Werrimull, the most outback pub in Victoria!

So anyway, as an oxymoron, somewhere up there at the top of the tree along with ‘humourous German’,  ‘military intelligence’ ‘stable political leadership’, ‘cheap 10,000km service’, ‘pristine motorcycle workshop’, ‘quiet Harley Davidson’ (and ‘quiet Harley Davidson owner’), must be ‘Victorian Outback’.

I mean the state doesn't even have a quarter million square kms. It’s less than a third of NSW,  about a quarter of SA,  just over and eighth of Qld and less than a tenth of WA. It’s the most densely populated state in the country and you can ride from its north west corner to its south east tip in a comfortable 11 hours.

So when a joint pushes itself as Victoria’s ‘most outback pub’, they’re either endowed with either a massive sense of relativity or a huge dose of humour and irony.

And when the hotel’s on a short detour from one of the less interesting stretches of road along the Murray, (one I’ve ridden too many times) I figure the cost/benefit risk of a diversion on the way to Renmark is heavily in my favour.

So rather than head straight out of Mildura on the A20, I head south west on Mildura’s main drag, left at Seventeenth, right at the roundabout onto Benetook and right at the T when I hit the Millewa Rd some 15kms later.

Forty five kays on, with the silos on my right glowing in afternoon sun, I’m parking Super Ten out front of the Werrimull Hotel,  beside a neat looking bike with after-market pipes and a helmet sitting on the rider’s seat.

A sign proclaiming this to be “Victoria’s most outback pub’ smiles from the front verandah.

Falstaff behind the bar greets me with a g’day which sits on the border of bush and outback and the only other bloke who’s in takes a suck from his beer, nods and simply asks, ‘Yamaha?’

Wayne introduces himself. He’s the local cop and that’s his bike out front. It’s his day off so he can have a beer but like all country cops he’s gotta stay right to drive and ride.

Falstaff turns out to be Trevor who’s owned this place a couple of times, just not now.  Currently his daughter Tiffany is the publican but Trevor and his wife Viv take more than occasional breaks from their farm up the road to help out.

And I tell ya, if ever a bloke was in his element behind the bar of a country (even outback) pub, it’s Trevor. The pub might be on the market (again), he might’ve been doing it for a while, he might be restless for a change of scene, but right now pulling beers and telling stories, he’s a perfect pig in the proverbial.

And like any good publican, he knows the story of this pub, knows its past and its legends, knows that this is a living thing he’s looking after for a while.

The Werrimull Pub’s not one of the really old bush pubs, knocked up in the mid-1800’s and then expanded, burnt down, replaced, often torched again and then done in brick and later extended. This one was born later out of desperation and sadness.

The Millewa was settled in the 1920’s as ill-fated settlement blocks of around 300 hectares, provided to unskilled inexperienced ill-equipped solders returning from

the ‘war to end all wars’ (that went well) and to other dreamers. The hopes and sweat of many, of most, turned to dust and heartbreak and there wasn't even a pub in the place to quench their thirsts, drown their sadness and seek the solace of mates in similar shackles.

On a wall of the pub is an old map of the original settlement areas. It is really not much more than a guide to a cemetery of dead dreams and broken spirits – a grid of misery.

The Millewa had been declared a dry area in the and it wasn't until 1937 that the government accepted a petition signed by 466 residents of the Werrimull region and led by one Mr H Cramp requesting a pub for the township. Even the local churches were behind the campaign, if for no other reason than it would stamp out the local sly grog shops which the Age Newspaper described as, ‘rife’ in the place.

The campaign worked and the next year Henry Cramp was granted a license to open his hotel ‘in main road, Werrimull’.  Trevor points to his name in gold leaf lettering at the top of the list of publicans on a wooden plaque behind the bar.

A few contractors who’re staying for a few days drop in plus a couple of locals including Rabbit. A ute with three or four sheep in the back cruises down the main street. All the local heads turn.

“Look like ewes, wonder what he’s doing with them at this time of day?”

“Yeah I wonder where he’s going with them.”

“I’ll be seeing him tomorra, I’ll let you know.”

Not much gets missed on main street, Werrimull.

Trevor points to another name on the publicans’ list, a much more recent one.

“He was a pretty serious drinker and when he was pissed, he’d fall asleep. Wasn't a problem because the locals would all serve themselves and leave the money on the bar. But there was one fella who could hold his grog and who’d drink a few afternoons each week with the boss and really top him up. As soon as the publican would pass out, this local would walk out the front then head down the side of the pub, come through the back door and meet up with the publican’s wife in one of the rooms. Did it for months, maybe years until the boss twigged. He barred the bloke for life and put the pub on the market the next day!”

The crew at the bar all chuckle.

“Ah yeah, there’s a steamy underbelly in Werrimull, mate,” says one as another looks down into his drink, ‘but there’s no crime, no BS like there is in the bigger places on the river. And that’s because of this bloke.” He points to Wayne.

Every since the unviable settlement blocks were deserted, resumed and taken over, the smaller farms out here, like in so many places in the bush, have inexorably been taken over and aggregated into larger holdings where the scale of operations makes them profitable.

But each small holding that’s bought out means an empty farmhouse and many farmers, pressed for cash, lease them out for peppercorn rentals.

“When I first got stationed here,” explains Wayne, “I went to each of the farmers and asked them if they had issues with fuel getting stolen. Yes. I asked them if they had issues with iron and copper and stuff disappearing. Yes. So I told them that I’d put a stop to it if they helped.”

Wayne told them to stop renting their farmhouses to anyone except family and employees.  In return Wayne would play pedantic cop, writing tickets for unlicensed driving, unregistered vehicles, unroadworthy trailers, unrestrained dogs.

“The first time I’d book a bloke he’d be not too happy. The next time a few weeks later he’d be very unimpressed. But there wasn't usually a third time. Before that, most of ‘em had left town. Now the farmers don't get fuel and stuff nicked and….”

Trevor cuts in, “and I don't get drink tabs that never get settled.”

The contractors are out front in the beer garden and I leave the group of locals to their stories and head outback to check my digs.

Now that there’s no room reserved for the boss’s wife and her lover, there’s a total of seven rooms available for guests. Five of ‘em have either a queen or standard double, one has two single beds and the other has a double and a bunk.

On my own, it’s costing me $45 for the night, it’d be an extra $15 for a second person in the room and it’s $90 for four people in the bunk room. There’s accommodation every day however the bar is closed on Mondays and Tuesdays but arrange ahead for a group of ten or more, and the place’ll be opened up on either day.

And that includes cranking up the kitchen and serving meals to groups who’re staying on Mondays and Tuesdays.

There’s no air-con in the rooms but there’re pedestal fans and electric blankets and all the windows are screened and can be opened. There’s a common room with the makings for a brew and toast with spreads and cereal.

Bikes can be squeezed into the owners’ garage if you really feel the need (which there isn’t) but there’s no lockup.

If you prefer billion star accommodation, right across from the pub there’s a free camping area that’s slowly grown over the years as more vanners and riders find out about this place. Throw you tent of swag there and a good shower’ll cost you just 5 bucks and the amenities are open 24/7.

In the bar there’s tree beers on tap, a schooner of full is $7.50 and Great Northern 50 cents less.  Apparently there’s a pair of poker machines somewhere but I didn't see them, which cant be a bad thing.

Back in the bar a few blokes have left and they’re still talking local infidelity. Biggsie mentions one who’s just gone home for the night.

“He’s always had a fulltime job in town since he got here but he really loves working in the fields so he’d time his annual leave to coincide with harvest and he’d drive the header for a farmer up the road. Each morning the cocky would tell him what was needed and he’d piss off and leave him to it. One day the header broke down and the local couldn't fix it so he headed home for a break.  He soon found out why the farmer was vanishing each morning. When he got home, the farmer’s ute was out front and he was inside doing some share farming with the bloke’s missus!  In a small town like this thinking he wouldn't get caught. What a moron!”

Ah! A tale about an aussie moron in a pub that itself is an oxymoron. Yeah, I think, that kinda fits!