SO ANYWAY, in all the joints I’ve been to and whose muddy backgrounds I’ve dug into, I’ve never come across a pub whose myths, legends and stories contain more intrigue and surprises than the Armatree Hotel.

By bush standards, this isn’t an old pub. It was built in 1929 but it probably should’ve already celebrated its centenary. In 1917 the local wowsers petitioned the Licensing Court over in Coonamble in opposition to an application by a bloke named George Shanklin to build a pub in Armatree.

The local rag noted that the application was adjourned but in fact it was never heard of again and when Shanklin shifted to the great pub in the sky in 1925, the same paper only mentioned that he’d been the mailman. So Armatree stayed dry and the future looked bleak until a fella named Macken, one time Mayor of Hurstville in Sydney, applied to shift the license of his pub at Tyrone on the Coonamble – Walgett Road over to Armatree.

Macken didn’t apply just to the Licensing Court for the switch, he had to front the Licensing Reduction Board, a group of government grumpies whose aim was to shut pubs down. Against the odds, he was successful – the license was transferred and building was begun.

So, in stock and racing parlance, the Tyrone Pub was the sire (or maybe the dam) of the Armatree Hotel. But this was no ordinary plebeian bloodline – the Tyrone Hotel was one of the few pubs in the entire country to’ve been blessed with the patronage of royalty – a future king no less!

In 1920 King George V sent his son, Edward, the Prince of Wales to the antipodes to raise post-war spirits. For some bloody reason he either chose or was sent up to spend some time at Wingadee Station north of Coonamble.

Just short of his destination and with his retinue of about a dozen, he dropped into the Tyrone Pub. Edward was no friend of the wowser breed and someone (just maybe one of his mistresses) must’ve had a word in his ear about the best way to make friend in an Australian pub. He tied up his horse, walked through the hotel doors and announced he’d shout the bar.

On the way back word had gotten out and a crowd of some 40 locals was waiting. Not a problem, he again shouted the room. The local rag trumpeted, “Not a Wowser : Prince Shouts for All Hands”

Now buying drinks was something he obviously did well but his main hobby was er, the wives of other men. A bout of childhood measles caused him to have (how do I put this?) potency issues and so he specialised in seducing married women who he figured would be more experienced, more able to arouse him.

Teddy’s potency, profligacy, philandering and penchant for those already betrothed were never going to end well. He became King Edward and then his relationship with Wallis Simpson, an American divorcee brought on a real regal crisis.

Now I know your train of thought is going, “hang on, Prince of Wales, married women, Prince Charles, Camilla Parker-Bowles… what the hell! Is this some sort of tradition?” But let’s just keep chugging on, eh?

As a leading dominion of the Empire, Australia had a vote in proceedings. Buying beers proved an insufficient basis for loyalty. Whilst NZ voted for him to remain, our PM Joe Lyons voted for abdication and in 1936 off he went to exile in France.

Meanwhile a far greater tragedy had occurred two years earlier when the uniquely historic landmark, the Tyrone Pub was completely and deliberately demolished. What the hell were they thinking? (* see sidebar)

Edward and Wallis had no kids, but 90 years ago the pub effectively gave birth to the Armatree Hotel and as I park Super Ten out front, I wonder about the importance of breeding and the quality of the bloodlines (yeah, and of the beer lines!)

Rather than go in the front, I scout out around the back to see if the late afternoon sun’s demanding any shots of the expansive grass and the wide, open west-facing covered beer garden.

There’s a mob of maybe a score of people in their own personal late afternoons listening to a bloke with a billiard ball noggin explain the town and the pub whilst they cradle near empty glasses or lick the sweet remnants from paddle pop sticks.

I bang off a few frames then head inside where Lib, wearing the de rigueur green shirt with a blue vest with the pub’s name and emblem is serving a Sunday arvo crowd of over a dozen.

With Ash, the bloke who’s outback entertaining the two minibus loads of visitors, she’s the owner of this place and it’s obvious from kick-off that she brings as much light and laughter to the place as the churning log fire at the end of the room brings warmth.

She tells me she’ll show me my room as soon as I’m ready, gets me a cleanser and introduces me to Barry, in his usual spot at the end of the bar .

Barry’s in a bit of a rush to get away but he’s got a well known interest in the history of the town and the pub and wants to compare notes before he has to get away.

I mention Shanklin’s efforts to open a pub here. Barry knows his grandchildren. I show him an advert from a 1929 paper where Macken advertised for tenders to lay 150,000 bricks for the building of this pub and Barry knows his descendants and where they live.

“But there’s not 150,000 bricks in the pub any more,” he tells me, “there’s about a thousand of them at my place.”

In were working in Mudgee, he a plumber turned project manager and she a registered nurse and they were looking to get into a business together. Lib’s aunt and uncle lived up this way and they reckoned their local pub could do with a new owner and some new energy. The current bloke’d had it for over a quarter of a century.

They came up, checked out the place and then came back a month or so later and made an offer. In the 8 months of negotiations, Ash got himself an RSA (Lib already had hers), did the Hotel Licensee Course at TAFE and pestered every publican and hotel broker he knew for tips and insights.

Once they’d bought it they, as Ash, who’s farewelled the minibus visitors and joined us at the bar explains, “bought fresh glasses, cleaned the beer lines then opened the doors and started welcoming people.”

Once the bar was working, they set about fixing up the accommodation, Painting of all rooms and the polishing of the floors took the best part of six months. For the first three years they worked 80-100 hours a week and lived upstairs but then they were well enough on track to employ a local on Friday nights.

This was a big breakthrough because “it enabled us to kick back on the other side of the bar with the locals and really start connecting with them.”

They understood that the old small room model of the original hotel was no longer suitable so they knocked down a pile of internal walls including those that defined the Ladies Lounge. And that, friends, is where Barry got his 1000 bricks!

They re-topped the bar in Jarrah, and Ash used his plumbing skills and design flair to install just about the best urinals you’re ever going to see. (Ladies please choose your time carefully!)

And they got rid of the pokies and other betting. As Ash eloquently explains: “Our farmers are having a gamble every single day of their lives and so I don’t see the value of them coming in here and having more of a punt…We’re a one bar operation and when we have visitors they’re all in the same area where our locals are and when people intermingle, I find it’s really good for them to find out how our locals are and it’s good for the locals. You know: ‘Where you headed? Where’re you from? Ah I’ve been there here’s some tips’ or ‘never heard of the place, where’s it near?’ There’s always a great two way conversation.”

With the bar purring and the refurbed rooms upstairs regularly filled, they’re now working on upgrading the food side. A new kitchen has been installed, the menu’s expanding and sorta-locals from the surrounding towns are beginning to become regulars for weekend lunches.

As we’re talking a couple of cops from Gilgandra drop in for a courtesy visit. In the dozen years Ash and Lib have had this place, not a single person’s been barred and the police have never once been called to sort out problems.

“If you run a good clean attractive venue,” explains the boss, “you attract good clean considerate people who’ll respect what you have and the locals have come to think of this place as their own and they look after it like it’s their own.”

The Armatree Hotel’s history contains some surprises but its present incarnation holds only certainties for the visiting rider: that you’ll be welcomed by people on both sides of the bar, that you’ll be fed, watered and rested to your full desires and that you’ll leave intending to return.

Full Disclosure: Ash and Lib loaded me up with some gratis stickers and an inscribed ceramic coffee cup and I reckon my bill may’ve been short a couple of beers. None of the goodies affected the things I’ve written.