Adapting to ageing whilst losing none of the zest for living, is something I feel I am managing, so far.
Last week we decided to have a little holiday in the city. Not as easy anymore to drive there, find parking and not be alarmed by that cost. So we drove to Gawler and caught the train. Something I hadn’t done for years. Free for South Australian seniors. We had found and booked a lovely apartment no more than two hundred metres from the railway station – an easy walk with little luggage.
The train was great – clean and comfortable with crisp, clear announcements of stops along the way. Our last train travel had been in France, and while that was a lot faster, this trip offered similar interest – back yards. Looking into them seems a little voyeuristic, but I guess the people who buy homes backing onto a railway line expect to be observed. But it could possibly be said that many people aren’t as curious as I am.
The old houses along the way would have been purchased cheaply, when trains were loud and dirty – diesel-engined, spewing out black smoke, or coal-fired. Maybe some of the original owners are still in these houses – elderly now but still hanging their washing on their Hills Hoist clothes lines out the back. Today people dry their washing in machines in the house – the time-saving way. Not me. Still love my clean clothes with that fresh-air smell.
What did I see along the way? Bicycles against verandah walls, a wicker chair, maybe a long-expired car, dry, scratchy succulents, the vegie patch, the chook yard, an old washing machine, a discarded fridge, stacks of firewood, bottles, bricks left over, or in their second decade of waiting, with grass grown through them, old concrete bird baths without native trees.
There are old untidy factories, with years of surplus bits and pieces in piles. My dad worked in the Islington Railway Workshops in the early forties as a boiler-maker. It’s now an historic site, although it still looks like a run-down old factory from the train. The site occupies a large area, once comprising a foundry, about thirty large workshops and offices. Established in 1883, it was a massive industrial complex. They produced steam engines, diesel locomotives and military equipment during WW11. Today it houses some railway related businesses and a retail centre. Must go to have a look at that.
While travelling through the suburbs, I noticed the beginnings of housing developments backing onto the line. With the quieter, cleaner trains, developers are acquiring the old houses and building town-houses and apartment blocks.
Entertaining for me as well, of course, were the passengers. People-watching is one of my favourite ways to pass the time when out amongst them with time on my hands. A whole blog could be written about a carriage full of commuters. This lot were generally quiet, introspective, on their phones, but even so, if I was inclined, I could make up a story about each one. The only thing that shattered the general quiet of the carriage was the boarding of a middle-aged mother (maybe grandmother) and teenage daughter at Salisbury. It seemed obvious that they were both ‘on the spectrum.’ I don’t know if it’s politically correct to say that, or should I say ‘Autism Spectrum Disorder’? I don’t want to be disrespectful. Arguing as they boarded the train, they gradually escalated their dialogue until they were screaming profanities at each other. The girl got up and stood near the exit door threatening to get off at the next stop. She didn’t at the next but alighted at the one after that. The woman jumped up and followed her out.
I do feel so sorry for families with autism, and wonder why it is so rife today. There was a Channel Seven Spotlight episode on autism recently. The team interviewed various experts who all said that it is escalating, in our country at least, at an alarming rate. I was hoping to hear their views on why, but that wasn’t discussed.
At the end of the line – Adelaide, we walked through the grand old railway station, feeling a little like proper travelers, with our little bit of luggage. It was a little before check-in time but we walked to our apartment anyway. As we hoped, our room was ready so we dropped our luggage, had a cup of tea and walked to Rundle Mall. Leigh has spent a lot of time living in cities or their suburbs, as well as remote places and different countries, and while he now loves being in the Barossa, I sensed he was stimulated by being back in the buzz and vibe of a city, albeit little old Adelaide.
We wandered along the mall, went into Myers, aimlessly exploring a couple of floors.
‘Don’t need any more shops,’ he said.
So we walked back down to the beginning of Hindley Street towards our accommodation, and spotted a little pub – called The Little Pub. I thought it looked a little seedy, so Leigh said
‘Let me check it out.’
I followed him in at a cautious distance until he beckoned to me from an inner room.
‘It’s ok,’ he said ‘it’s got character.’
It did. Had a little of the character of an old English pub. No frills, but an ambience of soft vintage lights, original dark timber-work, Chesterfield lounges, beautifully crafted original bar. We had a beer (two) and talked in the relaxed way of tourists on holiday. We were happy.
We left the pub and walked along the restaurant precinct – Peel and Leigh Streets – looking for somewhere to eat that night. Lots of snazzy establishments to choose from, but we eventually settled on Peel Street Restaurant. It had been recommended by my daughter who is very Adelaide-restaurant savvy. Didn’t think we’d need to book as it was a Monday night, but we did anyway, and glad we did, as it was a full house by 7. Food, ambience, service, prices all to be recommended. It was Leigh’s birthday – the reason for the little jaunt actually. I couldn’t help but think – he’s in his element.
Our apartment was modern and comfortable. Next morning we had a coffee out on the balcony and watched Hindley Street’s passing parade – mainly people on their way to work I presumed.
We set out around nine. We’d had lunch the day before at a friendly little cafe on the corner of North Terrace and Blyth Street – just opposite the railway station, so we went there again for breakfast this day – after the morning rush. The relaxed holiday feeling of not having to be anywhere held us there at our window table for almost an hour. I asked Leigh if he’d like to see the casino. Sure, he said, so over we went. The main entrance accesses the newer part of the casino. It’s quite an eerie space early in the morning – not many staff on the floor, the odd player sitting at a machine, a little slumped, chair slightly turned as if they’re just about ready to leave but can’t quite do that as the next press might be the one to restore what they have lost, or make them a fortune.
We wandered into the original part – the old railway station building. What a magnificent piece of architecture. When my kids were young I used to take them to the station and wander the upstairs halls that were accessible to the public, sharing with them the grandeur of the place. I did not realise that there was so much more to the building. The towering, ornate ceilings, lights, chandeliers, ionic columns, staircases with solid old banisters and balusters, granite floors, even private telephone booths as big as a bathroom – built into corners with rounded glass windows, brass fittings, everything opulent. Our state must have had a lot of money back in the nineteen twenties when it was built.
Next to visit was the Festival Centre. Again this precinct seemed a little eerie with few people to be seen, other than the odd cleaner or bottle-and-can collector. We found our way in and sat at a table looking out onto the plaza that is in the throes of being developed to accommodate Festival Tower Two which will be Adelaide’s tallest building. I reminisced about my daughter’s years as an actor with the State Theatre Company and all the plays we had seen here and in The Playhouse adjacent.
We had planned to meet my brother and sister for lunch at La Trattoria – an iconic institution on King William Street since the nineteen seventies. So we boarded a tram to take us there. Adelaide city tram travel was new for both of us but once we ‘read the instructions’ we found it super easy to navigate. Everything about our little holiday was easy, comfortable and memorable.
La Trattoria has changed hands recently. The Parisi family who established it back in the seventies left behind a legacy. While they were there, the feeling of Italy was infused into the place. Dear Papa Antonio was more often than not on the floor – dressed in black trousers and waist-coat with white shirt, tie, white napkin over his arm – just making sure everyone was happy, satisfied. The food and flavours were so faithfully of Italy – brought here by Mama Parisi. But something has changed now. The ambience is still there but it felt as though the Italian-ness has gone. The family has another restaurant on King William Road – run by the next generation after Andy and Natale. I think it’s just called Parisi’s Restaurant. We will definitely check it out as soon as possible.
There is a little more to this holiday but I have run out of time. Last day of the month and the deadline looms. I will finish it in my next blog.
Look outwards if you can, for as long as you can. We live in a magnificent country.
Warmly,
Sue
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