You thought that it never could happen.
To all the people who you became.
Your body lost in legend.
To be so very tame.
Leonard Cohen
Fremantle is a groovy adaptable place that allows you and your trusty friends to remember and share all the other people and characters we have been.
Groovy in a solid timeless kind of way, where the musical beat remains in the background to the colourful pleasures of relaxed clothing, a crazy hat, jingly-jangly jewellery, loving dog and a splash of ridiculous conversation and genuine love for one another.
Is this place for real?!
Wrapped up in dress-ups, big hugs, kisses and lots of laughter. Where hearty crafty woollen jumpers come out to play just for a few days in our easy winter. Where the smell of jarrah burning chimneys are now hard to find. One of the few places in the world where respectful travellers say “thank you driver” as they disembark from their public bus.
Freo is pretty relaxed and forgiving on a good day.
You find its subdued quirky culture in the ‘burbs & up & down its main streets. As it matures with all its carcerial hardships, and disappointing national football team, we find new joints popping up in strange and wonderful places. A good sign for a happening evolving city. Out there in Hilton, Monument and Hammy Hill and Beacy. Where the range of good things and good times shrink and swell, burp and fart their own crazy way to prosperity or failure. Our other selves make it possibly dynamic.
How long did it take for Sealanes fishery to realise it could sell the best fish n chips alongside a slippery side window? How long can a Main Street be, as the distant Roma restaurant reinvigorates itself to fancy pants Vin Populi. Or a university hospitality training school into a vinyl playing Greek cafe with a back lane that takes you far away and hopefully elsewhere. Pay back Notre Dame, perhaps. And a experimental culture club that now comes from The Reuben Room.
Where the western anchor point Chalkys Cafe somehow hangs in there, in the shadows of that nasty, nasty Roundhouse. Not far from Mr Patroni’s magical laboratory of all things architecture. Where late in the night, low down in the basement you can find him staring proudly at a newly constructed design model spot lit on his front desk. How suitably indulgent, perhaps.
How long can it be?
Where Gino’s Cafe still remains the knuckle of all joints. Where a coffee or a spaghetti marinara can last for days, almost. Where people and automobile watching is at a premium. Where those older waiters are long gone to the transient one year visa holders. With their long faces drawn from elsewhere. Where the basketweave of Laminex is made from real Laminex.
Where we gasp and say — home sweet home — as we wheel our returned luggage back over our salty thresholds.
Where the Capris restaurant remains solid and forever tasty just like Mother would come to expect. Where the pinafore greets you with the warmth of history, an occasional smile and a good healthy story. Where the back dunnies are now world heritage status. Kept clean (unlike at filthy Gino’s). And the lost tin-pressed ceilings almost forgotten, unfortunately. Like the dishwasher who lived for a longtime in the back upstairs sunroom.
Not far from neighbouring Old Papas on the corner. Long gone but for the memories of laden footsteps up those back stairs to the enticing contraband. I would sketch design ideas in the side window under morning light to find their way to the new WA museum.
Try trundling out to the Hilton Bowling Club — the Bowlo — on a Friday night to squeeze in a few frothy jars. Remarkably priced and unbiased, with a music scene treasured by those serious yarning locals. Where rampant mandolin and the double bass are punctuated by harmonic vocals, slick licks and the respected moves and love of the Fisher family. While the lads in the courtyard enjoy some hearty giggles and joyful friendship. Where real bowls and bakelite are never to be seen.
Those lads remind me of old retired sailors sitting on the Cicerello docks ruminating about the big catch, when octopus was first eaten in Fremantle restaurants. And the smells of boiling acacia saplings along Solomon Street would be disguised by the cray pot repairmen. They try to hold their ground, just like that mighty moment when the slippery Endeavour replica prematurely edged its way down the fishing boat slipway, self released from the ship wright’s so-called ‘colonial triggers and daggers’. It just couldn’t wait to leave Fremantle. A poignant irony prevailed over the crowd on that late December afternoon of 1993. Now it is far away in Sydney town playing itself as a ‘museum ship’ to further spell the self conflicting narratives of displacement.
When will we ever learn?
Now that Juicy Beetroot is also gone, where would we be if we lost Mannas on South Terrace? Those hearty salads, fresh smoothies, sparkly faces and expensive organics. Juicy’s 3pm takeaway salad bargains were legendary. How good were their darling dhals?
I grab a rubbery hotdog from the Bulldog’s footy club bar and remind myself of the photo gallery on its walls. History told in athletic black & white. When traditional footy was gutsy footy, and innocent cheers could be heard escaping from the inside of those horrible nearby limestone walls.
I continue along the Terrace past the generous public seats at Greg Leaver’s Ronnie Nights to glimpse at Kate & Abel — a clever pop-up in trying commercial times. Another Kate Hulett project — the Freo photographer of distinct repute and generous doyenne of many things Freo arts and culture. Her ideas and books are special. Not unlike my mainstay at New Editions. Now located at one of Fremantle’s best, sunniest of street corners. I sometimes pop in just for the music?!
And what about Frank Carboni. Mr Meat House. Where the vegans hold their breath on Wray Avenue. His award winning sausages have traveled the world, and his deep love of the family’s Tuart chopping blocks are a well kept secret. Frank’s morsels are bought, sold, traded and consumed right across Fremantle — enticing Princis to move to Bicton. Watch as the chefs across town pick up their daily orders and share a quick joke. Frank is a mighty bloke, and his love of the Carlton Football Club goes way back. As does his footpath sign writing skills. Their sporadic eclecticism is way out there. He was slightly embarrassed to admit that he employed a sign writer recently to provide a new curb-side sign. He’s just been too busy. His obedient staff run around like ants. They all avoid the calculator as we watch our tallies written and confirmed on the white paper sheets. Old school with biro. Fremantle’s very own Contemporary Meat Museum (FCMM).
Just like the vegetable mafia lads from South Freo’s old Foodland store. Alleged and possibly reliable patrons of nearby Ada Rose, some say. As kids, my daughters returning from the dog beach use to play games in that Foodland to find the oldest use by date goods kept on the dusty shelves. They found fun. And seriously old food. Their numeracy skills became acute. We would walk back to Beacy via the hill on Lefroy just near that crazy man Jalikua — the potter opposite the school. His colour spun dishes remain unique, like his motor bike skills, having gifted many special wedding presents across the country. I once spotted one of his treasured electric blue plates in a boarding house in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
We swing by the Gas House and watch the Fremantle Biennale crew hard at work dreaming of being site-responsive. Such challenges for Indigenous Fremantle. A place of inclusive Walyalup like no other. Place holders of meaningful place.
It is then I find myself at Mojos in North Freo. A ‘stoned-crow' of a place now world famous for non-stop live music (and the biggest bar fridge). Here, one late night coming home from university I heard a troupe of trombone all the way from Cuba.
Arghh. Our glorious Fremantle. Don’t you just love it?!
…a place of all the other people and characters we have been (or want to be).
Gloria Turnip
11/2024