Finding Alan. Union Hotel, Blackall Queensland.
The Union Hotel, Blackall
On my Facebook Page
A coupla blocks back from Shamrock St, the name the Landsborough Highway assumes as it rolls through Blackall, and suitably a bit west of the Black Stump monument, is the Union Hotel on the corner of Coronation Drive and May St.
Just as the pubs on the main drag scream ‘Tourist”, this old double storey beauty drawls, “fair dinkum” so I park the bike out front, stretch out the joints and walk into the coolness.
Sarina, who runs the place with her husband is keeping a couple of locals and one of their dogs well satisfied and after grabbing a schooner of lite, I strike up with a bloke about my age whom I’ve not laid eyes on before at the bend in the bar. His square jaw strong eyes and granite face are sandwiched between a faded but not too filthy workshirt and an off-kilter wide beam and he’s the owner of the decent sized dog that’s just finished checking me out and licking the dead bugs from my riding boots.
We exchange stories of what work we do and how we come to be here in Blackall. He tells of having a dog a few years ago. A dog that fully bonded with him, and he with it. And when it was supposed to leave, he couldn't leave the dog – couldn't take it but couldn't give it away and “sure couldn't shoot it.” So he stayed and eventually the dog passed away but by then Alan was bonded with the Bush.
And when Alan hears I write and take photos he offers that he, once, a fair while back, was a newspaper photographer himself. “I’m a Kiwi and started out at the Dominion in Wellington back in the 70’s” I reach for my phone and flick through the way too many photos that clog it up as Alan goes on. “General news and sport. We had to cover everything from car crashes and other tragedies and disasters to sport and the rugby. Seems a long time ago.”
By now I’ve found the shots I’m looking for and turn the phone to him. “So you know this fella?” He looks at the phone and then fixes back on me. “That’d be Peter Bush. How the fuck do you know Bushie?”
Peter Bush was, for decades the official photographer for the All Blacks and, “I”, I tell Steve, “was the same for the Wallabies here.”
He stares at me and then points to my eyes. “I know you,” he says. “We’ve had a few drinks together before. 1980. Maybe ‘81. After a Test at the SCG in Sydney and you had your camera gear stolen whilst we were in the Members Bar.”
I’m staggered. Yes I had my gear stolen 40 years ago as I was drinking with Peter and some of his mates from Kiwi in the Members of the SCG after a rare Test which I think the Aussies may have won.
I twiddle my phone again and hit speed-dial. In Wellington New Zealand, Bushie’s partner Jayne picks up the phone.
I know Peter’s not in the best of health but he’s okay to come and talk.
“I’m in a tiny pub in outback Queensland.”
“Half your luck, digger. You on another trip?”
“Yes, and I’m with a bloke who wants to have a chat with you.”
“With me? What would anyone in the Queensland bush want to talk to me about?”
“His name’s Alan,” and give Bushie his surname.
The line goes quiet and I hand the phone to my new mate.
Now Bushie’s an icon in NZ, beloved by all. A fixture and a much-loved figure.
Alan begins to talk and tears well in his eyes.
He removes to outside and talks with his old, long-lost mate. When he comes back to the bar he’s still telling stories across the ditch.
He takes his leave of our mate and hands me back the phone. Still touched and emotional he asks for Peter’s contacts and demands that next time I’m in town I come out to his place for a meal and a meander.
Outside Super Ten is basking in the sun and waiting to take me down the road and as I take my leave and gear up, I’m again amazed just how close we all are and how everyone, every single person has a story and how that bloke at the end of the bar just might be a mate you knew thousands of kilometres away and hundreds of moons ago.
A coupla blocks back from Shamrock St, the name the Landsborough Highway assumes as it rolls through Blackall, and suitably a bit west of the Black Stump monument, is the Union Hotel on the corner of Coronation Drive and May St.
Just as the pubs on the main drag scream ‘Tourist”, this old double storey beauty drawls, “fair dinkum” so I park the bike out front, stretch out the joints and walk into the coolness.
Sarina, who runs the place with her husband is keeping a couple of locals and one of their dogs well satisfied and after grabbing a schooner of lite, I strike up with a bloke about my age whom I’ve not laid eyes on before at the bend in the bar. His square jaw strong eyes and granite face are sandwiched between a faded but not too filthy workshirt and an off-kilter wide beam and he’s the owner of the decent sized dog that’s just finished checking me out and licking the dead bugs from my riding boots.
We exchange stories of what work we do and how we come to be here in Blackall. He tells of having a dog a few years ago. A dog that fully bonded with him, and he with it. And when it was supposed to leave, he couldn't leave the dog – couldn't take it but couldn't give it away and “sure couldn't shoot it.” So he stayed and eventually the dog passed away but by then Alan was bonded with the Bush.
And when Alan hears I write and take photos he offers that he, once, a fair while back, was a newspaper photographer himself. “I’m a Kiwi and started out at the Dominion in Wellington back in the 70’s” I reach for my phone and flick through the way too many photos that clog it up as Alan goes on. “General news and sport. We had to cover everything from car crashes and other tragedies and disasters to sport and the rugby. Seems a long time ago.”
By now I’ve found the shots I’m looking for and turn the phone to him. “So you know this fella?” He looks at the phone and then fixes back on me. “That’d be Peter Bush. How the fuck do you know Bushie?”
Peter Bush was, for decades the official photographer for the All Blacks and, “I”, I tell Steve, “was the same for the Wallabies here.”
He stares at me and then points to my eyes. “I know you,” he says. “We’ve had a few drinks together before. 1980. Maybe ‘81. After a Test at the SCG in Sydney and you had your camera gear stolen whilst we were in the Members Bar.”
I’m staggered. Yes I had my gear stolen 40 years ago as I was drinking with Peter and some of his mates from Kiwi in the Members of the SCG after a rare Test which I think the Aussies may have won.
I twiddle my phone again and hit speed-dial. In Wellington New Zealand, Bushie’s partner Jayne picks up the phone.
I know Peter’s not in the best of health but he’s okay to come and talk.
“I’m in a tiny pub in outback Queensland.”
“Half your luck, digger. You on another trip?”
“Yes, and I’m with a bloke who wants to have a chat with you.”
“With me? What would anyone in the Queensland bush want to talk to me about?”
“His name’s Alan,” and give Bushie his surname.
The line goes quiet and I hand the phone to my new mate.
Now Bushie’s an icon in NZ, beloved by all. A fixture and a much-loved figure.
Alan begins to talk and tears well in his eyes.
He removes to outside and talks with his old, long-lost mate. When he comes back to the bar he’s still telling stories across the ditch.
He takes his leave of our mate and hands me back the phone. Still touched and emotional he asks for Peter’s contacts and demands that next time I’m in town I come out to his place for a meal and a meander.
Outside Super Ten is basking in the sun and waiting to take me down the road and as I take my leave and gear up, I’m again amazed just how close we all are and how everyone, every single person has a story and how that bloke at the end of the bar just might be a mate you knew thousands of kilometres away and hundreds of moons ago.
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