It’s no joke when a country pub is in need of a publican
IAM reminded of the words of that legal luminary, Mr Serjeant Buzfuz, when his attempts at humour fell flat with the jury during his vicious attack on the saintly Samuel Pickwick during the Pickwick v Bardell trial in The Pickwick Papers: ‘‘But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened.’’
In other words, there are times when even a writer of gentle humour has to be serious, and this is one of them.
There is a hush in the village tonight. Where once a beaming light and flickering fire beckoned, there is darkness and a chill has pierced the hearts of the lost souls who stride to the pub door seeking the cup that cheers and conversations at a level of wit and learning the university staff club would envy.
‘‘Closed’’ says the sign and with heavy tread the flower of Patearoa’s great minds trudge away to their lonely, fireless, shadowy shanties. Some with unshed tears, others with unvoiced curses and we anxiously await word of a
new publican.
There have been tragedies before. The shop closed, the school closed, the garage closed.
But there is nothing as important as the local pub and, while the closure will surely be temporary, there are furrowed brows among these noble spirits who drink determinedly at this pub, not to satisfy any inner craving, but merely see that the township does not die.
I have been doing it myself for years, despite repeated warnings from my medical adviser. But, as always, the
Bible has steered my course, ‘‘Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his liver for his friends.’’ John 15:13, as you will recall.
Behind each worried face are men haunted by the memory of pubs which have closed. But they are encouraged by the very history of this place.
When the old 1886 mudbrick pub burned down in 1927 the present handsome brick building was up and running in no time and not an hour of drinking time was lost as the adjacent billiard room (once the church) served as a temporary bar. And what legends have served their public.
Arthur Keegan, deafened by the artillery in World War 1 but happy to supply a glass of what he thought the customer had asked for: builder, bowler and barman Charlie Conley and his wife Betty, Des and Joy Rabbitt, serving drinks and meals around the clock for the dozens of men working on the irrigation schemes, Ron and Lee Hamill for 20 years or so dispensing nonstop cricket and rugby on the screen and fine meals in the dining room, and recent hosts Ken and LeeAnne Adams setting a standard of hospitality to which all publicans should aspire.
And talk about being the centre of the community! In the gold rush days it was a second home to the hatters who fossicked up the Sowburn and the rugby and cricket clubs always gathered there.
The list of committees which made the bar their meeting room is almost endless and if there was ever a local chapter of AA they, too, would have gathered in that hospitable spot.
In time, the dark clouds will lift and the Patearoa pub, door open and a new publican beaming a welcome will be once again bathed in Central Otago sunshine, but in the country setbacks are not taken lying down. Cunning plans are made. Schemes hatched and even prayers are offered up, encouraged by Ecclesiastes 9:7, ‘‘Go, and drink your wine with a joyful heart, for God has already approved what you do.’’
The bloke across the road has just installed a small building reported to be for purely domestic purposes but looking suspiciously like a popup bar and another neighbour has old stone stables which would do the job. I’m even working on a scheme.
When the Otago Goldfields Cavalcade was last held in Patearoa, a miniature Sowburn Hotel was on one of the procession floats and afterwards, knowing I was short of storage space, the locals donated it to me as a garden shed. Well, the spades and forks, the motormower and the weed killer can find a new home because it is soon to be ready as an emergency hotel.
As a bonus it will probably be the smallest pub in the world (it holds five vertical drinkers, three horizontal later in the evening).
No doubt some Welsh clown will hear of this and rush out to convert his dunny (capacity one) into the world’s smallest bar but like the streethuggers of Harlech he will be on a very slippery slope.
But the real Patearoa Hotel will rise again in glory, even if it means squeezing money from the Regional Development Fund, or the Ministry of Social Development, or anyone!