There was a man by the name of John Hawes who was a parish priest up to the 1930s in the Yalgoo/Murchison district. In a biography on his life he tells of how, after riding all day, he spent the night at a lonely wild spot with a well called the ‘Shadow of Death’. There was nothing left but the sad ruins of roofless old buildings composed of sun-dried mud bricks.
These were the ruins of a hotel that had been run by a man called Tom ‘Possum’ Oliver called the Golden Grove Hotel, better known as the Shadow of Death Hotel. It is described by John Hawes as a little wayside inn halfway between Fields Find and Yalgoo. It opened around the same time as the fields and had closed by the start of WW1. No doubt the coming of the automobile was its final doom as it was no longer required as an overnight stopping place for a change of horses.
The hotel was referred to by Constable Meginess in a very uncomplimentary manner after his first night there en route to Fields Find. Although it must not have been as bad as he had first thought, because he spent many a night there on gold escort duty without further complaint, I doubt he was spoilt by choice. By all reports, the inn was rough but homely, renowned for its hospitality though somewhat lacking in personal comforts and often ran out of liquor and forage. The police records show that it was sometimes in danger of not being re-licensed because of its lack of amenities. As late as 1909 Constable Jensen gave the following pre-licensing report ‘Its condition is much improved with a three stall stable and yard attached. A WC has been erected (prior to this one went behind a suitable bush). There is a little more furniture added to the bedrooms and a good supply of forage and liquor is at hand.
A teamster was on his way south with stores for the Shadow of Death Hotel. It was run by a tall black-bearded giant of a man called Tom Oliver. Tom and his missus were well known for their hospitality and what their shanty lacked in amenities they made up for in generosity. What matter if the berries blew into the soup or if the hens rested on your bed? What if the kids played cricket with the piece of rock salt the missus used for cooking?
Just how the inn became to be known as the Shadow of Death is a little vague. Toms’s son Ned says it was called the shadow because it was quiet and lonely like a ghost town, only a shadow, then some wag added ‘of death’, or the name may have been inspired by a verse of A B ‘Banjo’ Patterson’s poem-
Conroys Gap
This was the way of it, don’t you know
Ryan was ‘wanted’ for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him — catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman’s Ford
A bushman, too, as I’ve heard them tell
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D’you know the place? It’s a wayside Inn,
A low grog shanty – a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy’s Gap.
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath-
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round the Shadow of Death.
This was not a fitting description, belittling the proprietor and the location. Golden Grave conjures up a truer setting. Standing with its front almost on the road, it must have been a welcome sight for the weary traveler. A day’s ride in either direction was ground flat, shadeless, and covered by stunted vegetation but here, for a few kilometers, tall gum trees flourished in the little valley between the breakaways.
The licensee, Thomas Richard Oliver, married Jane Herbert in 1887 and by the early 1890s had established a home near Golden Grove where he ran sheep and cattle. In 1894 he acquired a liquor licence and opened the hotel. Thomas and Jane were to have ten children, most of whom were born at the inn. Jane died in 1910 due to septicemea after an attempted abortion. Understandably, she would have been reluctant to have any more children and this is why she took this dangerous solution which claimed her life. She is buried on the hill behind the hotel next to the grave of two of her sons George age 5hrs and Horace age 3yrs.
Jane’s grandson, Bob Moorhead, who had a GML at the Iron Duke visited the site in 1946 while on his honeymoon and tidied the graves, and erected a fence around them. Bob was the son of Jane’s oldest child, Winifred Elizabeth Oliver. The Inn was to appear in the 1909 list of licenced premises, but by 1910 it had disappeared. It was assumed that this was when it closed. Time has erased almost all evidence and all that remains is a large mound of earth (see above photgraph) which is the remains of the mud bricks which made up the fireplace.
Geraldton Guardian 17 March 1908, page 4
‘The Shadow of Death Hotel’
Written, for the Guardian by ‘Hasaghan’
”How ever much more of this wretchedness have we to endure?” he asked petulantly. ‘Is it far to our next stopping place, Mr. Driver ?”
‘Jerimiah Itchin’s had better chuck ‘is flashness
The mailman, in the meantime, had lurched over to the hotel bar. He called for his usual perquisite drink, and requested that his drop of “square” was not fortified with methylated spirit, as was too often the case with “The Golden Grove” liquors. ‘I ain’t no primus stove, missus, even if I do flare up a bit at times, pleaded Jerry. A bottle, villainously labeled “Best Gin,” was placed before him for a few seconds. A jerk of the thumb in the direction of the well, and a questioning lift of her eyebrows, indicated Mrs. Oliver’s curiosity as to the new arrival. “Oh ! ‘E’s a silvertail new-chum,” explained Hitchins, ‘ n’ as green as they come. ‘E took on hawful comin’ up th’ track w’en I told ‘im about “Th’ Shadder o Death.’ ” The landlady grabbed the neck of a bar carafe and shrieked out that she would brain the next man that dared call her husband’s house by such a name. Bodily harm was threatened, so Tigertail went outside again. He strolled across to the well, to find out how his instructions to Mr. Wellsby were being carried out. ”
‘Ave yer watered them ‘orses yet?” he bawled.”
“No tick here” – was not the case in the bedrooms.
They were still dirty. When explaining later to the landlady that his boots had been left untouched, that lady indignantly informed him that everybody at ‘The Golden Drove’ was honest, ‘omely people, and you could’ve left your purse on the mat — not alone your boots — and it wouldn’t be touched, just the same.” “Hulloa, Cyril !” roared a voice from the bar ” ‘ad a good night?” “With certain reservations, Hitchins, I have.” “Begorra ! yer don’t look’ like’s if yer ‘ad, ye’ve got sich a ‘cow-in-a-pound’ look, don’t yer think so, Missus ?”
Moya Sharp
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