By Jessica Freeman & Anna Rixon
It’s rough.
A city built on the back of steel and surf, salt and smoke. From the mountains to the sea, Wollongong shifts as much as the tide sweeps.
But there is one little corner that stands the course of time. A place where stories spill across the bar, where worker boots dance and scuff the floorboards. And, if you listen closely, the air still hums with the Old Council’s defence, deciding if the miners resting above are to be remembered as men or machines.
Situated on the west end of town, Dicey Riley’s was once the southbound train’s terminus. It welcomed the steelies as they knocked off work, and farewelled the others who wearily rose to take over.
Patrons have walked in and stumbled out for decades, announcing their presence with drunken garble. A public house where old meets young, broke meets rich, and weird meets wonderful — but just for a moment, everyone is equal.
And no, that lingering smell of tobacco or the tug of the floorboards on your shoes doesn’t exactly evoke a sense of beauty, but rather, catharsis.
Dicey Reilly, 1994 (print supplied by George Poulos)
On the rickety corner table, whispers of smoke twirl and flit around the mouths of four young women. They claim this as their spot.
Over the years, they watched as the Wollongong tide brought in fresh meat. The presence of the women isn’t scary — no, it reveals the gentle heart of the pub. A heart that beats steadily.
They, like many here, were brought together by this tide. Now, they are sisters who speak in a converging melody.
It’s in these moments that you see people being people. People who have found their people in a dingy old inn like this.
Dicey’s watched as these girls became women. Though several paths lead them here, only one will guide them out the door.
Formerly known as The Terminus Hotel, and later Tattersall’s Hotel at Crown Street, Wollongong, 1935 (Source: Noel Butlin Archives, Australian National University)
It’s almost half past one on a Tuesday afternoon. Craig is a patron for only an hour. He wears a cap and wrap-around sunnies that imprint into his thick skin. He is a passerby. He adjusts his hat, finishes off his beer, and makes to leave.
“Gotta get the train,” he says.
“See ya next time.”
Further out, in the corner of the beer garden, is a bloke with his children’s names tatted on his sun-kissed shoulders. He has long grey hair, a handlebar moustache, and deep-set wrinkles that map a life of quiet toil. He wears a tank top, boardies, and thongs, and holds a glass wreathed in dissipating froth. With feet pointed toward the door, he seems eager to go in for another.
By day, the pub welcomes tradies, retirees, and wanderers alike, all chasing a cold schooner and a moment of solace. But as the sun dips and the evening lights flicker on, a whole new world unlocks. Music pounds, cheeks flush, and the air grows thick.
I spot a shaggy-haired uni student, trying to break in his new Doc Martens, weaving through a crowd of headbangers. He slips past the pool table, careful not to interrupt the friendly game. A battle of the ages, it seems.
After finding his mates, he stands in the middle of the mosh. Live music has never felt so real. The drums beat the air out of his lungs. A local band (whose name most will forget by the end of the night) tries its best to impress the sea of others.
From the outside looking in, we’re a weird bunch of leftovers. But once you step inside and feel the uneven carpet beneath your feet, you’re immediately one of us. You are amongst the wickedly wonderful atmosphere of barflies and larrikins who choose to spend their days in this dingy old faithful.
With his greying hair and infectious smile, Hotel Publican George Poulos says that this place isn’t just where people go to drink. It’s where they go to feel.
“People are looking for that … oasis from the hustle and bustle. It offers a place where people can go and be people,” Mr Poulos says.
Nowadays, our thoughts are shrouded in fog. Mindless stress ails us. It seems almost uncanny and unnatural for a place to feel entirely tranquil. To remove your mask and draw yourself upward. This is the real disconnect. This is where we return to our own realities. A veil that washes you clean when you walk through its doors, releasing inhibitions. Free of judgment — a law understood by all of its patrons.
Everyone here is unbothered. Friends cheer when another traipses in after work. Laughs erupt here and there, and you leave feeling like no time passed at all.
It makes you wonder, for those 131 years, how many darts have pierced those boards? How many cigarettes were ashed in these trays? How many beers were poured from the taps? How many people became excited at the thought of going to Tatts, Dr Macs, or Diceys? Whatever the name, the feel stays the same—this good old pub of mine.
Pubs are now a rare commodity. Sure, there’s nightlife sprinkled with trendy clubs or restaurants. But they lack a soul, as George says. There’s an innate quality and characteristic about a pub. In Dicey’s, we are all just kids who crave connection. Dancing in the same place where our parents did years before.
Just as wrinkles trace a person’s wisdom, the scratched walls and faded posters mark the presence of the patrons before us. What some call imperfections, we call a story. We call it our place.
We are the working class. Cleanliness and order are not what we crave. The foundations have been our shelter since 1893. And these doorways witness the excited hellos, the slurred goodbyes, and the shuffle of every kind of soul.
And though we may awake with heavier heads, lighter pockets, and blurred memory, we’re left with something much more important. Belonging, camaraderie, and the joy of being part of something alive. Something historical. Something true to our roots.
Here, we aren’t hiding.
Here, we are human.
And that is why just one is worthy of the name.
The heart of the rowl is, in fact, Dicey Riley’s.
Author’s note:
The authors are not glorifying the drinking culture that is deeply woven into Australian culture, but merely appreciating the sense of belonging that Dicey Riley’s brings to the people of the Illawarra.