At 9 o’clock the next morning we arrived at the Historic Precinct. I walked anxiously to the police paddocks to take in the many promised traditional craft and market stalls and must admit was rather disappointed. I was still trying to work out the reasoning behind the many bollards taking up numerous parking bays outside the precinct, let alone walking into what looked to me to be a Myer clearance sale without the normal rush of customers. I expected a good mix of merchants and wares but not 50% of the stalls to be taken up with racks of new clothing. What happened to the good old home made jams and condiments, confectionary, woodworks, pottery etc, etc? The organising committee would have been better off to include the townspeople and let them conduct garage sales on the remainder of the paddock.

It was now almost 10 o’clock and Mr Robert Haldane, an ex-superintendent of the Victoria police was about to commence his presentation of the Kelly story from a police perspective. Yeah, this I’ve got to hear. I sat myself down in the lower stalls, my adrenalin was pumping as I ran my eyes over the waiting crowd. What was Haldane going to say that would start a riot amongst the sympathisers and leave the old courthouse in ruins. I could not see hide nor hair of that wild Lloyd girl Lola Rowe anywhere in the audience. Had she decided to give Haldane’s talk a miss? At precisely 10 o’clock Mr Haldane made his way cautiously into the courtroom. He seemed to look a little apprehensive with what I thought a somewhat nervous disposition.

He eyed his audience, took a sip of water and proceeded surprisingly to give what I thought was a fair summation of the police force of 19th century Victoria. Poorly paid, most of them untrained and even more so in bushland terrain, prone to drink, and not unlikely to give false testimony to gain a conviction, especially with a payment as an added incentive. Mr Haldane was telling us nothing we didn’t already know and I was feeling rather relaxed until I believe he touched on a sensitive subject about poor Kennedy’s ear. A familiar voice from the above gallery cracked like a stockwhip as it echoed across the courtroom. Bloody hell, I thought, it’s Lola Rowe! she’s been just waiting for her chance to pounce on the poor bugger. Keep perfectly still Haldane and all will be okay. I started to get a little nervous as images of Lola leaping from the balcony and body surfing across our heads to get to him came to mind. Whatever he said was to Lola’s satisfaction and peace was once more restored to the courtroom. All up I thought it was a fair presentation and nothing at all like I imagined it to be.

At around 11.30 I returned to the police paddocks to see if the crowd numbers had improved, but to my disappointment the crowd had diminished quite substantially. It wasn’t long before I knew the reason why. Ned Kelly had just arrived from the railway station under police escort and was followed by a crowd of at least a hundred men, women and children to the courthouse for his preliminary hearing. By lunchtime the town of Beechworth was bustling with people. The Australia Fair Grand Concert Organ pumped out unbelievable music all day and brought with it a sense of lively nostalgia. The smell of sizzling sausages, eggs and bacon, floated endlessly through the crisp air and across the historic precinct. The police historic museum I thought was very interesting and well presented especially the light horse display. The museum seemed to have an endless stream of people passing through it for the entire weekend all looking with interest at 19th century police helmets, notebooks, a letter written by Thomas McIntyre, handcuffs, saddles, weapons, the list goes on. I thought it was a credit to the weekend.

At 5.30 I returned to the police paddocks for an event I was really looking forward to, the poet’s barbeque. I was again disappointed with the numbers in attendance. Huddled around the blazing campfire were no more than a dozen shivering souls. I was waiting for some good ol bush poetry from Banjo and Mr. Lawson but heard very little. The two only poets in attendance were reciting from sheets of A4 and read with a limited amount of passion. I thought the warmth of the fire was all that was keeping the event together. After each reading a Wombat King look-a-like in the small gathering would then ramble on about the life story of its author and anything else that came to mind. The only thing that caught my eye was when he tried to blow a tune on his sausage sandwich. Maybe he thought it was a harmonica.

I constantly checked my watch until it was 6.45 and made a dash for the main event at the old Priory. When I arrived, the place was almost full. My eyes caught sight of a small bar in the far corner of the room. You lil beauty I thought. Nothing better than a couple of stiff drinks to fuel the session. I grabbed a couple of bourbons and found a seat next to our old mate Stinger Nettleton. The event was a Q&A session with none other than Mr Haldane, that academic know-it-all and anti Nedite, Alex McDermott, Leigh Oliver, a Kelly reli, Kelvyn Gill, author/researcher, and ABC Radio’s Gay Pattison as moderator. Who I wasn’t expecting to see there was that well known Kelly authority, Ian Jones. Now she’s on for young and old I thought. With Jonesy in the room there’s bound to be a good ol dust up. I did notice that Alex McDermott looked very anxious and unsettled as he took his place.

When Gay finally kicked the session off by asking the audience for a question there was nothing but silence, so she asked her own questions. I’m not sure if it was McDermott talking or Haldane, but a loud voice from the crowd shouted out RUBBISH, RUBBISH and definitely got everyone’s attention. The interjector got to his feet and started talking about anything and everything except what was being debated. You guessed it; it was that bloke from the poet’s barbeque who tried to play a tune on his sausage sandwich. It was nice to see McDermott totally confused and lost for words for a change. Mr McDermott was his normal self and answered questions with words longer than my driveway like most so called academics. To me it seems the Kelly story is just another project to lift him to the heights of the academic world.

Ian Jones got up several times and cleared up a few points with the panel but apart from that I thought the session was a bit of a non event and a bit wishy washy. Not one punch or chair thrown all night. There was one thing that caught my ear. A question was asked if Ned Kelly was married. Ian believes he could have been married the day before his execution by possibly Father O’Hea. and that his wife could have been non other than Kate Lloyd. He spoke of an interview he had many years ago with a family member that could well point in that direction. It’s a great story but unfortunately not a shred of evidence. I gave the soup and damper a miss and passed McDermott in the hallway. As a matter of courtesy I said goodnight to him but all I got in return was a simple grunt. If you look at the photo taken at the event, you will note that even Mr. Webb’s spirit lights would go nowhere near McDermott. I think that says it all. I really needed a stiff drink so I returned once more to the Hibernian Hotel for some bourbon and blues.