Davenport

Davenport, WA — we tried, we really tried, but it turns out our suburb is less a place and more a tribute act to every other Davenport on the map.

Here’s the gig: we share a name with a Kew café that serves smoked trout on tables handcrafted by local furniture maker David Davenport. Meanwhile, our biggest local claim to fame is apparently being the surname of every second chef in the country — Phillip Davenport’s slinging rendang at Lamaro’s in South Melbourne, Luke Davenport’s doing pasta in Darlinghurst, and Josh and Rachael are out in the Perth Hills making wine we’ll never see.

The only thing we’ve got that’s actually *ours*? A dodgey ferry rebate to Tassie that drops you at *their* Davenport, and a longtime slot on “most romantic cities” lists that belong to a completely different state. Even the drag queens (rest in power, Chi Chi) are from the House of Davenport, and they’re definitely not performing at our RSL.

Look, locals know the truth. We’re the placeholder postcode. The one where the GPS goes “you have arrived” and you’re standing next to a servo and a very committed roundabout. But honestly? We lean into it. No brunch queues, no influencer flat lays, no problem. You want a coffee that doesn’t require a 40-minute wait? Drive 3,000 kilometres east and try Percy’s; we’ll be here, enjoying the silence, wondering why the hell everyone keeps asking about a river that’s 300 million years old.

You’d hate it here if you need a craft beer taplist. You’d love it here if your idea of a big night is watching the local roos argue over a verge. #DavenportWA — the original, and possibly the most confused.