Walbundrie ... a pub and a community who are each other's greatest fans.

Listen up a bit, this is the story of a very decent pub. 

I’m headed east from Tocumwal on the Murray and the rain catches me at Finley but by Corowa I’ve ridden through it and, dry but damn cold, begin heading north, hoping to camp under the bridge I know on Billabong Creek on the Urana Road. But at Walbundrie the pub’s open and the heavens are about to  so I pull in to thaw, drip dry and grab a warming glass of red. 

Walbundrie and its pub used be known as Piney Range and this year it'll turn 170 years old.  Across the bar Adam and Lindy are dealing with the end-of-week mob and ‘of course it’s no problem’ to park Super Ten in under the cover of the veranda. I shed some layers and kick back.

It’s humming, but not as busy as they’d expected – a  group of twelve had booked for lunch but not fronted (or cancelled) so, with Lindy and her offsider sister, Joanne, who’s come up to help out, handling the drinkers, Adam’s got time to talk and with no more riding today, I’ve sure got the time to listen. 

In April 2020 Adam and Lindy were living in Melbourne, he was an engineer working from home because of Covid and Lindy, usually a quality assurance officer at the Markets was home and not working for the same reason. He was ‘tired of working for the man’ and she was needing a change so they starting tossing options and a country pub was one of them. Lindy had had a mate at work, Garry, a Welsh bloke who’d come on his own as a kid 50 years ago as part of the Big Brother Movement. He lived at Walbundrie, mentioned the pub was on the market and Lindy and Adam kicked around the idea of taking over his old local pub. 

In March that year the it’d closed for the first time in 103 years - due to illness of the publican and the town of 34 was missing its watering-hole. Seemed an idea. They did a bit of research, added the pubs at Morven and Burrumbuttock to their bucket, got okayed-in-principle from their Super Funds and Lindy headed up to check the joints out - window shopping kinda thing. 

Adam: “She checked it out around lunchtime one Tuesday, put in an offer after lunch at 2.30, and they accepted it at 5 o’clock. So she rings me and tells me they’ve accepted our offer and I say what bloody offer, you were only supposed to be having a look!” Then he smiles, “But I was pretty happy about it.” 

 “We came back up on the Saturday and had a look then went back home and confirmed it all to the agents and the owners the next day, Sunday. Well the next big shut down in Victoria started 24 hours later so we had this pub across the border that we couldn’t get to.” 

 They used the lockdown to sort the paperwork, the red tape and the licenses and then opened the doors on AFL Grand Final Day 2020, but they still didn’t fully ‘get’ the role of the pub and its relationship to the community. “People started lining up outside at 9.30 and by the time we opened there was a queue of about a dozen. But we’d known there’d be a crush and so there wouldn’t be long waits for drinks we set up a can bar outside.” 

They sold a total of 4 cans all night. Four! 

“Everyone wanted a beer from the tap. They wanted draught. They wanted to front the bar, say “g’day”, lean on the counter a bit, chew the fat and then go sit down and suck it all in. They were sick of drinking packaged. At home.” 

As we’re chatting and my red is doing its job, a mini-bus pulls up out front and vomits out a dozen strong mob of young things on a pub crawl for the 21st of one of ‘em. This is the crew who went AWOL for lunch and by now it’s 5 hours late and the kitchen’s officially

closed until dinner. But Lindy’s kept it bubbling, figuring that if they do eventually front, they’ll need a feed. Turns out they’ve already eaten at one of the obviously numerous pubs they’ve already graced so just a bowl or two of chips if you don’t mind. Washed down in a couple of cases from cans they’ve brought with ‘em on the bus.  Bugger me! Some people. 

As they grace us with their couth, my mind flashes back to a clipping from 1876: 

“A number of men, more or less under the influence of strong drink, began skylarking at the Bridge Hotel, Walbundrie … late on Sunday night … They were engaged … in the innocent and intellectual amusement of slapping each other in the face with their hats. The amusement nearly had a tragic termination. One of the men was stabbed in the stomach by a
penknife, and a large quantity of blood flowed from the wound. The bystanders became furious, accused a Swede of the stabbing, and threatened to "lynch" him on the spot. The proposed outrage was stopped by the police (and) the wounded man is recovering.” Ah, innocent and intellectual hat slapping. Why the hell did that fall out of fashion?

Anyway just after they’ve left and moved on to the next pub where they can use the toilets and drink their own cans, one of the locals calls from the back of the bar: “You wanna see what one of those pricks has done to the toilets?” A couple of others head in to check out the carnage. Apparently the vomit all over the floor is the least filthy component. One of the fellas asks Adam where he keeps buckets and mops and cleaning stuff. Collects it and just goes out and cleans up the entire mess. “Is he staff?” I ask Adam. “Nah, that’s just the way it is here. Let me tell you a story.” 

 “Once we finally managed to get into the place, there was a lot of work, physical work to do. A couple of the locals came by one Wednesday and sussed me for my plans for the outdoors area. They listened as I told them about removing some trees and a whole load of rubbish and fixing fences – sort of thing.” I grab another red. The rain’s pumping outside and under the bridge ain’t looking any more attractive. “That Saturday morning there’s this racket out front so I go out and there’s this collection of tractors with equipment on the back that I’ve never seen before. It was a bunch of the farm locals who’d just decided to front up and help out. In a day they did what I was thinking would take me a month. That bloke cleaning the toilets for us is fantastic but it’s just part of how this community has welcomed us.” 

Then he adds, “Pity Snow’s not here. He’s the unofficial mayor.” Lindy, who’s working double as Adam talks, overhears and chips in that, “Snow’ll be in for lunch tomorrow. Yeah, it’d be great if you had a yarn with him.” I listen to her as she extolls this unofficial mayor bloke and decide the morrow’s plans can change. It’s fine by Lindy to pitch the tent next to the bike under the front veranda once the place is closed and apparently a ride out to Rand in the morning will be interesting so I order what turns out to be a massive, perfectly cooked rare T-bone, a bit more red and pass the evening with some top company. 

Next morning, after a brew on the front verandah, roll the tent, pack the bike and head out for a squirt to Rand which has to be in the top ten feral gotta-be-banjos-playing places anywhere.

 

Now if George Miller decides Downunder Deliverance is a movie concept, this is the place to shoot it. The main drag is Bong St, but there’s no sign - someone’s no doubt felt it’d be more fitting on their wall. Tumbleweed stacks up against the 

frontages of what was once the CBD as a couple of kids play in the gutters. Some places have completely appropriated the 

footpath and old wrecks are parked along the street. If Rand was a child, it’d be taken in by Community Services and a foster carer sought for it. 

Anyway, back to Walbundrie and Snow, Garry, Doug and their partners are in the back, women at a table, men up at the bar. Introductions and it’s not long before Snow, who had his first beer here 58 years ago, it telling me about how Mad Dog Morgan, who roamed the local hills, would crawl under the floor of the old pub and listen to the cops and locals discussing plans for his capture. Now, I’m not too certain just how much time he spent under the floor boards but he apparently enjoyed being above them. In 1863 the Albury paper wrote: “On Monday morning last, Morgan the bushranger made his appearance at Burrambuttock, the station of Mr Gibson, (where he) ordered breakfast, and sent one of the men to fetch up Mr Gibson's favorite horse. Meanwhile, he turned out all the drawers, &c., and provided himself with a full suit of Mr Gibson's clothes. Having breakfasted, he led the horse away, and went to the public house at Piney Range : there he remained sometime.” 

Years later the SMH almost nostalgically recalled that: ( “Walbundrie, or as it is better known, Piney Ridge, in the dark days of that bloodthirsty miscreant Morgan, became a notorious locality … and it was suspected that the simple villagers of the time, catered rather willingly to the bush ranger’s wants.” Granny SMH then continued her character assassination of the town: “Piney is not by any means what persons term an inviting locality; its inhabitants are few, and rumour has it, not over prosperous …rumour … also hints that the Piney is not a bad place to seek for lost horses.” 

What the hell would they have thought of Rand? Anyway as Garry - who’s standing as the others perch on stools - explains he’s the Garry who suggested to Lindy that she consider buying this place, and then gets on to March 15th when the pub closed  - but he reckons that Snow

– who doesn’t mind a bit of karaoke, accompanying himself on either tennis racquet or frying pan banjo – is the bloke to tell me that: 

“Was my son’s birthday and it was a shock. But very soon we realised we had to do something. I could see the effect not having a pub was having on the people here. A few of us got worried about the mental health of the farmers and their families. Suddenly there was no meeting place just to get together and catch up.” 

So they sent out word and the next Friday they opened the sheds down at the footy oval, cranked up the barbie, flipped open the Eskys, let the kids run wild and impersonated a pub -you know, women all sitting around sharing thoughts and support and the men at the other end just bullshitting, venting, sharing issues about beasts and weeds, but most of all, Snow reckons, “listening, was the key, listening to how each other was going.”

Every Friday for seven pub-less months, the town met at the Footy Grounds and “it was great, it saved the sanity of the place. Working on your own all day and then only having that little circle of family can be taxing," explains Snow before adding, ‘but the oval wasn’t a pub.” 

“And that,” says Snow, “is why we all owe Lindy and Adam such a debt.” Lindy, who’s been keeping an ear comes over, “But it’s nothing to the debt we have to the town.” And it’s suddenly clear. A secret ingredient to this country pub caper is that mutual feeling of debt to good people: Find a place where the pub feels it owes its community and that community feels in debt to the pub, and you’re in for a bloody good time. 

And if you want proof of that pudding, get yourself to the Piney at Walbundrie. 

Thanks for listening. 

 This is an edited version of an original column written for Australian Motorcycle Magazine. Contrary to standard industry practice, I neither sought not was offered any freebie or special treatment in return for singing the praises of this great pub. 

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