Masterful Publican

Waimate Hotel - 157 years of hospitality

1863 a small verandahed inn on the town’s crossroads opened its doors. It expanded, and by 1875 Road Board and Court hearings were held on the premises. 1901 the two storied timbered building burnt to the ground. The Twomey family rebuilt it to 26 bedrooms, a half circular public bar, a guest/private bar and balcony. Under family proprietorships, the hotel repelled prohibition, plague, economic depression, World Wars, six o’clock closing, wheat and wool bonanza to establish a reputation for hospitality respected near and far. Now a beautifully refurbished restaurant and bar.

The fraternity labelled Timothy Twomey a ‘Masterful Publican’. He was gifted with wit, guile, and measures of good nature. He took a lively interest in sports, civic affairs and held office in a number of organisations.

His house was a meeting hub, including ‘The Waimate Club’s’ use of a smoking room, billiard room and writing room, Caledonian Society, Golf, Rugby, racing clubs, etc., all recipients of warmth, amenities and supper. Patrons were not barons of commerce, but they were champions - of hard work, shearers, carriers, stookers, bag sewers behind mills, fencers, slaughter men, ditch diggers, potato pickers, geniuses and humorists*, muscular workers with a healthy thirst. For decades after work, they observed a ritual - over to Twomeys, join the school, have a few beers then home, and later in the way of time, sons took over stools where the fathers had perched.

* Propped up against Twomey's wall were two Rabbiters. They smoked and yarned. Hobbling towards them came a nun with her leg in plaster. One of the men tipped his hat and asked, "However sister, did that happen?" She replied, "I fell getting off the bath." The nun went on her way. One of the men broke silence and asked the other, "What's a bath?" After a while the other fellow replied, "How should I know, I'm not a Catholic!"

The last keg

Closing bars at six o’clock became an example of stupidity in action. A nightmare in compliance for police, publican, and patrons. The last expected to condense four hours of beer consumption into one. Their trauma eased a little through the introduction of a clever new system of beer delivery under the catchword ‘bulk’. At one period the number of beer tankers on the road eclipsed that of milk. From brewery vats to hotel cellar tank, a pressure hose funnelled beer to a barman’s tap. He filled glasses to the brim, topped up by an inch of froth, and in the whole operation only a tiny piece of plastic unrecycled. Unexpectedly, drinkers found themselves at the cutting edge of good environmental practice and actually at that time, pioneers in steps to save the planet.

Gallery of Greats

All Hotel owners left a mark - a few only a reputation, but normally, something tangible - an item which saluted tradition. Prominent on bar walls were displays of rugby, boxing and racing. Each generation added a bit. Bill Johnsons collection of sporting memorabilia was especially distinctive. Around his bar from every spot and cranny, boxing championships and rugby heroes looked down. Names, events, and dates sparked talk and sprinkled conversations. “Look Dad! There’s Kevin Skinner, you talk about him.” ‘Better than that son, I played with him.’

“Now see that old photo on top, that’s the 1946 NZ Army Team - ‘The Famous Kiwis.’ In the middle of the back row is the great Wally Angus. I can still hear the radio announcer Winstone McCathy’s call - ‘On the wing was Wally Angus, he always looked dangerous, but never saw the ball.” ‘Now a last thing, remember how mum doesn’t like your brothers asking me to say the name printed on the workshop sharpening files; well over there are there, in that old corner photo are the green jerseys if the South African 1937 Rugby team. The seven players in the back row were all forwards and known as the green umbrella. The man on the right came from the province of Natal and his name W.E. Bastard.”

Johnson’s gallery of significance created a vintage ambience of warm and companionship. It elicited memory and conversation. Following the last shout; and toast to Twomey; Johnson, and everybody before and in between, patrons trudged home. They wept for a week.

Restoration now gives the grand Old Lady a face-lift. Work carried out with skill and respect shrugged off tiredness and use, she has been recipient of a heritage enterprise which ranks amongst the fineness in rural New Zealand, and like the Phoenix bird, The Waimate is risen, renewed and equipped to be again a place of eminence.