He looked a little uncertain, so I found a Dad-smile.

“Not only will it be a family do, but I suspect most of this lot will be looking to come along. Besides, Jimmy would just ask questions. Anyway, you saying you don’t want to come?”

Point made. In the end, it was just me that went to meet the old man, and that turned out to be a good thing, as he looked absolutely dreadful. He had followed our very clear instructions for a local SIM card purchase, so I was able to lurk some distance away from the airport’s pick-up area until I got his call, saving a lot of faff. I had thought of suggesting he repeat Neil’s old trick of grabbing one of the little trains into the city, but Maz had been on point, reminding me that it would be luggage and instruments, not just a suitcase.

He had found a seat on one of the low walls around a little stand of grass trees, head tilted slightly back as he soaked up the warmth of the spring sun, but his grin emerged once I tapped the horn, and we had his bags in the car in nothing flat after a firm hug of greeting.

“Good flight, mate?”

“Bloody lang’un, Mike. Now, Ah knaas the score, no sleeping till later, aye? But de ye hev a bit ale in, for later?”

“Nope.”

“Nope?”

“Aussie beer will have to do, I’m afraid. Now, I am going to drive a little way, then ring Maz to let her know I have you safe”

He showed me his phone, and I shook my head.

“I want her to be able to understand, Jimmy”

“Ah, whey, aye”

I looped around to the huge DFO place to park, then rang home, Ish answering.

“Just leaving the airport, son. Next to Woolworth’s at the moment—do we need anything?”

“Mum? Dad wants to know if you need anything from Woolworth’s… no? Got that, Dad?”

“Indeed. We’ll get rolling, see you in a bit”

I closed the call, and spotted Jimmy staring at the main building.

“Factory outlet, Mike? They de hats?”

I really should have guessed. In, a much broader affair than his flat cap selected, and then back onto the road. It didn’t take long before we were through Bayswater and into Stirling, avoiding the city centre as best I could. I had still borrowed the old man’s phone to stick some numbers in, and as we started along Beach Road I got him to ring with the simple message ‘Five minutes’ to ensure the kettle was on. I made sure the message was limited to those two words as I had worries about comprehension, but he clearly felt his need for tea outweighing his need to wind up English speakers.

Maz was first out of the door for her own hug, followed closely by LC. In response to my raised eyebrows, my wife grinned.

“He’s setting out the tea stuff in the back, darling, and Carolyn and I have made sandwiches”

Jimmy’s bags went into the spare room, his backside into one of our patio chairs, and the first cup of tea seemed to evaporate from his mug. He said something about the aeroplane, which I interpreted as a fervent condemnation of how they prepared what they called ‘tea’, and then he just slumped.

“Quiet neet?”

Maz smiled gently.

“We’re having our friends across, Jimmy, just three of them. The Butts; they’ll be coming for the festivals. No, nothing busy tonight, just a meal out here and then an early night”

A little voice added “Ish has his cooly aily”, and a grandfather smiled back at her, just before he dozed off. So much for that resolution. We dutifully woke him before all the picnic food had gone, and Ish did his bit by offering to show him the beach, which meant a plea from LC, and so our quiet afternoon in the back garden turned into an equally relaxed couple of hours watching the waves from our local café, ice cream to hand. The beer did come out that evening, but Jimmy was in bed before nine.

What to say about the next few days? I felt rather like Kul must have when showing me around, as now-familiar places took on new lustre through a newcomer’s eyes, but I do remember both Jimmy’s disdain for ‘London Court’ and its tweeness and his fascination with one aspect of the nearby roo statues on St George’s Terrace. Specifically, that dangling scrotum. Never mind.

That first little festival by Hilary’s was close enough that we could get there by bus, which eased any issues about alcohol, and, to be honest, it was nothing special. Half the audience seemed to be members of our own local folk club, and while the music was nice, nothing in particular jumped out as a bookmarkable memory. Jimmy went down well, and at one point he called Ish up on stage to essay mark’s role as interpreter, but as our boy simply answered each of Jimmy’s cryptic utterances with a variation of “I’m from round here. Don’t ask me!”, people had to navigate the spoken bits on trust. As ever, though, the old man’s playing went directly to hearts and souls.

We continued to play tourist with him for the next few days, until it was time to head south, the wild flowers only just starting to fade with the Spring. LC was the excited one just then, as we would be camping again, and to her that now meant fun rather than fear of what or who might lurk outside. The venue was a sort of resort village, all chalets and period buildings, with a surprisingly large brick-built church; I gathered it was one of those places that did posh wedding packages. There were the obligatory art galleries, of course, and peacocks. That set Maz muttering about native versus introduced species, but there was enough forested ground to keep her happy with a selection of woodswallows, butcher birds and trillers.

The festival was… limited. Jimmy went down well, Ish and I sang a bit, LC played an ‘I’m an old, experienced hand at this’ role, but Shrewsbury it wasn’t. It was still fun, and we (including Jimmy as ‘one of us’) went down well, but I, for one, was left a little unsatisfied. In the end, I didn’t really care, for Ish and Maz were clearly enjoying it, and LC was really blooming. I just had to remember that we were living in the most isolated capital city in the world, and that meant we would always be subject to limitations.

In the end, we drove home reasonably satisfied. Jimmy had more gigs booked in Busselton, Maggie River and Rockingham, but the rest of his work was much further away. We worked some switches to drive him down to the gigs within a sort-of-local range, but Albany, Sydney and the East Coast was not an option. I’d arranged a camper from Canning Vans, of course, but it was still a major journey.

“You sure you’re up to this, mate?”

We were away from the rest, and he simply shrugged, then said, I think, “Got to be done, cause I won’t get another go”

The words were different, but the sense was there. He sighed, then shrugged.

“How, marra, at my age, aye? One last chance”

“Jimmy, we have friends out East. Could I…?”

“Aye, Mike. That would be canny. They’d be…?”

“Yes. Bets was in the same folk club as me up in Sheffield, so yes”

“Aal reet, then. Noo, this van, aye? Does it have a netty?”

We saw him off five days after his Maggie River gig, and that was with the van’s fridge filled with food from Sangeeta and after a seriously firm hug from LC. We stood as a family on our drive watching the little camper (which had a ‘netty’, apparently) set off for the road to Albany, and Ish murmured, “Dad, can I ask something?”