"I don't think it is open" observes Dad, as we pull into a car park opposite
Three Stags' Heads, Wardlow Mires (pub 1632 / 2601) on one the craziest main roads in rural Derbyshire.
"It.... it .... must be!" I whine, for there is a sign saying "Pub Open" AND the Good Beer Guide says 11am, It is 11:05am. It's not like it's ever been wrong before, has it? Don't answer that!
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| Open or not, I'm still posing outside |
"No, we're not open til 12!" confirms the new gaffer, getting out of a car at the same time as us, wrestling a crate of Birra Moretti. He sees my forlorn expression. "But we can maybe do 11:30" he adds. Top negotiation. I'd not even moved my lips. He asks his wife, wedged between car boot and group of excitable cockerels and hens if such a course of action is potentially on the cards.
"It is if we get our fingers out" she concedes. "Well, get yer finger out then!" he replies, and they shuffle off across the main road with carrier bags and of course, the Birra Moretti. Not bad for a pub that once said "please do not ask for lager as a smack in the gob often offends".
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| Gaffer goes to open up |
So like a really good episode of The Sweeney starring hens, Father BRAPA and I were left 'staking out' the pub waiting for 11:30am to see if they'd be as good as their word and get that finger out.
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| No Hen Parties here! (copyright B G Everitt, circa July 2015) |
Oh, and of course, the pub had to have just changed its hours to thwart me as this sign displayed. And of course they are generally more generous, but the key 11am-12noon Saturday time is probably the only example in the week where the hours have become more restricted. Typical BRAPA luck!
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At 11:25am, the door sprung open! How good was that? Now to cross that busy road again ......
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I told the chap I was impressed they'd done it 5 mins earlier than planned, and he was such a hospitable bloke. Amazing, as when you usually go into these high character heritage gems, the staff are reserved and stand offish in a kind of "count yourself lucky to be in our wonderful pub" kinda way, but no sign of this here. He gave me a try of all three Abbeydale ales cos I was going on about the 7% plus Lurcher house beer. Apparently, a local lady drank six pints of it last night and had to be carried home! No surprise. Gorgeous drop. He also encourages us to check out the room to the right, lovely centuries old smell and full of rural curios. Taxidermy galore, perhaps wouldn't be my vegan sisters cup of soy milk tea, but she approved of the hare with a gun anyway when I sent her a pic. He also gives us CAMRA mags, a scrapbook of the local pottery festival day, really seemed to respond to my BRAPA chat, and hope he believed me when I said you don't often comes in places this good, cos I was genuine. Even more impressive when he tells us he and his wife have only been here a few weeks/months, as the main gaffer is "losing his marbles" (dementia?) and his wife has to be pretty much a full time carer so they needed people to come in and run the pub. Well, this guy was a legend. We left kind of knowing none of our other 5 pubs today would be this good, but what a great way to get June pub ticking off the ground! A real gem. Only that bloody crazy main road as anything approaching a downside.
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| The Hare's Revenge |
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| The King |
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| Former customer who asked for draught lager |
Time to get to our furthest point of the day now, and probably the most picturesque area and village though Dad had to do some amazing chauffeuring with the amount of idiot mountain bikes out on the roads.
We dropped into the picture postcard village of Crowdecote and parked in this steep and very awkward pub car park. Incredibly slow zimmer-lady was making her way to the pub with patient husband on a stick, could we get parked, get the standard BRAPA outdoor photo, and still beat them to the bar?!
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| Quick, we can beat 'em! |
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| Quick pose, we can still do this! |
Hurrah! We made it. And we were soon squashed into the bar at the
Pack Horse Inn, Crowdecote (1633 / 2602) in what, as we predicted, was a real hive of dining activity with the sun now shining and the glorious surroundings. Any back-slapping on our part for getting to the bar post-haste was soon quelled as we didn't see a member of staff for ages. The wait went on. And on. And on, as we were joined by a small tanned guy who also was feeling the frustration. The guv'nor, a quirky amusing southern chap with no sense of urgency was off attending to elderly diners including the couple above (serves us right?) trying to do about ten things at once. When he saw us three at the bar, he started complaining how busy it was ..... but he'd seen nothing yet! We took our pints outside where an elderly local was watching large groups of female tourists trying to park huge SUV's. "It's more entertaining than reading mi paper this!" he says out of the corner of his mouth, before whispering "I don't wanna say anything against women drivers in this day n age BUT......" I told him not to worry, but perhaps he'd heard about the trending hashtag #WokeSi2019 . It was hard to tell. As a group of about 20 women wandered towards the pub, we wondered how the gaffer was gonna cope with this influx! When I went to the loo about 10 mins later, about 15 people were milling around looking for service. This was quite a pretty pub, good ale, one to appreciate more once you've left! Bet it is amazing on a cold winter's night.
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| Pint of hazy Astryd and women wondering how to get into pub |
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| Dad poses as our local friend asks table dog a searching question |
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| Dad's initial attempt to get photo of dog on table |
It was more of the same at our next pub, a short few miles away in another pretty village, inevitably crawling with tourists looking for lunch ........
But apart from a characterful weathervane on the neighbouring church that we couldn't see anyway, the Church Inn, Chelmorton (1634 / 2603) was probably the drabbest pub of the day, it seemed to want to be a Marstons pub without actually being one to my knowledge. It just had that very 'okay, it is definitely a pub, but not a very inspiring one' feel to it. Crowdecote had a bit more class, and people here were that little bit more miserable, the atmosphere a bit moody, barman reminded me of Uncle Fester in a cute way, though at least the majority of people were outside so we had a nice long swathe of bench-seating to relax in to. In fact, the highlight was low beams as a series of tall people came in including Casual Dick Dastardly, presumably, just for the amusement of BRAPA.
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But with three pubs left to do, no point wasting any more words on that one. Plenty more fun to come, but don't ask me what happened, seriously don't, I can't remember, but I'll write about it on Wednesday or Thursday so watch this space!
Si
