Almanac Life: The Strand Hotel

 

 

Over the course of but a generation, our town has lost a number of pubs in the name of ‘progress’, that catch-all word behind which scoundrels, incompetents, and those without any sense of history or aesthetics hide. The list of local watering holes which have ceased trading over the past thirty years or so reads like a diary of my misspent youth.

 

In the early 90’s we lost the Crown, the scene of many a massive Thursday night. Big Adrian, the bouncer, would keep in check those whom he suspected might make trouble, and he would deny entry to those youngsters whose fake IDs did not quite look genuine enough. Later, he would push his way through the rabble with a basket of party-pies on one of his broad shoulders, and the crowd would swarm around him and claw at the offerings like a flock of hungry seagulls.

 

Around the same time, the Britannia disappeared forever. It was a sailors’ pub, and photographs and sketches of sloops, barques, and battle-ships adorned its walls. It was run by Yvonne who, while she presented as a doddery old woman, was the most canny and shrewd of any publican who ever took charge of a public house. In the days when U.S. ships docked at Williamstown, the Britannia’s proximity to the waterfront meant it was often the first port of call for American sailors. In what was a pre-cursor to karaoke, the Britannia regularly held a Saturday night ‘sing-along’: punters were urged to climb up onto the small dais and belt out a tune, accompanied by an elderly drummer and a lady on a honky-tonk piano.

 

The demise of the ship-building industry contributed a little to the passing of two other dockside hotels, the Oriental and the Pier, which closed for business some years prior. The former eventually became a victim of demolition by neglect, even though its ancient carcass was Victoria’s earliest example of a three-story pub. The latter still stands, now as a residence, but I can still recall the feral Friday afternoon crowds who would cram in to watch the strip-shows. The Yacht Club Hotel’s reputation as serving the cheapest meals in town was warranted, and its popularity was off the charts. Although the quality of the food was questionable, our family did not care, and I have fond memories of consuming counter-meals while squeezed onto a table beneath the stairs or in the hallway.

 

The Terminus, right across from Williamstown station, still stands. It closed in the early 70’s, but my dad told me many stories of “The Jungle”, so named because once a visitor entered, he would be unable to get out. My dad and others may or may not have purchased ‘sly’ grog there of a Sunday, long before liquor purchases were permitted on the sabbath.

 

In more recent years we have borne witness to the demise of the Bristol, at which Williamstown’s most famous publican, “The Bear”, would happily shout thirsty punters their first beer ‘on the house’. Rough and ready, there were no airs and graces at the Bristol, but it was welcoming just the same. And importantly, the beer always tasted fresh. The Prince Albert closed just last year, but rumours abound that it may re-open. Our fingers remain firmly crossed in hope.

 

But of all these pubs – and others – that our town has lost, the one that I miss the most is the Strand Hotel. Geographically, it was in the suburb of Newport, which was a minor technicality: its position at the end of the Strand, Williamstown and Newport’s most famous boulevard, meant it was often regarded by locals as a Willy pub. It was inobtrusive, and painted in muted colours. It bore no garish signs or advertising. Overall, it was inviting. The unsuspecting passer-by would have had to look twice before realizing that it was a hotel.

 

The Strand stood adjacent to the Newport Power Station, on the corner of the road which led to the old ferry. In the 60’s and 70’s, after disembarking from the ferry, my grandfather would regularly stop for at the Strand for a post-work beer prior to heading home. But the ferry became surplus to traffic requirements once the Westgate Bridge opened. And when the old coal-fired powerhouse was upgraded to a gas-fired operation, and its workforce downsized, that natural attrition adversely affected the Strand’s patronage. It was the power station’s final cruel blow after decades of belching coal dust onto the roof of the pub.

 

 

Out through the large front windows was Greenwich Reserve, which hosted both baseball and cricket matches. The occasional just-dismissed batsman would wander across for a post-innings beer, while I am told that the baseballers would assemble in the front bar for ‘travellers’ prior to departing for away fixtures. The pub was surrounded by a massive car park, the value of which was an eventual contributor to its demise. And like so many inner-city pubs before and since, the land on which it stood increased in price, while the value of the building and its social importance went unrecognized. Inside, the Strand possessed a gloriously long bar. There was a tiny bottle-shop, and out the back was an enormous dining room, which also hosted live bands of varying descriptions. Friday evenings played host to ‘the happy half-hour’, a brief but rapid thirty minutes in which all beer was free. It was standing room only, as glasses emptied far more quickly than they were filled. While not wanting to glorify drinking quickly, I can report that our mate Bobby Birrell once consumed eight pots in that half hour of madness. We were awestruck.

 

 

It was the late 1990’s when the death-knell sounded and the wreckers arrived, in the name of “progress”, of course. Like a ghoul I sauntered past to watch its destruction. On one pile of rubble lay a number of windows with the words “Strand Hotel” etched upon them. I asked a workman if I could retrieve one for posterity, and he said I could. But when I returned the next morning the piles of rubbish had been removed, and with them the last remnants of that glorious building. And there was a sadness: that this pub, and the stories contained within its walls, had been brutally erased; and that I would never be able to share a beer with my sons at that bar – the bar at which I shared a drink and a family story or two with my father and grandfather.

 

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

 

To return to The Footy Almanac home page click HERE

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE