This is the real Australia

Only now do I feel I've arrived in Australia. Don't get me wrong. I really enjoyed my time in Queensland (even though the cricket was desperate). I had a nice day on the beach to recover from my jetlag, my digs were impeccable throughout, and the native flora and fauna seemed to queue up to pay me a visit. I saw a possum on the verandah and a family of kangaroos in the park. We passed a gumtree plantation on the way from the airport and I got squawked at by a flock of rainbow parakeets as I stepped out of the car. Had I wanted to cuddle a koala, I could have made a quick detour to the Lone Pine Sanctuary, some ten minutes down the road. But that's not really my scene.

But in spite of this sensory bombardment, something had been missing throughout. Something obvious, but utterly overlooked as the chaos of the cricket unfolded. It's only now, as I sit in the press box at the Adelaide Oval, watching the sun setting on the famous old scoreboard, as the earthy red roof of the Sir Edwin Smith stand begins to turn deep pink in the fading light, that I've realised what it is. It's context, stupid!

You see, I have lived and breathed the last four Ashes tours, from Gooch's disaster in 1990-91 through Atherton's disaster in 1994-95 to Hussain's disaster in 2002-03, and in that time, the nuances of each venue have become inscribed on my soul. Melbourne's Great Southern Stand, The Fremantle Doctor, the Ladies Pavilion at Sydney. But up at the Gabba, I was left completely non-plussed. Where was the history, except in rather indifferent snippets on the walls. Where was the old dog track of my mind's eye, except beneath a ton of concrete.

The trouble is, the new 42,000-seater Gabba is not a cricket ground, it is a stadium. It took a familiar and well-oiled member of the Barmy Army to point out that subtle difference to me, when I bumped into him looking as lost as the day he was born, in Brisbane's Pig & Whistle on the night after the Test. "You see, bundu," he began, in his unique mannerism, "there's no point complaining about the atmosphere at this match. You see, this is the only place in the world where you pay your money for a particular seat.

"It'll be different at Adelaide," he added, and how instantly he's been proven to be right. I've been at the ground for roughly eight hours, but already I've been here a lifetime. The seagulls on the peculiarly expansive straight boundaries, the rows and rows of benches in the member's enclosures. The ivy creeping up the walls behind the nets, where spectators can sit with their heads almost reaching into the action. Everything's exactly as it ought to be.

Most gloriously of all, there is space to breathe. If you wanted to stretch your legs at the Gabba, you'd have to go for a perambulation around the elevated concourse, which had such a plethora of fast-food outlets, (watered-down) beer taps and similarly claustrophobic spectators, it felt as relaxing as an afternoon at the Trafford Centre. Already it's clear that Adelaide's going to be different. There are green open spaces in which to mill around, and no two angles of the ground look the same. How could they be when you've got St Peter's Cathedral peeping over one corner, and the elegantly incorporated Sir Donald Bradman stand curled around the other?

It is obligatory to wax lyrical about the Adelaide Oval. Architecturally it blends the best features of Lord's and Trent Bridge, the two finest grounds in England, and blesses them with year-round perfect weather. But what's more important is the experience it promises to the spectator. I've grown up with this ground, even though I've never visited before. I know it, and I know the context of the contest it's about to host. In my mind's eye at least, the Ashes are about to begin at a venue that I trust as a guardian of the game's traditions. I wonder if England, as they observe the ground in all its majesty from their hotel windows across the River Torrens, might feel a flicker of the same.