20.3.11 – A damp nostalgic idyll (Whyalla, South Australia)

20.3.11 – A damp nostalgic idyll  (Whyalla, South Australia)

Bill has always described to me the dryness and heat of Whyalla – temperatures rising to 40 degrees in the summer with exhausting regularity, less than 5” of rain per year, dry red soil. So when we woke in the middle of the night to rain ricocheting off the roof, it was a little bit of a surprise. In the morning, water still thundering from a leaden sky was now filling immense paddling pool sized puddles all over the campsite. Scottish campers would simply have sighed and reached for the wellie boots. South Australians stood mesmerised outside tents, watching this unexpected torrent make the expanding lakes edge ever nearer to their tent doors. During the day, this novelty of the rain showed itself in various ways. In church, God was roundly thanked for ‘this lovely day’. At the park, toddlers not only jumped in puddles, they lay down full length and even bathed their faces. It all depends what you are used to, I presume.



The Church of Christ Whyalla



Church was the start of a moving day for Bill – he remembered sitting in the then crowded building, now used as the hall beside the newer church. A very friendly and welcoming little fellowship invited us to tea and cake after the service and even to a birthday party later in the week. One lady had actually taught in his primary school.

Meg on the foreshore

As it was still pouring, we spent the afternoon driving around and looking at familiar streets and buildings. A far away look became a permanent fixture on his face such that I had to avoid disaster by reminding him of the 2011 reality of traffic and parked cars. We saw so much that meant a lot to him – his first primary school, little wooden huts nestling among the gum trees; his second primary school, now much extended; his imposing cream stone secondary school, including the huts where he could remember sitting quietly at his sunny desk, bathed in the sweet warm smell of the eucalyptus trees; the Scottish Butcher’s shop, amazingly still there, where his mother used to buy Lorne sausage; the lovely beach, from which he swam in the turquoise water – ‘Don’t go out past the sandbar!’ - and on which he and his father went to collect the white gritty sand for the chickens they kept in their garden. Lastly for today was the Memorial Oval, a wide green expanse of grass, sloping up gently at the edges, and surrounded by tall gum trees. This was the special place, where as a little boy he came in December along with the whole town, all clutching glimmering candles in white cardboard holders, to sing Christmas carols in the warm night atmosphere; this was where he ran around the track, gasping the burning air as he went, but spurred on and on by a determined sports teacher; this was where he stood as an excited nine year old, orange headscarf tied in place, as part of a welcome message for the Queen as she flew overhead.

Bill musing on The Memorial Oval

In the months leading up to this visit, I had wondered if it was wise for us to bring to life his childhood memories – maybe there would be too many changes, maybe it would distress or unsettle him. But no, he is satisfied, feels good, is happy. It’s home here, along with Dumbarton, Glasgow, and pretty little Millport, and always will be.