One of the first tasks when I moved to the Adelaide Hills last year was to find a local pub to call home. An onerous task that took both time and effort (hint: there are a LOT of pubs in my area).
I settled on the Charleston Hotel. Great folk, great food and beer garden, friendly locals too. Oh! And did I mention Guinness on tap?
Every old pub has its myths and legends. Charleston is no different. Emblazed on the front bar wall at the Charleston is a plaque (see pic) commemorating a legend and a legendary feat.
It reads: (Bill) Harrison’s Corner – the only man to “piddle” in the Onka (Onkaparinga) River from inside the pub door!!! Xmas Eve 1948.
Gradually, my curiosity got the better of me. You see, the ‘Onka’ river is at least 80 metres away from the pub and is little more than a creek at Christmas time as the hills dry out and summer approaches.
I ‘ChatGPT’d’ for the details. Indeed, there was a sudden storm – what we sometimes now call ‘a rain bomb’ – that dropped on the area on that very day in 1948.
Harrison’s ‘feat’ seemed much more plausible now. Of course, every legend focuses on one part of a story only, and the myth itself would only hold the power of attention without the additional detail.
I began to wonder precisely who Bill Harrison might have been and what happened in the front bar that day.
I wrote this poem in response in ‘Banjo Patterson’ style. ‘Hope you like it.
Please read with a ‘bushie’s voice in mind:
Harrison in the Flood of ’48
Christmas Eve in Charleston, in the year of forty-eight.
Came a storm so great and fearsome, that it made the buildings shake.
And the rain felt like the end of days, like in Noah’s times of old.
The pub survived the carnage so this story may be told.
The town’s folk packed the public house to watch the waters rise,
With anxious talk of crossings lost under dark and hostile skies;
For word had come of trouble where the lower fords once lay,
And the river spread its mischief as it clawed its reckless way.
In a corner of the bar that day sat a solitary form,
Wet through entire, from boot to hat, he sheltered from the storm.
He drank and drank his amber ales as if they were his last.
As if to wash away his sins or drown some darkness from his past.
Now, many men will want, in life, to leave a memory,
A footnote to a life well lived; a mark in history.
Bill Harrison was not that kind; a quiet and solemn man.
But biology conspired that day and hatched a different plan.
As the river lapped against the walls and the pub’s veranda sill,
Bill’s bladder called in urgency to have its needs fulfilled.
Dulled by the grog that now rebelled, he stumbled to his feet.
His stature, short, as was the time, for man and stall to meet.
But the pub’s door was much closer, as was the urgency.
Bill leaned upon the doorpost, gave a grunt, and took his pee.
As stream to stream was added there, it was an awesome sight.
A legend born in Charleston on that dark and stormy night.
Though the details of that stormy night are lost to history,
Harrison’s a legend in these parts, for the power of his pee.
His feat, forever etched there, upon the front bar wall.
“The only man to pee into the ‘Onk’ – from the front bar door.”
Paul Russell: Musings 