Den B.
Yelp
It had started to snow. We were in the mountains on the road known as the western wilderness. Darkness fell and by my reckoning we had around 45 minutes before the sun sank for the night. I kicked it down another gear and pushed more firmly on the gas. The truck laboured on winding its way through the Tasmania winters dusk. Surely it wouldn't be good to get caught out here at night. Our only navigation device being a box of Cheezels and a tourist map with some hand scrawled instructions from a Hobart pub the night before; we identified the next metropolis to be a place called Queenstown.
Night had fallen and the road wound on, we changed from an ascent into decline and we started to see the lights of civilisation twinkling through the pitch night. We hadn't passed a car for the last three miles and it was a comforting sight to again see electricity.
First impressions on Queenstown, well have you ever seen the Lara Bingle tourism Australia ads? The tagline yes, the images no.
We ground to a halt outside the Empire Hotel, looking forward to a beer after the long drive. pushing open the doors and stepping inside on that classic red and gold hotel patterned carpet, dark wood work and solid bar. Looking around you wonder if only these walls could spin a yarn oh the stories it they could tell.
There were a few people scattered around some eating in the bistro out the back, a couple chatting in the middle bar, but we made our way through to the bar at the front and grabbed a pint of the liquid black gold and settled at the pool table.
It would of been about two or three games in ( they do say history is written by the victors, but in this case its written by the author and let's just say I was winning by a significant margin in quite a care free and stylish manner) I had my back to the bar and I hear a drunken dulcet Tasmanian twang sing out, "Where are youse blokes from?" given there was myself and my associate playing pool and only one other group of bloke's sat at the bar, my quick risk assessment surmised that in all probability the question would of been sang out from the blokes at the bar and was most likely to have been directed at myself and my associate, given that probability dictates they would of known where they came from themselves (in most scenarios at any rate).
I turned in what I would describe as a tepid manner, I mean let's face it we're in the mountains, in the western wilderness, its night time, there could be Tasmanian devils anywhere, I'd seen a dead wallaby mere hours before and we were in an alcohol consumption cabaret or more commonly referred to as a pub. Tepid seems an appropriate approximation of the manner in which I turned (especially given the thoughts racing through my mind, am I wearing hair product, why yes , yes I am wearing hair product... Is hair product considered offensive to men who work in mines?), to be greeted by a row of quite drunk and inquisitive faces.
A sideways glance and an air of suspicion was the response to my "Alright Lads?" enquiry and to my return question of "So where are you blokes from" to which one promptly responded "I'm from here Born and bred..." (and when I die I'll be Queenstown dead) . True locals.
But here started one of the finest most inebriated evenings I have had the pleasure to enjoy. We joined forces and attempted to drink the pub dry, within the hour no one could hold a pool cue straight enough to play. The rain lashed down outside and we ploughed on through with the jukebox pumping out the classics Midnight Oil, AC DC and Cold Chisel, past that who knows what happened, all I can remember is everyone was having a great time the Empire Hotel is fantastic. It's a great example of a proper old pub, its worn, its huge, its steeped in character and spirit. I'm quite sure if you go you may well not have the same experience as we did, but I know this; its people that make a place and those Tasmanians are a bloody good sort.
