Sure, I'll taste your wine

Greetings,
We pick up our story at any one of hundreds of beautifully presented wineries in any one of dozens of wine making regions in South Australia.

“Would you like to try the pinot? It has excellent nose, with hints of blackberry, old tyre, and a cinnamon stick discovered at the bottom of a dirty-clothes basket.”
“Uh, sure. Give us a sip.”
Sniff. Swill. Chew. Examine. Tilt head. Raise eyebrow.
“Lovely, we’ll take six bottles”
“Very good sir”

The cellar door wine tasting ritual is a gentle dance of pretension, reverence, flourish and expectation, but one that we dance at almost every opportunity while in South Australia. Graz enjoys the dance, and so do I, but I have the slight feeling that I am being slightly conned every time. It’s not really a scam, it’s more like having Scarlet Johansson knock on your door collecting money for the Salvo’s, you tend to drop a bit more than you would normally be comfortable with, but you don’t really mind.

I understand that teasing wine aficionados is a bit easy, so I will stop now.
The small but perfectly formed wine region of Padthaway is where we see in the New Year, and after the crowds of people at Beachport, Robe and Kingston we were happy to find that the crowd at this van park consisted entirely of us, the obligatory permanent resident and the biggest kangaroo I have ever seen. So it wasn’t the craziest New Years Eve party ever, but we all enjoyed it.

Continuing west, the road we travel takes us beside the mighty Murray, and through the towns of Tailem Bend, Mannum and Murray Bridge. Despite the constant pressure it receives from irrigators and droughts the river at this point is grand and unhurried, easing along like an old gent in a Rolls Royce. House boats are big here, and it does look like a pretty cool holiday- cruising up the river with a few friends for a few days, and one that we will try to do in the future. The road winds its way towards the Adelaide hills and through the pretty little town of Birdwood, home to a cracking motor museum. I dig it and Graz does it, I cannot convince her of the beauty of the Lamborghini Miura but she does know a good Datsun 120Y when she sees one.

On the outskirts of Adelaide is the very pretty town/suburb of Hahndorf, which is German for “No, just sausage”. Zee Germans settled here 100 odd years ago and they obviously liked the old country because they have tried to replicate it in every way. Imagine for a moment the horror of hearing “oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah” every day of your life. It’s no wonder they like starting wars. The sausage is damn good though, as is the German beer, and the German bread, and the German cakes. From the beer-hall menu I wisely choose the platter of four different wursts, saukrout, some tasty mash-potato thing and a huge Kessler pork chop. Graz conservatively selects one of the few non-sausage dishes, some sort of roast pork, only to find it has been stuffed with the tasty little buggers. An absolute vegetarian’s nightmare. Best lunch ever.

I like Adelaide, Graz goes as far a saying she loves it. It is quite a nice city, with its abundant parks and parking, its nice old houses with price tags of only 6 digits, and it does have an excellent fresh food market in the centre of town, of the kind that every city in Australia should have but doesn’t. We wander the stalls tasting cheese at every opportunity. There is even a shop devoted entirely to mushrooms.

We have seen some rigs on our way around Australia, but none to compare with the behemoth that pulls in to our van park in Adelaide. It’s a huge modern double-decker tour bus, converted into a mobile house that could accommodate a dozen people without trouble but has only two occupants. In our little van we have to go for a walk outside if we want to get away from each other, they can just go downstairs. We are used to having rig-envy so it doesn’t bother us, but it is funny to see the owners of ‘regular’ Winnebagos and buses stare open-mouthed at this thing blocking out the sun.

South of Adelaide is the constantly mispronounced Fleurieu Peninsular, hence-forth referred to as the Perfler Peninsular, and it is here you will find Mclaren Vale and more excellent wineries. Sigh. A further 100 odd kilometres down the Perfler is Rapid Bay, a two maybe three horse-town tops, with a basic campsite right on a beautiful beach. You will need to look at a map to see what I am talking about but the bay sits on a point that sort of turns west, the effect being that despite the fact that it is at the bottom of South Australia the sea is to the north. Weird. We stay for a few days, do the odd bit of fishing, snorkelling, and generally laze about. It is a great spot that we eventually drag ourselves away from, and continue south towards Victor Harbour, which is where Adelaide comes to play. It’s like their version of the Gold Coast but without the chicks. Or the nice beach, or the nice weather. It’s not so much a sister-city as a retarded-brother-city.

We spend a couple of days catching up with some folks we had met way back in Tully in Qld, then get the hell out of there, never to return. We slip through Adelaide into the Barossa, another part of South Australia that has just started growing the odd grape. The Barossa town of Nuriootpa should just admit defeat and change its name to Nurioopta, because everyone not from there calls it that. That old tart Maggie Beer lives there and we drop by her house for a cup of coffee and some pâté. Actually, Maggie Beer’s Pheasant Farm is well worth a visit, if not for all the tasty pâtés and quince pastes then for the interesting collection of pheasants from around the world. I just re-read that sentence and I think I need to do more bloke-things.

The Clare Valley, (last one I promise) and more excellent wine, mostly Riesling this time. The highlight was the Jim Barry winery, not only for the excellent wine but for the fact that we were the only visitors that day so the accountant came out to serve us. She may have known plenty about amortisation and taxation law but she knew bugger-all about wine tasting, judging by the almost full glasses of wine she gives us to try. It made a nice change from the mouthful you normally receive but I had still to drive damn it and after three or four different wines I was having second thoughts. I don’t think they will let her out of the office near customers any more. Yeah, we bought some.

“Why don’t we stop in Port Augusta for the night?”
“Because Port Augusta is a toilet”
So we continue on to beautiful Whyalla…

Whyalla is actually a pleasant surprise, it is a dirty steel town, but the van park is right on the water and quite nice despite the fact that it is very hot. How hot? I have three beer showers during the day, that is, I stand under a cold shower drinking a beer. The tides here in the Eyre Peninsular are quite substantial and when the tide is out we walk out a kilometre or two out on the sand picking up blue swimmer crabs. They are an excellent animal, not just because they taste superb stir-fried with garlic and chilli, but because of their fighting qualities. This is how it goes. You walk through clear knee-deep water until you spot one nearby. You dash over to it and its first thought is to try to run away, but when that doesn’t work they stand and fight, extending their claws up and out in a manner that probably keeps the birds away but just makes us smile. If you are quick and careful you can distract them from the front while reaching around the back to pick them up and pop them in the bucket, or sometimes they just get the spear. One memorable big crab still has half a fish in one claw that he refuses to drop and continues to eat while he points his other claw at me. It was like fighting a fat kid. We are laughing so much we let him live.