Plenty of pinot on the menu

Next weekend I’m off to the Mornington Peninsula to do some fine dining and wine tasting.

I’m not sure where I’m staying (although I think it’ll be two venues) or where I’m eating but I do know there will be plenty of  wine tasting to do. I’m just waiting on the PR woman to put together my itinerary and get back to me.

The trip is a precursor to the Mornington Peninsula wine show (I think it focuses on pinot) coming to Melbourne in September and I have to write a yarn for it.

It made me smile when the PR woman asked whether I’d be bringing a partner … me and a partner? Nah, that ship sailed long ago. Still it was nice to be asked.

NEW VENUE
Breakfast has taken a turn for the better at weekends. My good mate Ben has bought a share in a café not too far from my house (OK, it’s a five-minute drive).
It’s called Herbie Mills and it’s at 36 Mills Street, Middle Park.
The food is bloody good. The scrambled eggs on toast are as good as it gets matched to some thick, hand-cut bacon. For a change yesterday I had tea rather than coffee. They actually use real loose-leaf tea.
I had just poured a cup when my good friend Tiff lobbed and gave me a hug. It’s been a while since I’ve seen her. She hosts a sports radio show, among other things. “I’m taking acting lessons,” she said, “I may head to LA for a year to see how it goes.” If anyone can crack it, Tiff can. She worked on TV in the States for a bit over a year and has done shitloads of TV work here.
We’re planning a farewell dinner – either she’ll be heading off and I definitely will be.
Just as I finished breakfast I got a second hug – it was one of Liam’s exes – it was a bit of a struggle because she’s a bit of a head case. I was relieved she didn’t hang around.

ON THE MENU
It’s been a good time for food and wine recently … Liam spends more time in the kitchen than I do … and that’s a good thing.He tends to cook things that I never think of, like a couple of nights ago when we had pork and stir-fried vegies with noodles. Bloody good thing it was.
I had a crack the other night and that crack turned into a cracker. I’d bought some smoked ocean trout at the market the day before and I thought I’d have a go at some pasta.
I headed to the new deli/fresh produce shop around the corner from home – it was my first time there – to grab some ingredients. Mascarpone, fresh dill, asparagus and an avocado were the order of the day. The place isn’t cheap (I know how much rent they pay. I had a glass or two with the developer who built the place) but the produce is good. A case of you get what you pay for.
I blanched the asparagus for about 90 seconds and then mixed it and the dill through the mascarpone, to which I’d added a splash of the pasta water. The (perfect) avocado went into the penne at the last minute with the chunks of smoked ocean trout. It should be on the menu at my place at least once a week. The picture is a sample of the vino that's made its way onto the home menu. The E. Guigal Cotes du Rhone, for me, was the standout in terms of taste and value. And the fact that Liam is not drinking wine is a bonus. I get it all.

NO MATCHES, JUST PATCHES

Son Liam and I decided five days ago that we should give up the smokes. He’s a bit like me in that regard … goes through so, so many.

It really shocked me when he said: “I’m 33 years old, but I’ve been smoking for 20 years.”

We wandered up to road to see Martin, the chemist, and each grabbed a two-week pack of patches. So far, so good. We’re both enjoying not smoking.

ONE CAR ALMOST GONE

There have been about 700 views of my Subaru Forester on the carsales website. Several have been in touch and taken it for a spin. Reckon it’ll be sold before the week is out. Then it will be time to sell the LandCruiser ute.

Liam is thrilled to the back teeth with his new HiLux ute. He has taken it for a (about 2500 kilometres) spin this weekend. I’ve had a drive of his … gotta get one soon.

Surprise right on thong

The bearings in my clothes dryer have seen better days (a bit like me really … yeah I’ve occasionally lost my bearings, too) and I’m kind of between the devil and the deep-blue sea. I can’t be bothered getting it repaired because I’m outta here sooner rather than later and it would probably mean one less case of wine I could have on the road, given what the repair would likely cost.

But I nonetheless use it now and then when the weather isn’t conducive to drying stuff in the sunshine. OK, it grinds sometimes, sometimes not (a bit like me really).

So it was last weekend. Liam and I had done all of our washing (and there was plenty of it) and he offered to take it to the laundrette up the street to use the dryers.

No big deal.

He buggered off with the load of clothes and I did the only sensible thing; I opened a bottle of wine.

Pretty soon he was back with everything dry. Unusually, I had a fit of “put the washing away immediately” despite the lure of the wine and the chance to do it later.

As I was sorting through it (I took my glass of wine with me anyway), I thought “This isn’t mine”. It was a very feminine-looking, multi-coloured thong (Playboy label).

“Is there something you want to tell me?” I asked Liam. “Or did one of your friends leave this behind [not that it would cover a behind]?”

“Nah,” he said, “nothing to do with me.”

Just imagine a bloke in a relationship doing the washing and getting home with a mystery thong. I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be deep in the shit.

“Nothing to do with me” reminded me of a time that I loaned my company car (yeah, those were the days) to a bloke in our office. He had it for a while (OK, I got a replacement car) and when he returned it, my wife (about a week later) found a very flash pair of women’s shoes under the front passenger seat.

I got the third degree, not to mention the fourth and fifth degrees, and pleaded my innocence … well, I was innocent, but she wasn’t happy.

I challenged the bloke who borrowed the car and he said: “Nothin’ to do with me. I’ve never seen them.” Yeah, I thought, thanks for that, you bastard. He went on to become coach of a national league soccer team and win a title (I’d given him a few titles, none of them complimentary). I went on to divorce. I’m pretty sure the shoes didn’t play a part in that but you never know.

The moral of the story is: be tidy. Don’t leave shit around. You just never know who you may get into trouble.

DUCK AND PINOT EXTRAVAGANZA

We had a quiet dinner last week: an intimate gathering of 35 friends at Old Kingdom restaurant in Fitzroy.

OK, I reckon it is the noisiest restaurant I’ve been in … it rivalled but then went way beyond Nobu on the noise level register (there’s a yarn about Nobu somewhere on the blog).

And it looked like a pisspot’s convention. I’m reliably assured that there were 72 bottles of wine at our three tables.

There were spring rolls and prawn crackers aplenty before the main event. The deal with the main meal was that it started with Peking duck, then stir-fried duck, then duck soup with tofu and veg bits. Oh, and there were plates of greens, bowls of ribs and something else I can’t remember.

Our table of 10 got through five ducks, carved at the table, a pile of pancakes and spring onions and cucumber and seemingly a litre of sauce. Liam has the appetite of three men and it did him in. It was one of the few occasions I’ve ever seen him knock back food.

It was the first time in a while that I’ve caught up with my friend Andrew McUtchen (do a Google search for his website and have a listen to some of his music), who has featured a few times on this blog … he’s a great singer, songwriter, athlete, feature writer and soon-to-be first-time dad … and, among other things, he’s also a great bloke.

He let it slip that he’s soon off to New York.

“I’m there for 48 hours,” he said, “to interview Roger Federer.”

“You’re what?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, “I get to spend a day with him.”

Tough gig, that. I hope he gets to have a hit with him. Knowing Andrew’s sporting prowess, it wouldn’t surprise me if he takes the odd game off the champ. I’m looking forward to the story.

THE GLOVED ONE … NOT

I was recently at the market buying goodies to make a huge feed of my favourite winter warmer, laksa.

Now, I’m a regular at this particular market stall and the service (and certainly the produce) is good.

After a couple of laps of the shelves, I was done and, with a basket full of goodies, headed off to pay.

There was the girl who usually serves me (she’s always up for a chat) … she was on her haunches, busily smearing lip balm all over her mouth. She stood up and said: “Sorry about that. I’m ready.”

You may be ready, I thought to myself, but I’m not ready to have you handling my food until you’ve at least washed your hands or at least put on some latex gloves.

She smiled. I said: “Nah, I’ll do another lap of the shop … there’s always something else to buy.” And then I headed to the other till, operated by her mother, who, as far as I could tell, hadn’t been applying lip balm or scratching her arse or whatever.

PORK HUNT A FRUITFUL EXERCISE

Liam and I did a shopping trip on Friday night to stock up the pantry with a bulk buy of cans of diced tomatoes, bottles of passata, a few hundred teabags, six kilograms of dried pasta, a case of bourbon and Coke cans and, among other things, a four-kilogram slab of pork belly, which we planned to have for dinner last night.

Saturday dawned too early (yeah, I was up before seven) and I got through the domestics before heading off for an appointment with the hairdresser (he gets the shits when I call him a barber).

“So, what’s the deal?” he asked, “Are we actually cutting any off this time?”

Given that my last trip there was to get the colour ramped up (no cutting), I said to him: “Right, it’s time for a haircut.” His eyes lit up.

He happily hacked away for a while and then said: “That’s it. That’s just enough off. I’m done.”

Not so fast, Muchamba (Seinfeld fans will get that), “get those scissors back and cut some more”.

“I don’t want you pissed off with me. How much more should I cut.”

“Thin the sides out, cut it so you can see my ears, take some more off the back, but leave the rat’s tail,” I said.

It’s the first time in about 18 months that I’ve had short hair, but I kinda like it. Don’t know how I’ll cope with the frostbite on my ears, but it’ll grow. Liam has been enlisted to put some beads into the rat’s tail over the weekend. Once a hippie, always a hippie … that’s me.  

The young fella took on kitchen duties last night for the pork extravaganza. He prepared lots of vegies to roast, including two full heads of garlic and just half of the pork … still, that’s two kilograms of beast.

We’d eased our way through a bottle of Mr Mick Tempranillo (reckon it’s not named after me but what the hell) as a warm-up before I opened a bottle of 2000 Penfolds Bin 389 to let it breathe for an hour or so.

Soon, it was pork o’clock. Sweet mother of Jesus. How good was this beast?

We each tucked into a huge plate of goodies and surprise, surprise, I cleaned my plate, unlike Liam.

We were both sitting there, belts undone, and moaning.

“It’s the nearest you can get to OD-ing on food,” said Liam. “It’s kind of like the dog that’s broken into the feed bag and emptied it.”

The Bin 389 (it sells for about 80 or so bucks … it had been in my wine cupboard for a while) was a cracker.

Wine Spectator said: “ Starts out dark and dense, but quickly finds a sense of elegance that lets the pepper-and-liquorice-scented blackberry and cherry flavours come sailing through, echoing beautifully on the firm, fine-grained finish.”

I certainly got the pepper and liquorice, but also a nice hint of leather (not an unpleasant thing) … OK, I’m not a wine wanker. This was a bloody good drop and a great way to end the night.

STRANGE KIWI WAYS

A mate recently sent this to me. It needs to be shared.

New Zealand officials have released a list of baby names put forward by parents that were rejected because they were too bizarre or offensive, including "Lucifer" and "Mafia No Fear".

The list of 77 names reveals one child was set to be called "Anal" before the Department of Internal Affairs vetoed the proposal, while another narrowly avoided being dubbed "." or full stop.

Other names on the list included "4Real", "V8", and "Queen Victoria".

In some cases, parents appeared to have lost any inspiration for coming up with a moniker for their offspring, wanting to call the latest addition to the family simply "2nd", "3rd" or "5th".

The department's rules forbid any name that might imply a child holds an official title or rank, so "King", "Duke" and "Princess" were among those that had been turned down most since 2001.

"Justice" was the most popular, having been rejected 62 times, although "Justus" and "Juztice" also failed to gain official approval.

In 2008, New Zealand's family court ordered that a nine-year-old girl whose parents had called her "Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii" should have her name changed because it was embarrassing and "makes a fool of the child".

At the time, judge Rob Murfitt criticised parents who gave their children bizarre names, citing examples such as "Number 16 Bus Shelter", "Midnight Chardonnay" and twins called "Benson" and "Hedges".

The photographer who sapped my joie de vivre

Liam and I recently had breakfast with the mother of my children and her husband at a café around the corner from home. It was a beautiful clear sunny day (singlet weather for me although most around me were rugged up) and the coffee was doing its thing before the bacon and eggs made their appearance.

We were just shooting the breeze, having a quiet cigarette (yeah, all four of us smoke) when I watched a bloke set up a camera on a tripod, point it at us and start to snap away. No, no, I thought, at least come and ask permission.

Up I got and marched over to him, standing as tall and puffed up as I could muster, and said: “What’s the story, mate? I don’t like the fact that you’re taking pictures of us.” He said: “It’s OK, I work for the council. I’ve been told to blur all the faces anyway.”

“No, it’s not OK. I don’t give a fat rat’s arse that you work for the council or are gonna blur the faces. Just stop pointing that thing at us.” “I’m almost finished,” he said. “No,” I said, feeling my joie de vivre draining rapidly, “you are finished.”

Our waitress, Pru, suggested that I should let him do his thing. “Settle down, Michael,” she said. But I fired back: “No. Don’t people understand that it’s manners to ask? Don’t people understand that they may appear in some council initiative, linking them to something that they’re opposed to? Don’t people understand that there may be people who don’t want their whereabouts out there, blurred face notwithstanding? It’s not that hard.”

The bacon and eggs were good.    

A GREAT COMEBACK

It was a comeback of sorts this week when I headed to my favourite bar, Lina’s, for a bite to drink with some friends I haven’t seen for a couple of years. It’s also probably three weeks since I’ve been to Lina’s, which has gotta be a record.

My friends Jules and Diane and their teenage kids Flynn, Ollie and Gina (I haven’t seen them since they were little tackers … there’s still a picture of the family on my fridge) were in Melbourne for a family wedding. Another friend, Libby, and my son, Liam, rounded out the numbers.

We set out to diminish Lina’s supply with a couple of bottles of Bowen Estate shiraz, along with some Stefano Lubiana Tasmanian pinot and M. Chapoutier  Côtes-du-Rhône grenache syrah.  Yeah, it was good to be back.

The food did its thing as well. Piadinas and bowls of fries with garlicky aioli kept the kids quiet for a short time (young Flynn, 16, has a huge appetite … reckon he’d join the Taliban if it made its own smallgoods) before we put Raf, the chef, to the test. Eye fillet steaks (I had mine served rare, when it almost still had a pulse), beef daube, penne with broccoli and chilli were the mains, with sautéed silverbeet with fetta and pine nuts, more fries and cauliflower segments crumbed and flash fried, were on the side. Chef Raf, he’s a good mate, was on song.

And what better way to finish a meal than with a cheese platter that included, among others, Le Delice triple French brie.

It was a great catch-up with Jules (he owns a nickel mine in South America), who let drop a couple of revelations. “Early days, when I was a geology student I used to hang with a few musos, Stevie Wright [of the Easybeats] in particular. I even went water skiing with the boys from AC/DC.” My flabber was gasted. “I even spent an afternoon with Tiny Tim, who very proudly showed me a picture of Miss Vicky, who later became his wife.”  

Just when you think you know someone, he drops something like that into the conversation.

As the visitors headed for the burbs to prepare for the wedding, Liam, a friend Danielle, and I had one more M. Chapoutier  Côtes-du-Rhône grenache syrah for the road, before I grabbed a bottle of same to take home as company for a few hours of watching the cricket from England.

Like Australia, I collapsed not too long after.

CRUNCHY GRANOLA … SWEET

My friend, Jane, made good her word last week, and delivered to me a container of her homemade granola, complete with a lovely ribbon around the container.

It was just brilliant. I’ll see during the week and get her recipe and post it here somewhere. It’s to die for with some natural yoghurt.

And on the subject of gifts, my friend Dave from Swords Wines, gave me a bottle of really tasty onion jam. A woman with a shop near his home makes it. Every time cheese gets front and centre at my place (and that’s regularly), so does the onion jam.

FREEZER A JOLLY GOOD …

Given that my son, Liam, has such a voracious appetite, keeping the freezer stocked is becoming increasingly difficult.

I spent a whole afternoon, making litres of vegetable soup (with a bit of slow-cooked beef as company in it) and a huge pot of spag bol sauce. I gave the container supply a good workout and finally ended with 20 meals in the freezer, not that I expect it to last any length of time. It’s off to the market again (when I finish this post) to restock.

NAMING CONVENTION

I saw my tattooed homeless mate again the other day near my office. He was sitting on a bench in the sunshine having a takeaway coffee.

I had a rummage through my pocket and got a few bucks in change to give him. His face lit up and he said: “Thanks Paul.” OK, so now I’m either Roy, Ray or Paul. Then he said: “When I get my social service money next week, I’ll by a couple of scratch lottery tickets. If I win something, I’ll give you some.” Then my face lit up.

He’s got a warm side … perhaps if the locals, who ignore him because of his facial tattoos, got to know him, they’d take better care of him.

Me? I’m just waiting for my next name installment.

IN THE DRIVER’S SEAT

After a shitty day at the office (and there aren’t too many. It’s a great place to work), I usually head home – it’s about seven minutes from the office – and ease a cork out of a bottle of red. A sort of stress buster, if you will.

Last Wednesday (it had been a rare shitty day), instead of the vino, I grabbed a mate, Kris, and headed to the local driving range, bought a bucket of 100 balls and, armed with a one wood, a five iron and a pitching wedge, I distressed in the best possible way. Along the way I hit quite a few shockers (it’s been a few months since I picked up a club), but especially with the wood, I creamed a few right up the guts.

Exercise, a bottle of water and some fresh air (OK, it was bloody well freezing), and I could get used to it on a weekly basis.

HI, ROY, OR IS IT RAY?

I’ve got this thing going with one of the homeless blokes I see around my neighbourhood. I collect all my change and when the bag has about 10 bucks or so in it, I look out for him and give him the dough.

He kinda gets frowned upon by the locals because, no doubt, they are put off by his many facial tattoos, but he’s a really good bloke.

Recently I gave him a bag of coins: his face lit up and he said: “Thanks, Roy.”

I said “I’m Michael”, to which he responded, “Nah, Roy’s easier.”

A couple of days later, he was walking along the other side of the street and when he saw me, he shouted: “G’day Ray.”  Roy, Ray? What’s a name between mates anyway?

NICE RACK

Now I’m not desperate for a drink (although if you read on, you may have a different opinion), but this thing is for those people who are … desperate, that is.

The website says: The Winerack is every girl’s best friend. Turn an A cup into double Ds and sport you favourite beverage for yourself and your friends. Go to http://www.thebeerbelly.com/The_Winerack_Small_p/200-007.htm and see what the hell it’s all about. Oh, there’s also a beer belly for blokes.

A FINE PLACE FOR A FEED

A few blokes in our office recently farewelled a mate who is now enjoying the delights of Paris (he’s probably in England by now) … lucky bastard, although I’m not sure that he’ll be all that enamoured of the shopping that his wife will no doubt foist upon him.  I shouldn’t have said that because there was no luck involved; he worked bloody hard for it. Good luck to him.

For the farewell lunch, we went just around the corner from the office to suss out Bellota, a new establishment next door to the Prince Wine Store.

Good move.

We were in and out within an hour (yeah, we had lots of work to do), but it was an eye-opener. The food was terrific and the service was even better.

Minute steaks for four, veal for one and a shared bottle of tempranillo got us there, although the trip along the way included water bottles constantly being topped up, and the same with the bread basket … no need to ask, it just happened, as it should. The steaks were great and the veal (my mate asked for the recipe) was super. It was on the must-revisit list for me.

And revisit I did a week or so later when I had planned a catch-up dinner  with my friend, Jane (she of @winematters on Twitter), a wine writer with The Age, wine judge and all-round good person.

Jane was meeting a supplier there and planned to be through by about six, which was about the time I finished work. Done.

I arrived at 6.04 and she was already ensconced with the staff, who had just finished their shifts, all of them enjoying the fruit of the vine.

I started to chat with the staff and one of the waiting staff said: “Welcome back. You were here last week with four friends … four steaks and a veal.” It was a serious display of knowing the business, as was the wine suggestion from the waitress: “Try the 2010 Charvin  Cotes du Rhone Le Poute. It’s a very good drink.” Bingo. I did more than once.

We each opted for a simple dish … pork schnitzel, with a small salad and a clump of browned potato cubes … and simple turned into simply fabulous.  The meat was as near to perfect as it could be; in fact everything on the plate was great. You’ve gotta love a place that does the simple things really well.

One of the best things about the place is that it’s part of the Prince Wine Store (it’s next door) and you can go in there, select the wine you want, and take it back into the restaurant. That means that the wine list is 3000 strong.

The owner (sorry, I forget the name) explained that there are also plans to do takeaways  from the fantastic selection of charcuterie in display. Bar snacks are $5-$12; tasting plates $8-$28; mains $10-$26 and; desserts $10. It’s open Tuesday to Saturday from 11am-late

It’s at 181 Bank Street, South Melbourne.  Go to it, it’s fantastic.

PLUCKING HELL

Some things are best left alone and done at home (OK, a lot of things are best at home).

I caught a tram to work the other morning and took up my usual spot standing just behind the driver’s cabin. (It’s just a five-stop trip, so there’s no point in sitting.)

A woman got aboard at the next stop and sat opposite me. Quickly, she retrieved a small mirror and some tweezers from her bag, and she started to pluck the hairs on her chin, grimacing each time she extracted one. She made me grimace too.

Like I said, some things are not meant to be done on a tram.

BEAUTIFUL BUBBLES

I had a crack at dinner with someone a couple of weeks ago and, although it’s winter, took a summery approach to the food.

I reckon there aren’t too many better ways to start a meal than with some freshly shucked South Australian oysters … natural, of course, with just a lemon wedge or two.

They were washed down with a bottle of Pierre Peters Cuvee de Reserve Brut NV, described by The Age Good Wine Guide as the best non-vintage Champagne.

Or perhaps this will explain a bit more thoroughly:

“More than 15 years of reserve wines are kept on hand for blending. There’s a lot to like about this wine even before you open the bottle: family estate, grand cru vineyards and a DIAM cork. And there’s a lot more after you do! The bouquet is enticing with its linden blossom, lime zest and lemon flesh aromas. A pure, fresh and vinous palate is like biting into a chardonnay grape from an ultra-cool vineyard (in every sense). This is about as primary as NV champagne comes; it’s all about the finesse, fruit and minerality of Le Mesnil (two-thirds of the blend), without an iota of interruption from any form of winery-infused character or dosage. An enticingly refreshing aperitif style, and a bargain!”  (94) TYSON STELZER, The Champagne Guide 2011

Nuff said. There was still a drop or two left for the second course: ceviche, made with some terrifically fresh snapper fillets (There’s a recipe that I follow somewhere on the blog).

Then, some fat tiger prawns, served in a brioche bun with some kewpie mayonnaise and some homemade, finely sliced pickled shallots (I used verjuice and some raw sugar … kinda made it up as I went along) and some organic rocket. Some of my favourite Greywacke pinot gris was a great friend to the prawns, as was the Margan (Hunter Valley) 2010 Botrytis Semillon with the triple French brie and creamy French blue.

If that was a great feed in winter, then roll on summer cos I’ll be doing it again.

FIRST PASTA POST

My son, Liam eats about four meals a day, which is why I spent all of yesterday afternoon cooking: to wit, about six litres of mainly vegetable soup (there’s some slow-cooked beef steak in there as well), and about 20 serves of bolognaise sauce (yeah, there’s plenty of veg in it, too) … to stock the freezer, although given his capacity to eat, it won’t last much beyond a week.

Last week, I offered to cook dinner with a difference … i.e. he’d not tried this recipe before. I made what I reckon is one of the world’s simplest dishes; spaghetti with butter, lots of cracked black pepper (about a level tablespoon), broad-leaf parsley and some three-year-old Parmigiano Reggiano. While the pasta is boiling, microwave a shiteload of butter with the pepper, then add the parsley and grated cheese and stir it through. Dinner in just seven minutes. That’s as tough as it gets. What it did get was the thumbs up from my resident eating machine.

BASTARDS

I don’t reckon I need too much incentive to leave the city for good, which is what I’m gonna do anyway, sooner rather than later.

But last week, another reason emerged to reinforce it.

My son’s car, which was parked at the front gate, was broken into … the bastard/bastards literally ripped the dash apart to get the sound system out. They also nicked the GPS, a $300 jacket, a backpack, which was hidden under the seat (it was his emergency pack, with a first-aid kit, among other things, in it. Liam reported it to the local cops, but I said to him: “There’s bugger all they can do. I don’t reckon they have the time to follow-up on things such as this.”

But follow up they did. The next night, the forensic squad from the next suburb dropped by to dust for prints and whatever else they do.

They were great blokes, who stayed and chatted for about half an hour. Liam let it all hang out when he told them that he probably wouldn’t be responsible for his actions if he’d caught them in the act. The police were very understanding

Speaking of cars, both of us are getting new ones. I’ve decided to sell the LandCruiser and get a tricked-up HiLux twin cab ute. They’re tough (you couldn’t kill it with an axe) and there’s a bit of luxury about the i.e. infinitely more comfortable than the Cruiser … and there’s room for passengers.

It’ll be just the trick for the long haul.

I spoke last night to my mate, Perrie, who is currently working at a campground somewhere between Catherine and Kununurra. I’ve met him all over the country and stay in regular touch. He did little to diminish my desire to get out there again … only this time it’ll be in a brand new car. Roll on the departure.

DAYS (AND NIGHTS) OF WINE; HOLD THE ROSES

I’ve stopped more than the odd drop going stale of late. It’s a bloody long list of tipples that I've tried lately. Oh, and this is what the dining room table looked like at nine this morning as I was researching:

2011 Fat & Skinny Rose

2011 Stanton & Killeen Durif

2011 Cofield Provincial Parcel Durif

2007 Anderson Durif

2010 Kendall-Jackson Zinfandel

2010 Bailey’s of Glenrowan Petite Sirah

2010 Mount Avoca Chardonnay

2011 Yalumba Merlot

2010 Estella Cab-Sav

2011 Mandala Pinot Gris

2012 Deakin Estate Merlot

2012 Brown Brothers Tempranillo

2009 Deen De Bortoli Petit Verdot

2010 Seppelt Sparkling Shiraz

2010 Saint-Esprit Cotes-Du-Rhone

2011 Maycas del Limari Resereve Pinot Noir

2010 Terre a Terre Cab-Sav

2012 Jaraman Shiraz

2010 Estella Shiraz

2010 Campbells Durif

2011 Lapostolle Cuvee Alexandre  Merlot

2009 Lake Breeze Langhorne Creek Cab-Sav

Dandelion Vineyards Shiraz

2010 Shingleback The Gate Shiraz

2008 Gemtree Obsidian Shiraz

2012 St Leonards Durif

2008 Scion Durif

I learnt a lesson with one of the above wines (not gonna say which one). I had written ages ago about poncy wine writers referring to “the smell of fresh cowpat” and I finally found it. It was not a good thing … it was the sole smell and taste of the wine. It was Brettanomyces or "Brett aromas" and, frankly, it tasted and smelt like shit.

You can throw in some fabulous beer and the absolute standouts include  Mountain Goat Cross Breed limited edition, Boris Russian Imperial Stout from the Feral Brewing Company and Ass Kicker Smoked Porter Ale. The Ass Kicker, from San Jose, is aged for 90 days in bourbon barrels, and is a mouthful of smoky chocolate and caramel. It’s a kick-arse 8.9 per cent and even though it’s about 20 bucks for a long-neck, it’s worth the price of admission.

Bacon, bum nuts and bourbon ... for breakfast. Beauty

When you get to my age, birthdays don’t mean a lot (to me anyway … it may have something to do with the fact that I’ve had so many of the bloody things).

My most recent anniversary, though, was a special one. Not for any particular reason other than the location and the company.

Day three of our camping trip dawned with yet another beautiful outlook (my philosophy is that every day is beautiful) once the fog had moved to greener pastures.

Once a smoke was rolled and a pee was peed, the fire was given a new lease of life and the billy was doing its duty, it was time to contemplate just where the past year had gone. And Christ, it had gone quickly (they do once you attain a certain level of maturity).

Any thoughts of the past disappeared when Liam suggested bacon, eggs and toast should be mandatory.

“I’ll make a pot of espresso,” I said, “That should kick-start things.”

“I reckon that, given it’s your birthday, we should celebrate with a strong coffee with a decent splash of Jack in it,” said Liam.

Bourbon and coffee? I was all for it, which I guess negates the suggestion of maturity I made a couple of paragraphs ago. No matter. It was to be our only strong drink for about eight hours so what’s the harm?

Bacon, bum nuts (they're eggs to the uninitiated) and toast, coffee and bourbon (yeah, it had a wonderfully warming effect), the river doing its thing just metres away, the fire warming our toes, cockatoos holding what seemed like ridiculously loud conversations … it’s hard to imagine a better start to any day.

A couple of cups and tea and a smoke or two rounded out breakfast before the dishes beckoned and then a trip to town to get supplies.

Once we hit the main road and got reception, my phone did its thing with a gaggle of messages (can you have a gaggle of messages? Don’t care if you can’t) and calls to wish me a happy birthday. Speaking of collective nouns, I had a great friend (he’s now propped up at the great bar in the sky) who had, to my mind, the best collective noun ever. Every day at the office at about 12.30, he’d say: “I’m off for a collapse of brandies.” Just thought I’d like to share that with you.

Given that we were in town, it seemed like a good idea to do the pub lunch thing. A country pub chicken parma was the order of the day for me and bangers and mash for Liam. While we waited for the kitchen to do its thing, we decided a game of pool was in order. Liam won. That in itself is not usually the norm. There’s history there. I have the inherent ability to get into his head when we are playing pool and he, there’s no other way to say this, chokes. Years ago when we were in Munich, we were in a bar playing pool and I beat him 14 games in a row, often from seemingly hopeless positions. He was a very angry young man. (About 12 years ago when I was a regular at the local pub, I played two games against former world snooker champ Eddie Charlton before interviewing him for a story, but that’s something for another day.)

With pool and lunch done, we headed to the supermarket to get supplies. Given that we’d indulged in a fair amount of dead beast during our time on the river, we decided to go healthy. I was going to make vegetable soup. We bought a shite load of same and wandered back to camp.

The afternoon seemed like a good time to lock the hubs and do some four-wheel-drive exploring (gathering firewood along the way) of the many and varied tracks around the area. We took both vehicles.

It was a good thing, given my lack of experience in 4WDing (Liam did plenty in Vanuatu). There’s no better way to learn that just doing it. I took the LandCruiser to places it had never been. “I’ve just run out of track,” I said to Liam on the UHF. “You’re in a bloody LandCruiser,” he said, “make a track.” I did.

By the time we were all tracked out (and had a good supply of firewood), beer o’clock loomed.

There’s something pretty special about having a beer, sitting by a fire and peeling and chopping vegetables. I filled the camp oven with river water, chucked in carrots, cabbage, potatoes, broccoli, pumpkin, peas, chickpeas, cannellini beans, parsnip, swede, a couple of bottles of passata (OK, I didn’t throw in the bottles) and some salt. A couple of hours on the fire and voila, it was done. It was as thick as an English soccer hooligan, and tasted bloody excellent. Each of us armed with a big chunk of baguette and a glass of wine or seven didn’t lessen the experience. We can play.

And play Liam did ... the guitar anyway and we tried to write a song based around the lone black swan that had been cruising the river in our neck of the woods. It was a great way to end the day.

The days rolled into each other with the sort of ease I’m looking forward to on the road. We did what we had to do. No pressure, no deadlines, no TV, no radio, nothing but good food, good wine and good company. About the only productive thing we did was give the generator a test run, which was great. It’s not as noisy as I thought it would be.

The lightest moment of the whole trip (and there were plenty, including a mouse doing the breaststroke in a bucket one morning and me doing a Homer Simpson impersonation by treating a glow stick as a cigarette) came when Liam said: “Bugger it. I can’t be here by the water all week and not have a swim.”

It was beautifully sunny although the water, I reckoned, was at the wrong end of the temperature scale. He put on his boardies and, with a determined look on his face, marched into the water. OK, he was ankle deep. “Shit,” he said, “this is painfully cold. It actually hurts.” They’re not words I usually hear from him … he’s a fearless bugger. He splashed himself and then turned and said: “Nah, I can’t do it.”

We did give the LandCruiser a chance to do its stuff one afternoon and took it on a track along the river bank. The beast climbed over fallen trees, up rises that I once wouldn’t have dreamed of doing, and ended up negotiating terrain that could only be done in a four-wheel-drive. Shit, it was fun.

As always, though, the fun comes to an end, as did our week and before we knew it, it was time to break camp and point the vehicles in the direction of home. I suggested that rather than cook breakfast, we should pack and head to Yarrawonga and let someone else do the cooking. It was a good move.

We were sitting on the footpath outside a cafe, waiting for our food to arrive, when I heard my name. It was my friend, Tom, who lives in the town. I hadn’t seen him for a while. We used to go camping together with our young families. Tom hadn’t seen Liam since he was about 10. It was a great catch-up before we hit the road, bound for Toolleen to catch up with our great friends Jodie and Stef, with whom we’d stay the night and have a bite to drink.

I can’t say we enjoyed the drive. The traffic in Shepparton was shitful, not helped, I guess, by the police and media throng at a siege being staged by some bloke dressed in a Medieval costume. I can’t remember seeing so many coppers in one place.

The view as we negotiated the road to the farm was a cracker and worth the price of admission.

It was wonderful to see Jodie and Stef. It had been Pfarr (that’s their name) too long between drinks, something that was rectified immediately we’d arrived.

If the drinks were good (and they were), then Jodie’s food took things to a whole new level. Simply, it was the best vegetarian food that Liam and I had ever eaten. The girl’s a genius.

I opted to sleep in the swag despite the offer of the couch in a warm room (it must be a bloke thing) while Liam had the spare bed. It was good to be reacquainted with the swag … and waking to the view was a bonus, but not as big a bonus as Jodie’s breakfast. Poached eggs (we went to get the eggs from a woman down the road), homemade hollandaise, toast and the best homemade baked beans with feta. Again, the girl’s a genius.

As is her husband, Stef, who arrived back from a neighbour’s vineyard armed with a grapevine cutting. “This is the start of our vineyard,” he said. They are going to plant out a few hectares and give it a serious crack. All power to them.

All too soon, it was time to head for the big smoke, armed with bottles of Jodie’s homemade (with home-grown ingredients) kasoundi, and capsicum and courgette chutney, both of which are delicious.

Then came the sad part of the week. It was over. Time for a reality check and time to hit the office again. Roll on the next camping trip.

More old man, river, son still shining

Night rolled quickly into day, but what a day it was.

Surprisingly, I was first to shed the doona (OK it wasn’t cold, just fresh) and indulge in a drover’s breakfast … aka a pee, a cigarette and a bit of a look around. That involved taking in the fog. It was quite heavy between us and the bright blue sky … a long narrow band of fog (can you have a band of fog?) snaked its way along the river. It was beautiful.

The first official task was to breathe life into the fire (easily done cos I’m a bag of wind) and fill the billy from the river. It was tea time.

I wandered to the water, billy in hand, and then realised we’d left our baited lines in all night. I retrieved Liam’s unharmed worm and then started on mine. Snagged, I thought, because the line had drifted from the deepish middle of the river to the bank.

No, it wasn’t snagged; there was a beast attached and he was still intent on a fight. I reeled in a decent, better-the-pan-sized yellowbelly. Guilt, not joy, was the order of the day. Had this poor bugger been on the line all night? I hoped not and rather that he’d had a fit of the early-morning hunger pangs and hadn’t been discomforted for too long.

Liam emerged from his tent and came down to meet my latest acquisition. “We gonna cook him?” “Nah, reckon the poor bastard has had enough grief being on the line for maybe the whole night. Time to let him go.” Liam grabbed him and ran plenty of water through his gills and away he went, full of fight for another, hopefully fairer to him, day. We felt good about it.

It’s a bloody good feeling, sitting by the fire with a cup of billy tea, a smoke and pondering what to do with the day. That inherent feeling, of not having to do anything other than what we wanted to do, ran wild.

“Reckon bacon and eggs on toast and more tea would be a good place to start,” said Liam, “I’ll cook.”

Done.

While he was busy in the kitchen, I grabbed a shovel and wandered off to do what I had to do. It was a good time to reflect on what was looming as a problem with my three-way fridge. I’d cooled it on 240 volts the night before we left, and run it on 12 volts in the ute on the trip up. It is obviously having trouble keeping its cool – something that was never going to afflict us on this trip. I’ll get it checked out by someone who knows these things. It was a faithful servant during my 10-month trip a couple of years ago, so I’m quite fond of it. But given that I’m hitting the road at the end of the year for a rest-of-my-life road trip, I’m gonna need something that reliably keeps its cool. Sure, I have a big (think a size for giving the kids a bath) icebox but given that I’ll hopefully be spending big slabs of time without ice being an option, I need to rethink. A Waeco three-way fridge-freezer is on the radar if the old girl fails to pass muster.

Breakfast did its job … the boy can cook. And he did the dishes.

We sat by the fire … it was just for the ambience, it certainly wasn’t cold … and another cuppa did its thing.

“What about we take a long walk into the bush?” said Liam, “Maybe an hour or two. Have a good look around.”

We hadn’t come all this way to ignore what was around us, so we reluctantly (the holiday mood had well and truly kicked in) extracted ourselves from the comfort of a chair by the fire and headed to our digs to dress the part.

What followed was another lesson from Liam. “Got to get my adventure pack,” he said. I looked quizzical enough, so he explained. “I bought a backpack with a bladder in it. You can never have too much water with you. And it’s bright red, deliberately, in case I get lost. I always carry a first-aid kit, a cigarette lighter, some kindling, a water bottle ... you never know. You should get one for your big trip.” It’s on the to-do list.

As we were walking through the bush, scouting for a ready supply of firewood and keeping an eye out for a wild pig or whatever, he said: “I reckon we should do a first-aid course.” He was right. I’m gonna be by myself in the bush a lot and a first-aid course is nothing to carry. We’re booked in for a one-day course in Melbourne next weekend.

Wild pigs were missing from the landscape although, the shotgun blasts in the distance from the night before were an indication that there may be the odd one about. Claypans, with a high but intermittent grass presence, we also another indication.

Instead of porkers we made do with the odd (OK, maybe it wasn’t odd, it’s their home) kangaroo or three, although they weren’t that keen on sharing their space with us. I still get a real kick out of seeing roos in the bush.

After an hour or so, we wandered back to the river and sussed out a couple of likely fishing spots (there were deep holes and lots of fallen timber) tucked in under the willows at the bend in the river near out camp.

We’d spotted enough firewood on the walk to warrant a trip with the LandCruiser into a spot where there were no tracks but the omnipresent fear of really soft, swampy ground. Liam walked ahead to suss it out. No problems.

We threw heaps of fallen timber onto the back of the ute, some of it hanging a metre or two over the tailgate. It’s a good thing to retrieve fallen branches and help to keep the forest floor a bit cleaner … bushfires readily spring to mind.

Getting the ute out of the bush was a breeze, even for someone with my limited four-wheel-driving experience (it’s all about learning), and we headed back to camp to unload and chop enough to keep the cold at bay for the night.

Time for another Liam lesson. Sure, we each had an axe, but I’d also brought the Vanuatu bush knife and a WW2 machete that saw service with my old man in New Guinea. The bush knife is standard for most locals in Vanuatu - people carry them on the streets – and they use them for everything from chopping down trees to slashing excessive greenery, probably even as a toothpick. (OK, I made that up.)

With a solid base in place, he carved through smaller branches (think an inch or two in the old money) most times with a single blow, clean as a whistle.

“There’s a sweet spot about a third of the way down the blade [I’ve included this picture with one of my size 11s to give an idea of the size of the thing] … I got to be pretty good with one while I was over there. Not up to the locals’ standard, mind you, but pretty good,” he said. Then he set about the bigger stuff … think about eight inches or so, again in the old money. It was shades of the Time Warp … it’s a cut to the left, it’s a cut to the right … and he smashed his way through a huge amount quicker than I could have done it with an axe. Still, he’s young and fit. I had a few cracks and liked what I saw. It does work a treat, although rings on fingers are not the ideal accompaniment to such activity and I retired hurt (it was pride, not pain) with a bloody finger.

We decided after the fire was strutting its stuff to give the yabbies and worms another swimming lesson, not that any fish would take any notice.

“Shit, I just got worm in my eye,” said Liam as he threaded a wriggler onto a hook. A spurt of worm (now they’re not words often used together) had gone straight into his eye (that’s Liam, not the worm). Perhaps it was revenge.

Enough fishing. There was certainly no catching involved … the fish simply weren’t hungry but we were.

Slow-cooked lamb casserole with lots of veg and some noodles was the order of the day, but not before a couple of pre-dinner beers and then we attacked a magnum of 2007 Chateau Tahbilk shiraz with the food, a better than fine way to see out the day … and night.

It was doona time.

Old man, river and the son shining

There's nothing like boiling the billy in the morning after cranking up the fire again.

“Shit, I just got worm in my eye.”

 “Sorry, I just kicked over your drink.”

“Oops, I just got soup in my eye.”

 “Bugger, I just knocked over my drink.”

 “Sorry, I just kicked over your drink.”

“Shit.” “What’s wrong?” “I just sat down too fast and now I’m sitting in a puddle of overproof Bundy and Coke.” (The rum was in a cup holder on the chair and, yep, the glass was full. So, I suspect, was the occupier of the chair. But I’m not telling.)

Yeah, my son, Liam, and I had some unusual conversations during our recent week-long camping trip on the Murray River. We also shared some quality bonding time (not that we have ever needed it), some good food, some good wine, meeting up with old friends (OK, they’re not old) and everything else that’s good about camping.

The hardest part of camping, to my mind anyway, is the drive to get there. This one was a breeze, made all the more easy for both of us (we took two vehicles: a HiLux twin cab ute and a LandCruiser ute towing my camper trailer) because we each have a UHF radio, so a chat was never out of the question.

“Reckon a roadside bacon and egg sandwich and a cup of tea followed by a smoke is the order of the morning.” Done.

We even took the time after breakfast to roll a few smokes each to eliminate a few stops and after a couple of hours’ easy driving (the traffic was light all the way) we were in downtown Yarrawonga bound for the supermarket to grab some supplies before making a beeline to a spot about 20 clicks down-river from the town, aka Bruces Bend track.

There are two beaches – Bruces Bend No.1 and No.2 – and after a fair bit of to-ing and fro-ing, exploring other tracks and sites, we opted for a flattish spot on No.2. (And before any pedant complains, not one of the Bruces signs has an apostrophe.)

During this early exploration, we stopped and walked around in search of firewood, which was plentiful if you walked far enough into the bush. Lots of suitable, dry kindling and a few decent-sized fallen branches that would become fire-sustaining logs for what we reckoned would be a cold night.

Liam cuts a fine figure of a bloke, walking out of the bush with a four-metre log on his shoulder (I have just a chip on mine) without so much as a sign of straining to carry it. Wish I had his strength. Maybe if I was 30 years younger. Just maybe.

As always, when you find a suitable site, you position the camper trailer and tent so that when you open the door/flap/whatever  you’re facing the river, the first thing you do is … open a beer.

I find it always helps with set-up.

And set up we did in not a lot of time (OK, maybe two beers each time) and then, with the help of the bush knife I brought back from Vanuatu, we got the chairs positioned and started a fire. Done. The light looked likely to fade within the hour, so the timing was right.

Just enough time before dinner to bait a hook each (we had small yabbies, earthworms and witchetty grubs as bait options), get another beer and sit on the bank to ponder our surroundings. It just doesn’t get a lot better. 

The river was running at a slightly-quicker-than-my-jogging pace, the huge stand of willows to our left offered a lot of yellow foliage to offset the majority brown/green landscape, which at times was punctuated with the occasional kangaroo checking out its new neighbours. The fish? Obviously they had been well nourished during the day because our lines were not offered so much as a polite inquiry despite the presence of live yabbies. Perhaps we were auditioning to become members of the yabbie preservation society. No matter.

Being the well-prepared people we are, dinner was easy. A week before we left, I’d cooked some bolognaise sauce, which I taken from the freezer the morning that we hit the road. A little gentle coaxing in a saucepan to expedite the thawing, a big pot of boiling, salted water for the pasta and pretty soon we were tucking into a feed while we warmed our toes alongside the occasionally roaring fire (a constant supply of fresh, dry wood will do that). It’s impossible not to relax when your stomach is full, you’ve got a beer in hand, a smoke rolled and going, a river running by and a fire at your feet ... and excellent company.

It’s difficult, too, not to want to hit the hay by about 7.30, so we toughed it out until 8.30. OK, it wasn’t tough because we’d watched the sun set directly opposite our site … through a nice gap in the tree line. As the light dimmed it was almost like our own natural TV, a shimmering patch of eerie (think good UFO-type), fading light. It was beautiful.

Sleep came easy, courtesy of an opened-up sleeping bag and a doona each (Liam has just returned from Vanuatu and is getting used to the cold again. Me? I'm just getting old), the deafening silence and the fresh air. Roll on day two.