Nothing but the Pub

A tricky right turn off the Murray River road and I’m on the new(ish) bridge crossing the Murray back into NSW and then off to the right is the Jingellic General Store with a couple of blokes in work gear heading out, mitts full of pastry and iced coffees. Inside Kylie’s looking after the joint and I figure another brew’s in order and then I ask about the bloke a fella back in Walwa just told me I must see. “ Ah, Rexy!” you’ve not long missed him. Was down here to pick up his morning paper and sandwich but he’s just walked back up to his house.” She comes outside and points up the hill. “That’s his place, he’ll probably be out on the veranda reading the paper in the sunshine like he always does.” Then I ask about the way to Lankey’s Creek and it’s straight on past Rex’s and then a left at the Holbrook road and then the fatal words, ‘ you can’t miss it.’ I’m running early so I take my time then thank Kylie, and ride up to the place on the hill where, true t

Down the western side of the Walwa pub there’s a narrow sealed road heading north to the river and a gorgeous rest spot. I head down then to check the ‘Old Man’. It doesn't disappoint. (Does it ever?) Across the Murray’s waters the trees bounce the early afternoon light back onto the waters as an eddy nearby gurgles and some ducks murmur about the dangers I represent. Then it’s back to the town, and into the lane behind the pub before parking Super Ten beside the sign warning to go no further. Inside there’s no other customer in the large front bar, just a woman sitting behind the counter. She looks up at me briefly, manages a quarter of smile, then it’s back to her digital tablet. I shed at a distant wall-side table and head over. She looks up without getting up and after I tell her I have a booking for the night, finds the motivation to rouse herself, tell me it’ll be forty dollars, takes my credit card, hands me the key, tells me where the room is an

So anyway as I pull into the BP servo at north Forbes, an old bloke’s just paid for his fuel and is shuffling back to his car. “I’m trying to find the cemetery,” I tell him. He squints into the morning sun and smiles. “Good luck, mate,” he drawls, “I’m trying to stay out of it.” He chuckles then tells me to just head out on the Bogan Road and I won’t miss it on my left. I pass a sprinkler fanning water onto the front lawn of a cottage obviously the home to a gardener, make a quick note of its location and then pretty soon the grave paddock appears. At the gate there’s a map of the various sections. (Heaven forbid a Catholic’s bones had to spend eternity clavicle to clavicle with those of a Protestant!) And there’s also totem post of signs directing to the more famous plots. At the top each such pole is the arrow to Ben Hall’s grave and just below another points to that of Ned Kelly’s sister. Under a rare tree and with its short white picket fence and padlocke