simple joy of unlimited fresh air.

I know plenty who have revelled – or at least benefitted – from a less frenetic lifestyle; that this enforced slowing down of society, while it may limit our personal freedoms, has given many of us a chance to breath and recalibrate. But just as many, if not more, seem to be finding the isolation increasingly hard to bear.

All lives should be valued, and the Hippocratic oath, still used today in some shape or form, makes doctors promise to treat the ill to the best of one’s ability, to heal, or at the very least, not to harm the patient. (There is nothing to suggest keeping patients alive at all costs, which is how it is often portrayed.) And yet what of those who are falling through the cracks? As always, it is those least able to advocate for themselves who are struggling: those with mental health issues that require consistent support and empathy from the rest of us, who have become more and more marginalized from society in this ever-shrinking world. It is devastating to know that crisis lines report that they are receiving record numbers of calls, when we pause to consider that one of Lifeline’s mantras is: ‘We will continue to advocate, educate and work to keep people safe until we achieve our vision of an Australia free of suicide.’ The data (prior to Covid?) suggests that ‘nine Australians die every day by suicide. That’s more than double the road toll.’

It would be wonderful to believe in a plan to reduce the number of suicides in Australia. But in the meantime, the number of people on the brink seems to be rising through the roof, which simply highlights the number of lonely and distressed people out there who are seriously struggling to survive this new normal. So what is to be done? Where do we go from here?

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Octopus Dreams

Posted on 15 December 2021 by sheg4184

‘Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.’

Thank you, Daphne du Maurier, for that exquisitely poignant, nostalgic and melancholic opening line. It’s an iconic and instantly gripping beginning that every wannabe writer must envy. I went not to Manderley last night, however, but to Thessaloniki, without having to dream or board a plane.

We had been to a fascinating art documentary at the Prospect Cinema and were in stomach-grumbling need of feeding. A hop and a skip down the road, and we were gathered into the welcoming embrace of Meze Mazi. A restaurant that is filled to the gunnels with eager eaters is a great paean to the excellence of the cuisine within. And Meze Mazi did not disappoint.

We were ushered to a corner table near the window and left to contemplate the menus, wine and food both. A rosé sounded tempting, and by pure fluke, there is a relatively new winery in McLaren Vale that has called itself Mazi Wines and produces a super grenache rosé. Meaning ‘together’ in Greek, Mazi Wines is a collaboration between two friends who make wine fashioned on the crisp, dry wines of southern France. Meze is the Greek word for lots of little dishes, like pica pica in the Philippines or tapas in Spain, which is just how so many Mediterranean cuisines should be enjoyed.

So, with a bottle of Mazi’s crisp rosé at our fingertips, we set to work on the menu, quickly choosing a selection of sharing plates. Well, if we are going to eat comme les grecs, it’s all about togetherness, although there are plenty of options for full-sized main courses if you are not a sharing kind of person. Or you’re just really hungry.

Our waiter announced the specials. The One & Only usually takes his time to choose, but this time he pounced before our waiter had finished his sentence. ‘Yes’ to grilled yellow peppers with feta and ‘yes’ to grilled octopus and chick peas. ‘Please.’ And ‘thanks very much, we’ll order more later.’

It turned out to be an excellent spur-of-the-moment decision. The small yellow peppers reminded us of the blistered padrón peppers we had eaten by the bucketful in Porto, only larger. Sweet and salty explosions of flavour, we were glad the noisy chatter at the neighbouring table drowned out our euphoric groans.

After watching ‘My Octopus Teacher’ last year, I had sworn never to eat these affectionate eight armed creatures again, and to all my octopus friends out there, I am deeply sorry, but last night I succumbed. And I would like to say you died in a good cause. The chef had cooked that cephalopod mollusk to melt-in-the-mouth perfection, and we savoured every bite. We ordered some soft, grilled pita bread to clean the bowl of the juices, pickled pink onion and chickpea mash, and even this simple bread was mouth-watering. It made me want to eat my fingers still covered in olive oil and crumbs. It was like dessert.

As they say on their website: we’re all about authenticity. Our food is derived from old family recipes and our native Greek chefs craft each dish with the same love and passion that they do for their own families. And  it’s true. This is no designer cuisine, but honest home cooking, love and flavour in every morsel.

I know now that we had probably eaten enough, but could we resist and finish our dinner after an elegant sufficiency? Hell no! Bring out the zucchini fritters and the İmam bayıldı – that delectable Ottoman dish of eggplant stuffed with onion, garlic and tomatoes, and simmered in olive oil,  sensibly adopted by the Greeks eons ago. You may remember we learned to make both these dishes in Istanbul, back in 2015. These fritters were shaped more like small Aussie footballs than blinis – perhaps large quenelles is a more elegant comparison – but the shape did not adversely affect their flavour and we licked the platter clean. And the Imam bayildi was so amazingly rich, we needed more wine and more pita bread to wash it down. Need? Perhaps not. Desire? Definitely. Waddle home? Without a doubt!

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Ghosts of Christmas Past

Posted on 6 December 2021 by sheg4184

At last, the sun has finally decided to herald in the spring and the streets of Adelaide are carpeted in deep violet jacaranda flowers. I am suddenly, and belatedly, aware that it is already December, and Christmas is but a whisper away. A summer Christmas, this year, in the southern hemisphere, with myriad relations at our fingertips and the possibility of a swim in the sea in the evening.

In contrast, I am reminded of a Christmas many years ago, when we spent the holiday with a bunch of Aussie mates in Scotland, a very long way from home and the need for suntan cream. While I have now experienced any number of European Christmases, this would be the first I had organized myself, booking a house for half a dozen of us on the Isle of Skye. It was as far north as we could get in a week, and we had all our toes and fingers crossed for snow. Skye is part of the Inner Hebrides, the largest and most northern of them, and the second biggest island in Scotland, after Lewis. We were 600 miles north of London. How could we not get snow? Well, apparently quite easily! Thanks to the Gulf Stream, snow rarely settles on Skye and frosts are few and far between. Ah well. It was cold enough for a fire or two.

It turned out to be an incredibly long drive from Slough to Skye from Slough, although it was almost the same distance as Sydney to Melbourne. Sadly, we forgot to take into account the M6 ‘car park’ during the Christmas holidays, and the narrow, winding roads once we were off the motorway. We took two cars: the women in one, the men in the other. But we lost the boys somewhere up the M6 and – in the Time Before Mobile Phones – we had no way of knowing whether they were ahead of us, or straggling miles behind. Eventually we gave up waiting to see if they would turn up, and headed onwards. But it was almost midnight by the time we finally arrived on the island. Struggling to read the map in the dark, we almost spent the night upside down in a ditch on a narrow, one-track lane. Luckily, we escaped disaster by the skin of our teeth, and eventually found the house – and the boys – and all was well.

By night, Skye had seemed eerily bleak. By daylight, Skye was magnificent. Our house was unexpectedly isolated, several miles of winding roads from Portree, the nearest town. Our closest neighbours were a faulty telephone box and our landlord in a house just up the hill. With a good fire, central heating and a handful of decorations (including some very tasteful Tom & Jerry stockings), we set up camp and spent a relaxing day or three preparing ourselves for a cold, white Christmas.  

On Christmas morning we drove into Portree to sing a carol or two and call our families in Australia. It really was surreal to find ourselves squeezing into a tiny telephone box on the village square, well wrapped in layers of woolly clothing, listening to our parents complain of the heat and wonder why they had, yet again, succumbed to cooking a turkey in 30’C. When we got back to the house, we celebrated in style, with a vast turkey and all the trimmings, the Christmas pudding alight with blue-flamed brandy and smothered in brandy butter, cream and custard, a large pile of logs beside the fire. After the much anticipated bout of over-eating, we collapsed around the telly for all our favourite seasonal films and a tumbler of tawny port or whiskey.

Boxing Day involved a gentle walk in wellies, and an evening at the pub with our neighbours, cheating at silly board games, flinging darts and playing pool.

 Sky is a starkly beautiful island. As we rambled about, through the brief and chilly daylight hours, we saw it clothed in a variety of colours and lights in that one short week.  Sometimes, huge black clouds would blot out the sun. Occasionally a flock of downy white clouds would flit across a sky washed in denim blue. Then, for a moment, the sun would dance out from behind the hills, reflecting off icy roads and gleefully dazzling us. The countryside, like a chameleon, subtly changed its skin time and again, showing off a palette of varying shades of mulberry, copper, blue and grey splashed over bracken and heather, deep lochs and craggy hills. The sea changed by the minute, and we did get a sprinkling of snow, but we never experienced that stormy moment from ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’

Loud the wind howls, loud the waves roar
Thunderclaps rend the air
Baffled our foes, stand on the shore
Follow, they will not dare.

(I grew up with the Corries version of this Celtic classic, and you may well have heard the tune used as the theme song from Outlander, but have you heard Emma Roberts singing it? It’s eerily magical.)

We drove along the east coast above Portree, stopping for snowball fights along the way. There was barely another human being in sight. Presumably all the locals were gathered snugly around their sitting room fires, while those mad Australians danced in the snow. The mountains dominated the landscape, sharp black edges cutting through a thin layer of icing sugar snow. We spent one exhausting afternoon clambering up the side of Glen Brittle, past a waterfall where the rocks were tinged in jade and the crystal clear water swept exuberantly over the edge of a chasm into a deep pool of glacier mint green far below.

On New Year’s Eve, we headed south, and as we left the island behind us, we drove through a magical milk white landscape. Near Glenelg, a huge red stag stood on a snowy ridge, still as stone, his beautiful antlers raised to the sky, looking as if he had been painted onto the scenery. We waved, but he didin’t condescend to notice us.

We finally arrived in Oban just in time for dinner at a Chinese restaurant across the road from our hotel. Having stuffed ourselves with a banquet of all they had to offer, we headed to the nearest pub to join the céilidh. By the time the clock struck midnight, we were outside the pub, in a huge ring that straddled the road, crossing arms with the entire town and raucously bellowing out Auld Lang Syne, as the ferries in the harbour madly blew their foghorns and the church bells rang discordantly. We eventually staggered back to the hotel for Scotch broth and more martinis before collapsing into bed at some ungodly hour with no plans to rise until lunchtime.

I suspect the Christmas season will be more sedate on the Fleurieu than it was in Bonnie Scotland all those years ago. It will certainly be warmer. And while we won’t be seeing any stags on the sand dunes, maybe we’ll spot a kangaroo or two…

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An Abundance of Wine & Song

Posted on 12 November 2021 by sheg4184

We drove across the Fleurieu recently, to meet our daughter in McLaren Vale. Unfortunately, it was unseasonably chilly, so my plan for lunch on the lawn at Chalk Hill was scuppered by a general consensus that it was far too windy and far too cold for a mid-winter picnic. So, we drove down into town, to find somewhere warmer to eat. Pausing at the intersection, my eye was caught by flags flapping outside the church opposite, pronouncing Pasta Pizza & Platters. Perfect. We found a park nearby and strolled in. A table on the patio near the front door was dressed in a red and white gingham cloth. Apparently, we learned later, this is to indicate when Sabella’s is open for business. A man with a magnificent moustache was waiting near the entrance to welcome his guests.

Sabella’s Cellar Door, McLaren Vale

The McLaren Vale Congregational Church on the Main Road in McLaren Vale was opened in 1862 and closed in 1974. For many years it was a concert venue and a marketplace. In March 2019, it was finally auctioned off. This small, sandstone gem was bought by local winemakers, Joe Petrucci and his son, Michael of Sabella Wines, their vine only five minutes out of town, just the other side of Wirra Wirra.

Joe has been growing vines for over forty years and making his own wine since 1999. But Sabella’s had been a ‘homeless’ winery (without a cellar door), until the Petruccis bought the church – just as Covid struck and shut down the state. They used the opportunity to renovate the church and transform it into a dining area with both an indoor and an outdoor bar, and a courtyard for entertainment. Covid may have slowed down the opening, but last weekend, the place was alive and buzzing.

Giuseppe (Joe) Petrucci was born in Italy, north-east of Naples, where his family were farmers. His family migrated to Melbourne in the 1960s. In 1976, Joe and his wife Rosa moved to McLaren Vale, with their kids, Michael and Maria, where they had bought their first vineyard in McMurtrie Road. Since then, they have increased their acreage considerably: from 25 to 110 acres. At the beginning, Joe sold the grapes to various neighbourhood wineries. Then, in 1999, he decided to keep some back for release under their own label, and Sabella’s was born. Joe’s son Michael took on the role of winemaker while Joe continued to look after the grapes. While still fairly new to the game, they were delighted to win the George Mackey Award in 2009 for the best wine exported from Australia, for their 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon. They are now exporting to Singapore, Malaysia Japan, Hong Kong, China and New Zealand. But there is no need to travel so far – you can try these lovely wines right here.

Despite a couple of covid-related hiccups, Sabella’s cellar door is now happily ensconced in the freshly renovated church. And it’s truly a family business. While Joe and Michael look after the drinking side of the equation, Joe’s daughter Maria manages the cellar door, ably supported by her kids, nieces and nephews. And in the kitchen, you’ll find Nonna Rosa cooking up a storm: pasta and pizza and a couple of desserts that change as the mood takes her. As Maria says, they want to keep it sweet and simple. It’s about the wine first and foremost, with food on the side. Nonetheless, the food is great, and the setting is gorgeous.

You can sit inside or out – we’ve done both – but the live music is generally on a small stage at the back of the garden, near the outdoor bar. Inside, there is still the calm of a church, even when it is chock-a-block with people munching and chatting. Stained glass windows filter the light like a prism and the wooden floor is highly polished. A high bar has been built where once there stood an altar that also served bread and wine. The kitchen may be small, but it’s effective.

On our next visit, I wander in at noon, with the One & Only, only to find them still setting up. Stupidly, I hadn’t checked the website and Sabella’s don’t open till 1pm. Oh well, time to stroll along the Shiraz trail to the edge of town and back, and build up an appetite. For future reference, Sabella’s is open Fridays and Saturdays from 5-10 pm, and on Sundays from 1-7 pm, with live music till 5 o’clock.

This weekend LizBiz is singing enthusiastically as we sip our drinks and munch into a pizza, the base thin and crispy, generously smothered in prosciutto and mozzarella and scattered with chilli and olives. We also share a tasty bowl of penne with a pork mince sauce. We add the chilli this time. My toes tap to the music, But I resist the temptation to join in the singing – at least while my mouth is full of pasta.

Later, I find Maria has a few minutes to spare and we sit down for a chat in the courtyard, while LizBiz takes a well earned break. Maria recently gave up a teaching job in the eastern suburbs to join her parents business in McLaren Vale. She now works as many hours at the cellar door as she did in school, she says, but work at the cellar door takes up her weekends instead of her whole week. And at least here she can have her family around her at the same time.

For some years, Maria tells me, the garden beside the church was known as the Groove Garden, where local bands would gather, and Joe would sell his wines at the bar. So, nothing has changed there: the bands still come to sing on Sundays, and Sabella’s wines are still lined up on the bar. Maria has retained many of the town’s favourite performers but has sourced a few newbies as well.

Maria says there’s still a lot she would like to do here, but for now they are all happy with the way things are going. And so are we. It was a lucky find, the day the wind blew us off Chalk Hill. (And in a whispered aside, I was even more delighted to realize that this was the church my great grandmother attended when she was at boarding school in the village in the late 19th century.)

Unfortunately, Joe is not in situ this weekend. Apparently, he’s recovering from a recent operation. So please get better soon, Joe, as next time I visit, I’d love a chance to talk to you about your wines. I have only tried the delicious, deep red rosé made from Aglianico grapes (pr. Ah-LYAH-nee-koh) which are popular in the Campania and Basilicata regions of Italy. (I I looked them up on Google maps. If you didn’t know either, Campania is on the calf, or the south-west coast, its capital Naples; Basilicata is a region of forests and mountains in the instep of the boot.) I now have a bottle in my fridge which will be perfect for summer… when it finally gets here!

Sabella’s boasts not just one but two interesting labels. The traditional label looks like the sister of New York’s Statue of Liberty. It is in fact an image of the statue of Abundance, a 17th century tribute to Joanna (Giovanna) Archduchess of Austria and Grand Duchess of Tuscany, wife of Francesco de Medici, whose daughter, Marie de’ Medici, married King Henry IV of France. Carved by a series of three sculptors, she is made of white marble and clutches a bronze bouquet of wheat.

Maria explains how Joe came across this beauty in the gardens of Boboli, at the Pitti Palace in Florence, and instantly fell in love. So, what could be a better tribute to a favourite lady than to put her on a wine label?

The second label is in a completely different style and depicts an old fashioned butcher shop window, complete with porcine carcasses. I am fascinated. Why a butcher’s shop on a wine label? Maria has no idea. She thinks her dad just liked the art work. Well, it’s definitely different and certainly eye-catching, and Joe uses to represent Sabella’s premium wines.

One last point. Why did they call the winery Sabella’s? Why not Petrucchi’s? Apparently, it is a pseudonym for the Petrucchi family, derived generations ago from Joe’s great great grandmother ‘Isabella,’ a name that would still be recognised in the town of his birth today. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? Now, where did I put my glass…?

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Colonel Light’s Vision: an old chestnut or a model for the future?

Posted on 2 November 2021 by sheg4184

Through this exceptionally long, wet winter, I have spent a lot of time immersed in the history of South Australia, researching families and individuals who played a significant part in founding our state.

Edward Gibbon Wakefield, for example, was a key figure in the creation of South Australia. His plan, known as the Wakefield scheme, was to populate the new province of South Australia with a combination of labourers, tradespeople, artisans and capital. The scheme was to be financed by the sale of land to wealthy capitalists, whose payments would fund the migration of skilled workmen and labourers. The migration plan worked brilliantly thanks to early and exceptionally clever marketing along the lines of ‘money for jam.’ And it earned him a street in the new city and a port at the head of Gulf St Vincent, among other nomenclature in his honour.

As eager migrants poured into the new province, the celebrated vision of South Australia’s first Surveyor-General, Colonel William Light and his sidekick George Kingston saw South Australia’s capital city Adelaide rise from the swamps of Holdfast Bay into one of the most beautifully laid out cities in the world.

The first place in Australia to be planned and developed by free settlers, Adelaide was founded on the ideals of religious freedom, diversity and inclusion. As such, it was quickly labelled the City of Churches, not so much for its pious inhabitants – although there were plenty of those too – but due to the many and various religious groups that built spires pointing to the exceptionally blue heavens all over the city. And Colonel Light’s city is the only one in the world encircled by green space. His master plan is now internationally recognised as one of the most important influences on the Garden City Planning movement.

I have always loved our Park Lands. Each area has a different vibe, but as a land moat between city and suburban sprawl, it is a joy to walk or cycle through these broad tracts of open space. There are great picnic spots and the bird life is prolific. Since the inception of its proclamation, town planners, councillors and politicians have nibbled away at its edges to widen roads or build casinos or generally infringe on its glory. Yet still the outline of the original plan is visible, with its six squares (counting Wellington Square in North Adelaide) and its encircling belt of green. Along North Terrace, we have given up much of the original riverbank for public buildings such as the universities of Adelaide and South Australia, the hospitals, new and old, the Festival Centre and the State Library/Museum/Art Gallery cultural precinct. All good, I suppose, when such buildings are open to the public. The Conference Centre and the two – or is it three? – mammoth hotels above the Festival Theatre have less excuse for invading the public space, but according to our current politicians, this is still Park Lands, despite the array of outrageously large and modern constructions.

The Adelaide Park Lands are shaped like a figure eight, encircling the City of Adelaide and North Adelaide and meeting on the broad Adelaide Bridge across the Torrens Lake. Originally, the Park Lands consisted of 2,300 acres, excluding 32 acres for the public cemetery on West Terrace. Soon after the declaration in 1837, 370 acres more were lost to Government Reserves. In 1902, The Herald newspaper noted that 489 acres had been taken from the Park Lands, and by 2018, the loss is about 568 acres. That’s a quarter of the original public land chewed away in less than two hundred years.

In 2008, the Federal Minister for Environment, Heritage and the Arts, Peter Garrett, announced that the Adelaide Park Lands had been put on the Australian National Heritage List as ‘an enduring treasure for the people of South Australia and the nation as a whole.’ In fact, large areas were excluded from the listing. Now, according to its website, the government want to grab an area the size of 32 tennis courts for a multi-storey car park. Not to mention a little cheeky re-zoning.

Last weekend, we sat with a small gathering of concerned citizens, as the National Trust presented a forum on ‘planning beyond tomorrow.’ The takeaway message? That no one in our current government has any vision for the future beyond the next election, through the age-old adage immortalized by ‘The Grinch’ of biggering and biggering. Building that is, not green spaces. Like Premier Steven Marshall’s threatened re-zoning and his proposed new riverbank stadium to be built on top of the Helen Mayo Park on the southern bank of the Torrens.

Speeches were many and varied. The first, presented by Professor Norman Etherington AM, historian and former National Trust President, was about a 50 year vision he has devised, with reference to Light’s original plan and a stronger focus (read ‘where the government has little interest at all’) on preserving the city’s heritage and keeping our treasures – Ayers House, Martindale Hall, the Park Lands – for the people. Stephanie Johnston, urban and regional planner, spoke about how a World Heritage Listing can be a future-making tool, designed to highlight our historic and environmental advantages. And the President of the Park Lands Association, Shane Shody, spoke vehemently about saving and/or restoring what remains of our precious Park Lands, a blessing to our city living that very few cities can boast.

At this point, feeling overwhelmed and helpless by the accusations that our current government is attempting to destroy our beautiful city through its over-riding greed, I left. The One & Only stayed on to hear how climate change and Covid 19 might dramatically alter the current trajectory for the development of the city, and how best to balance the present drive for urban consolidation, while safe-guarding our heritage buildings.

And yet, there are some positive notes to balance the negativity. The East Park Lands have already had a wonderful makeover, and at the southern end of the old Victoria Park racecourse, they are in the process of being transformed into wetlands. Nearby, the creek that runs through the Southern Park Lands between Hutt Road and Unley Road has been beautifully landscaped. And the horses still frolic in the south-east corner of North Adelaide. And whether or not you admire the new, spaceship shaped Adelaide Oval, it definitely makes an impression on the landscape – and has not blocked the view of St Peters Cathedral to the north.

A further positive for those living at the southern rim of the Adelaide metropolitan area – who may understandably have little interest in the Park Lands but might be quailing before the major new housing developments around the Southern Expressway – is the newly created Glenthorne National Park. Incorporating an old CSIRO site at O’Halloran Hill, the O’Halloran Hill Recreation Park, the Marino Conservation Park, the Hallett Cove Conservation Park, the Happy Valley Reservoir and areas of the Field River Valley, it gallops around those southern suburbs and along the cliffs at Hallett Cove, covering an area of almost 1500 hectares, which is about twice the size of the Belair National Park in the Adelaide Hills. It was officially proclaimed last year by then Governor, His Excellency the Honorable Hieu Van Le AC. Last Friday, the Honorable David Speirs, our Minister for Water & the Environment, opened the park and unveiled a plaque to ‘a thriving environmental and recreational park in our southern suburbs’ – only the day before the National Trust Forum bemoaning our evil government.

So, is it good versus evil, or simply a gargantuan task of checks and balances, compromise and negotiation, from which we must take the best on offer? And do we, the people, have any opportunity to vote against current legislation, and be heard? Signatories to various petitions would suggest we have some power. Current legislation would suggest otherwise.


World issues – which include war and genocide, economic volatility and climatic disasters – may somewhat diminish the importance of such localized, first world issues, but nonetheless I am off to fight for our local beach side café and restaurant, which is under threat from the Powers of the Grinch to dramatically ‘enhance’ the foreshore with a dazzling and completely inappropriate structure. In my humble opinion, anyway.

*With thanks to Google for the pictures above.

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