The old wooden jetty creaked softly underfoot, its weathered planks warming in the morning sun. Stretching out into the lazy river, it was a gateway to countless summer adventures.

In the still morning air, there is the rich scent of damp wood mingled with the earthy aroma of the slow-moving water. Bare feet dangled over the edge, toes skimming the cool surface as minnows darted below. The screaching of circling Corella fills the sky overhead, occasionally punctuated by the occasional plop of a frog jumping from the reeds nearby.

Fishing rods lean against the railing, waiting patiently for the tell-tale tug of a Murray Cod or an unwanted Carp. Small boys while away hours here, day dreaming of pirate adventures and talking about everything and nothing, their laughter carried downstream on the gentle current.

As the day warms, mosquitos begin their annoying dance around the boys as they lay back on the rough boards, watching the sun rise higher in the sky, fishing rods now forgotten. The jetty is their sanctuary, a place of peace and possibility, far removed from the worries of the world and parents expecting chores to be completed.

On the morning that I found this small treasure on the banks of the River Murray not far from Murray Bridge, the boys were absent, perhaps now fully grown, moved away or off on their bicycles. But the memories and adventures that were conjured up on this small remnant of times past, still hung heavy in the air.

There was something almost magical about this small, dilapidated structure.