Walwa on the Murray. A forgettable pub but an unforgettable role in our history.
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...