A Day in Semaphore
Life in Semaphore has a very different rhythm than I am used to. It begins with a cup of (instant) coffee on the patio with fellow tenants, reading the Adelaide Advertiser, having a swim, listening to the CBC World at Six online, responding to email and reading the Globe and Mail.
Then I head down to the beach for a walk.
This morning I tuned in last week’s CBC 3 podcast downloaded to my iPod. The largest decision of each day is whether to walk north or south. I chose south today. An hour later I’m at Tennyson Dunes. My feet ache. I’m not a bare foot person (I put it down to my Protestant Nova Scotia upbringing) in a land where men don’t own shoes. I’m trying to adapt. It is not easy. 
I decide to press on to the jetty I see in the distance.
A half hour later, reaching it, I am feeling a bit like a man in a desert: exhausted; dehydrated; desperate; hallucinating; in need of a drink. Like an imagined oasis there is a café on the beach. Tea smoked duck with a salad of watercress, ruby grapefruit, orange, red grapes, in a citrus vinaigrette.
I am delusional. A Killakanoon Killerman’s Run shiraz convinces me that this is a delusion worth indulging.
The French couple at the next table are experiencing a major life crisis. OK, the French guy at the table next to me is experiencing a major life crisis. My French is rusty. I need to sharpen it before I get to Paris. But there is something about finding oneself, a new identity, sense of himself. His female companion looks bored. I can’t determine if she has known this for a while or has heard it before.
Three German businessmen are going on about big catches. I think it is fish they are talking about, my German is less than my French. I think the references are to sharks and who’s is bigger. A lot of boasting. Cell phones keep ringing as business in Frankfurt and Berlin is executed. An Australian family arrives. Mom, Dad, and three teens. Mom busies herself with her Blackberry, catching up on email. Dad reads yesterday’s newspaper. Daughter natters on her mobile to friends in Sydney. Son #1 text messages his friends. Son #2 just sits, staring beyond the ocean, bored beyond words, wishing to be any where on this planet, or not, than here with his family.
A rabbit runs by in the dunes.
A momentary diversion for every one.
Tunisian orange and almond cake with orange medallions and saffron custard, a long black (more on coffee in Australia later) and a shot of Black Label complete the repast. Time to head back to Semaphore.
It is raining.
I consider calling Barry to come pick me up but he and Kay have been so generous and gracious I don’t want to put them out further. I Zip-lock bag (every traveler’s best friend) my camera; I tune my iPod to a collection of Bach organ fugues; I zipper my Goretex-lined fleece jacket (which the Aussie’s laughed at when I arrived and all now want when I leave); and I set out. It is cool (OK, 27° is not cool, but when you’ve gotten used to mid 40°s 27° bites). Knee deep in the warm surf cool is soon forgotten.
Bach is a good choice. Jogging in the warm, incoming tide, it is an hour and a half back to Semaphore jetty.
It is cocktail time at Seacroft before we go off to Glanville Warf for tea.
Another day in Semaphore.
Then I head down to the beach for a walk.
This morning I tuned in last week’s CBC 3 podcast downloaded to my iPod. The largest decision of each day is whether to walk north or south. I chose south today. An hour later I’m at Tennyson Dunes. My feet ache. I’m not a bare foot person (I put it down to my Protestant Nova Scotia upbringing) in a land where men don’t own shoes. I’m trying to adapt. It is not easy. 
I decide to press on to the jetty I see in the distance.
A half hour later, reaching it, I am feeling a bit like a man in a desert: exhausted; dehydrated; desperate; hallucinating; in need of a drink. Like an imagined oasis there is a café on the beach. Tea smoked duck with a salad of watercress, ruby grapefruit, orange, red grapes, in a citrus vinaigrette.
I am delusional. A Killakanoon Killerman’s Run shiraz convinces me that this is a delusion worth indulging.
The French couple at the next table are experiencing a major life crisis. OK, the French guy at the table next to me is experiencing a major life crisis. My French is rusty. I need to sharpen it before I get to Paris. But there is something about finding oneself, a new identity, sense of himself. His female companion looks bored. I can’t determine if she has known this for a while or has heard it before.
Three German businessmen are going on about big catches. I think it is fish they are talking about, my German is less than my French. I think the references are to sharks and who’s is bigger. A lot of boasting. Cell phones keep ringing as business in Frankfurt and Berlin is executed. An Australian family arrives. Mom, Dad, and three teens. Mom busies herself with her Blackberry, catching up on email. Dad reads yesterday’s newspaper. Daughter natters on her mobile to friends in Sydney. Son #1 text messages his friends. Son #2 just sits, staring beyond the ocean, bored beyond words, wishing to be any where on this planet, or not, than here with his family. A rabbit runs by in the dunes.
A momentary diversion for every one. Tunisian orange and almond cake with orange medallions and saffron custard, a long black (more on coffee in Australia later) and a shot of Black Label complete the repast. Time to head back to Semaphore.
It is raining.
I consider calling Barry to come pick me up but he and Kay have been so generous and gracious I don’t want to put them out further. I Zip-lock bag (every traveler’s best friend) my camera; I tune my iPod to a collection of Bach organ fugues; I zipper my Goretex-lined fleece jacket (which the Aussie’s laughed at when I arrived and all now want when I leave); and I set out. It is cool (OK, 27° is not cool, but when you’ve gotten used to mid 40°s 27° bites). Knee deep in the warm surf cool is soon forgotten.
Bach is a good choice. Jogging in the warm, incoming tide, it is an hour and a half back to Semaphore jetty. It is cocktail time at Seacroft before we go off to Glanville Warf for tea.
Another day in Semaphore.
posted by He's Not Home (again) at 12:32 am
visits
4 Comments:
wow those beach photos look very inviting. a long walk on a warm beach sounds good right about now. sounds like you're enjoying yourself a tad Alan :-) good for you! Melinda
I wish you'd added a picture of yourself on the beach, wearing your fleece jacket - with the temperature only 27C! Don't get chilled -
Wow, two weeks into your sabbatical and you've already cheap'd out. Stop with the small size pics. I can't use them on my desktop like the first few. I need detail!
Shoes - yes, it is different in Aussieland - I encountered the difficulty of adjusting to sandals the first time that I was in Australia. Allan
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