Marondera, Zimbabwe, 1995. Small, quiet, and still familiarising itself with electricity, indoor plumbing, and not marrying immediate family members. Life was both extremely good, and extremely sheltered — which meant setting off for a year in the largely unknown sprawl of Western Australia represented a considerable adventure. It turned out to be a remarkable year that proved a catalyst for life thereafter; for 13 years, I’ve been meaning to go back. And now, finally, I have. So what’s different in Perth?

A lot, and not much at all. Western Australia is in the grip of a resources boom — mining, I think we used to call it — and a rich swathe of lucre is coursing through the state’s veins. As a result the capital is noticeably awash with money, from the Porsche and BMW drivers who’ve appeared in numbers on the roads (the ubiquitous Holden ute, Australia’s definitive bakkie, has a little competition on its hands), to the construction that’s redefining the city centre. The place is full of cranes and builders — it’s no Dubai, but a city gently derided by east coast Australians as a sleepy hollow, is rising steadily from its slumber.

Wilderness slap bang in the middle of the city

Not that it seemed a sleepy hollow 13 years ago — when you live in a town with a single set of traffic lights, Perth is Paris, New York and Vegas in one. That might not be the case now — I flew in this time from Sydney, as vibrant and cosmopolitan a city as you’ll come across at the moment — but while the sense of awe might be gone, the charm of the city remains. Particularly given the foresight of city planners who clearly had visions of the need to give Perth’s postcard industry a solid foundation: cue King’s Park…

The park is a vast tract of unspoilt wilderness slap bang in the middle of the city, a pristine stretch of escapism that few cities on the planet could match. In the morning it’s full of walkers, joggers and cyclists, all unfailingly polite, the morning solitude interrupted only by the quiet stream of ‘G’day’ that bounces between King’s Park’s early morning visitors. And if the view from the top of the park down over the river and across the city skyline, creating the perfect vista for a million postcards of the city and more, was instantly recognisable, then the warmth of the locals struck an equally familiar chord.

And while I’d like to think that’s the Southern African influence rubbing off, the reality is that Western Australians are an inherently cheerful, good-natured lot, full of blue collar charisma and rustic humour. In many ways Perth is one very large village, but in the best possible way. Kangaroo on the barbecue (can a gas affair ever truly be a braai?), glass of chilled Margaret River sauvignon blanc in hand (and you’ve got a multitude to choose from; working through as many as possible is only polite, really), and earnest discussion over the fate of the Dockers and Eagles, Perth’s two Australian Rules sides — I can’t believe it took me 13 years to get back.

Amongst the nostalgia, though, the tourist emerges, and with it more endorsement for a visit east. Fremantle, the old port city south of Perth, with its ‘cappuccino strip’ and lazy allure, is must-see territory. Make sure you try Little Creatures, the brewery that produces a boutique range of beer from beside the docks.

A wander through the middle of town, starting at the new Bell Tower and working up, shows the surge of money and energy in Perth, as well as a city with a cultural side I don’t remember from 13 years ago; a visiting exhibition of antique Chinese pottery at the local museum a case in point. Granted, I stumbled upon it while looking for a pub, but it was an unexpected treat, and left a gently self-righteous glow that the established heathen always acquires after a brush with serious culture.

Enjoy lunch on the river

Lunch overlooking the serene blue of the river at the Freshwater Bay Yacht Club, where in 1995 my host father blithely handed control of his power boat to a non-swimming Zimbabwean whose maritime knowledge extended to a few battered copies of ‘Swallows and Amazons’ adventures (no fatalities, despite my best efforts); quiet perusal of the pubs in Subiaco, beneath the shadow of the stadium that is rugby union’s — and thus exported South Africans’ — Western Australian home; fresh crayfish and dhufish on the barbecue (I still can’t bring myself to say ‘barbie’ without feeling like a Neighbours caricature) — Perth’s appeal has only grown in the last decade or so.

And that, I suppose, explains why Afrikaans is the unofficial second language in the city; South Africans present in near epidemic proportions (with a healthy dose of Zimbabweans thrown in for good measure). The vibrancy and energy of Cape Town is missing, certainly, and that’s why the Cape will remain very firmly home for me — but the city that dragged a 16-year-old Zimbabwean out of the confines of rural Marondera and suggested that a far broader world existed, still has a hold on me. Half of South Africa, it appears, would agree.