BRAPA (British Real Ale Pub Adventure)

A BRAPA day in North Derbyshire made so much sense, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it sooner. Derbyshire begins with a "D", Apperknowle begins with an "A", so for those of you now familiar with my BRAPA alphabetical OCD (ABC?), it just had to be done.

I ignored Chesterfield for now, where I know there are pubs to be had, but (a) it has a railway station and (b) I've still not forgiven them for the Luke Beckett Jacobs Cream Cracker Tin days of yore, the utter crooked spire baaaastards! 9 points? Travelling down to Southend on weekday, stop at Little Chef, the news breaks, we can't get automatic promotion anymore. It's an effin scandal I tell thee.

Anyway, I digress - and it was a sunny Saturday morning in a place filled with 'Duckmantons' and parked in a large carpark and waited for 11am. Strangely enough, the door was ajar and a few people were already lurking outside, looking for coffee - presumably as they have no concept of what a pub is.... oh dear, BRAPA rage rising and only 10:55am.

Me at Arkwright Arms, why does Twitter try and blacklist this pic?

1139. Arkwright Arms, Sutton cum Duckmanton

Dad read the script and entered through the correct LEFT hand side, and as always seems to be the case in 2017, this was the no nonsense boozy side, with dining tables making the right look limp by comparison. We were warmly greeted by the ultra friendly smiley rosy cheeked barmaid (some might call her manic, i won't). She told us about the 'blackboard' because there were so many other ales around the other side, and we chatted on rushing into choices only to later discover something exciting when you've already settled down with your Doom Bar, for example. They had some fascinating local ales on, shame both our pints were too warm suffering from "first of the day" syndrome, but I find this harder to forgive since the Fox Hole at Piercebridge told us how they put theirs in the pies. Cooking Ale? His evil brother's on twitter. Whilst the barmaids shared a probably hilarious in-joke about a cheese and salsa sandwich, Dad gave me the now ritual weekly update on Howard's Way storylines (I bought him the box set of this 80's classic, and things have moved on since the last update in Higher Burwardsley). This was a lovely pub room stained glass dragon above the door, adverts for a Hawaiian shirt festival, and camping out t'back. Legendary Hull City fan Geoff Newby's Derbyshire clone sat at the bar, and the barmaid told him one local brewery had changed their recipes cos the locals didn't like how hoppy the beers had become. I could almost hear those strangled hipster wails on the wind .......

Nice but a bit too warm, Orsino by Newby Wyke.

Typical representation of a Chesterfield fan

Lovely stained-glass dragon

The bar pre-Derbyshire Geoff.

Tempting?

Mr Sat Nav reminded us that his re-programming and caused a total personality change, for we turned the wrong way out of the pub, but he stayed silent and calmly told us just to drive to the end and go round the roundabout. It was nice of him, but he sounded disappointed in us which was worse. The next pub seemed to be nearer Chesterfield's football ground than the pubs in the town!

The man in the door apologised for photobombing, but I told him he added character to the shot.

1140. Beer Parlour, Whittington Moor

Well, I'd been joking it was all downhill after that superb first pub but this was, despite not being as pubby, the experience of the day at what used to be a bottle shop, but so many locals drank here, they extended it and it's properly taken off. It sure felt like a large micro, from the nice but randomly quirky owner, to every local in there. Seriously, I've been called "duck" a fair few times in Derbys but this set a record for most 'ducks' in a 30 minute spell. It all started when the owner asked us if we were here for the "festival" (which I assumed wrongly was the Barrowhill steam turn-tabley thing which everyone loves apart from me!) So I casually, as an aside almost, murmured "nah, I'm just ticking off every GBG pub in the country." It still got those friendly micro Derbyshire senses going, and soon we were sat under a grandfather clock on leather seats chatting to this lovely dude called Mark who told me I was a "lucky lucky duck" (no less) for living in York, where he loves to go for a pint. His tipple of choice, Thornbridge Jaipur, and I thought I was impressive having a 5.5%er at this time of day. Oh well. He gave me some good BRAPA day out ideas (Stamford and Matlock were the ones i can remember) and then his wife rang, and he told her totally deadpan "they've got Jaipur on some I'm going to have to 'av another!" Sound reasoning, and soon Mrs Mark had made her way down, looking a bit stony faced, to prise her hubbie away, but she soon relaxed into ale splendour once he told her we were from York. They are probably still there now, drinking Jaipur.

Mark apologises for almost walking into shot

I'd love to go to this quiz

It wasn't too far to the more rural setting of our third pub, but you can never get too comfy in BRAPA because something unexpected will always come along to bite you on the bottom, there was a beer festival on! Whilst Dad tried desperately to park the car something within spitting distance, I went to get the pints in .....

Marquee is the giveaway.

1141. Miners Arms, Hundall

It was all about putting the blinkers on, finding the bar, and trying to block out as much 'beer festival surround' as possible, as this was obviously a lovely little village pub and I wanted to do it justice. It didn't help having my Pictish ale served from a Polycarbonate glass - am having a bad run with "not being served in proper glassy glasses" recently! Me and Dad had assumed we'd have to hover around outside like a pair of out of sorts dragonflies, but I realised how much space there was on the wonderful pub bench seating in the corner, so I went to track him down, lurking around the country lanes, and brought him back in! Then something funny happened as a local CAMRA guy from Twitter called T_i_B recognised my BRAPAness, came and sat with us for a nice chat of all things North Derbyshire pubby which was a bonus. He had to go and do what good CAMRA leaders do and leave us to chat to mere mortals(!) so it was time to be distracted by the wheeziest pub dog ever, owned by a group of old-skool rockers ever, under a table. Poor thing probably should've been put down years ago, like most of the bands they were into! How bad were the festival band? That isn't a rhetorical question, for I couldn't hear them, but I heard THREE separate groups slagging them off as 'up there with the worst ever'. In festival band terms, that is rather damning! And then, at the loo, a wired twattish version of Jamie Vardy (so probably Jamie Vardy) put 3 bottles of Peroni on the window sill and told a muscular Justin Whittle that he was going to get smashed today, because the Peroni was free unlike the ale. Not sure they really "got" beer festivals. Typical footballers. I zipped up, gave hands the quickest rinse, and left pronto. It was that kind of place.

Some of the Manson family enjoy the festival

Partial wheezy dog, old rockers and stupid polycarbonate fest pint.

Dad had parked alongside a cricket match (another current theme of 2017 BRAPA) and we headed the very short distance to the only pub which really really mattered today, in the similarly isolated spot of Apperknowle .....

Cricket at a distance

A fielder running towards the pub

Arriving at our next location

1142. Traveller's Rest, Apperknowle

Oh gosh, it was like being plonked back in the Yorkshire Dales at the height of summer! Easily the most irritating pub crowd of the day at this fantastic roadside inn, I heard a middle aged horsey lady say "could be the last day of summer this, snort, snort" which really summed 'em up, as despite the mild sun and stiff breeze, everyone was acting like they were on the Copacabana with their lyrca, and food, and prosecco, and kids, and bikes and arrrghhh, I wanted to close the curtains but it might've looked anti-social. Inside, the small bar was predictably heaving and me and Dad tried to double our chances by standing at different parts. I was never realistically going to get served in front of the "glass collection" point, so it was left to Dad to elbow away the now ageing 90's British Eurovision star Daz Sampson and get our pints of Neepsend "Everything's Pale in Sheffield" Ale. We sat in the furthest corner away, trying our best to avoid the "teenage life" (sorry) outside, and for some reason watched old YouTube clips of Harry & Paul on my phone. "I was very very drunk." But really, 'person of the day' was a father in the loo waiting for his son, who was taking ages in the cubicle. He told me "it's a full time job this, innit?" and then shouts to son, and I quote "come on lad, doesn't tek thar long to have a pump .... mi beer's out there, going flat!" Classic. Dad's time to observe next as a tattooed local was unhappy with the amount of salad on his plate. He decided to kill it with salt, before drowning it with balsamic vinegar. Then he looked happy. Good pub this, just caught it at slightly fraught time.

Of course he's drinking a Euro lager!

A lesson in how to make salad more palatable

Seemed a ridiculously long way back to civilisation / a main road from here, so with my pathetic bladder already giving up, I was delighted when Mr Sat Nav decided "you're near Bolsover, sort of, you may as well do it!" Despite getting lost, we finally found it, and glad we did ......

1143. Fidlers Rest, Bolsover

We walked up the bank to this totally unassuming local, you might say drab looking pub, in the mould of some of those Ayrshire classics like Kirkmichael, Millport and Largs (but better). For all I could tell of the clientele in this fairly dimly lit yet still airy proper locals pub, they may as well have been Scottish for they murmured in a nonsensical way. I left my phone at the bar (I'm still blaming that 2nd pint I had in Whittington Moor), and a local man returned it but because he sounded like a cross between both Dick Dastardley AND Mutley, it was hard to know whether he was saying "there you go young man, and what a lovely phone it is", or "what the fook were you playing at you utter York ponce". I thanked him anyway and he shambled off indoors, as Dad had taken us to an outside bench at the front which almost had great views of Bolsover Castle. Loving a good myth, legend (ghosts, Loch Ness Monster etc.) I was very excited about the prospect of a sighting of the "Beast of Bolsover" until Dad explained he was some old politician man, what a let down! I wandered back in to use the facilities, admire the stained glass and some interesting local fashions including pink skin tight trousers, I for once felt a bit plain in my outfit. Never mind. Intriguing place. Recommend.

Action shot of beautiful trousers

Our view of the pub from the bench,

And that was that as we headed back for York, where I got myself a KFC and slumped until the thing in London (which Twitter doesn't want me to mention) kicked off, and I ended up looking at it from a BRAPA point of view. Which I hope doesn't make me heartless!

If I don't BRAP before, see you all in Buckinghamshire - again! Could still finish the county by the end of the year.....

Was pub 1146 the pub of the day?

I was quite anxious on Saturday morning as I set out for the only county that really matters in 2017 BRAPA-world, Buckinghamshire. Although I only had a modest 4 pubs on my agenda, trains and buses weren't exactly high in abundance and I knew I'd have to rely at least partly on that most evil of transport methods, the taxi. But I had to achieve these pubs today, it'd be my last chance before the 2018 GBG is released in September.

My nervous mood wasn't helped on the York-Manchester train, as a man called Abdul (so said his Starbucks cup) decided that he wanted to sit next to me, probably trying to prove a point as I was accidentally taking up two seats. With a smirk, he pulled out a book called "Social Intelligence" just to confirm it. Then he pulled out the Qu'ran and read it for two minutes. He sneered at my own reading material, that is the 2017 Good Beer Guide. So I put a song on called "Go Fuck Yourself" and made sure he could see the title. Not so clever now are you Abdul?

My mood brightened when I arrived in Milton Keynes, a pleasing sunny modern town of straight lines, smiling people, and the feeling that you are in central Europe. Perhaps a bit airbrushed, but I personally like it. I'd worked out my first pub closed at 2pm, so no time to faff around with buses, straight in the first evil taxi of the day.....

1144. Two Brewers, Thornborough

I won't tell you how much the taxi cost, or how panicked I was on seeing the unpromising creaky 17th century door looking locked. But as so often happens with doors, you just have to turn the handle and you are through them. Wonderful inventions. The pub was empty, a delicious old traditional effort with only slight hints at modernisation, in a beautiful village miles from anywhere (well, 3 miles from Buckingham on a horrible road unsafe for pedestrians - I did check). After a bit of exploration, I found the landlady outside watering plants and cleaning benches so I tried not to scare her, but she was an incredibly unflappable, unimpressed woman not remotely curious why I was here - which is kind of great. I ordered my new fave Bucks tipple from errrm Tring "Side Pocket for a Toad" but two Labradors were working as a tag team to block both me and landlady off from going anywhere, she told me they always lay in the most inconvenient places. I sat over to the right in a window seat, both dogs came over and tried to sit on me - they smelt of dog (urrrgh), but weren't twogs by any means. Lovely dogs, and I don't often say that. It all reminded me a bit of the Swan at Three Mile Cross, perhaps even better, quite a compliment. A posh woman came in, shouted "Val!", and just to remind myself I was in the posh south, I heard most upsetting comment of the day "I don't like sausage rolls, to be honest, I'm not keen on any pastry". You'd get barred for saying that in Leigh. ANIMALS. Not the dogs, they agreed with me. A couple of ambling tourists came in and asked if they did food, and were soon redirected to somewhere shitter. On the way out, hubbie said "Phwoar, nice looking pub this!" Wife looked annoyed, and didn't let him stay for a drink.

No way back from the bar

Feel the quality

Pub pet of the year contender

I hadn't planned on walking to the next pub, 2.8 miles as the crow flies, more like 4.5 in reality. But the gorgeous weather, huge overspend on taxi, zero phone signal, and lovely countryside made it quite an easy decision. My neck is still sunburnt now, and apart from a terrifying 2 minutes getting across the A422, it was a good but gruelling walk via Leckhampstead and Foscote into Maids Moreton.

1145. Wheatsheaf, Maids Moreton

The thatched roof and the lack of words on the inn sign (it looked like a sheaf of wheat, if that's a thing, so assume I was in right pub!) made me realise this was going to be another village classic, and I wasn't wrong. I have to say though, I felt more conspicuous than usual as the locals all said "hi" out of the corners of their mouths when I arrived, but were incredibly watchful and appraising of my BRAPA t-shirt, without ever talking to me. I just smiled nervously and the ringleader didn't take his eye off me for more than a minute, and am sure when I went to loo to cool down my blotchy sweaty face, the six main locals all closed ranks and said "don't say anything idiotic, BRAPA is in town" though I may be paranoid. A spindly blonde sweetheart appeared from a gap in the bar to serve me, her clumsy but aggressive brunette counterpart whistled, slammed furniture around, and eventually went to cellar to take her anger out on the beer barrels. "You're making a lot of noise there", observed one local who eventually hit his head on a fire exit sign, probably, "IT'S THESE BLOODY BARRELS GRRROWL" she said. The oldest, frailest local, then asked her what the lovely smelling food was. "BAKED CAMEMBERT AND I COULD EAT A WHOLE ONE GRRRROWL" she replied, almost killing the poor chap. As the locals chatted on steam turbines (please guys, gimme something to work with here!) Jon Parkin escaped from the kitchen, and I realised this pub had no beermats and I forgot my emergency one. Then I rang for a taxi just to make me even more of a pariah than I already was. He was there within ONE minute.

Frail baked Camembert (right) and head hitter extraordinaire

"Mind your head" haha. And checked shirt ringleader watches me throughout.

So great news Maids Moreton had it's own taxi service, as getting to Turweston was the key moment of the day now. But no time to relax, as following on from my train journey, the taxi driver was an incredible enthusiastic Muslim young man, so passionate we nearly drove off the road about five times as I told me to look on YouTube about this dude called "Mufti Menk" and about this local Catholic Girl who'd been converted. He spoke a lot of sense though and charged me HALF of what the MK shyster had, for more mileage, so I was happy. And funnily enough, we got lost, pulled up and asked at the local church hall where the pub was. Seriously, it sounded like a joke!

So moment of truth as I stepped out of the taxi, convert to Islam or tick off the next one......

1146. Stratton Arms, Turweston

"We're closed!" shouted the landlord as I entered. "WH..AAA...TTT?" I stammered in despair, thinking back to Bucks mid afternoon closures like Thornborough, Lacey Green and Tylers Green. "HaHa, only joking!" he boomed, making the couple in the corner laugh as I told him not to scare me like that. He'd seen the taxi, he'd seen my "British Real Ale Pub Adventure" shirt, and thought he'd wind me up. Anyway, soon I was chatting BRAPA and he was very interested - he didn't want just ONE card, but TWO to pin up on the bar so he could show both sides. Sex Pistols "God Save the Queen" seemed an unlikely Bucks pub village song, but it summed up the brilliance of this place, even if it was just on the radio, and soon I was approving of this amazing Hook Norton beer and he told me how the Cask Marque scum (my words, not his) had arrived unannounced recently and given all the ales top ratings. I could see why, cut above in terms of quality. He told me about this mythical regular bus service every 40 mins direct to Buckingham, but it didn't seem to ring true to I finally got him to ring for another taxi. But not before I'd soaked up the joy of the pub, where a twild was introduced to bacon for the first time, and made to go to the bar by Daddy. "What would you like?" "FIZZY!" Ugh, don't you hate these keggy twilds? The gents were outdoors too, this is a special pub.

Beer of the day

Legends

My BRAPA cards now hanging up in the Stratton Arms

This next taxi driver didn't have a clue where he was going as the pub wasn't in the centre of Buckingham, and he thought I was off to University anyway, so I went with it, used the GBG App, and despite charging me a fairly hefty sum , was dropped at this lovely looking pub.

1147. Mitre, Buckingham

A fourth brilliant pub in a row, it couldn't be surely? Not on a BRAPA day? Well, no, it couldn't and it wasn't. It looked the part, the oldest in town, well off the High Street apparently teeming with crap bars, but it just didn't sit right. Main problem, poor beer quality on my Old Hooky, very warm and limp, turning sulphury near the end. I walked in, and got a friendly but weird greeting from a young man with a ginger man-bun and denim shorts. But he scared me so I hid round the far end, the young barman tried to be friendly but he had dead eyes, and a middle aged man with the air of an even fruitier Christopher Biggins was trying to chat to any young man who'd listen. A loud lady leaned on the bar and shouted in southern, some bearded hipsters and tattooed girlfriends appeared from the dark depths, and three men - one of whom did the smelliest fart ever in a 2017 BRAPA pub, acted boisterous for two seconds before calming down. A blonde twild was doing what twilds do, being watched over by a stern Ryan Moloney in a Barcelona top, well the whole thing was a mess and made me appreciate how wonderful the other three pubs had been, I'd had two people tell me this was great too. Shame. But it was key pub of the day, great to get it ticked off.

I managed to get a bus back to MK quite easily, and though I'd harboured brief thoughts of getting Stony Stratford ticked off which would've made sense, I looked up pre-emptives instead. And found one I considered had potential due to the fact MK has nothing in GBG at present, and when it did, it was things like the Slug & Lettuce, Premier Inn extensions and the 'Spoons.

This, in some ways, just as soulless, yet also, something a lot better. It was a nice straight 10-15 minute walk down Midsummer Boulevard (MK is perfect when you've had a few and want to check you can walk in a straight line). Reminded me a bit of the type of bar I was finding in Melbourne.

Nearly asked if there was a hidden thatched roof.

Draft House, Milton Keynes

Bright, shiny, glassy, young crowd, brisk friendly service, two light ales on, one coming soon, ale drinkers served in irritating handled glasses cos presumably that's what they think we like, lots of metallic posing tables, sun streaming in. It might sound like a nightmare but an altogether more enjoyable experience than the Mitre. People watching was fun. Such a strange crowd. England v Scotland was on, but nobody was too interested. Even the big group of lads, including pervy young Sutcliffe who liked his lips at any single young lady who walked by, and excitable young Pardew, who seemed to be struggling to keep his friends on the straight and narrow but still wanted to have a good time, and had forgotten to wear any socks. Then there was a MK Johnny Depp, in Jack Sparrow role, who arrived with girlfriend, and got a round in, and then inexplicably sat down to a business meeting with his suited financial advisor (if I hadn't got 4 photos of them, I'd assume I'd been hallucinating). Beer was ace, the Dark Star Hophead and Adnams Ghost Ship are two of my faves anyway. Only piped Clive Tylesdsley was upsetting me. MK's answer to Rob "Millsy" Mills, complete with psychotic stare and vest so he could show off his muscles, completed a scene of crazy well being. Scotland scored two freekicks, the pub didn't flinch. Kane equalised, suddenly everyone jumped around like they'd been watching it. Am sure this'll get in a GBG in future, and good.

Ales and a fancy menu

The Pards gang clearly not watching the match

MK Depp and GF meet financial advisor

Artistic Shot from the Toilets!

I got the train back to Manc but after a delay at Stockport, I missed my connection so went to check out the often talked about Piccadilly Tap. Sadly, I couldn't see any handpumps and it just felt like a Brewdog, and I paid £5 for a pint of something cold, fizzy and flavoursome. Impossible to drink against the clock, especially with Hipsters pouring out of the taps and walls, so thank the lord for that nice man from Trumpton on Twitter who'd sent a video of these two Scottish blokes going into a pub on something called "Still Game" so I put my headphones in and forgot where I was! V.funny.

The train back to York was notable for sitting in the end of First Glass and chatting to two muddy festival girls off back to Huddersfield but were coming back tomorrow, but all talk was about what the weird stains were on the floor. And when they left, I got chatting to a man coming back from his 1st anniversary piss-up with his wife. "Drunk Lady in Red" who slept the whole time. He apologised for Doncaster, totally unprompted by me, but I accepted it and told him I'd been waiting a long time for someone to do that. A perfect end to a cracking but expensive Bucks day out.

Me with Doncaster apologist and drunk lady in red (possibly a mannequin).

For the first time in almost three months, Tuesday night midweek BRAPA returned as I figured, if I'm going to stay over that magical 1,125 number when the new GBG comes out in late Aug/ early September, I need to give myself every chance (it looks a very tall order).

Sadly, I finished work at 5pm so was on the ridiculously heaving 17:23 to Manchester Victoria via just about everywhere in West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester, but luckily everyone lives in Morley these days so it wasn't packed for long.

An hour and 24 minutes later, I was kicked out at a place called Castleton in the shadow of Rochdale, and I saw the pub looming large just across the road. Perfectly placed.

Greater Manchester is a real Jekyll and Hyde (no pun intended) place for pub ticking. You have all those wonderful untouched basic boozers from Holts, Robinsons and JW Lees - not sure Hydes quite have the same appeal, not done many. And then you have the hipster urbanised outer Manc shitness, places that really make you want to cry into your defunct Credence Cloudwater v.9.33 recurring.

1148. Blue Pits Inn, Castleton

It was obvious before I'd even crossed the road that this was "good GMR", I could practically see the ghost of John Willie waving to me through an upstairs window as some burly men in the chippy next door laughed at me for photographing the pub, but in a good natured way, so they said! I walked in to a dimly lit, traditional pub, that kind of looked multi-multi-roomed even though it wasn't, such was the trickery of the walls and the light. A few pubmen looked expectantly at me, and in my best Manc accent (think Kevin and Perry), ordered a JW Lees guest ale so frothy, I was a bit alarmed until the no nonsense barmaid told me the invisible barstaff "hadn't pulled it through properly earlier", a new barrel and a wonderful ale at £2.80. As I sat on leather benches to the left and got ready to see what I could observe, a bald man called Jonathan brandishing a bag of top quality bread said ow do and sat down next to me. And stayed there til I left! He was very quick witted and used long words, too much for me after a tough day at work, but said some great things. Like "you are looking better on the ale than those hipsters do on the fizzy stuff", recalled meeting beer writer Pete Brown, and said "after Uni, I never dreamt I'd get chance to move back to Rochdale .... thought I'd have to live somewhere like London!" I bought him a Strongbow Dark Fruits to be polite, and he got onto music history, putting tunes on the jukebox, and making me analyse the lyrics of Abba's Fernando, suicidal pop stars, and told me that while he was in the loo, I should Google "interviews with Brian from The Sweet" but when he returned, his mind had raced on and I never did learn what the significance was! He then helped me try and work out the best way to one of his fave pubs, the Tandle Hill Tavern (from here or Royton?) - it was all hypothetical anyway as my GBG said closed Tuesday. If only I knew a man from Tandle who knew Tandle pubs. Oh well ;) So that was that, I had stayed for a second pint, but preferred the first. I said goodbye, and headed back for my delayed train to L**ds, finally getting to York 10pm for sake of one pub. Tough life this pub ticking lark!

A pint of something widgetty.

Jonathan and his bag of bread - at a distance

Nice loos.

Am determined to keep "wrong side of the Pennines" midweek pubbing going, and plenty more to do on that train line and I get to leave at 4pm next week so perhaps a bit more scope for adventure.

Before that, I've successfully got Oldham moved to Newcastle (so to speak), it's the work gang summer trip so I won't be at my observant or sober best, but I'll tell you all about it anyway as best I can.

With a seemingly endless supply of quality real ale outlets, Newcastle is a great place for a boozy day out, and under the circs, it is no wonder Ant (PJ from Byker Grove) has had to check himself into rehab.

It was the 4th annual 'work' summer day out, and with Yorkshire now complete, we had to think beyond our comfort zone. Oldham just didn't appeal enough, and I ended up moving the day to Newcastle, a bit controversial as the L**ds lot had a longer day, and a potentially more expensive ticket than me.

At one point, it looked like we'd get a record number of people of a BRAPA day out, but inevitably, people made their excuses and we left with a nice manageable group of 5. Joining me were ever presents Rich Ellis and Jason "Angry Arnold" Garrett. Piper Corday made her 3rd appearance, and Chris Hastings his second, a special mention to him for his sheer enthusiasm considering he's a Sunderland man.

They joined me on the train after breakfast, and before long we were in Newcastle itself. As my GBG App led us uncertainly to our first pub, I had to put up with the usual "are we there yet?" whinging from Rich and Chris, Jason commenting to me it was like taking kids on holiday. And there was no Mossley-esque hill climb this year. It was still before 11am and we stood outside like a bunch of idiots, not realising the pub had secretly opened already ......

Me, Pipes, Chris and Rich ready for pub one.

1149. Fitzgeralds, Newcastle-Upon-Tyne

Although it didn't look too exciting from the outside, some of my favourite pubs in the North East are Fitzgeralds owned, and they must be one of the better chains out there. We were surprised to walk into this incredibly well kept, brassy, polished front area, which sloped down to a bar - it was almost gentleman's club, you could imagine Phileas Fogg discussing a wager with Lord Guinness over a game of billiards whilst Bertie Wooster fires breadrolls off a badminton racket into a chandelier. Piper commented we'd have dressed up if we'd known how posh this place was. Down at the bar, a great range of quality NE ales to choose from, but considering we were the first customers of the day, the barmaid was uncommunicative and not exactly welcoming. Would it have been different if I'd been on my own? Do groups scare staff? Due to the nice weather, we sat on some tables out the front of the sloping Grey Street (I was worried I was drunk already!), and the gang (three of whom had never been to Newcastle before) were surprised how quiet it was, expecting the place to be full of loud, tanned pissed-up slags and men with vests and whippets, even at 11am, which shows you shouldn't judge a place on what the media tell you!

Walking in, feeling under dressed

A classic North East pale ale

Jason's shirt looms large on Grey Street.

Rich was already moaning we were drinking too slowly (it was 11:20am) so Chris downed his pint, and we walked just around the corner to our next pub, a mini landmark......

1150. Old George, Newcastle

Although it looked like we were walking into a pub, we first had to negotiate a cobbled alley with an old record shop and a gift shop called the 'Glamorous Owl'. The pub itself was obviously a very old building, and up the stairs we went to a low ceilinged bar area. If the barmaid in the last pub had seemed a bit unfriendly, they were practically hostile in here - again I suspected they just thought it was a group of pissheads on tour (which of course, BRAPA totally isn't - usually) but jeez, a smile or anything shouldn't be beyond them. Thought people were friendly in the North East? I ordered a fitting ale called "Heatwave" and I'd mentioned earlier how it'd be nice to find a courtyard similar to the one at Cricketers in Horbury. Well, this had exactly it and with no other drinkers still to be seen in Newcastle, we had the place to ourselves. Just as well, as is the way when Rich Ellis is around, conversation soon turned quite un P.C. and I was soon describing how BRAPA would deal with a terrorist threat which seemed to involve holding a GBG in front of my chest and saying "alroight mate" to my assailant. It was only just 12 noon, but time for pub three.

A myriad of steps in the Old George

In the courtyard

Dummies - closest thing so far to seeing other drinkers in Newcastle

What I reckoned was the longest walk of the day was a lot quicker than I thought, back down Grey Street, past the wonderful Crown Posada, and located in the shadow of Tyne Bridge (or at least a big road bridge that might or might not have been Tyne Bridge, it was all very confusing), was our next pub. Not to be confused with the Bridge Hotel, or the New Bridge, though does suggest the city has a bit of a bridge fetish.

Says Newcastle Arms, but am sure it was right pub!

One of about 20 photos Jason took, problem when you are holding a fag at same time!

1151. Bridge Tavern, Newcastle

More good ales, a proper bookcase containing proper books, but perhaps the trendiest pub of the day in terms of food menus, reserved tables, a 'roof' terrace, etc etc. At least the staff seemed a bit friendlier, and there was a fair few clientele already supping their prosecco and eating their horse burgers or whatever Geordie's do in the 21st century. Jason tripped down a step, and despite having a reputation for being the angriest man in our office, he took it with decent humour and only semi-threatened to twat everyone in the pub and then burn it down(!) We found an outdoor area again, this time under the Tyne Bridge and squashed in behind some middle aged hipsters to 4 of those rickety silver chairs which no one's ever got comfortable on. I spied a separate bar upstairs where the loos were, with a roof terrace, and a young barmaid smiled in a bored way as she realised everyone already had their drinks. It was a bit of an anti climax, I interpreted roof as "you'll be on the top of Tyne Bridge" but it wasn't the case, and we sat at Mr & Mrs Holstein's table who weren't arriving til 3, and the amount of trendy beards up here was enough to make North London blush. Luckily, my ale (brewed on site - Tavernale) was my pint of the day or I think I'd have been a bit frustrated by this place.

Beer of the day

Bookcase shot - note how the customers hide their faces from the BRAPA lens

Under the bridge shot, looked better in real life.

Jason's shirt upsetting background hipster hitman, probably.

My 'edit' would've been funny if I'd spelt "Pils" properly.

It was boiling hot by now, too hot to be debating which bridge was which, I was concerned about how I couldn't see the next pub despite being stood at the pushpin on my GBG App. But then I turned around and it was there, one of those old but non-pubby looking building without a proper inn sign, do I expect too much?

Shit pub sign, but finally located it!

1152. Hop & Cleaver, Newcastle

We ambled in to find a dimly lit front bar area leading to an airier modern bar and courtyard, one of those where you have no idea whether they were trying to appeal to the young crowd, or the curmudgeonly older drinker, or everyone, and just fell a tiny bit short on all counts. The assembled company were complimentary of it I must say, it had a lovely old atmosphere like something that'd been refurbished but they couldn't erase the centuries old history of the building - a faint whiff of pretension hung in the air. At the bar, our barman looked like he'd just woken up under the bar and started serving, rubbing eyes, yawning, seeming to forget beers, prices etc - the poor lad was suffering but tried his best. I then struggled with that age old BRAPA problem "where the hell are the loos?" and a wide-eyed European lady oozed out of a gap in the brickwork (possibly, "most helpful foreign BRAPA ghost of the year" 2017) and told me it was through the courtyard, in this other building which seemed to house a brewery and several other rooms, possibly a former stables it felt like to us, as I took the others on a "guided tour" of it later on. So, all in all, a bit of a confusing place but I can begrudgingly see the appeal.

Sleepy barman pulls the ales.

I thought bourbons meant biscuits, but I was wrong.

Bricked up toilet fire place

The spooky stables

4 pints in this heat and a walk up those legendary steps from the Quayside back towards the station was quite an effort, I tell ya! Again, the pushpins on my GBG App were trying to embarrass me in front of my work friends, but the next pub was closer than we thought.....

1153. Split Chimp, Newcastle

Despite three different people recommending this place to me, I was still a bit skeptical - but it was healthy micropub skepticism, you know the type where you know that due to the 'micro' aspect, it could be a bit limited, especially arriving in a group of 5. Not a bit of it, this was easily PUB OF THE DAY! And what made it, from the off, was the first proper good barstaff experience of the day. Such a good chap. I'd seen one of my all time fave ales, Titanic Chocolate and Vanilla Stout. "But dare I have it on such a hot day, 4 pints in?" i debated out loud. "It depends if you are weak willed!" said the barman, the kind of "pubby bantz" that had been missing all day. Of course I had to have a pint of it now! He then told the others the ales come from wooden casks, and if people come in asking for Fosters or Carling, he tells them where to go! It was heartwarming stuff. As a group, we all turned to each other and said "pub of the day" as one. We can't all have been wrong. We sat on some colourful cinema seats, the loos had some great Viz cartoons, Jason inhaled two pork pies and enthused on their quality. This is going right up there with my favourite Toon pubs of all time. I even got a Split Chimp beermat.

Legendary barstaff photo.

Jason enjoys his pies on sticks (perhaps)

I'd promised the others a "Si Secret Bonus Pub" and I thought it was quite a good clue to tell them it began with a "B" and ended with an "A". But this just led to everyone thinking Id opened my own Micro pub called The BRAPA. But of course, if I did, it'd have a zero tolerance on all people so wouldn't do very well business-wise. I'd maybe allow cats in though.

No, of course you experience blog readers know the pub I'm talking about, the wonderful Bodega which went down well with my 4 BRAPsters, as I knew it would. Before that, there was time to recreate a former Newcastle Utd fan incident.....

Although I'd had enough beer by now, the hardened drinkers wanted another one (at least) so we popped in the Head of Steam just across from the station ......

The main point of that experience seemed to be for the yearly ritual of Rich/Jason telling me off for leaving early, but am glad I did!

On the train back, I had to change at Darlo' because my ticket wasn't valid on that train, and back in York, I felt sober again once the drunken hoardes of racegoer scum joined me in KFC for a cheese and bacon meal.

Another great day on the BRAPA trail, and I'll be back on Tuesday night for something outlandish as work are actually letting me leave at 4pm! Greater Manchester here I come.

It was one of those ridiculously hot no-chance-of-getting-to-sleep nights, probably last Sunday, 11pm, and I was sat on my bed in just my pants (try not to picture the scene) listening to the Aussie girls chatting Neighbours on the brilliant 'Neighbuzz' Podcast, like any normal 38 year old male would do, when I wondered what else I could do at the same time......

So with my attentions still mainly on Vaya, Kate and CJ (plus that singing girl from Oldham who pretends she's from Manchester to sound more urban), I pulled out my trusty Good Beer Guide, turned to Greater Manchester, and over the next hour worked out that the vast majority of pubs were do-able on a Tuesday night, providing I didn't mind getting home at 10pm for the sake of 27 minutes in a pub! A BRAPA revelation.

Fast forward to Tuesday evening and the first step of that GMR dream (unless you count Castleton) was underway as I took the train to Atherton via Manchester Victoria for my next alphabetical tick. The heatwave had ceased in Yorkshire by now, but being a step behind the rest of humanity, those crazy Lancastrians were still basking in it.

A 15 minute walk down a main road, surrounded by funeral parlours, dog surgeries and abandoned garages followed, and although the side door looked very closed, the front was angrily shouting "come inside you soft Yorkshireman".

The Sky Sports sign was a bit of a turn off

Probably a less threatening view of the pub

1154. Jolly Nailor Inn, Atherton

I'd been to Atherton before, and it'd seem lazy to compare this pub to the Atherton Arms with side rooms, but it really did feel like it, perhaps a bit more homely and comfy. Traditional, yet newly refurbished, the first person I saw was a man at the bar with a St George's Cross tattoo on his lower leg. He turned to look at me, scowling and growling like that MGM Lion when he realised I wasn't a person he knew. But his female companion apologised for blocking the ale pumps, which is more than I could've hoped for. Martin Taylor had joked that he'd sent someone to track me, and when I saw a man on a shopmobility scooter ridiculously facing the wall (in the same way my blind cat used to do), I wondered if it was true! I ordered a Fyne Avalanche beer cos it sounded 'cooling', though it was nice and well-kept, it seemed slightly warmer than I like and wonder if, even with the best will in the world, it is hard to keep ale cool in this heat. I sat in a nice bench seating area facing the bar, the barmaid was one of those chirpy moon-faced 18 year old girls who's heads are full of boys, make-up and fidget spinners rather than whether the Thwaites Cask is drinking well. Despite the ominous Sky Sports banner outside, all that was on TV was the local news reporting from the Royal Cheshire County Show, but this just descended into farce with the female presenter perving on a French man selling cheese. A band called Asis were playing soon, they are a bit like Isis with a better bassist. There seemed a love of live music here. Then, a friendly looking chap appeared and said hi. To my total horror, he then murmured that he was Martin's cousin!! He wasn't, but he'd seen the Twitter comments and thought he'd play a joke on me - it worked, totally gullible I am. So who are you? I said, turning to my "Twitter Pub Men I-Spy" Book. Well, it was Deeekos, so I turned the imaginary pages to find him located 'twixt "Curmudgeon" and "Erlangen". He solved my query on the lack of Allgates beers here, told me how to pronounce Atherton (it's "ATH-erton" not "A-Therton", hope that clears it up!) And he also half-assured me that his CAMRA branch hadn't just changed all their pubs to piss BRAPA off, which was nice. So I took my glass back to the nice young lady, said thanks, stepped outside, and Deeekos had already disappeared down a side street like the pubby enigma he is. Good stuff, all that in 32 mins. Back in York for 9:10pm, job done!

Looks like the most air-brushed pint ever!

Shopmobility man facing the wall for no reason

The "outlook" is good at the Jolly Nailor, ha ha.

So where next Tuesday, I hear you all desperately asking. Well, the next alphabetical one, in Billinge , is pretty much impossible on an evening, and Bolton I'm leaving due to Hull City / NFFD potential next season, and with me on 9-5, I'm having a look at the likes of Broadbottom and Bromley Cross (wherever they are!) but if not, something a bit more direct on that Castleton line (Rochdale, Mills Hill etc.). The GMR world is my oyster.

But before that, Hartlepool tomorrow with my York friends. Monkey suits at the ready, it is going to be fun!

Si

It is officially summer! And that meant more 'sociable' pub crawling with folk who don't often get chance to partake in BRAPA events. This time, it was my York friends who I normally drink with on a Thursday night in our legendary "dice-nights" (so legendary, they rarely involve a dice and hardly anyone knows that they exist in the wider world).

So, after meeting in York station, we took the spacious, cheap Grand Central train direct to Hartlepool, doing a bit of I-Spy (bring back Cluedo!) and listening to Rancid's latest album. And it doesn't get much more punk rock than Hartlepool - you could easily have the Rebellion Festival here - and in terms of the ale scene, you only need to know three words - Camerons, Wetherspoons, Micropubs.

One of the many red Camerons Lions we saw

We wandered to our furthest point first, in the Stranton area, realising how huge Camerons brewery estate actually is. It still wasn't 12 noon, but the pub opened at 11:30am though I suspect a lot earlier.

John, Krzb and Jig, ready for pub one.

1155. Causeway, Hartlepool

This was a lovely step back in time, with a tiled corridor and multi-rooms. As I walked into the main bar, unsurprisingly busy at this early hour, I set my face to "smiling BRAPA welcome" but it all fell a bit silent as we approached the bar. I was particularly conscious of being stared at by three old duffers to the right, one of whom may or may not have styled his remaining bit of wispy forehead hair into the Camerons lion logo. Luckily, I ordered a pint of Strongarm (one of only two ales on) and the pub breathed again and resumed their chatting, and a LOT of coughing, possibly one of the unhealiest looking and sounding pub crowds in 2017 BRAPA. Krzb, to be contrary, ordered a pint of Shipyard (not the 'craft' US style thing that people seem to love) but a Marstons guest, but the barmaid, with elements of Eastfield's female singer and everyone from Coronation Street, gave him a Birra Moretti by mistake in a hideous glass. Hobgoblin was hidden around a corner looking unloved. The 'head' on the Strongarm was amazingly frothy and fluffy, wonder how many southerners have cried at this and asked for the sparkler to be removed. It reminded me of when I ordered a pint of Guinness in Crediton back in 2001, and half of it was creamy white head, so I was instructed to "sup it off, and I'll top it up!" Confused, I hesitated, and a flat capped local to my right shouted at me "DO WHAT SHE SAYS THEN!" It was quite bizarre, less so here. Still smiling at the three old gents, I led us to the room to the right, complete with pool table and a raised area making it feel like a gig venue. Really liked this old pub, a bit tatty, but nowt wrong with that. Boyzone's "Father & Son" played, and Ronan said we're gonna have to go, and he was right, as pub two beckoned.

Lovely bubbly bitter beer

Me "on stage", looking down into t' pool room.

We got back onto the main road, passed the front of Camerons Brewery and came to a pub I tried to go to with Dad back in the days when Hull City were a proper club and had exciting fixtures like Hartlepool away, but got lost. This closes 4pm strangely, so we didn't want to leave it til last!

Jig, me and Krzb (note it was a rare outing for the BRAPA 'third' kit on today - green)

1156. Brewery Tap, Hartlepool

So we wandered in and there received a friendlier welcome, barmaid and one man who was relieved when he heard us ordering ale, as he'd been on coffee and said he no longer had to feel guilty at the prospect of being the only person drinking beer! Mate, you're in Hartlepool, it is your right to drink gin in the street at 6am. He obviously wasn't a local. We got chatting with the barmaid but what was disappointing was that Strongarm was the only handpulled ale on. I thought they'd be showcasing a good selection being the Brewery Tap, especially considering the merchandise adorning the back wall relating to Motorhead themed ale, Road Crew. Oh well, "you can have a taster" she says. Did she have a secret barrel? Alas no, this was the keg version, but very flavourful and Jig went for a pint of it in the most OTT tankard seen north of the Watford Gap. Even Adnams would be blushing. As for the Strongarm, we commented we'd had it in the Causeway and through her big lipstick, she told us "it's gonna be a better pint in here!" She was probably right, seemed quite different to me anyway. This right hand side of the pub was the nicest, pubbiest brewery tap I've ever been in, beating the White Bear at Masham just. Lovely memorabilia, proper panelled walls, red, bench seating. Now if there's one thing we've learnt from dice nights, don't sit near a bookcase if Krzb's around. I soon had to pass him a book about asthma, which was rather hilarious. Glad I'd not seen this as a twild, I'd have never recovered from it during my 'dark' asthmatic days!!

How is your breathing? Throb throb.

View behind the bar at the Brewery tap

Jig's crazy pint

Loveliest Brewery Tap ever.

In the build up to our trip, John had been tipped off about a pre-emptive pub called the Greenside but it was a bit far out and looked a little bit family-Marston-ish but I noticed one central that looked to have a bit of promise, so we went there next.

Hops and Cheese, Hartlepool

The gang reckoned it looked very closed, but I've not done 1156 pubs to not 'approach with confidence' so I crossed the road, turned the door handle, and guess what, we were in! The pub was deserted but had a vague deli smell, not a surprise with a huge selection of cheeses and other snacks, with a couple a ales hidden away at the end. The young lad seemed an affable chap, and smiled as I persuaded John (Sunderland fan( that ordering a stout called "Dark Side of the Toon" could be twisted into an anti-Newcastle thing, and I convinced him for just long enough to order it, but feelings he was sleeping with the enemy returned before we'd even sat down! I went to the loo, just as the only other person in the pub, "Lady Cheese", was coming out, and I gave the poor girl a fright - she never recovered and looked at me nervously throughout after this. You'd have to go back to the Sun Inn at Colton where they thought I was the pub ghost to find such reaction. Funny really, it felt very much like a micro-pub, despite the size, but the couple were quiet and sat in a corner rather than the usual boisterous chat with clientele. The lights were cheese graters, the bar was decorated in maps of the world (and an elephant), and although it busied up and was good, the pub had a gloominess about it, not helped by Coldplay soundtrack being piped into our brains. Jig meanwhile, was rightly annoyed at the sexist toilet sign, specifying that MEN should "flush and close the lid!" I know from Yorkshire Bank that women are more disgusting in the toilet hygiene department. Still, am confident that if this stays open, it'll be in the GBG before too long.

Obligatory Pumpclips

Deli area

Irritating loos.

We crossed back over to the other side of town (if you can really split Hartlepool into two, you probably can't) and found ourselves approaching pub three ..... across a green yet also felt a bit like the approach towards the Layton Rakes in Blackpool. That surely had to be a good sign, did it?

A classic Krzb "jaunty angled" shot.

1157. King John's Tavern, Hartlepool

I didn't know King John was from Hartlepool, but if so, it'd explain a lot - anger management issues, ruddy complexion and fear of the outside world. I know 'Spoons like to name themselves after a local celeb, and judging by the Jez Lowe song about the town, there's not too much choice. Surely the "Sir Jeff Stelling" has a better ring though? Anyway, this was a 'Spoons of better distinction than most, certainly than the two in York, everyone seemed to be on the ale, which is rare, and plenty of staff so no stupid long waits, and was delighted to get a pint of Double Maxim. Sadly, it seemed to be suffering from that "Pint of Wetherspoons" taste my Dad talks about, so much so that his best mate, Bob Silcock, thinks that Dad really believes there is a beer called Wetherspoons! Anyway, we sat in the raised area and ordered food, and a few Jalepenos and Curry Dog's later and the ale had a new lease of life. Me and Krzb had a fun debate about the time when York City became the last club in the football league to sign the "kick racism out" bill. It led me into being the most P.C, I'd ever been in a pub, and even if twilds were in the background nibbling at my feet, I'd have probably just given them a playful pat on the head. I hate myself. But joking aside, this was a good solid Wetherspoons effort.

John under one of the most disturbing pub paintings ever

Beautiful Spoons carpet, and great view down to the bar.

So, with time on our side - even with Krzb popping into the local B&M for some multi-flavoured cheap custard creams, it was the moment of the day me & John in particular had been most excited about .... The Rat Race. We could chill here, have a couple, and slope back onto the train back to York. But this is BRAPA. Best laid plans and all that?

We saw the "closed" sign from quite a distance, but it was only when we got up close that we realised they'd gone on holiday!

OH DEAR!

Well, everyone's entitled to a holiday, but couldn't they have left someone in charge? Someone on Twitter told me the owner said it was a struggle to find someone to run it is his absence. Consolation? Not really. Someone else said if I'd checked their Twitter, I'd have known it was shut. But it's a sad pubby world when you can't assume a pub will be open on a summer Saturday afternoon. Maybe it is a further limitation of the micropub concept. I can't imagine rocking up at a 'Spoons or Ember to see the sign "sorry guys, we've just fucked off to Marbs for a week".

At least Martin Taylor cheered me up with his comment ".... you should've e-mailed, phoned AND sent recorded delivery letter before visiting. Pubs aren't run for customers you know!" So true.

OH WELL, if Rate Race stays in GBG for 2018, I'll be back, and as I sat in the inferior yet perfectly fine 'Spoons called Ward Jackson supping on my desultory pint of Trooper (I'll never understand the universal love for this ale). I figured I've still got Hartlepool Headland to do, that Greenside might get in the GBG, and Hartlepool is an easy place to get to from York.

We had another half in the Hops & Cheese too, it had more ales on (a superb one from Hawkshead, and seemed a bit livelier and brighter by now, I tried not to jump out at any girls!) and after another relaxing Grand Central journey, me & Jig finished with a traditional York Tap pint.

Great day out, thanks to the York lads, now for one last push to get the '20' up for June on Tuesday. See you on t'other side of the hills.

After a day at work involving many terrible Broadbottom gags ("that's very personal, how dare you to talk about my posterior like that hahaha"), they let me leave early enough to get the 16:53 from L**ds to Manchester. To be honest, my work have something called "life event days" and because visiting every pub in the Good Beer Guide is a life event for me (i.e. a step nearer my lifetime goal), I should get loads of holiday - but alas no.

I hopped aboard the Glossop-Hatfield loopy train from Manchester Piccadilly, and was just sat there waiting for departure thinking "there's a very eclectic mixture of weirdos on this train" when a guard comes down, shouting "anyone for Middlesbrough, you need to be on the train in front!" and all the weirdos (apart from the Thatcher's Cider drinker in red t-shirt) hopped off with a startled look on their faces! Absolutely true.

I was soon in the rural surroundings of Broadbottom, walking the wrong way to the pub cos I had no signal, but recovered myself and it was very close to the station, even closer than the 5 mins walk the GBG had reckoned......

1158. Harewood Arms, Broadbottom

As I approached, an elfin barmaid (probably older than she looked) was smoking outside, she said "ow do" (or something) and I nodded and wandered in. It had looked a nice pub from the outside, and inside was even better with beams, wood panelling, old pots and Toby jugs hanging from the ceiling, some hopbines, even a pool table, and some proper red bench seating. I must've got carried away cos somehow, Miss Elfin was now behind the bar trying to serve me - how did she shapeshift like that? The ales were all by local Green Mill brewery, so I got a £2.60 Ella but was conscious a man stood dangerously close to me had appeared and ordered same thing. We were served simultaneously, he was referred to as "Rollie" (interestingly, the name of the new solar powered lawnmower in Neighbours) and he also sat down dangerously close to me! Luckily, he started chatting to the other guys, pub weirdo danger averted, for once. Problem was though, his cough. He already had an accent like Fast Show's Bob Fleming, and a cough to match, which after a while I realised was akin to most people breathing, a nervous tick? The pub chat was lively, mainly people getting mad about politics but someone managed to kill the entire mood though with the innocent comment ""Do you know, I went to Altrincham today?" As the tumbleweed blew across the pub, Rollie started rolling up some errm roll ups (perhaps how he got his name) and when he went outside to smoke, one of the lads he'd been chatting to said "don't abandon me with him!" (not sure that makes sense). Then they all left together, and poor Rollie reappeared looking bemused. I hid behind my GBG. This was until a woman called 'Clarkie' arrived, told a dog it was 'savage' (it was), and wrestled it to the ground. Rollie announced to the pub the weather forecast for Thursday was bad, and he was going to watch his daughter swimming. Sadly for him, no-one responded so he got back to his coughing. There was a bit more dog loving, a randy black poodle this time, and I had to skirt around the evil things to put my glass back on bar, but a really superb pub this.

Trying to do the pub justice in one photo was near impossible

A happy pint experience - yes I nicked a beermat.

At the bar having given Miss Elfin my £2.60 in exact change

Clarkie wrestles a savage dog

The journey back went better than could be expected, because we were in Manchester 19:39 and there was a 19:42 direct to York from the adjacent platform, so how lucky was that? Down in first class, two final year student blokes had just made friends, and were talking about the need to look for employment. I kid you not, the big haired one said "the real world is a fucking scary place!" Gotta love students being parodies of themselves.

So what's next on the BRAPA agenda brenda? Well, the month end review and July preview is out on Friday. I have ordered the new BRAPA 'kit' for the 2017/18 season and will reveal all soon (so to speak) on Twitter, and Saturday sees me back in the second most important county of 2017, Cheshire.

See you all soon, Si-bomb.

TWENTY new pubs visited in the month of June represented quite a disappointing return, and if you don't count last October's "Aussie Adventure / Best Man" month, you have to go all the way back to February 2015 to find a month when I did worse!

Still, three pre-emptives may help me out in the long term, two of them especially (the Hops & Cheese in Hartlepool and the Draft House in Milton Keynes) are surely bound to get in, if not 2018, then 2019 edition of the GBG.

It actually felt like a much better month, with some great trips out. North Bucks was a highlight, as was a Dad day in North Derbyshire. Trips to Newcastle and Hartlepool were also superb days. And probably most significantly, the re-introduction of "Tuesday Night BRAPA" with the shattering revelation that hardly anything in Greater Manchester is off limits after work.

Hard to pick three stand-out pub experiences to go into the final reckoning as the quality was generally very good but here goes:

1. Beer Parlour, Whittington Moor
2. Stratton Arms, Turweston
3. Split Chimp, Newcastle

July, like June, is historically good month with an average of 30 new pub ticks.

But unlike this June, I have time off work to go and treat the UK as my pubby playground, and am very confident I'll exceed 30. I'm on 1158 as I write this, I'd love to be pushing the 1200 by the end of July.

We start tomorrow, back in Cheshire with Tom and Dad (and possibly Tom's Dad) for 'fixture day'. This is where we all take a copy of Hull City's fixture list and work out between us which away games we like the look of (e.g. Burton Albion) and which was are quite happy to knock on the head (e.g. L**ds).

I then have a bit of time off work, this is my time to shine with the BRAPA Summer Festival. I'll be heading to a county where I have a sum total of ZERO pub ticks!! I may even be able to sneak in a cheeky Tuesday Greater Manchester trip before.

If my liver is still ok by the following week (commencing 10th), I might get a bonus midweek trip, and am suggesting a Dad Day the following Saturday, though nothing is set in stone yet.

Sat 22nd sees me back in Bucks for perhaps the final time before the 2018 GBG comes out, I have only 8 pubs left in that county (it will increase!) but they are getting a bit spaced out so it might be that I only do 2 and the rest are in Herts or London.

And Sat 29th should by all accounts, give me the freedom to either get back to Cheshire or see whether my chauffeur is up for some Durham/Derbys fun. I'd like to think Hull City will do something BRAPA friendly for pre-season, but when you notice we're playing legendary European clubs like Oxford Utd and Bristol Rovers on the Algarve, you can see what I'm up against!

I'll also try and keep up with Tuesday night after work trips to random places dotted around the Manchester area.

So, am feeling optimistic for the month ahead. As we posh punks say, "I'll see you jolly fellows in the pit!"

Si

July BRAPA began with some sad news, as Dad knocked on my door first thing to tell me my Uncle Roger had been read his 'last rites' (or whatever the modern day equivalent is) and he was having to hot-foot it down to Great Yarmouth rather than join the latest Cheshire adventure.

I hope it doesn't sound insensitive to say that as soon as I got on the train, I turned the GBG to Norfolk in case any impromptu BRAPA action may be called upon in the near future.... well, it's what he would've wanted, as they say in the trade.

The train journey west was uneventful until I hopped aboard the cosy one carriage train from Crewe to Wrenbury. There, I spied Tom with a customary wild-eyed look, still somehow managing to commandeer a table of 4 to himself. I joined him, and then to our surprise, two lovely young ladies (Lucy and Justyna) joined us - they were on their way back from Chester races, having "accidentally" stayed out all night! They loved the BRAPA concept and I approved of them further when they said racegoers were all scum (not in those words) and the raceday scene wasn't for them.

They soon they were educating me on things like Llangollen, the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct and Betws-y-coed, and a even a pre-emptive tick in Oswestry! And if this wasn't dramatic enough, Tom had worked out Wrenbury was a request stop so went to "have a word" with our friendly guard, Richard, a true gent.

Once off the train, we wandered down the pavement-less roads into Aston, past a lot of mean-spirited drivers with a sense of entitlement, and despite being 11:50am, our 12 noon pub was already open - bonus!

Ready for the first pub of July? Let's go inside!

1159. Bhurtpore. Aston

24 consecutive years in the GBG, it must be good and you could feel the quality on first walking over the threshold into the "Sister's Cat Anatomy Pub" (Bert's Paw, Bhurtpore! Sorry). The barman appeared looking a bit flustered "we don't normally open this early but the rugby is on!" he said, which made little sense but I was like "dude, stop carping and pull me a pint and a blackcurrant squash for Tom". Friendly man though, and with all these hidden handpumps god knows where, I ordered a Rat from 'Uddersfield. Pleasingly, there was a bit of Indian style decor, with a frightening statue behind the bar, an elephant, plus tasty looking curry on the menu. Some middle age wastrels we'd passed on the main road arrived, fannying about for an eternity and then loudly sitting at the table next to us playing cards with their pathetic 'tasters' of ales, probably waiting for whatever god awful rugby match was being shown to start. Me and Tom got down to "Hull City Fixture List" business, doing the first quarter of the season, and was shocked how similar our minds worked which has to be a worry for both him and myself. Conclusion = Norwich away is first definite game I'm attending. We didn't wanna risk missing our train (every 2 hours they run) so we left nice n early and in the surprisingly warm sun, headed back for station. Really good pub.

Me in the mirror, and the figure I kept thinking was real!

Elephant trunk holds up Charge of The Light Brigade

It's cards, rugby and paddle tasters for these poor wretches.

Action shot of Tom in 'fixture list' discussion mode

We saw the same kindly train guard Richard again, and after some 'foreign students pay by card but struggle due to bad wi-fi connection' drama, we were in Nantwich.

"It's like a posh version of Louth" said Tom, totally in sync with what I was thinking, as we dodged pedestrians, market stall choirs, kiddies rides, and old ditherers window shopping imaginary properties to reach our first of two pubs. Is "tweer" a word, as in this town is even twee-r than Louth? Kind of pretty and well heeled on the surface, but scratch beneath it (and it's only a thin veil) and you'll find a town lacking substance.

Leaning on the second pub.

1160. Black Lion, Nantwich

We wandered in to one of those centuries old buildings, very York in a way, nice n creaky floorboards and warped beams, yet at the same time, a little bit forced Brewers Tudor feel, Coldplay on the radio did little to help, and beermats existed but were hidden in coasters. A nice young lad with a bookish hipster face served us, pronouncing my Celtic Pride with a soft 'C' which is surely wrong, but he was a decent host. The beer on the other hand, poorest of the day, not "off" but very limp - like something you'd find in Central London. Pickled Eggs behind the bar, was a plus point (not that I had one), I assume they come in bun cases, a couple with twilds in the back room got 'paddles' of thirds. My chair was the wonkiest in BRAPA history, one leg seemed half the length of the other three! Probably a deliberate quirky faux 15th century feature. Near the loos, a boiling hot conservatory room called the "Hop Room" smelt of musky barbecued dogs, strangely enough. And a twild girl whispered 'steak knife' as I wandered back from the loo, which am sure was some IRA code a few years ago so I told Tom we best get the hell out of here. Interesting, if not fully satisfying pub.

View to the bar

Tom looks in the brewery section for "Sandiway", first time this section's been utilised in 2017!

Just down the road, we came to the other Nantwich pub, and despite local photobombing, I just about got a decent piccie of Tom:

Piss off Nantwich people, I've got a job to do here

Tom walks into pub, what will we find?

1161. Crown, Nantwich

In-keeping with the town, the Crown felt very much like a large unapologetic version of the Black Lion, though it just felt that little bit happier and more honest to me. Walking down the cobbled alleyway, it put me in mind of pubs like Ye Olde Starre Inne in York and Chequers in Oxford, but better than both. It helped that the barmaid was a characterful friendly soul, as Tom squinted through the darkness to 'copper up' (almost) to buy the round (surprisingly cheap I think) and he even let me temporarily have custody of his ten pound note, the highest denomination of money I've ever seen him possess. As meandering piano music played, a twild-based family sat next to us, plonking their B&M bags on the table and entertaining the little buggers with a game called Trolls, before mesmerising them with some shiny silver card. It was time for the next leg of our Hull City fixture discussion, as Tom's ideas got slightly more outlandish (random Derbyshire villages pre-Sheff Utd) including quote of the day from the same person "as you know Si, I'm a reasonable person". When I'd finished choking on my nice but slightly clarty Great Newsome ale (not the pub's fault!), it was time to head off to Crewe.

The Swiss Family Twild, under the GBG "we're in it!" sign. Twummy is in the loo.

The bar looking quite bling in the afternoon light.

It was my third visit to Crewe but my memories of the last two times, which both involved pubs I can't be sure on (possibly the Crown was one) are very hazy, which might the beer or might be because I find it a bit of a non-place. But this was by far my favourite time here. The pubs were a bit away from the station, but we soon arrived at our first of two ......

A shaft of rainbow light cuts across Tom and Mike (man on right talks to his motorcycle helmet)

1162. Hops, Crewe

And just as we were about to walk in, a chap on a bench says "BRAPA!" and I'm like "yes, that's right, which twitterer are you?" (I'm getting good at this now) and it was the legendary presence of Michael 'Mike' Harris, who I'd always imagined to be an bald old geography teacher with elbow patches, but was more like if Russell Brand was left outside a pub overnight and told he had to 'become a pub man or die' whilst smoking lots and listening to Guns & Roses. And I can whole-heartedly say, "what a lovely chap". I know I always say that, but meeting Twitter people has always been a positive experience. Inside, the bar reminded me a bit of Lass O'Gowrie in Manchester (well, before they tried to destroy it's character) and despite the 'Belgian Cafe Bar' threat, it felt wooden and cosy, and there was plenty of serious hunched over ale drinkers at the bar - I even got a couple of tasters without even asking, I just said I needed something light as I was feeling the heat already! We sat outside with Mike, and got the benefit of his Crewe / Cheshire local knowledge though I can't remember all the topics. But it was good, his non bearded friend arrived (which made me feel a bit better as I'd been feeling rather hairless) so that was our cue to move on to the other Crewe pub.

Tom & Mike

After recovering my bearings (despite Mike directing us), we soon found ourselves peering at the next pub from over a wall .....

Approaching the fifth pub

Nearly there now

Here we are!

1163. Borough Arms, Crewe

And like Hops, I am 100% sure I'd not been in this Crewe pub before either - this one would prove to be our favourite pub of the day, it just seemed an extremely characterful local. Firstly was an explicit conversation about abattoirs, just as I was trying to smuggle my sandwich. All this ripping and cutting and blood letting chat was performed far too enthusiastically by the chief protagonist, almost certainly a serial killer who enjoyed the attention his lecture was generating to the point that he didn't shut up for about 20 minutes. Meanwhile, two cheeky pub dogs (not twogs) sniffed around, wanting my food and hoping they didn't end up in Mr Abattoir's Dog Stew as he eyed them hungrily, only to be disappointed by the perceived lack of meat. The barman had been a little bit slow I'd thought, but my pint of Oakham Inferno was perfection and was it just me or did he effortlessly just keep switching languages mid sentence? It'd been a long day. Various characters came and went, including Cheshire Buddha who I unwisely pictured stood pissing at a cubicle (I've not included it here for fear of reprisals) and a muscular version of Wolf from Gladiators, a screechy fish wife, and the many friends of Mr Abattoir who kept coming and going. Really amusing pub, get yourself down there.

The dude from Silence of the Lambs waits for service. Chianti?

Muscular Wolf has crotch licked by dog but still holds a conversation impressively.

Both of us fell asleep on the Crewe - Chelford train, only just waking up as we pulled in to the station.

At first, I thought the pub had been converted into a private house, but "luckily" it was just a bit further on from where the GBG App red dot had said, and turning a corner on the main road, Tom saw a sign that said 'soup' which didn't appear to bode well, but was attached to a next door cafe which was okay, but ended up probably being something to do with the pub! Did you get all that? No, me neither and I wrote it.

Mood picture of Tom at our final pub tick.

1164. Egerton Arms, Chelford

When I first embarked on Cheshire, I'd been warned by Pub Curmudgeon that there'd be a lot of this sort of thing, the gastro dining 'pub'. I think I've been pretty lucky up to now, but luck has to run out occasionally. This pub actually saw my pint of the day so can't dispute it's place in the GBG (summat Salopian and guesty) and you'd have to admit, if you were using it for it's real purpose, a restaurant, am pretty sure you'd have a quality experience, food looked amazing. But this is BRAPA so sod all of that! It almost had me craving the other Cheshire Egerton Arms, in Little Budworth, despite their novel approach to customer service i.e. customers are scum. Here was friendly, but as warned by a bloke who has been here three times, the staff are overworked which makes for a bit of a fraught atmosphere on occasions. One young blonde lady did her best to look happy, and circled the pub on a constant loop like a sexy vulture. I was the carcass in the corner not being pecked at! Pointless piles of logs in the wall, no beermats, it felt like this pub was deliberately trying to piss me off. Food menus and blackboards were a wonder to behold, we're in July but plenty of Valentine's Day references. They do a Valentine's Night tasting on Feb 7th (why?), where Mothers get a free Prosecco on arrival (or is that Mother's Day?). There's a dessert called Egerton Mess. You can get a 10% discount at the deli, not sure how, presumably if you bring a twild, form an orderly queue at the bar, ask for a 'taster' of every ale, say you are a fan of cyclists and Leciester, you're a bus driver, a beer blogger, use the word 'craft' without irony, have shares in Ember Inns and leave pub doors open on cold days! Sorry, got a bit carried away there.

Blowing my snotty nose on a pub napkin (sorry, serviette) was my highlight.

I wanna do Lord Ted's Quiz!

I said farewell to Tom in Manc as I boarded the chaotic train back to York, and sat next to a girl who listened to a Grenfell Tower Charity Song on her ageing iPod at least ten times between Stalybridge and L**ds. Back in York, I popped into York Tap which was a seething mass of post-races, drunken debauchery.....

Best pub chair sitting of the year!

I was eventually joined by 5 balding Scousers who were on a stag do so I told them about BRAPA whilst they did the old "we are all comedians" routine, telling me I had 1950's hair which was a new one, before being urgently told to board the minibus in the next two minutes, which made me suspect this was some day release outing.

I really enjoyed today, sad Dad couldn't join us, and this afternoon Uncle Roger did indeed cark it, so I'll be back for Tues BRAPA to have a celebratory pint in his honour. Til then, have a good rest of your livers, not long til the big BRAPA Summer Festival and am very excited!

It was quite a late decision to have a bonus pubby day out before Cornwall, but a few things swayed me. (a) I was totally organised with my packing. (b) Tuesday is traditionally a BRAPA day. And (c) I know ticking off a good 5 or 6 pubs each day in Cornwall may be a challenge as I don't think I've located myself very well in Newquay, and a few 'ticks' today would ease the pressure.

The next challenge was finding a little cluster of pubs not too far away which would all be open at lunchtime. More difficult than you may think, so I was back on the Manchester Metro out to Didsbury for a third (and hopefully final) time.

On the Metro itself, I had both 'old' and 'new' Manchester around me. Behind me, a posh man with a briefcase spoke loudly into his phone, saying things like "splendid" and "cheerio" to his business colleague. Compare that to a man in front I'd been keeping my eye on, he stared out of the window at a crow and mumbled 'dirty' before sniffing his rucksack. I'm not sure which man I was more scared of.

I hopped off at Didsbury Village, and behind some houses, the pub suddenly loomed large in a dark imposing way that only Lancastrian pubs can properly achieve ......

"Boo!" Says the pub as it jumps out at me.

A gentler view from the front

1165. Fletcher Moss, Didsbury

Must admit, my first thought was "Hydes", ugh this is gonna be a bit lame, airy and foody having had not the greatest experiences previously. But this was different. A huge sprawling but ultimately pub-tastic building, properly furnished side rooms in every direction and a decent welcome from the slightly bearded host with element of scouse in his accent. I was the only customer so a bit spoilt for choice as I sat in the front right room, although the pub door was blowing a cold draught in, making me feel like a miserable old git as I smuggled my cheese & onion pasty behind a wall. This was the only fault though, and I was never going to sit in the rear of the pub which was more dining oriented. Though like a good twild, kind of "not seen or not heard". In fact, the only chat I did hear was a 30 second strategy meeting between staff about some new Mini Cheddars that were coming their way. You'd think they were coming off a cargo vessel from Columbia the way they carried on! The loos were quite a patterned feast for the eyes in comparison to the rest of the pub, making me wonder whether it had been refurbed from some 80's disco fun bar. My phone, which I'm starting to suspect is a pubby sentient being (Artificial Intelligence and all that) randomly told me I should go to Knutsford and check out a place called Dexter & Jones. I had no intention of it, it's not even in the GBG, silly phone!

Very apt!

"My" room, leading towards the bar.

This beer actually topped itself up!

The bogs were dressed a bit like me!

I was on the Metro soon enough, where an old lady with a buggy faffed around, sang the baby songs, and generally got in everyone's way. It was to be a bad omen.

Even I have suspected in the build up that I've been overly harsh on Chorlton-cum-Hardy in the past. This was my third visit, the first was weird to say the least, the second simply depressing. Posers, hipsters and pregnant women abound a couple of summers ago, and had now birthed their sprogs but nevertheless, surely I'd overplayed it for comedic effect?

It wasn't long before I found myself crossing the car park of an Organic Supermarket called Unicorn, I looked at the people going in and the memories came flooding back. I was heading for the two pubs furthest down Manchester Road, where I'd given up hope before, and although I'd been to the likes of "Spit", "Piss" and "Jizz" in the past, there were still two single syllabled bars to tick off.....

Took photo behind bush so outdoor poser women couldn't see me.

1166. Font, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

I wandered in and felt like I'd been here before, it felt like "Bar", it felt like "Dulcimer", it felt like "Marble" and it felt like "Parlour". The barman was particularly disinterested though (one thing I can say about all four of the afore mentioned bars, staff are total sycophants), this dude was like a chestnut haired younger Brad "Drab" Willis who sighed in a "this is inconvenient" way when he realised he had to pull my beer through, as he headbanged to some background shitty rock music that wasn't headbangable in my opinion! To be fair, he did make eye contact as he handed me my change. I'd already noticed the crowd, so many young Mums, so many buggies, so many babies, two twilds at the front eating mashed up pizza from crazily coloured plastic plates and knives and forks, it was like a special Mum-Kids Pizza day, but being Chorlton, probably just the norm. A student looking girl with huge eyes set in desperation sat in the centre of the room, staring blankly at a laptop, wondering why her novella about girls like her meeting bearded hunks in organic supermarkets wasn't taking off. But then a beardo came to join her, snapping her out of the misery. Turned out they both worked here, of course they did. They occasionally exchanged pleasantries with a chef wearing a bandana, usually resulting from whatever crappy piped song was playing now. He had a shit sleeve arm tattoo, and a fascination with a bowl of potatoes in front of him. The constant crying of babies was occasionally punctuated by the guffawing of two middle aged blonde ladies outside, one reminded me of Judy Murray with a blonde bob. Same strained jawline. I realised I was firmly entrapped, my battered green settee slung so low, there was no getting out. To my right, a botoxed Nigella Lawson nibbled a bowl of wedges in an aggressive fashion, storing them in her cheeks like a squirrel, or was it the botox, hard to tell. She tapped on a laptop too, looking every inch the business women but with that Chorlton melancholy "if you can't get a twild, get a laptop". In most places, women substitute kids for cats or dogs. Another woman wheeled a huge buggy in, she looked lost for a split second but on hearing babies wailing at the back, a smile of recognition crossed her face and she scooted off to the bowels of the building. The Pizza Mums at the front loudly debated whether the girl they were thinking of was spelled "Sorcha", "Zorcha" or "Xorcha". But a twild interrupted so was told "calm yerself mate!" It was time to leave, returning my glass to the bar and saying "thanks" (beer at least had been top quality), normally staff then say "thanks" back (for returning the glass) but our old mate Drab Willis just said "urrrrr, that's ok!" to rile me even more. I left, at least, with tonnes of blog material but this was quite frankly hell on earth.

Novella girl is joined by bearded friend. Chef stares at his potatoes (again!) in background.

My pint and view towards the pizza twild mummy gang.

It was raining, and I exchanged smiles with a little old lady, I wondered had she lived here all her life. What was Chorlton like back then? What did she think of it now? Then my phone told me it wasn't taking any more photos (was it protesting against Chorlton?) so apologies for lack of pub frontage, you aren't missing much. They did have a new beer on though .....

1167. Pi, Chorlton-cum-Hardy

So I took a deep breath, expecting more of the same, but this was small, timid, and almost homely by comparison. I'd been to a previous Pi, in Altrincham, another place rapidly descending into outer Manc depravity, and that one had felt more Chorlton-esque than this! This, small and square, the tables and chairs were all uncomfy and rubbish, but I wandered up three steps to the bar and was served some decent local ale by a nervy young barman. It seemed like he was trying to be all cool, young and hipstery, but he was actually too awkward and dysfunctional to manage it, which kind of made him more endearing - though I don't think he liked me, for when he sat down with his lunchtime pie, he'd glared at me as if it to say "this is my time, don't you dare look at me". Furthermore, he'd halfheartedly offered me complimentary peanuts on arrival which as an allergy sufferer, I took as a death threat. I didn't care, the only other customer was an old man who screamed "gay Irish playwright" (well, he didn't actually scream it) and my Mum rang so I had a BRAPA chat and heard how Dad was sad cos him and his mates were watching wonderful Somerset stuffing shitty overrated Yorkshire at Scarborough like they do every year, even if Kevin Shine or Andre Van Troost are doing their accidental declaration bowling, but I digress. Not much to report otherwise, but won't it be funny if something new for Chorlton gets in 2018 GBG? "No it won't" is the answer.

Pie menu in Pi

The kind of ales you see in Chorlton bars

The most artistic pub shot you'll see all year in Chorlton

Journey back went well, apart from Spanish middle aged women blocking the aisles for no reason , and I ended up on the train that left L**ds for York at 16:17, which is the one I get after work anyway so that worked out ok.

Wish me luck in Cornwall, I might get 'Spoons, I might get Doom Bar, but at least I won't get anywhere like Font, well, I don't think so anyway!!

Si

Perranporth beach, making pub 1169 seem better

As the plane touched down (well, smashed onto the runway with a crunch and a puff of smoke), I was still glad I'd made the decision to fly rather than 'train it'. £59 return, 1.5 hour flight, total no brainer!

The man sitting next to me had been a legend, a lovely chap from Great Ayton near Middlesbrough whose family were visiting the UK from Qatar, couldn't be arsed to meet him up north, so they compromised on meeting at St Mabyn, a BRAPA friendly village near Wadebridge. Logical of course!

The weather was glorious as I arrived in this strange new BRAPA land, Cornwall, a bit apprehensive as to whether the inhabitants were like, humans, but no chance to find that out yet as I hopped aboard the bus to Newquay and sat next to a West Indian lady from L**ds called Carol. We had some nice un-challenging chats we could agree on - (a) the views at Mawgan Porth are nicer than those in the Merrion Centre and (b) it will either rain tomorrow, or it will be dry.

I located my Travelodge (one of the worst I've ever stayed in for heat and meanness of facilities), and after checking in, realised it was still early enough to blow some of my 'emergency taxi fund' on something outlandish.

Surprise, surprise, my taxi driver was from L**ds too, hadn't heard of Bolingey, had no Sat Nav, so we had an amusing drive out west, talking about things like the Yorkshire Bank and pub ticking. Finally, we made it to my 1st of 25 holiday pubs, the kind of village that when a taxi pulls up, the curtains twitch, but not when it is everyone's birthday .....

1168. Bolingey Inn, Bolingey

I said 'hi' to an unresponsive older couple (perhaps corpses) enjoying the sun outside, and wandered in to find a cosy old wooden bar room jam-packed with folk, in the midst of celebrating someone's birthday - I knew this because I later heard a caterwauling rendition of "happy birthday" plus random village locals kept arriving with little gift bags like Cornish three wise men. The ales on were standards, so perfect chance to try a "Doom Bar" in Cornwall itself, something I promised myself I'd do. I took it outside and sat at a bench, and enjoyed this Doom Bar more than any other before! Probably psychological , and probably because it's the first pint of an already long, hot day, but great nonetheless. I was soon aware of Bolingey's answer to Stacey Slater, stood to my right, talking shadily into a mobile phone. Before I could blink, a group had joined me at my bench and were wishing the older woman happy birthday. Had she left the indoor party to sit out here? A bit rude, I thought. Alas, no, this was a different woman's birthday! Confused I was. Then Stacey Slater reappeared to give her Mum (as it turned out) a prezzie. Mum was upset one of the lads had ordered her a pint of beer "do you know how fattening beer is? I've not touched it for weeks!" she wailed. I commented walking from pub to pub keeps the pounds off, little did I know how difficult walking from pub to pub would be in Cornwall! The younger bloke, who'd now bought her something slimming like "gin", told me to 'not give up my ground' with my bench, a bit difficult as I'd already been invaded, so I told him as a visitor, I knew my place in the pecking order. An awkward silence followed (nothing I said was helping!), made worse when S.Slater was told to scoot up the bench but said it was tricky in her short skirt, she didn't want people looking at her knickers. She could only have meant me (as I'm sure incest is a myth in Cornwall) so I had to avert my eyes in an overly deliberate manner, before wishing Mummy Slater (not Mo) a happy birthday in a mumbled way, before making a hasty retreat, relieved to be out of the awkward situation!

Walking out of the village, towards Perranporth

Despite the tricky experience, it was nice psychologically to get a 'difficult' tick under my belt early doors. Another main reason for doing it was a straightforward walk into Perranporth, which had another GBG pub and transport links. I took it for granted, but it was one of the few pub walks I managed without the threat of being killed, as the roads are so narrow, and there are no grass verges, it is just not a pedestrian friendly county, it even makes North Yorks look acceptable!

Perranporth was a hive of tourist activity, not surprising being a fairly pretty coastal resort with lots of men climbing out of the sea, twilds with buckets and spades, and Mums walking annoyingly slowly like the type of people who aren't on a pub mission, which I don't suppose they are. I found the next pub, pretty much on the beach .....

Tempting to apply!

Crazy pub mural, oi we're not in Bedminster or Sheffield you know!

1169. Seiners Arms, Perranporth

I walked through firstly a confusing hotel entrance area, and then a conservatory where everybody was, because it had views onto the beach, into a dark long thin bar where the modern day version of Shakespeare's Sister looked at me sullenly. I ordered an amazing stout from the Midlands called Peaky Blinder, yet this would prove to be one of my only non-Cornish beers of the holiday, I'm glad to say. I thought the standard of pub over my stay was really high, beer fantastic too, but this pub just didn't inspire. I nearly got mowed down by a surfer version of Toadfish who watched an overly long BBC News piece about a Panda, maybe he thought it was one of his species. I sat indoors under speakers pumping out some shitty chart music, the occasional gloomy tourist came in and ordered food, and though I tried to smile, no-one reciprocated so the only moral victory I could manage was eating a sly cheese & onion pasty (the sequel to the one in Didsbury's Fletcher Moss the day before) without getting caught!

Great ale, and avoided house beer to try and be cool! Didnt work.

Wednesday is Pie and Pint night! Didn't mean to photograph woman going into loo.

Look, the panda is still on TV even post-Toadfish who you can just see leaving pub

Quite a few things I didn't like about this menu.

Luckily my L**ds taxi driver had hung around long enough to take me back to Newquay. After all the palarva getting here, I felt a bit miserable having to admit neither pub experience had been that great! But am sure Newquay had plenty to offer pub wise, didn't it? He plonked me outside my third pub of the holiday .....

1170. Red Lion, Newquay

"Stunning harbour views" seemed to be the main selling point here, and I sure enough noticed the entire front of the pub like some viewing gantry, everyone swivelled round on these little seats just drinking and craning their necks to stare mournfully out into the ocean. The rest of the pub was almost empty, but the staff were at least friendly in a cutesie kind of way so I ordered some ale with Cliff Thorburn surfing on the front, that MUST be the right one to drink. Quite a bizarre atmosphere really, as I wrestled with a circular posing table, a woman with a northern accent (so probably from L**ds) argued with her man-friend about where they were going to sit. I spied an outdoor seating area behind the pub, hurrah, and suddenly I felt alive, in amongst the hustle and bustle of locals. There was a tin mining version of Sting, an odd mural of a lion (even worse than the Albert & the Lion 'Spoons in Blackpool), a twild who was suspicious of my pub photographing, her Mum who couldn't sit still for 2 seconds, a wheezy joker on the left, and that general feeling that those sat at the front looking at the sea were actually missing the true encapsulation of the pub. So all in all, pub of day one!

Then things got really bizarre as Neil from work, also on holiday down here, shouted me over to meet his wife and twild-folk in their little holiday home (more people from L**ds!) , warning them of the 'weird drunken man', before I also spied where my sister's cat has been disappearing to on summer evenings, yes he's opened a nightclub in Newquay .....

Time for the final pub of the evening, my only Wetherspoons of the holiday. I could even see it from my hotel window .....

Classic 'walking into a 'Spoons' moment you can all recongise

1171. Towan Blystra, Newquay

So, Towan Blystra was what Newquay was called before tourist scum like me invaded the town. I still had my wits about me enough to utilise a "Mudgie Voucher" to claim my 50p off, remembering we were now in July so I was on a new batch. This was pretty standard 'Spoons like so many are, staff looked a bit dishevelled and weary, the carpet was full of excitement, a teenage were-rabbit made her long suffering Mum buy her a drink which seemed to be half pepsi, half guinness, not sure if that even has a name, and probably (sadly) doesn't exist! But I might try it one day. An impatient man across from me ordered food with a sense of urgency like I've never seen before in a serene 'Spoons environment, and when he ate it, it's fair to say he inhaled it Man v Food style. Two old blokes got animated about a third, unseen man they didn't get on with. It ended in one of them, during a lull in conversation, declaring "and I'll snap him like a parsnip after Christmas!" which seemed poetically violent.

A brazen cornish bitter

A troublesome handdryer

The increasingly tattered GBG. Is it September yet?

A hungry bloke hoovers down his food

So that was a tricky day one of my Cornwall pub tour. Glad to get 4 newbies under the belt, certainly things would improve on all 5 of the subsequent pub ticking days, but for now, it was time to enjoy the sunset, cope with my boiling hot Travelodge room, and get organised for tomorrow morning as we trek down to Penzance!

After a predictably muggy night, I woke at 8am and got organised for the day ahead, which was a nice little breakfast routine I got into of draping all my maps, books devices etc. over my bed, in amongst coffee, juice, bananas and weird little pastry things, bought from the adjoining Aldi (the only supermarket I've ever been to which sells wet suits for twilds but not single packets of crisps).

I'd already decided that staying in Newquay, I should really be focusing on the pubs in mid-Cornwall, as train travel always involves a change at Par, a long enough journey as it was.

However, from my initial plans back in January, I'd had my heart set on the very western tip of the county, as it looked adventurous, so off I set on my "Ride Cornwall" ticket (£13 day ticket to use on any train or bus - thanks Tom for the tip!)

Welcome to Penzance!

Nearly 4 hours later, after a change at Par and a telling off at Penzance bus station for eating my sandwich in the not yet opened bus station, I got a coastal bus, I was finally in the quiet little village of Trewallard. 2pm, another warm day, needed a pint ......

All the best pubs just look like houses from a distance

So definitely the pub then .....

1172. Trewellard Arms, Trewellard

I walked into this nice cool, dark, narrow old pub to find a matronly landlady telling her disinterested daughter (DD), playing with her iPhone at the bar, to make herself useful and make sure "table 4" outside are enjoying their food. DD sighed, rolled her eyes, and loped outside like a wombat that can't be arsed with life. Landlady shook her head as if to say "kids" and served me this refreshing ale from some local micro-brewery. I went outside, where all the action was, and three local pub men (one reminded me of a rugged Paddy McGuinness - fave phrase probably "let the handpump see the alcove") nodded and said "hi" in some strange dialect - or not. Our disinterested daughter (pronouncing lasagne "laaarsaaarghhhnyaar") was now attending to what appeared to be a Spanish family, although Dad had the air of a Proclaimer, and ordered a mug of prawns, they watched a sparrow having a dust bath and found it very amusing. It wasn't. In fact, I was feeling a bit gloomy as my plan was to walk between the next two pubs, but bus journey showed me how hazardous that would be so I'd have to wait an hour for a bus each time. Time to snap myself out of it, these were "once in a lifetime pubs", the weather was nice, I was on holiday, stop being a miseryguts! Anyway, if Proclaimer Dad was having a mug of prawns, I was gonna smuggle my own Aldi Prawn Sandwich so there! A dog that looked like it was on heroin appeared, I took a photo on the sly cos Pub Curmudgeon wondered if the pub had a Wellard dog like Eastenders did. I went back in for a half, I told them I couldn't see my own change, coming into the dark from the light outside, it wasn't "pub bantz" that impressed landlady or DD. A "Camel Creek Adventure Park" van pulled up, the way the locals reacted was it's the most exciting thing ever seen in Trewellard!

Camel Creek Adventure time! Spanish family in foreground.

Wellard the dog looks sad

Ignore the Sharps glass, this was micro-tastic

Indoor view shows compromise between pubby and foody.

White shirt bloke was the friendliest of the locals.

After a chat at the bus stop (gap in a hedge) with some excitable teenage dude, the bus did actually arrive on time and about 4 minutes later, I'd pulled up outside the next pub, two villages down from Trewellard.....

I'm choosing to ignore the "restaurant" element!

1173. Queen's Arms, Botallack

A group of locals surrounded the bar area, and when the old-skool landlady accidentally charged me 30p more, everyone started claiming visitors got charged more than locals, and sometimes, that's all it takes, and you are part of the group! I hovered on a stool and explained BRAPA, but not before someone commented on a missing pub regular "she's lost her Grandad!" "Oh, that's really sad" I said, but they were all laughing, harsh bastards! But she'd actually mislaid him, he wasn't dead! Well how was I to know? The sceptical barmaid asked how I could be sure the 4,500 pubs in the GBG were the 4,500 best pubs in the country? Well, all I could say was it's just a 'guide' and it changes every year to keep up to date. All but one of the regulars left, leaving me awkwardly perched on a stool next to the man I'd been talking to most, but now in silence. He went to smoke, I went to the loo, and then to sit "far away". I realised this pub had "George, Cullingworth" syndrome in that EVERY table apart from one by the door had reserved signs and knives and forks out. Two couples came in, firstly two northerners "we're only here cos we took the wrong footpath, I need a pint!" and two jolly scousers, both commented on the "nowhere to sit indoors" factor. The landlady assured them they were "fully booked up this evening", but the visitors looked as unconvinced as me. Really? Every table? It wasn't a tiny pub. A moody looking school aged daughter returned, sighed, banged a door, stomped upstairs (I can see a pattern forming) and I edged outside, careful to avoid eye -contact with the smoker, and waited patiently for the delayed bus.

I actually got asked "what the bloody hell I was doing" when I took this mirror selfie

Would be an amazing pub if not so dining led

The Hops n' Honey ale was nice, cos couldn't taste too much honey!

A few minutes later, I was in St Just (which people kept pronouncing St Joost which I'm not sure is right), a little bit further south, to a pub which that smoker in the last pub had called "a proper drinkers pub" and "oooh, some of the language they use in there is awful" so I had high hopes!

1174. Star Inn, St Just

So, here it was, pub of the holiday so far. One of those delicious dark nautical places that is in your mind's eye when you are thinking about Cornish coastal pubs, and am glad to say, it wouldn't be the last. Re the so called bad language I was warned about, the worst I heard was something pointing an accusing bony finger into the face of a posh man and saying "are you a Fulham fan then?" The pub stopped in disbelief, but he got out of it by turning it into a pub related response, "oh yes, but mainly so I could go to this wonderful pub called the Bricklayers Arms." Was he meaning that hit & miss overpriced thing near Putney Bridge? Surely he must be. A woman left, and a Cornish Jizzard (my new term for a Cornwall pub goer who seems a bit annoying) gargled "will I find you doing the washing up later?" The pub laughed hysterically, wheezily, I didn't get it, surely if you said this in an Islington pub in 2017, you'd get barred. Then an American lady with a big mouth (no comment) came in and said "I wanna Bath Gem .... in a bigger glass!" (It's called a pint). This didn't stop her from sitting at the bar, taking up three stools if I'm being rude, and commenting "are trout indigenous to the UK?" Well that was it - the locals loved her after that, and a lesson for me in how to do pub banter that people appreciate in this neck of the woods. Wonderful pub.

Buoyed by this wonderful experience, I went back to St Just's "bus station" (a bit of tarmac with a turning circle, some public loos, and a lost Chinese family) and when a minibus pulled up, I felt a bit stupid but asked the lass driving it if she was heading for Penzance.

I thought she'd laugh in my face, but she was, and soon a load of surfer tourist kids joined me and I felt like I was in the Scooby Doo van, especially as we started travelling down this crazy country lanes, certainly this wasn't the official bus route.

Before I could even say "zoiks", we were back in Penzance quicker than I could've ever imagined so I trotted down a couple of narrow streets to the next pub. Now I'd not done my research, but the location and size from the outside had me imagining some delightful untouched creaking gem, so I was in for a bit of a surprise ......

1175. Crown, Penzance

It was a very lively and eclectic atmosphere outside, after work people / tourists / unemployed / old people enjoying the evening sun, and quite fraught inside as I was served by Claire, our blonde barmaid for the evening who was having "one of those days". As she served me a "One Hop Grain" ale by their seemingly own Crown brewery, she remarked to the jolly old bloke (who'd already chatted to me) that "all the fuckwits are out today .... they've looked up my shift times and thought, we'll come down and annoy Claire". She sounded a tiny bit paranoid but I couldn't let this slide, midway through pulling my pint. "I hope I'm not a fuckwit." I said, she replied with admirable honesty "well, we'll have to wait and see". I sat on a bench to the right of the bar, almost adjoining it, enjoyed my pint, giving Claire the chance to see I wasn't too much of a fuckwit. There was a nice snug looking room around the back, deserted, I should really have gone in there. But that'd have been boring, as person after person came in making Claire's day worse with over-hyped nonsense like "it's all kicking off out there!" before qualifying it with "no, it's calming down actually, just a few people wanting food". It wasn't helping poor Claire's heart rate, who'd been harassed by some bloke who refused to leave and then hassled everyone sat outside. But surely he wasn't the only fuckwit? A man called Bill threatened / volunteered to sort out anyone behaving badly, he was told "oi, just leave it!" in a line straight out of Eastenders. It was almost easy to avoid the pub interior, it looked like a Polish 1970's Eurovision entrant had collaborated with the owners of the Dog & Partridge in Yateley and said "how can we piss off lovers of traditional pub interiors?" Truly, a unique and amusing experience if perhaps not the best pub in Cornwall. The pictures tell my story better .....

Excitable local makes things worse by claiming it's kickin' off outside when it isn't.

My new friend at the bar, definitely not a fuckwit

Claire drugs the poor man's red wine while he's distracted by a jolly lady

Some locals wondering whether or not they are classed as fuckwits.

A dog that looks like Dick Turpin thinking "am I a fuckwit?"

A barmaid held in high regard by Claire (i.e. not a fuckwit) surveys huge wine glasses very closely.

So it took a bit of "getting into" did my first full day in Cornwall, disappointed to only manage 4 ticks (I still didn't get back to Newquay til after 9pm), a lesson learned that tomorrow needed to be a bit less outlandish as I need to go for the full six pub quota. In fact, Friday would prove to be my favourite day of the holiday so stay tuned for that write up.

Onto Friday then, as it turned out my favourite day of the Cornwall holiday. I was getting into a routine by now, and at Par, I knew I had to cross the bridge but what a funny railway station. It has so many staff manning (womanning) it, it feels like it's own little community, with people occasionally bellowing things like "OVER THE BRIDGE FOR PENZANCE!", and my daily favourite "DON'T OPEN THE DOORS TIL THE TRAIN STOPS!" I'd hide on a bench at the far end of the platform whenever I was there.

Truro was only two stops down the line, and had two pubs to tick off so after yesterday's 2pm start, I wanted to get two pubs under my belt early doors. Then, I'd feel psychologically better. You know, I think I might need to employ a BRAPA psychologist to keep me on the straight and narrow!

Truro station was a hilly 15 minute walk from the centre, more like 20 if you sprint out of the station in totally the wrong direction like I did! But it seemed a pretty little town, reminding me a bit of the kind of French towns you'd see on Dogtanian and the Three Muskahounds minus Cardinel Richeleu. "It's the capital of Cornwall, you know!" boasted one local, true, I spied a cathedral. Do you want a medal?

If you said to me "Si, which pub name are the most awkward to get to?", I'd say the Rising Sun, they always seem to either be in a weird location, have a strange entrance, or be on a hill. This was the latter, sweating by the time I arrived, once again wishing I'd ignored the false "cloudy 17 degree weather" predictions.

1176. Rising Sun, Truro

It may have looked pretty from the outside, been tucked nicely away from the town centre, had a helpful friendly barman, but ultimately this was a disappointing dining pub lacking character within. The barman approved of my beer choice, a 5% Solstice Amber from unknown brewery so I am assuming it is local, apparently the locals are loving it. This pub has locals? It was hard to believe. In all the confusion of photographing the interior, and exploring to find a seating area which wasn't too depressing (I eventually opted for a humid conservatory to the rear), I'd forgotten to bring my pint with me! When I went back in, a bit sheepish, it wasn't at the bar either, our helpful barman was bringing it out to me having realised I'd mislaid it. This didn't bode well for 12:30pm did it? A couple almost joined me in the conservatory, wife was fine with it but husband was whining like a lame pup, and bravely got his wish to move indoors by telling his wife that her bottom couldn't properly fit on the small stools! "We're going in, it isn't something you said" she told me, I'd not said a word so I knew this was true. A chef with nothing to cook was talking on his phone loudly through an open window .... "I fell off my bike, and got myself proper smashed up .... it was really funny". Hmmm, sounds it.

Solstice - the most mysterious beer of my holiday

I hope this internal shot gives you an idea of my struggles with this pub

Sadly, the comfiest seat in the house!

Proof that wife was able to sit down, poor excuse by hubbie.

Onwards and downwards (down the hill that is) back into the town centre proper to the other Truro pub.......

We're finally onto a winner here!

1177. Old Ale House, Truro

So locals and landlord had been keenly watching me photograph the pub from the outside, but once in they soon returned to their Cornish chatter as I scanned the ales in this superbly dimly lit pub - Skinners Brewery Tap no less and they can be very proud of it. Up there with St Just for pub of the holiday so far. It was heaving with lunchtime folk, on a weekday, no food I could see, just chatting and drinking, basic as you like, wooden, cool, just makes you think "why aren't more pubs like this?" Simple formula. Everyone was happy, it could've been last orders, and reminded me in layout terms of one of Hull's "forgotten pubs", the type you never go in cos although they are beautiful old buildings, you know all you'll get is a pint of Smooth and a wet fish slapped around your chops. It obviously does live music too, as I saw the most Cornwall list of bands ever in the loo. There was a free monkey nut dispenser, not good news for me, especially as I was right behind it and it exploded on one elderly gent who just grimaced and let the nut remnants remain splayed all over the floor.

My pint at the bar

Locals (inc woman in trousers I approve of) enjoying Fri lunchtime

When monkey nuts go wrong

Some of the most Cornish sounding bands in history?

Next it was back to Par which not only put me back within striking distance of Newquay for getting 'home', but also offered me plenty of pub ideas I'd not seriously considered in the build up.

I wandered to the bus stop, where I made friends with a man called John Harris from Farnham, and a lady from Doncaster with a moustache (like they do) who'd just stopped for a "sit down" (like they do). We had a nice chat, then the bus turned up and me and John Harris went to a placed called "Fowey", pronounced Foyyyyyyyy just because Cornwall is weird.

Although John Harris sat a bit close, we were soon there. Fowey was beautiful, truly beautiful - you can shove your Perranporth, Newquay and Penzance. John Harris asked everyone on my behalf how to get to Bodinnick, we even delayed the bus driver. John Harris kept saying he was asking on my behalf, but STILL everyone persisted in wishing John Harris luck with his pub challenge. FFS!!

I had a wander around the harbour, eventually locating a little ferry to take me (3 other foot passengers and 4 cars) across, and it was a highlight of my holiday.

The pub was just on the other side, and after fathoming the strange myriad of staircases and entrances, I found my way inside .....

Walking a few short yards to the pub

Now how on earth do I get inside?

1178. Old Ferry Inn. Bodinnick

The bar area and adjoining rooms seemed lovely and traditional, so you could tell this pub would even be good "off-season" on a cold Tuesday night in November surrounded by fishermen. There were no staff around so I was encouraged to ring this intricate little bell with a ship on, the kind of thing you might see on Bargain Hunt! A smart young Freddie Mercury was soon on the scene, and I ordered a Tintagel beer to keep my recent good record of unique Cornish ales going (9 in a row now assuming the Rising Sun one was Cornish). FM could read my mind, because although I was loving indoors, I couldn't not check out these crazy balcony views, and without asking, he directed me up the steps murmuring something like "up the galley slave steps for you, haha" which I hoped wasn't a euphemism. A posh old group of 4 middle agers who'd just stepped out of Howard's Way were getting excited by seagulls dive bombing over the water below. I like to think I'm observant, but obviously not as it took an "Only Way is Essex" friendly young couple to appear and point out I was sat next to this huge Sharp's deckchair, with strict safety rules like "no more than 3 adults at a time". No one sat in it, which was quite a relief. But how had I not seen it? The couple later fell out over whether or not they were going to a selfish friend's birthday, so I wished them both a happy holiday, and shinned my way down the galley slave steps, or whatever they were called.

Nice inside

Nice outside

Stupid deckchair

The Only Way is Fowey

The boat turned up in reasonable time, so I sat outside this random non GBG pub with a local man with heavy breathing issues, and the bus turned up. The bus driver then weirdly joked with each elderly passenger "ooh, are you off on a pub crawl", but when he got to me, the most pub crawly Cornwall person ever, he didn't say anything.

I hopped off the bus at "Polkerris turn" with the emphasis on "turn", because I then had a steep 15 minutes walk down to the next pub, along this dodgy country lane, before the pub came into view.....

1179. Rashleigh Inn, Polkerris

"The Inn on the Beach", the locals call it in a huge stretch of their imaginations, for it is, an Inn on the beach. It was very much tourist central, despite the obvious lack of public transport links, but a beautiful part of the world. I had to wait a bit at the bar as two young West Indian ladies scanned the ales for ages, then looked scared, then opted for San Miguel which is a crying shame and was only cos they lacked confidence. Maybe the staff could've helped steer them in that direction? I won't be too harsh on the pub though, the only one who "re-tweeted" me all holiday. Bonus point. I got served something from Padstow to keep the run going. Inside, I feel the pub suffered from what I call "Hudswell" syndrome, by which I mean a huge bay window has been created at the rear of the pub with the purpose of letting indoor customers see the wonderful sea views. Makes sense of course, but for me, detracts from cosy pubby atmosphere, just as the George & Dragon at Hudswell does with it's airy window view over the Swale Valley. But that won CAMRA National Pub of the Year so whadda I know? So I sat outside amongst the gurning masses, mistaking a wooden figure looking out to sea for Tom Irvin, plenty of wheezy comedians to my left, and my Mum rang for a catch up yet I kept my drinking pace quick so I could climb the hill for the next bus back into Par. Beautiful cliff views to my right, certainly a pub experience everyone should have.

The walk back up the hill was even scarier than I'd imagined, you could tell the tourists from the locals, the ones who don't know how to reverse when the road is so narrow, two cars can't pass each other. Add me into the mix, trying to walk back up, you had amusing chaos.

At the stop (well, the junction for Polkerris), I met a lady waiting to be picked up in a camper van by her hubbie and we chatted on being visitors to Cornwall and BRAPA and all those usual topics in life.

The bus behaved itself by being on time (I was quite impressed by the bus service in Cornwall despite locals constantly telling me how crap it is) and then I walked from Par just a few minutes to a place called Tywardreath, which, if you are being brutal, is nicer than Par but has almost merged into a 'suburb' of it. Probably the worst thing you can say to the locals.

Outside the pub, the first few gripes of dissent as I took my photo. "Don't know if I agreed to being in this shot!" mumbled two men to each other. Were they joking, did they want me to hear, who cares? I needed a pint of Bass!

Not the pub

The pub - ignore these two moaners.

1180. New Inn, Tywardreath

Yes, you did hear me right. And no, I haven't morphed into Martin Taylor. But on the bus, I'd read in the GBG how this pub is covenanted to sell Draught Bass for eternity (not sure what they did for these sins, drown a twild in a nearby lake? ONLY JOKING!) I like stories like this, but where the bloody hell was it, I thought as I scanned the bar?! I knew it was on gravity, I could see lots of Bass signage, perhaps you have to give the barmaid a nudge and a wink, or there might be a code word. Oh well, at least I got to take my consecutive unique Cornish beers to 11 in a row, and had a very enjoyable Trelawny from St Austell. This pub really impressed me, from the friendly happy staff, to the cleanliess yet traditional old feel about the place, like the perfect balance. Locals and tourists flocked, some loitered, some came and went, none really were too annoying (at first) which is amazing on a hot Friday evening in a lovely area like this. Everyone acknowledged the frail old bloke in the corner, who probably sits here 7 days a week. Speaking of which, the younger barmaid told everyone 7 was her lucky number. A man in sandals did arrive to try and spoil things, he started picking on a random Cardiff City fan. "Is Craig Bellamy still playing ..... it'd be hilarious if he was still playing for your lot!!" Everyone looked perplexed by that attempt at "footie bantz". Never trust a man in sandals. A local then piped up "dog poo in the lawnmower has stopped me from getting on today!" The pub sympathised. Ash from Home & Away arrived and asked how people cope (just in general I think). Then a hysterical group of middle aged women made a fuss about the food menu. "I'm gluten free, YOU TELL ME, how can Naan Bread be gluten free?!" The staff struggled to reassure her. In fact, the staff set a world record for using the phrase "ice and a slice", and when I wasn't looking, someone put a phantom pint of Carlsberg on my table, but never came back to claim it. Was it a gift? Gluten free lady was back .... "Are we going through??" .... she said to her friends once food orders had been finalised. 'Through to where, you are in a pub not a restaurant you utter fuckwit!' was how I recorded my thoughts at the time. I loved the grey moustachiod landlord, a friendly calmness, totally in control of all that was going on. He looked like the kind of man who'd come on to bowl a bit of gentle off-spin towards the end of a village cricket match when everyone else just wanted to close their eyes on the village green. Superb pub this.

Can't find the Bass so having to make do

A vision into future? Me when I get to pub 4,500!!

Never trust a man in sandals

Gluten lady (left) and her friends are just the worst kind of pub people

I walked back into Par and just opposite the train/railway station stood my sixth and final pub of a very successful day's ticking ......

1181. Royal Inn, Par

The classy controlled chaos of Tywardreath seemed a lot further than a mile away as I stepped into this fairly basic pub, confronted immediately by a pool table. A twild miscued his shot, and his Mum rolled her eyes at me as if to say "wasn't that shit?" It was. I ordered a special Sharps beer from the relatively disinterested barstaff, and took it outside, but what I hadn't noticed was a group of rowdy Brummies on the large front bench. They tried to shout something to me, but I hid on a table hugging the corner of the pub. The ringleader had his top off and was sitting on the table, occasionally jumping off to wrestle with his young son, which eventually involved him following to the pub door and twisting his arm behind his back. "Oww, what's your problem" wailed the son, "well, if yer gonna be a pain in the arse..." replied Dad, as though it was no more than a bit of gentle horseplay. A more reasonable bloke tried to change the subject .... "they say they have their own language in Cornwall". This was news to every Brummie present, but before he could elaborate, and with some relief to the rest of the pub, a minibus arrived to take them back to their compound. I sat in the sun, finished my pint slowly, before walking across the road for the last train home. Maybe not the nicest pub this, but it'd been a great day with six done, and high hopes for the weekend to come .....

My pint of Special, looking all dark and moody

My pint, outdoors, looking lighter despite background Brummie scariness.

Saturday report coming up in the next 24 hours.......

Si

So, after a fantastic Friday where I managed six ticks and didn't feel any the worse for wear, I was probably feeling a little bit complacent on Saturday morning as I lined up by usual array of breakfast snacks, when it suddenly occurred to me "what if train times are different on a weekend?"

And a quick post-shower timetable check made me realise the morning train out of Newquay was in 10 minutes. SHIT! I poured the coffee and juice down the sink, bunged my food in my bag, and sprinted across the road to the train station - luckily I had my ticket in advance.

What was worse, this was a big bruiser of a train, not the little local one, putting pay to my early morning plan to visit the pub at request stop Luxulyan (pronounced Luxillian cos Cornwall likes to test me like that). Grrr.

In the old faithful Par, I worked out a bus was quicker than waiting for the train St Austell and then getting a bus, so I hopped aboard for Mevagissey. Any hopes of adding Charlestown to the mix also faded when the bus didn't even go through it. This wasn't a helpful start. An hour later, I was finally in the land of Meva Meva, another Fowey style picture postcard seaside town. A few tourists were being slow bastards, I was in a bad mood considering, so I huffed and puffed my way past them. Luckily, some tourists outside put a smile on my face by posing for BRAPA .....

Say hello to the lovely tourists (not twourists)

1182. Fountain Inn, Mevagissey

This was a little gem of a pub, and yesterday's sense of well-being quickly returned. A proper "pub man" landlord approved of me giving exact change (he just wanted to get back to watching the cricket in the back room), whilst a crab on the wall seemed to be suggesting it wanted the locally brewed lager, which was disappointing behaviour but with claws like that, I wasn't arguing. Along the lines of St Just, this was a lovely little dark candlelit smugglers style inn, but my peace was short lived as I'd opened the floodgates for the locals and tourists to come inside and order lunch, most notable of which the first lot to arrive, grandparents, Mum, family friend teacher and 14 year old daughter. Despite having the whole pub to choose from, getting seated was a painful experience. "You sit there cos you've got a bad back". "But you are older than me". "I want to sit on THAT side!" "But don't you want to sit next to Grandad?". GAAAH won't you all just sit down and shut up, I silently screamed. I can't remember the full inaneness of their hilarious chat (I should've taken more notes) but in conclusion "no one likes Catherine" (whoever she was) and this included Granny who had the hair and face of Ray Parlour. At one point, I wondered if I'd be able to hold a seat of 4 to myself, but I kept my head down and people started to realise embracing the cricket in the back was the only way forward.

13th consecutive Cornish brewed ale, not unlucky.

Crab eyes up the St Austell lager

Calm before the storm

The old pub sign, near the loo.

The bus was delayed so I ditched any faint Charlestown hopes and 'alighted' at St Austell where I still have nightmares of having to do a tourist brochure for St Austell Bay when I was about 13, one Sunday, and my Mum kept telling me it wasn't good enough! So I hate the place.

Sadly, I had to hang around for ages until the next train to Redruth, which despite the zero pubs in the GBG, seemed a good staging post for some village ones.

It was hot & humid, and time was ticking on already. The last train back to Newquay would be earlier today too, just putting extra pressure on!

Once in Redruth, the kind of town which felt like it was trying to rub shoulders with the prettier Cornish girls at the party, but ended up drinking Diamond White in the corner and crying, I hopped aboard a bus bound for a town (suburb) called Pool which seemed to be all about the University. A few mins later, I was crossing the busy main road into a surprisingly excellent pub......

1183. Plume of Feathers, Pool

So I walked into this low roofed granite pub with an incredible atmosphere, spoilt almost entirely by the dulcet tones of Heart FM blaring out from right above where I ended up sitting. The pub was empty, but voices from outside told me that whichever barstaff were on, they were too busy chatting with locals and tickling a sleeping dogs tummy to worry about customers inside. In fact a quick scan of the walls made me realise the sheer amount of dog related quotes and paraphernalia - including gems like "the more customers I serve, the more I realise dogs are better than people" (or something) , later on, a local was referred to by the others as "Bruiser" suggesting even the locals have dog names. The young barman appeared FINALLY, and apologised, he was a bit cocky and had a swagger but seemed a nice chap. But as I sat down with my pint of something Sharps which you'd never see in York, the rest of my stay was dominated by scratching and whimpering from what seemed to be "within the walls". Now, I'd heard this pub was haunted, but this seemed to be by dogs, and why not, as York's Olde Starre Inne has ghost cats bricked up in the pillars! But the dogs turned out to be alive, terrifying, huge and highly excitable, I clutched my pint for dear life as they careered around the pub - it was pretty obvious by now I wasn't a dog person. Their howling rendition of Queen's Radio Gaga in time with Heart FM was one of the funniest, unique and frankly disturbing sounds I witnessed all holiday. Take the dogs out, turn the radio off, you've got yourself a pub of the year contender!

Pub interior

More pub interior (the dogs were in the wall behind me)

And we're up to 14 consecutive Cornish brewed ales!

According to my Good Beer Guide App, the next pub in a tiny place called Piece was about 15 minutes walk, so I headed down this weird industrial estate area, past a giant Tesco, over a disused railway bridge at a place called Carn Brea, but then realised like so many places before it, Whitcross Hill was NOT pedestrian friendly in the slightest.

This marked a low point in the holiday, it was 4pm, my last train was at 6:15pm, I'd only done 2 pubs. Arrrgghhh. Could I still salvage 4? Hell, even 3 seemed a stretch at this juncture as I joined an odd local man at a bus stop to go back into Redruth in the hope of getting a taxi.

The bus was early. The taxis were all queued up at the station. 2 pubs were less than 2 miles away. "IT'S STILL ON!!" I declared, and hopped into a taxi where a lovely helpful chap had the BRAPA conundrum forced upon him. Piece first, then would he hang around 27.5 mins and take me to Vogue? He would! What a gent. Cheap journey too.

Despite it's relative closeness, Piece really felt as remote as the Anchor Anchor once we pulled up. It was 16:26, we could do this.....

1184. Countryman Inn, Piece

Well this was a special rural roadside inn. The first thing that impressed me was that centuries old musty pub smell, you only get it in the very best, and first time I'd witnessed it in Cornwall. Possibly something to do with the exposed brickwork being on the inside of the pub, the huge old fireplace and cooking range, but I don't know, all I know is it felt very special. A local with my dress sense who looked like he'd crawled out of 1970's Glastonbury saw me eyeing up the ales. "Ahhh, you loike yer ales .... well yer in tha right place!" Loved him. A bouncing blonde bubbly young barmaid appeared - yes OF COURSE I HAD to order the Cornish Knocker under the circs, though she sounded more cockney to my untrained ear. My taxi driver reappeared to make a brief cameo, he had to do a "quick run" but promised he'd be back in half an hour. Fine. The locals stared at him like they'd never seen an Asian man before in their lives. They probably hadn't. The landlord popped his head round the corner to say hello to me, imagine if Danny Dyer and Skeletor had a love child that was an older bald man, and also a pub man of utmost integrity. The locals decided to tackle "current affairs". Quite toe curling. Firstly, that child on life support "the pope better not get fucking involved!" someone declared. They then argued the case for euthanasia, comparing it to when a local dog misbehaved, and should've been put down but wasn't! A dog then appeared, glared at everyone, and wandered through to the bar. This was 27.5 minutes of comedy gold. They then got onto North Korea, "and what's the leader called? Young Yung Yung, ahhh just call 'im slanty eyed prick!" This was better than Newsnight and Question Time, yet I wanted the ground to swallow me up too. Just as they started on what KFC was and whether anyone had been, I saw my taxi driver beckoning me from the side door, I swigged off my pint and left to a friendly goodbye from the gang. Crazy pub.

Wave to sooty, he's all that's keeping you sane in here!

Pint of Cornish Knocker and some amazing locals.

A few minutes later, we were in the amusingly named village of Vogue which seemed to be part of a place called St Day but here was the key point, I know I was pushing my luck but could my taxi driver hang around for another 27.5 mins to take me back to the station for 6:15pm. He couldn't but put a call through to another cabbie for "Simon, the young man in the green t-shirt". Well being young is fine with me (as long as I'm not Young Yung Yung). It was 5:15pm. He give me 45 minutes here actually, so I could relax as it only takes 5 mins to get back into Redruth. This was like the best taxi company ever!

1185. Star Inn, Vogue

I crossed the courtyard and took my photos, ignoring the snooty glares of a few tourists trying to look like they owned the place, and snuck in through the side door. The pub was dimly lit, fairly spacious, compromise between proper pub and appeasing diners, and I ordered this incredible ale from St Ives which was certainly the most challenging of the weekend - most had been standard well kept bitters, this was a proper fruity affair like something you'd get in Piccadilly Tap in Manchester so took me by surprise! The barmaid was your classic P.I.S.S. barmaid, haven't seen one in a while, superb bone structure, like a Vogue magazine cover model you might say, but with the personality of a damp sponge. You can't win 'em all. With the tunes of Madonna reverberating around my brain, I took my pint outside as it seemed a real treasure trove of activity, as the garden opened up into this vast caravan park with hens and chickens running wild - one ran head first for me and went to sleep under my bench (pub put of the year contender?) A young family with two bald Dad's, who kept asking me if I was alright, and one simply said "cheers mate!" to me, for no apparent reason, exercised some overweight twilds in a play area. Then some 70's porno style music started playing from a caravan just to my right, and everyone who walked past was thinking "what the hell is going on in there?" At least it go Madonna out of my head. I went for a wander, around some trees, over some undulating hilly land, but to my surprise, through a gap in the trees, I heard this "does anybody know a Simon?" It was my taxi driver, early! I ran through a gap in the trees shouting "I'M SIMON, DIDN'T HE SAY I'D HAVE A GREEN TOP ON?" The locals all looked bewildered, as I now had to 'down' this most difficult of ales in front of everyone, which they all loved watching the evil bastards. I managed it, to a few congratulations no less(!) and was soon in taxi bound for Redruth.

16th consecutive unique Cornish pint, still going strong!

The indoors did look nicer than I thought, looking back.

Pub pet of the year contender

Back in Redruth, I even had time to get some cash out, buy some food, and take this picture - an ode to Tom Irvin stood on the back row at a Hull City away game......

I was back in Newquay for a relatively early night, 4 pubs was obviously disappointing but as they day panned out, I actually see it as a good result, providing I do a lot better tomorrow ..... roll on Sunday, my last full day of the holiday!

Falmouth doing it's job

Sunday was my last full day in Cornwall for 2017 GBG Pub Ticking, and I was determined to make the most of it after only four ticks the previous day despite being out and about for 12 hours!

With three pubs in the Guide, Falmouth seemed like the Cornish real ale capital, but despite being mid-Cornwall, I had to change at both the familiar Par, plus Truro, to get on a line going south. Of course, I needed more than just 3 ticks so after having a sly word with the driver, we stopped at 'request stop' Perranwell which had a pub about a 10 minute walk.

Annoyingly, a man who'd tried to run over my foot with his bike got off at the same place, and speaking loudly into his phone, he walked his bike behind me all the way into the village. Luckily, he didn't join me in the pub, and I'd been singing "Ignorant" by Gimp Fist at him all the way down the road, making me perhaps the first person to combine Darlington with Perranwell.

1186. Royal Oak, Perranwell

This pub screamed community local like no other to date on my holiday, the small corner bar seemed almost more like a shop counter, and the locals performed a Cornish 'Poznan' to jealously guard the real ales from this interloper's view. A local man then announced "Who's watching Poldark tonight?" in an excitable voice, I looked at him like "stop being a Cornish stereotype and let me see the ales". The young bar girl seemed nice, giggly and a bit flustered, dropping my change, forgot what she was doing - I'd like to think it was my presence but perhaps the thought of a topless Aiden Turner walking into her pub after a day in the fields had been a bit too much. The locals laughed at her regardless. One local Gandalf character had tried to push in front of me, he was sternly told that I was first by the other locals, I was warming to them! A few people were making vague noises about Sunday lunch, so I retired to an outside bench in this serene and pretty village, thankfully very tourist free unless you count me which I wouldn't. As I wondered whether the local "Moomaid" ice cream tastes more like fish or beef, a Truro taxi pulled up and a round bald chap rushes out straight into the pub, holding his gut. I'd just been thinking "how the hell can I get to another village with this lack of phone signal and Sunday bus service?" so this development seemed heaven sent. Trick was, watch like a hawk for his return. I waited, and waited. A jolly local with a happy face came out, glared at the taxi (in a smiley way) and said "unbelievable, that taxi driver has just come in here for a jimmy riddle. I'm gonna give him a right rollicking when he returns!" Those of us outside nodded sympathetically. I still waited. Eventually, he returned with the air of a large man who'd evacuated his bowels - this was no jimmy riddle! Not sure he got a rollicking, but I ran across the road and collared him - "if you gimme 10 mins to finish my pint, can you take me to Stithians?" Yes he could. I then made friends with a local and I could see taxi driver glaring back, as if to say "drink up lad, don't get too comfy". I didn't wanna take the jimmy riddle, so I drank up!

Moomaid sign and a pint of "Wolf in Sheep's Clothing"

There's a man having a poo somewhere in there!

We sat in silence for 9/10th's of the journey, he seemed to be basking in the silence of a man who's had a monumental shit. I didn't mind. Soon we got onto BRAPA, but we were pulling up at the pub anyway.

Two local legends outside the Seven Stars Inn

1187. Seven Stars Inn, Stithians

I was glared at by these two blokes outside as I approached, a beanie hatted Brian Sewell and a gayer version of Michael Portillo, immaculately dressed. They made for a very amusing drinking duo. I was confronted with two doors, "lounge" on left and "public bar" on right. I broke with 2017 BRAPA protocol, and went right, they both led to exactly the same place, the bar! Before I'd even stepped inside, the ultra friendly barmaid was all "HIIII, WHAT CAN I GET YA?!" Woah, quite an intro. Her fellow bar blokes all said hi too, this was lovely olde worlde dark pub. All the Perranwell locals told me there pub had a cosy community feel that Stithians lacks, but I'd disagree on this showing. A lovely old corridor led to the loo, this was up there with the Countryman at Piece for the most authentic old Cornish pub I'd been in, even beating the likes of St Just and Mevagissey. A little bit gaudy in a quirky way, loved it. I still took my drink out though, Sewell and Portillo were intriguing me - "I can play the clavical too" was the first thing I heard. The best when they got onto modern technology, as Sewell says "someone I know dropped a computer mouse in a glass of water .... " Portillo replied "did that mean he couldn't get WiFi?" This has to be up there with the best exchanges I've EVER heard in a BRAPA pub, and boy I've heard some shite over these past 3 years. Two blokes turned up and sat between us, one I instantly disliked. He couldn't go one sentence without using the f word about 3 times, and he had the voice and manner of Terry Christian. Their chat concluded as I waited for my next taxi to take me to Falmouth, the non sweary one saying "it's too hot, I'm off home for a pork pie salad". Shortly after, Portillo tried to help Sewell out of his seat, he had walking difficulties, and fell arse over tit into the road, knocking over a pub sign. T.Christian's response "fucking hell, does he fucking need a fucking hand?" but Sewell growled "LEAVE ME" and Portillo propped him on the stone wall and waited til he recovered. What drama! In the midst of all this, my taxi had arrived.

Wanted the Hophead, but had a Tribute to keep the "Cornish" ale run going.

And there was no let up from the craziness of today so far, as my taxi driver was a young crazy dude, risk taker, very lively, back problems, and although I had to ask him THREE times to drop me at the Boathouse first (nearest pub as we drove into town), he did AND knocked £3 off the fare as we'd had such a nice chat, maybe.

Phew, "...and breathe", I thought, as I photographed the next pub .....

1188. Boathouse, Falmouth

Being in a modern, bare boarded bar with strange multi-levels and tonnes of light was quite a culture shock after what had gone before that. And as I climbed the wooden stairs seeing a bar offering a wide range of interesting looking local ales, one of those "moments of contentment" struck, as I realised I'd done the hard part of the day, and now had three pubs to look forward to in the same town. So why I didn't end up enjoying this place more is a bit of a mystery to me. I thought I'd make friends with the dreadlocked surfy barmaid for a start, as she seemed a lively character, but had put all her energies into a Portuguese tourist group, one girl of whom bravely declared "give me the strongest cider you've got!" Spoken like a true local. Putting my vague questions about the different ales to shame, the one I wanted went off so I had to have a 5%er. I went into one of the many side rooms, the one behind me locked and in near silence as an intense scrabble game was taking place. The look of concentration on the face of the girl closest to me, little did she know that her opponent was working out whether he could get away with putting "Niroo" down. I'm no expert but 'orion' may've been a better option if allowed. The music was of a sort, first we had The Bangles, then The Corrs, then Ailsha's Attic. Hmmmm. The group in my room were irritating, but boring too, lounging around you'd think they were in an airport waiting lounge. I felt bored, I must've been missing the rush of the Seven Stars Inn!

I ended up with a "Knill by Mouth" (second left) when the "Black Rock" (far left) went off.

Scrabble time, through the window.

The people in "my" room were the worst

I wandered into the town square, sat on a bench, had my lunch, it was another ridiculously warm day at odds with the generic 17 degrees and cloudy forecast. At the far end of the square, to the right, stood a pub I'd heard a lot about......

1189. Seven Stars, Falmouth

So my second Seven Stars of the day and I'm supposed to love it, right? After all, it is the Grade II National Inventory pub of Cornwall (there might be more, I can't see them in the GBG). I wandered in, stony silent atmosphere, properly old, perhaps feeling a little bit forced in terms of "trying to keep it as centuries old as possible" but you cannot deny some of the excellent features like the old "Off Sales" hatch, gas lights, amazing wood panelling. Confused by the lack of ale pumps, "they're served from barrels behind" says the disinterested bar boy, signalling with his hipster thumb. And in a nice moment of Tywardreath redemption, I spied Draught Bass, had to have it, and it was my fave pint of this since Dolphin in Plymouth. But you know BRAPA by now, all these lovely features and beer from the barrel are all well and good, but it's all cosmetic at the end of the day, you have to delve a bit deeper to find a pub's true character, and that's in what is happening in the here and now. And I'm afraid poor staff and local attitude, biggest turn off for me in a pub, let it down greatly. You know the type, we get it in York's shitter old pubs a lot - the whole "walk around with our nose in the air lauding it over the passing tourists - 'oh how privileged they are to drink in OUR pub', and acting like they'd be here every day since 1720, I had nothing to do with them, I enjoyed my ale on a barrel shaped corner table, but it was irritating. A Dad came in holding a ginger twild, as did a visitor with a rucksack - all wide eyed and excited to be here, like I was, but stand offish attitude of staff and locals led to rucksack bloke mouthing "hi" at me and glance like "sorry I spoke!" He wasn't wrong. Excitement finally came when we had a power cut in the final 5 minutes, barman asking locals where the generator is, much panic and fiddling of nobs (you could say the pub was full of them) before the dawning realisation that should a pub priding itself on such levels of history and basicness shouldn't really get too hung up on a power cut! I left them with this conundrum, didn't return my glass to the bar either. Bit of humility and this could be a wonderful pub.

Bass at last! The Cornish record run is over.

The ginger twild , pre power cut.

So onwards and upwards, and I got a bit lost trying to find the final pub, and am still sat here wondering if it has a proper entrance. I eventually worked out that because it was called 'Front, maybe it was actually on the front! It was. Oooops!

I think there's a pub in there somewhere!

1190. 'Front, Falmouth

"Falmouth's Favourite Ale House!" said the sign, a brave claim but one I'd definitely agree with. Like a pub that has listened to feedback about both the Boathouse (bright, friendly), and Seven Stars (authentic, olde worlde) and combined them into one great pub, with none of the negatives. An amusing gaggle of locals gathered on the left corner of the bar as I surveyed the incredible range of weird and wonderful local ales, served by friendly staff who knew their stuff (whether I wanted to know the 'stuff' or not!) The locals were having a Cornish sea-faring equivalent of 'my one is bigger than yours' contest. "I sailed around Grimsby in a storm once!" claimed some beardie bloke, probably in oilskins (it was a fairly dark pub and I'm not sure how authentic these characters were supposed to be). "Well I went to Hartlepool on a Tuesday night in the middle of winter, beat that!" cried another to howls of laughter. "I threw a man down some steps", wailed a big tattooed lady (or was it a long haired bloke) to more roars of laughter (I was being served at this point so missed some of the thread). I tried to look at them in a "I'm from the North!" kind of way but ended up looking a bit needy, so skirted quietly around the perimeter of the pub (I was shit scared to be honest) and drank a pint of some grapefruit thing at a low table in the corner, wondering if the whole thing was some theatrical stage production. Main thing was, happy pub with everyone enjoying themselves.

It was back on the train (even if the guard did make us get on, just so we could go from Falmouth Town to Falmouth Docks and back again, which seemed pointless unless you are some kind of station ticker). Frustratingly, there was only one train remaining to Newquay so that put pay to Luxulyan (couldn't afford another taxi) so I had an hour to kill in Par.

Falling asleep in Falmouth

So I went back to the Royal Inn, again there was a topless goon sitting on the same table (singing to himself) but not a Brummie this time, I ordered a pint of something average and sat in a courtyard where two groups compared dog breeds and complained about the food not being to the required standard / what they ordered.

Back in Newquay, I paid £7.10 (waaaah!) for some fish & chips which were at least amazing (despite being a bit bony and the staff having attitudes to make Seven Stars in Falmouth blush) , and ate them under the shadow of Bendor Grovesnor (ooeer) and co on "Fake or Fortune" before my final night in this sauna of a Travelodge!

But I still had a final Monday 'hurrah' trick up my sleeve before the flight back to L**ds /Br*dford airp*rt...... I'll send out that review on Wednesday as I'm away tomorrow night.

Si

It was Monday morning, and the longest BRAPA holiday to date was finally at an end, well almost, as I packed my bags and walked into Newquay 'proper' to locate the bus station.

This was the deepest I'd been into Newquay, and despite some people telling me it was a "shithole" in the build up to my break, I'd be a lot kinder and say it was "quite okay". Somewhere between Blackpool & Filey on the BRAPA seaside town scale.

I joined the handful of retired old colonels on the bus, heading in the general direction of the airport - about 5 miles outside of Newquay. A couple of miles along the coast was Mawgan Porth, and wonderfully picturesque resort - but most importantly, a GBG pub.....

The beach at Mawgan Porth, last Monday morning

The pub did look a little bit terrifying!

1191. Merrymoor, Mawgan Porth

I have to confess my heart sank a little when I saw how unpubby this "pub" actually looked, with it's huge glass windows obviously designed at enjoying what was outside rather than within! In fact, even walking up the correct steps you see in the picture above, it still seemed easier to accidentally go into the adjoining (a) Blue Fish Bar or (b) Upstairs Hair & Nail salon, so I took my time ensuring I got the right entrance. Indoors, everyone was on the coffee or cream teas, so when I walked to the bar and asked for a pint, the staff did a little wide-eyed double-take as if they were thinking "Shit! Beer?? Oh yes, we DO sell that ...." and soon I was sat in the comfortable easy lounge environment drinking this superb quality pint of Cornish ale (even if I had broken my 'Cornish run' with the Bass yesterday). Views of course were great, and this was a hard place to dislike in spite of my conventions! It did feel a bit like I was waiting for someone to appear through a side door and call me through for my cuticles doing, watch an arty French film, or even to pick up a Chinese takeaway. All that did appear through a side door was Henry Hoover, such a Monday morning pub thing to see when Henry gets his weekly airing! This made what happened next a bit bizarre. A couple came in, Yorkshire accents, bloke a bit lame, faffing over some J20 order. Wife, straight on with same pint as me, waxed lyrical on it #PubLady He was bald. Got a comb out. Combed his scalp. Odd. Even odder, she went into door next to me, where Henry Hoover had come from .... "ooops, I thought, this must the unmarked ladies loo I'm sat next to?!" But then two new ladies were sent around other side of bar when they were looking for the loo. 5 mins later, Yorkshire lady reappeared. Had she just been sat in a dark closet with Henry Hoover? She looked happy anyway. My cue to leave.

Worth noting from a BRAPA OCD point of view, this was also a key pub because it meant I'd 'ticked' a Cornish pub on each page of the GBG (apart from the first one with just Altarnun and Blisland) so was a satisfying one to highlight in green! Problem with this page, it has Luxulyan (my one big miss of the holiday), Kilkhampton, Launceston and Marhamchurch (too far North), Lostwithiel (one perhaps for next year as it's mid Cornwall and has a train) and Lelant Downs (a 2018 definite). Not actually a hard page in truth!

The bus was delayed, I had no signal, so chatted to a German couple and glad they advised me to hang out, as I had considered walking to St Mawgan but once bitten, twice shy re the roads around here.

The bus didn't go through St Mawgan anyway, this only happens a handful of times per day so I hopped off at the airport and walked the downhill 0.7 miles from here instead - easy enough as not much traffic on this side road.

Considering it's closeness to the airport, St Mawgan was a beautiful place, as nice as any village I'd been in this holiday and I cut through this grassy church area, saying hi to some lurking old lady, probably vicar's wife or something, and saw the pub down below the road ......

1192. Falcon Inn, St Mawgan

In my mind, I was imagining about three Cornish old men stood around the bar muttering, but perhaps a bit too fanciful as I entered a narrow courtyard where people were eyeing up food menus with a lunchtime drink. Everyone said hello, blinking slightly at my floral patterned t-shirt which was clashing with the pub garden! I wandered inside and sure enough, 2 expectant waitress girls were brandishing menus ready to accost any new arrival, so I pretended I'd seen a spider on the wall to distract them (well, I looked above them in a startled way) and got straight in at the bar. The older barmaid was a snappy so and so, but luckily she forgot the price of beer and suddenly became more human. I then noticed a recurring theme I've my holidays I'd not mentioned, people who order cider down here do it in a rude way. But beer orders are much more gentle. Cornwall. I held a heavy door open for an old dude, and headed outside, and ended up sitting next to a woman with a superior expression and three dogs. I got my GBG out (not to hit the dogs with) and turned straight to the brewery section (said no-one EVER!) to see if my ale was Cornish. It was Devonian. Grrr. Didn't enjoy it much. I was all ale'd out. The locals told the woman their collective term for 3 dogs together was a "woof" of dogs. All found it hilarious. Apart from me. What is wrong with people's sense of humours? A weird family arrived and went through a gap in the hedge to the garden. But the "children" (all about 40) were told off by Mum, an apocalyptic Anne Diamond, for not telling "Adrian" (an irritable 50 year old father from the home counties) what drinks they wanted. 19th century Jewish moneylender Granddad tried to calm things down, but this group were determined to break the peace of this delightful pub. I 'toasted' my 25th and final pub of the holiday, cheers!

My Golden Pig was from Devon, arrrghhh.

My view at the front of the pub

Apocaylptic AD and 19thC Granddad act as go between for kids and Adrian.

I could've stayed for another .... I didn't, and good job as the steep climb back to the airport took it out of me. Even so, when I saw my flight was delayed for an hour, I considered going back! But didn't. The flight back when it happened was fine, the woman next to me a bit boring, ears popped less, and I was back in York for teatime. Job done!

So in conclusion, a terrific BRAPA holiday. Best yet.

25 pubs, not a really rubbish one. They got better as time went on, one 'Spoons, no Embers, no Micropubs, hardly any obvious "chain pubs" actually. Most good, some magical - guess stand out moments would be things like St Just, Mevagissey, Piece, the Fowey-Botallack ferry place, Falmouth's 'Front, Truro Old Ale House, but too many to mention really.

Beer wise, I didn't have a poor quality pint all holiday. Some better than others, but standard high, and of the 26 pints I consumed, 22 were Cornish, 1 was Devon, 1 was Bass, 1 was West Midlands and 1 was amazingly / retrospectively Manchester which I'll talk about in a later blog.

Flying was a great decision, despite delays both ends, saved time and money - which I promptly spent on taxis! Walking around was almost impossible, bus links quite good, trains too but not very frequent as I'd like but that is understandable.

Vague plan in place for my 2018 'return' trip already. I want to 'mop up' all the pubs I didn't do between Par-Penzance (oh, and Isles of Scilly!) I will stay more west. St Ives kind of way. And will say a more realistic target of 4 a day rather than five or six as it's only gonna get harder. And if I get chance, maybe a day in middle of county somewhere, like say, Bodmin.

And that means I can look at 2019 too, which by then I hope the pubs I'll need to be in Cornwall will be all in the North of the county, things like Launceston, Saltash and Bude. And that will tie in nicely with a hop across the border into Devon, which (beginning with a D) will be high on my agenda by then too for the next long distance county.

Gotta have a plan!

Si

Two full days recovery from Cornwall was nowhere near enough, despite my revolutionary cheese and cucumber sandwich and cranberry juice diet, but it would be nice to have a day out with Dad as I hadn't had a pint with anyone I knew in a very long time.

It wasn't a chauffeur day though, I'd give him a day off with something that would be useful to BRAPA and was easily achievable on the train. Before too long, we landed in Chesterfield ready for action.

We've never had a good outlook on the home of the football team as crooked as their spire, dating back to football days pre-GBG, many vague memories of rubbish pubs, dropping baguettes in muddy puddles, Luke Beckett money stuffed in Jacob's cream cracker tins and police and stewards showing no interest in controlling skirmishes in the corner of Saltergate. There was a good day around 2011/12 for a friendly match, multi levelled pub was excellent, but i chose a peppery beer I regretted instantly! No idea what the pub was, didn't go in it today.

So the conundrum was, do we walk to the first pub in Brampton, about 1.5 miles - or do we try and pick up a bus? I wanted the former, Dad keen to look for bus station. A chance for early redemption as a man saw us debating it and asked if he could help - I explained our predicament and he simply waved a hand and said "sounds like you know what you are doing". We didn't! That was the whole point. Weirdo. This is WHY the town annoys me.

Anyway, we'd walked half the distance to Brampton already so I said to Dad, we may as well walk there. We'd not seen one bus despite about 800 supposedly going in that direction! Being a Thursday, the Tramway and currently deguided Tap House were out of action til 4pm but we found our first pub on t'corner.

The Rose & Crown, honest!

1193. Rose & Crown, Brampton

We were probably the first customers of the day so we scanned the ales and the helpful barman drew our eyes further to the left, where the Brampton ales were. Interesting they weren't the "first you would see" on arrival, but am sure they have a strategy. He seemed keen for us to try one anyway, what with his Brampton brewery shirt and all, and even paused with the pulling of them so I could take a better photo - felt like such a beer geek! Was it even worth explaining BRAPA, probably too early in the day to inflict this on anyone. We had the 50 gallons a week top seller, Golden Bud, Dad even broke BRAPA protocol (very Tom's Dad) and went back for an extra half, but this was as much about showing his appreciation for the quality ale than anything else, at £5.80 you couldn't really knock it (two pints I mean, not one!) Pub was a huge old thing anyway, Brampton mirrors & memorabilia, power cables leading to toilets in case you wanted to die here, 'flower-offs' with the neighbouring pubs to see who's got the best hanging baskets etc (allegedly) and just very comfy, reminding me a bit of the Arkwright in that Duckmanton place. Dad and I reminisced on previous 2017 pub outings, including quote of the day "That Martin Taylor was a nice chap .... and he probably still is!"

The GBG pushpins weren't behaving themselves (bad plotting!), and we must have walked straight past our next pub, though it was a shop so easily done perhaps. Brampton was a strange place, full of hairdressers and salons, it must have the best manicured people in the world, and I saw EIGHT ladies coming out of the dentists together like they'd had the time of their life!

1194. Real Ale Corner, Brampton

I always have reservations about shops in the GBG, and I've been to places like Arcade in Huddersfield where you can sit and have a drink, or Bier Huis in Ossett, and they lack comfort. But this place was great because it managed to be cosier than most micropubs. That doesn't say much probably, so actually, comfier than most 'bars' too, oh go on then, AND a lot of pubs! Our host, a talkative friendly lady from Ayr with a Scottish little face (so I could bond with her over last summer's trip to Ayr) told us about the centuries old tradition of the Brampton Mile (one of those "there's so many pubs, let's get wasted" kinda crawls). Apart from trying to sell us these "rare breed" bottles for £3.80 which all had species on like weird hawk moths and arctic terns, everything she said was highly reasonable although being married to a policeman frightened us a bit. When I was in the loo, Dad explained BRAPA so I could reappear to a roomful of applause (well, in my imagination anyway). My ale was steady, a old duffer customer finally arrived but he might have been a 30 year old who'd done the Brampton Mile a few times, and we agreed to move on before we started buying bottles. Quality again from Brampton.

Where we sat

Ignore the jam jar, here's the ale

Just a few of the bottles

Helpfully, there was a pub on the way back into Cheaterfiddle, kind of on the Brampton border and although I needed the loo, I let Dad stop to contemplate the lack of butterflies this year. "Look at this Buddleja, it should be full of butterflies!" I bet not many people have said that before entering a micro pub, in fact, let me know your favourite quote before entering a micro pub.

Dad, post butterfly observation.

1195. Chesterfield Alehouse, Chesterfield

What I liked about the feel of this place was that even though it knew it was a micropub, and it said it outside, it had a sense of "we're too cool to be associated with that crowd" and had a very rock n roll air, and almost hipster enough to out-hipster the hipsters, which is like a double negative if you think about it, but in a good way. I'll stop rambling. Up some little steps to the bar, barman looked interested (errr no way I'm trying a beer with coconut and pineapple in it mate!), nice red walls offering warmth (best pub colour, apart from lime green and salmon stripes, obviously), a surprise upstairs room to upset the purists. Even a free cheese and biscuit session on a Tuesday - "I'll have to bring yer mother 'ere", a classic stock Dad quote which if he followed through on the promise, my Mum would need to have her own GBG and highlighter pen! Oh, and our favourite feature, some striking portraits of what appeared to be a band, as we're not sure that young Lenny Henry, Robert Peston, Ian Brady and young Joan Bakewell have ever toured together. It was that kind of place.

Next up, a short stroll around the corner back into the market place. Could've sworn I visited a Chesterfield market pub circa 2000, but am sure it wasn't this one......

Why is Dad hiding?

1196. Market Pub, Chesterfield

So I asked Dad why he hidden himself in the doorway, obscured by a couple of hanging baskets. Turned out he was embarrassed in front of the nice ladies sat outside, aaaah. We walked in, it was exactly the sort of thing you'd expect from a market place pub in a proper town, bare boards, dimly lit, the kind of place you feel you can almost still smell the smoke of 10 years ago. The barman looked as us like "ale drinkers, crikey me!", a couple of locals made jokey Derbyshire noises, and I made a song and dance about ordering a pint of Titanic Stout in hot weather, like I thought I might get some special pub recognition award. No one cared. No one cares in Chesterfield. Originally, we sat in the lighter right hand bar, very pleasant, even when Mr Vesty Tattoo did the teapot, as Martin elegantly put it. But we went to sit outside as we were hungry and felt smuggling our snacks might be easier out here, as this was definitely not a non-food pub. It was very peaceful watching the market stalls close down before our eyes, and in the sun, you could almost be in Lisbon or Rome, well if you had 10 more Titantic Stouts. One thing that did catch my eye, "Harry Potter Murder Mystery Dinner" - I don't know where to start with that. I've read the books, watched the films, and they are not remotely 'murder mystery' in a say, Poirot or Miss Marple way. And combined with the fact that Chesterfield has the least number of Potter enthusiasts in the UK (an official BRAPA fact), it just seemed bizarre. But then the whole place was kind of quirky, without meaning to be.

We continued our meander back towards the station, where we happened upon pub 5 ......

1197. Rutland Arms, Chesterfield

My enthusiastic pose was soon a thing of the past when we walked in, a pretty soulless dining pub with the clutter of knives and forks and menus obscuring the tables, a big screen emitting some eerie music, and I don't mean in a good hallowe'eny way. We stood at the bar for a while, before the blonde girl who'd been sat at a nearby table, heaved herself up with a bit of a sigh and decided she'd serve us. Our sausage rolls had only made us want to soak up the ale even more, so not long after sitting down, Dad was back on his feet to get two bags of crisps. Oh dear, she wouldn't like this, as she'd gone back to sitting and eating and reading, but the transaction was performed with the utmost delicacy and we weren't barred or anything. You know, when some people don't seem to get the concept that they WORK in a pub, and they are not just a customer in their own right. And we've seen from the Seven Stars in Falmouth what poor staff attitude can do to an ace pub, so in a limp one, it just exacerbates the misery.

Worst toilet selfie of the BRAPA year.

Dad's "brave face" expression say it all.

Even closer to the station, was our final pub of the day, we'd done well for time, still plenty to spare before the train home .....

1198. White Swan, Chesterfield

From the mosaic entrance way, to the chirpy barman and the Raw ales (their brewery tap I believe), this was a better experience within seconds of arrival in t'Mucky Duck. Well, I remember me and Dad agreeing this was far better than the Rutland as we sat at the far end on black leather sofas and craned our necks to see the looming crooked spire of the church directly above us, Dad at a better angle to get a better picture than me. But then it hit me, I couldn't finish my pint (Dad was already on the lime n water) or remember anything else that happened here! Add it to the "pubs I owe a revisit in future" list like Cross Keys in Chester, Black Lion in Leighton Buzzard, Combermere in Wolverhampton and probably a few more, due to hazy or half-arsed BRAPA performance!

A more deliberate photo than you'd think. Is this an owl looking at me?

My failed attempt at Spire piccie.

Dad's better view of the drunken spire.

The train journey home was more memorable, Penn or Teller blocked me from getting to the loo, a student girl accused me of being harsh, and then we chatted with a nice girl from Malaysia who's got a BRAPA card so is probably reading this as we speak.

Back in York Tap, Dad said bye and went to the loo and I joined two friends for a brief cameo, but it was my turn to be on the pint of lime & water (told you I was feeling it!) before a short wander home.

I'll be back for last Saturday's write up as I continued the Cheshire quest.

Cheers, Si

I was STILL all "beered out" as I took the train over them dark hills to the west of lovely superior Yorkshire.

And now I've lost half my readership, we'll continue and all felt a bit like a replication of Aston/Nantwich/Crewe day early on, what with changes at Manchester Piccadilly and Crewe, and the little one carriage train south, minus the lovely Justyna and Lucy of course (oh, and the even lovelier Tom obviously!)

Whitchurch isn't in Cheshire, which may not be "revelation of the year" to those of you with UK geographical knowledge, but it seemed a sensible base as I could get a 15-20 minute bus ride to Audlem.

I walked through Whitchurch, a friendly place with only that slight "almost Welsh" feel, I guess you'd say the locals had 5.5 fingers on each hand. The "bus station" was actually part of Tesco car park, so when my bus didn't show, paranoia kicked in and I started searching for actual "bus stations" but I was in the right place, and me and one old lady who appeared from nowhere with an air of the "what of it" hopped aboard.

Confusingly, we passed a Combermere Arms but I hung on til we reached Audlem Square, and I saw the pub across the road .....

Looks promising .....

Shall we go in? Yes!

1199. Lord Combermere, Audlem

But perhaps a bit of a "wolf in sheep's clothing" of a pub, for when I went in, I was immediately hit with modernity, and worse, a woman smiling up at me from a low leather sofa flanked by two kids and a dog (note I'm being open minded and not declaring them twilds or twogs yet). Beyond the bar, I heard a Mum placating a definite Twild (waah waah waah), by asking if his toy was a friendly frog. No one ever answered this conundrum. A panicky old woman's husband materialised from the shiny wood panelled floor and was told "I got you a coke, did i do the right thing??" He didn't reply either. I gave a nice shoulderless brunette barmaid the exact change, did this make me more attractive to her? Another unanswered question. If this was becoming a theme of the pub, so was antiques. Bargain Hunt was on above me, and the pub was hosting it's own version of Antiques Roadshow. A cynic might say they are auctioning off all the proper pub furniture and memorabilia now it has gone down the 'half trendy diners' route, but TBH I didn't have the energy to dislike this place. But the signs were there, when smiley woman left, a barmaid was out within seconds disinfecting the table. I hate Wetherspoons sticky crumb tables, but there ARE limits. The staff were nice though, as were the few old men, one of whom apologised for having Shropshire Gold instead of the "exciting guest" (which I wasn't massively enjoying as it tasted like Toilet Duck. Pine fresh). The biggest dog EVER walked in, you could feel it breathing from across the pub - but am not sure the barmaid (who boasted she was off to Leamington Spa shortly, impressing nobody) calling it "a beast" was a compliment or not. Okay pub all in all, but expected just a little bit more.

When a beer says "try me", you probably shouldn't.

Huge lager fonts to dull right hand side, ales in vibrant left. Good!

After a bit of confusion about where the bus would actually stop to take me back (the local bike shop weren't much help), it did what I wanted it to do and soon we were chugging back to Whitchurch with some great effort. I was a bit torn, could I be arsed doing Whitchurch. Three easy pubs but wasn't in the mood, so decided I'd leave it to fate and see if anyone "alighted" at the station.

They didn't. So I was soon back at Tesco and took this as I sign to sample at least one pub.

GBG Boring Stat of the day ..... This would prove to be my first Shropshire 'tick' since I watched a World Cup game with some mad locals in Shrewsbury's excellent Woodman pub over 3 years ago - I actually had a few pints and convinced myself the ghost of the landlady who died in a 1923 fire and haunts the pub was sat right beside me. The pub is still in GBG today so was a good tick to get.

"Enter as strangers, leave as friends"

Can see the pub.

I do on a Tuesday, but not always a pint of Joules!

1200. Old Town Hall Vaults, Whitchurch

"This was more like it, nice way to bring up a mini-landmark" I thought as I ambled in slowly admiring the typical Joule's stained glass - though I think the Glebe in Stoke and the Cross Keys in Chester (where I fell asleep, in my pint of Slumbering Monk no less) are my only previous experiences of the 'chain'. I'd thought their "enter as strangers, leave as friends" strapline was a bit risky (don't make promises you can't keep) but almost immediately, a chirpy grey haired and grey skinned old local was asking me BRAPA related questions and the personable young bar lad (who looked like every guy off Emmerdale and Coronation St in a blender) was joining in, and true, I was making friends! The pub had outdoor loos, another sure-fire sign of quality, but I didn't wanna push my luck, so sat in the front bar, smiling briefly at the wife of 'knee support Brian Butterfield'. A dog jumped up at me like a little mad bastard, but I even liked that, and didn't whisper twog in it's ear once. I stared around wide-eyed like a proper pub tourist, but drama came in proper human form when a nice young barmaid with an element of Willow from Neighbours (but older obvs), was made to go out and buy some chips. 5 mins later, she returned, Iceland didn't have any (what?!) so she went to Tesco. 15 mins later, she came back traumatised, she'd got some, but the shopping bag burst and the chips went right through them. Poor girl was having a bad time of it, and I went before the inevitable tears followed..... perhaps. Lovely pub.

The pub looking nice

Their own Green Monkey lager sign, in the loo where it belongs, probably.

Knee Support BB and wife chatting the chit.

Despite this great experience, it didn't push me to do the other two, and there was a direct train to Manc shortly so I walked up the road, and got it. It stopped at Wilmslow where I needed two ticks, "hmmm sounds like a proper traditional old Cheshire town" I thought, uh oh!

1201. Old Dancer, Wilmslow

A little taste of Chorlton-cum-Hardy had arrived in Wilmslow, even down to posers sitting outside despite the chilly wind and light rain. "We're having fun out here, honest!" they shivered, praying the staff would bring them blankets. Inside was buggy heaven (if you like babies, young mothers and buggies that is), their wideness not designed for a small continental style bar like this (the buggies, not the mothers!) I couldn't see a staff member serving, but two black shirted dim wits who were members of staff but not "on duty" due to shovelling food into their faces, stared at me, but didn't ask anyone to serve me. Poor show. I took my hopelessly appropriate Tiny Rebel ale (v.good quality btw) to a table between twild groups under a mural of "Old Dancers". The Clash played to help my mood, then Morrissey (which predictive text changes to "mortuary" on my phone) seemed more in-keeping with the atmos. When "Enjoy Yourself" came on, I knew the playlist was taking the piss. At least female black shirt dimwit finished her food and smiled and said "hi", cos no one else did. The lazy eyed blonde Keeley Donovan did a job, but lacked charisma. A Mum thanked me as I moved my legs, before a buggy could sever them clean off. The toilets were confusing called the Urinoirs, which may be french for "Black Piss", which you may get if you have a 12 hr sesh in here.

Old Dancers

Background Mum and ginger twild compliment the BRAPA scene very nicely

A few mins walk down the road, I found the other Wilmslow pub and as soon as I saw the italic text looming on the horizon, I had a feeling I'd be thinking "that Old Dancer wasn't such a bad place really" in a few minutes time ......

1202. Coach & Four, Wilmslow

So, here's a question, in pub-terms, what is more depressing than an Ember Inn? I'll tell you, a pub that isn't an Ember Inn but ticks so many boxes on the Ember bingo card, that it may as well be. Snooty middle class diners with superiority complex? Check. Piles of logs serving no purpose? Check! Young families studying menus bigger than their children? Check. Cluttered sticky table? Check! Oh well, a few highlights I can report. I couldn't really pronounce my ale - "Willamette Pale" or something, so made a joke of it and barman found it hilarious!! I wasn't even trying. What a dude. Secondly, I was gobsmacked at the bar to see the mystery beer (Solstice Amber) I had in Truro's Rising Sun here too. What? I'd presumed it was a Cornish microbrewery ale. But a closer look at the pumpclip told me it was brewed in Manchester's "Media City". I figured out it was a HYDES beer all along, confirmed literally minutes later by someone on my Twitter! So the whole "14 consecutive Cornish ales" etc had all been a lie! That then led me to the question, "was this a Hydes pub?" Surely not. Not after Fletcher Moss in Didsbury. It can't be. It even made Q in Stalybridge look like the Anchor Anchor did this boring hell-hole. I faced an old couple doing the crossword together which was quite sweet and lightened my mood as I failed to get told off for using the disabled bogs despite my best effort. The old gent wore full maroon, which I very approve of. I guess you could call it a "Somerset CCC Playsuit". Lovely effort. A good last thing to witness before I left.

Pirate scarecrow thing fails to make this pub interesting

Proof of the Truro ale (left) back again, my 'amusing' Williamette on the right.

Mr Somerset Playsuit doing the crossword.

Back on the train to Manc, of course I could've got off at Stockport but it'd be wrong to go to such a good ale town (wouldn't it Mudgie?) if I wasn't feeling on top pub drinking form?

So I got a huge coffee, and was on the train back to York by 6pm. I felt like I was kind of rebelling. Against who exactly, I don't know, but I could hear Tom's voice in my head (never a good sign) saying "Si, you could easily have whipped in six pubs today, I'm very disappointed". And that pleased me. Liberating, I don't have to push myself every bloody time. Stupid BRAPA.

So, I need a break and I'll get a break, I thought last Saturday. Uncle Roger funeral midweek so would there be chance for any Great Yarmouth ticking? Stay tuned. And if not, I'll be back to review Saturday 22nd trip to Buckinghamshire, probably my last time there before the 2018 GBG comes out.

Have a good un,

Si

The family, that is myself, Mother BRAPA, Daddy Chauffeur BRAPA and even Sister BRAPA (not a nun) travelled down to Great Yarmouth for Uncle Roger's funeral on Tuesday evening, arriving at 9:30pm.

Of course, I'd researched late night BRAPA potential with three pubs in the GBG. I must admit that in Good Beer Guide terms, Norfolk is one of the things beginning with an N which I give zero shits about, like Northamptonshire, Northumberland and Nottinghamshire. Ask me again in 2029.

Nevertheless, a chance to go to the appropriately named Tombstone Saloon for last orders/rites sounded almost perfect, until Mother BRAPA looked up at me with sad eyes and said "you won't go off late night gallivanting on your own, you WILL stay and have a drink with us won't you?" How could I say no?

After all, perhaps the pub built onto our Premier Inn would be pre-emptive? We checked in, Sister BRAPA dawdled, but we were in by 10pm after the obligatory photo op .....

Brewers Fayre, Great Yarmouth

So we wandered in to the sad sight of both handpumps turned around. I'd researched it, and it was supposed to be Sharp's Doom Bar or Adnams Southwold, better than a kick in the balls I thought, (probably). In the absence of ale, Sister BRAPA made the wise call to survey the fridge for bottles but the personable young yokel behind the bar told us the fridge was broken so everything was warm. I still went for a child sized can of Dead Pony Club made with loving care by those paragons of virtue up at Brewdog. Dad hit the San Miguel like an England World Cup fan abroad, after asking me which lager I thought would be best out of this and Becks Vier, and Sister and Mother BRAPA gave up all together and smashed the wine like Keith Floyd on holiday. We ordered 4 bowls of chips and before we'd barely sat on the 'menu-stacked' corner table, they were with us! Frozen oven chips probably out of the microwave, what a delight! Possibly the worst bowl of chips all of us had had. I compared one limp chip in the bottom to a foetus, Sister BRAPA couldn't see it, lacking my imagination! Mother BRAPA found two hairs in her chips, how curly they were she didn't say. However much vinegar I soaked them in, they remained dry. Someone popped a balloon and found it hilarious, this was the tail-end of a birthday party and a load of hammered middle aged women went up for last orders. I'd experimented with 'arf a Guinness but was now on the San Miguel with Dad. We convinced ourselves it had a "very real" taste, almost like an ale. I think we were comforting ourselves. Chatting went well, it had raced on to 11:30pm and any chances of getting last orders in at either of the alleged 'midnight GBG closers' had passed. Not that I really believed they'd have rung last orders as late as 11:40pm on a Tuesday. We were asked to leave, almost politely, and the morning breakfast tables were being set up - which I ended up enjoying a lot more than this experience, mainly due to some surprisingly "on form" black pudding.

Worst chips ever!

Dad necking another one. Round 3 came in a Becks Vier glass to spice it up.

I thought it said "refreshing bottoms" at first, it kind of does! Pass me the wet wipes.

So, a bit of a pointless review you may think in BRAPA terms, but I think it is worthwhile every so often to remember that there are terrible pubs out there, and when you use the GBG, you start to take quality for granted and it was a good reminder that you (I) shouldn't. So there!

The day after was the funeral then, a strange mish-mash of a ceremony with Dad's amusing speech and the funky disco music when the coffin disappeared being the highlights. Oh, and meeting our two long lost cousins Robert & Edward - both live in East Yorkshire, both were semi-impressed with BRAPA, Edward loves ale and especially the Transpennine Crawl and works in a bank like me, Robert hates real ale and drinks gin and is some kind of arms dealer. Fascinating times.

The "after party" was at the Imperial Hotel, I spied Greene King IPA a bit too late, a weird American 'crafty keggy' font, I wanted fresh orange juice, but Sister BRAPA swapped it for her Pimms which she didn't like. I failed to harpoon the strawberry in the bottom, but I nibbled two sausage rolls, good quality.

We passed some Norfolk villages on the way back that have BRAPA pubs - this was painful for me, but back in York for evening and a celebratory bottled ale (Old Hoppy Hen) to toast the Uncle properly.

Cheers!

"Errrm, I think you MIGHT have gone past the stop...." I said to the nice but totally incompetent bus driver (he'd already not known the price for a single to Hambleden / Mill End, or any other stop off points for that matter) as he raced along the main road. I had pressed the bell in good time with some ferocity just to be sure (I had a bad experience in Wintersett once).

"Ohhh, I'm so sorry" he says collapsing with embarrassment into his steering wheel, then breaking suddenly on a sharp country road bend, almost causing a six pile car up behind him .....

It was too amusing to make me angry, plus the nice Euro blonde (possibly Whigfield's niece) had exchanged smiles with me as a result, the sun was shining, and the pub didn't open til noon and it was only 11:20am. Shame the six cars behind looked angrily at me, thinking I'd made some late decision to hop off. If only they knew.

After a fairly fraught road walk to Hambleden, I was chased down into the village by a dog with bald ears. "Is he yours?" says some posh lady straight out of Midsomer Murders. "No, I hoped he was yours!" I replied. "I've brought him a biscuit" she replies randomly, chucking what looked like a Bella Vita breakfast thing in his general direction. Then a whistle from the hills, and dog bolts off like a thing possessed.

In the village, two old ladies are chatting across the road whilst gardening. "Have you been to the new Aldi?""No, there's an even newer Waitrose in town!" They may have been talking about Marlow.

11:40am now and pub door open, gotta give it a try .....

There was a barmaid stood at the bar, chopping lemons. She looked up at me expectantly. "Are you open early then?" "NAWWWW hahaha" she replied, as if I'd asked the most ridiculous question ever. I tell ya what luv, how about not have the door wide open then.

So I hung around on this kind of parky cricket pitch area for 20 mins, typical the heavens opened when it had been sunny only minutes before. I even gave it the complimentary 2 minutes extra, walking in at 12:02.

1203. Stag & Huntsman, Hambleden

There was already at least 10 people in the pub - typical! It seemed to be part of a bigger complex and may well have been residential. And due to the narrowness of the bar, getting served was a challenge. Staff were ultra friendly, whilst an Eastern European girl misheard what I wanted, I just went with the ale she thought anyway (they all looked the same to me!) two other members of staff asked how I was today? One of those where you almost say "it's okay, i've already been served" before realising they are actually just being nice. Shocking. I realised I was sat in amongst the 'regulars' who'd closed ranks, trying to keep their own section of the pub to themselves, away from tourist chit chat. I was included in a conversation about getting a barbecue imported from Spain for £35 and tried to look impressed. Then the ringleader told me my ale looked cloudy. He was right but it tasted fine, later on it didn't! I really must be more discerning in this situation. A friendly young wedding Phil Mitchell and wife (from Essex) appeared from behind the curtain, and joined the local chat. He ascertained the locals love Hambleden, but hate the constant changes to this pub! Phil then told a pointless tale about his daughter struggling to get her passport renewed after a DX delivery mix up. Hats off to him for having the gall to tell a room of locals a story so dull. The two later arrival locals were amusing, 'Brett' and an old man with a neckerchief. He came in to talk about his recent health problems but was told he was looking bronzed and well. "Must be all the blood transfusions" he concluded. I randomly said "sex, drugs and rock n roll" (they'd been talking Mick Jagger's longevity) but my contributions were limited. The ringleader told a story about how he'd been chatting to a "delicious Swedish girl" at a party in the 80's, but she stole his unique 'Rush' lighter. I'd put my GBG on the table to see if it generated any conversation, it didn't. Time to leave.

Ringleader thinks "what's my next anecdote going to be?"

My murky beer, close up view. Awful glass too.

I walked back to the bus stop, and after a six minute delay and argument about ticket validity (I really wasn't having good bus experiences today), I found myself back in Marlow from where I'd arrived early on.

The town felt like it was grabbing you by the lapels and pleading "I'm posh, honestly, you HAVE to believe me!!" with an array of flimsy high street eateries, boutiques, bars and restaurants and shoppers who've forgotten how to smile cos they know in their heart of hearts, the Marlow dream they were sold 30 years ago was built on wafer thin promises. It made Wokingham look like Rochdale. And you can't say any fairer than that.

Luckily, looks like I was off to the realest place in town!

1204. Royal British Legion, Marlow

Apologies for lack of outdoor shot, phone died on my at the vital moment. So, a GBG Club. It's been a while, always a bit of a hornet's nest to be honest, knowing how they'll react, so after getting little change out of the two 'practical jokers' (Simon and a postman) smoking outside, I walked in where the barman and two old blokes were sat. "Am I okay to come in for a drink?""CAMRA are ya?""Yeh, do you wanna see my card?""Naaaah." Nice and relaxed then, so I drank a pint of 'Slapstick' that the locals in Hambleden had been raving about. It was okay. Much better quality. I got chatting to one of the old chaps, a scousers with a hearing aid and a hatred of most things. He liked York, which was good, but laughed when I said I grew up in Saffron Walden (we'd been talking about not losing native accents, not that I speak Essex, just not very Yorkshire, he'd been in Marlow 40 years). First person I've met who said Saffron Walden was shit, he also said L**ds was a shithole, Hull old town was nice but most of it was shit, he rolled his eyes when I said I worked in a bank, oh and he really likes Reading, unless you have to pay for a coffee in a shopping centre, hmmmm. He wanted to give me a guided tour, but as he had a scooter, he just commentated whilst I walked around the room admiring the medals, gun collection etc. Really good place. Not much else to say, but I was impressed with this little club. Our scouse friend was a bit concerned Simon and the postman would hide his scooter again like they did last week, but when I left, it was still in it's rightful place!

Boring BRAPA Stat of the Day .... This was my 46th pub tick of the month, a new BRAPA record. It also means I only have 6 pub ticks left in Bucks. But will the 2018 GBG ruin all that? Last year, I'd done 10 Bucks pubs before the GBG came out, it went all the way down to 4.

That was all I could do in Buckinghamshire today, and probably, until I have the 2018 GBG, depending when it comes through the post this year (I'm back in Bucks on 2nd Sept so it's touch & go) so it was time to get back into London and get some 'ticking' done before the 18:30 train back.

I had the inevitable change at Maidenhead, where I'm still waiting for the town to open their debut micropub 'The Maidenhead Mutant' (a tribute the the locals) and then crossed London from Paddington to Moorgate cos i don't like getting onto the Northern Line at Kings Cross. One stop took me to Old Street, where suddenly I was hit by a young, cool, hipstery vibe quite different from South Bucks I can tell ya!

Once, I got my bearings in the now incessant rain, I found the pub easily looking very nice ....

1205. Old Fountain, Old Street

I'd wanted to come here for a while as I keep seeing it in the GBG, and built up this image in my head of it being some rare untouched London boozer full of straggly old blokes and crones straight off skid row. Sadly not, but good news was the real ales appeared straight in front of me at the lower bar. But why wasn't the beardo barman not looking up from his modern day cash register? Well, because it wasn't the handpumps, just the pub's unique 'blackboard' style way of showing what was on. Utterly confusing, and a bit annoying. Luckily, a nervy Andrex puppy version of Cesc Fabregas and spied me, and called me to the top. One of those young men who set you on edge, a bit all over the place. Trying to do too much at once. In contrast, his colleagues did nothing and stared dead eyed, through their long curly locks / beards. The main feature of the pub seemed to be a few illuminated fish tanks being passed off as an aquarium. The majority of the punters were watching the fish silently, like you might watch a football match, not sure what they thought the fish were going to do but the sense of anticipation was very real. Oh, and not much else happened as I sat under some stained glass windows imagining this pub 100 years ago!

Most dishonest way of asking for tips ever!

The big match is on!

Nervy Cesc tries to get young Billy Joel/Stephen Mangan to do something.

It's half time, time to look away from the 'aquarium'.

I'd noticed on my GBG App that a pub was only 0.4 miles away, AND in the right direction for walking back towards Kings Cross. Thing was, it was classed under North London so I'd not really thought about it. Glad I did .....

This would be Pub of the Day, hooray!

1206. Wenlock Arms, Hoxton

And the lack of any expectations was a good thing. I guess you could say the "exciting for my blog" bit all happened in the first 5 minutes at the bar. But firstly, the key to this pub was not being too central as to be full of passing trade, tourists etc. I've often commented on what lovely buildings many London pubs are, only to be ruined by a hectic atmosphere, oh and shit beer! But this was calm with nice beer but as I stood at the corner of the bar, the only customer wanting to be served I may add, that old affliction of "invisibility" struck, and a loud cockney Frankie Boyle in a huge leary group of about ten swivelled round on his chair, reached a long arm up to the bar, and ordered a round that just went on and on and on. You know the sort, "ohhh mate, I'll 'ave 4 red wines too for the layydeez .... ooh yeh, what crisps do you have, errrm errrm two salt n vinegar, two cheese n onion, errrr did you say prawn cocktail, oooh hang on, what's that Jools, you want a pickled egg but only if it comes in a Fullers bun case on a bed of rocket leaves?" Okay, I exaggerate the last bit, but you get the gist. Annoying twat. Anyway, a man at the bar could see my pain, and moved a stool slightly to quote him "part the waves" to help me get served. A nice gesture but thought he looked a bit "fruity" so I avoided eye contact, but then a tall leggy blonde appeared from the bogs and they left together with the words "are we off then hun?" So I got that wrong. But I sat down with my pint in peace, soaked up the special chilled out afternoon atmosphere, a few odd characters like sockless Beethoven appeared but this is North London after all so even the old dudes are hipsters aren't they? Top pub.

Finally sat down with pint, notice white shirted sitting down round buyer.

A nice entrance mosaic doormat thing

Hipster Beethoven and a couple of other locals

I had a feeling my last pub(s) might be a bit less interesting having read the GBG description (always a mistake) so I spiced it up by wondering if I could actually squeeze two in between here and Kings Cross and still get the 18:30? Not long before I arrived at the next one .....

1207. Brewhouse & Kitchen, Angel

I don't know why I was surprised to see their own ales on, after all it did say "Brewhouse" but I just find words meaningless now in pub titles. After all, as for the "kitchen" bit, I didn't see one old housewife bleaching the floor, washing the dishes or chopping veg for a stew. It was more like a gaudy school canteen with some failed attempts at mood lighting. Barmaid's were of the P.I.S.S. variety (I don't think my bright green rain mack was acceptable to the pub ethos), plenty of Robert Palmer backing dancer about them, lots of pouting, side glances and unnecessary swishing of hair and hips (not that I was captivated by them or anything). In fact, the whole female to male ratio was an eye opener, but when I wondered why my posing table had such a surprisingly calm atmosphere around, I realised I was next to a large group of deaf Greek hipsters, frantically signing to each other! A middle aged woman behind me was finding her man friend far more amusing than should've been the case, if her laugh wasn't bad enough, she CLAPPED when she found something really funny. Utterly hideous. She reminded me of a seal. If seals were dickheads. Awkward moment in loo as I made eye contact with a man of impressive sculptured facial hair, he said "hi" and then held the door open for me even when I had barely got to handwashing stage, never mind bloody drying them! I told him not to bother. Anyway, no time to loiter, the sixth pub was still on - just!

This Black IPA was as good as any pint as I had all day

My view from probably Table 13.

Another view, excuse the slight thumb

The distant "kitchen".

Anyway, I was glad to get that one done because it is the "first" London pub listed in the GBG 2017 and I like the order. Last pub was again classed under North London, and despite crossing a road I didn't need to, I was in enough time to have 27.5 minutes there and still get back to KX in time for the 18:30. Phew, I'll thank that Black IPA for being very drinkable.

1208. Craft Beer Co, Pentonville

I've been to Craft Beer Co pubs in Farringdon and Brighton before now, and really enjoyed them both, but this one left me a bit uninspired by comparison. It didn't help that when I got to the bar, I realised they were having a "takeover" (annoying trendy pub thing where they get lots of ales on from a brewery, usually as trendy as themselves so they can all wallow in smug satisfaction together). Sadly for me, the brewery in question was Bad Seed - a good if slightly trendy brewery from Malton near York, a bit like Brass Castle's more frumpy sister who still gets her fair share of cock. Anyway. One sip of my ale and I noticed it was approaching full-on vinegar, and after my ineptitude in Hambleden, I was determined to call it out early. Barman pulls himself some. Takes a sip. Looks confused. Looks at me like I've got two heads. Frowns. Takes another sip. Jeez, this was nerve-wracking (plus I had limited time in here as it was!) Asks his colleague for a second opinion. Colleague takes one sniff and goes "ugh, definitely on the turn!" Scary how some staff can't tell. Perhaps he's not an ale drinker. But shouldn't he know anyway? Excitement over, I tried to find a seat in the depths of this limited establishment. All I found was a huge reserved area "Sarah - 6pm", it was approaching 6 so I left. On my way out of the room, a floppy haired lad from a large group opposite said "haha but imagine if he had been Sarah, how funny that'd have been!" Yes it would. London humour? Amazing. I had to sit at the piano, the only seat in the house. At least third time this has happened in BRAPA history! It was locked so I couldn't play the pub my three stock tunes - jingle bells, tuna fish and 'there was an old man with a beard', the latter of which i could've changed to "young man with a beard" to make it 21st century relevant.

Chucklehead is OFF!

I got the 18:30 without much a fuss, a 34 minute delay didn't help but ker-chinggggg, compensation time. At the York end, I popped into York Tap where I had a very pleasant Oakham Inferno and nobody weird tried to talk to me, which was weird in itself for York Tap on a Saturday night. Great day out, and the record breaking month of July 2017 continues apace.

See you Tuesday night for fun after work frolics from somewhere in the "North West".

Si

BRAPA - North Derbyshire

BRAPA - Bucks V - North West of the County

BRAPA - Blue Pits Inn, Castleton

BRAPA - Blog on the Tyne : Newcastle Summer Adventure

BRAPA - Who's a Jolly Nailor then?

BRAPA - Monkeying Around in Hartlepool

BRAPA - My Tuesday Night Bottom is Broad

BRAPA - June Review / July Preview (2017)

BRAPA - The Taming of the Crewe

BRAPA - Chorlton and the Wheelie Annoying Bar

BRAPA - Summer Special Day One : Pukey in Newquay

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 2 : Si-rates of Penzance

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 3 : Truro Love

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 4 : The Hard Truth in Redruth

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 5 : Frolics in Falmouth

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 6 - Guten Mawgan from Cornwall

BRAPA - Brampton Miles & Chesterfield Smiles

BRAPA - Dawdling in Audlem

BRAPA Special - Drawing a Blank in Great Yarmouth

BRAPA - An Amble Down to Hambleden