BRAPA has ..... ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE(SEND)

"I don't belieeeeve it!"  Having been in a zombie-state in Upper Upnor's Tudor Rose, just minutes early, I actually got a second wind in the other Good Beer Guide pub in the village, which means I should probably write nice things about it ......

King's Arms, Upper Upnor (1849 / 3066) certainly was a more pleasant pub than the Tudor Rose, despite an awkward start!  I said 'hello' to an attractive young lady, peering around the entrance as I walked in, but she glared back at me like 'I don't work here, how dare you speak to me!' and her beefy boyfriend half launched himself up, off his stool before deciding 'he ain't worf it'.  I scurried on towards the bar, where the local gents fell silent, and waited to see what my next move was.  The barmaid smirked.  I ordered a pint of something called Mad Cat with an air of hushed confidentiality in my tone.  In friendlier circs, I'd have asked how come there were so many bags of charcoal below the bar, and there might've been a little bit of jokey back n forth, but no chance I was going to try that now!  Never have I been so pleased to escape, pint in tact, without further incident to the lounge bar.  This would prove to be my haven, away from the scary airy basic main bar.  It was a glorious room, the plush carpet sort of crept up the seats, into the benches and beyond.  It was a bit like Teen Wolf where he first realises he's 'changing' and the hair creeps up his body.  The only downside was that being the only customer in here, I felt a bit distanced from the hub of activity, where a landlady had now appeared and was having some 'top bantz' with the cheeky old boys about a birthday cake or some such nonsense!  On the plus side, Hull City were beating the Gills already and I got to see the goal on my phone.  In any case, I was a lot perkier as I headed back into Strood for pint six (it was still only 3:45pm!)

Google Maps didn't want me getting too comfortable however, and walked me back a totally different route, which involved a lot of pavementless road walking!  Luckily, as I mentioned in part one, traffic in Strood seems surprisingly non existent which gives a real 'end of the line' feel to the town.

I missed the turning to the pub (despite the huge 'MICROPUB' sign), a narrow snicket in the shadow of the railway bridge, the pub built into it.  One of the more tasteful 'railway arch' pubs I've been to (and there are literally, like about 3,000 in the GBG alone).

I was shocked when this side path opened up into the hugest micropub garden ever, and with this warm September sun still beating down, it was no surprise to see that the place was absolutely heaving, I even wondered if I could get in!  10:50 From Victoria, Stood (1850 / 3067) was its name, and you will NOT be interested to learn it doesn't refer to a train time, but the arch number. So any 8:15 from Manchester or 4:50 from Paddington jokes are rendered obsolete.  Eventually, there was a parting of the waves, Remi Moses style, whoever he was, and I was confronted by two fraught overworked ladies.  Felt quite sorry for them, as soon as they got rid of one customer, two more appeared.  This went on for the entire half an hour I was there, not a minutes peace.  I'd managed to commandeer one the few indoor raised seating areas for myself.  And if people weren't asking for craft beer, cider or an artisanal gin, they were asking where the loos were.  I did that.  Two portlaloos outdoors.  A group of jolly rosy faced locals helped me further with the directions.  "....But don't go in if old 'Roo is in there!" the loudest one warned me, and I gingerly pushed the loo door in case Strood's giant mythical kangaroo was having a poo. #RhymingWithSimon   On the way back, the group roared "Ohhh you found the bogs then, nice one mate!!"  Not since I was potty training have I felt such a sense of accomplishment in this aspect of daily life.   Had this pub really only been open since 4pm as advertised?  Absolutely no way.  A well done place though, note the train track flooring too, as the GBG loves to say "a good addition to the burgeoning Kent micro-scene". (I may've made that up).

If Heineken did micropubs ...... oh hang on, is that Carlsberg?

How had I already done six pubs with my train to York not until 9pm?  Well, knowing September wouldn't be an easy month for pub-ticking, in that moment there in Strood at 5pm, I thought it best to exploit the situation.  A mistake in hindsight, for I could barely move a limb the following day, but Gravesend was calling my name,

Gravesend has four GBG entries, even one would be a bonus this evening.  I headed for the one due to close at 6pm as I thought it might be interesting to see how 'last orders' played out, something I don't see a lot of in BRAPA being largely a daytime drinker.

It is worth noting I didn't clock these pub opening times as I walked in

Down the stairs without falling, you've got to love a good basement bar, and this was very atmospheric.  Three Pillars, Gravesend (1851 / 3068) was a real cracker all round actually, friendly to a fault, a welcome relief and that had been something missing from many of today's pubs.  "Are you from Mansfield?" asks the landlady suddenly hearing my slight Northern accent as I order a pint in the middle of the room.  "No, York" I tell her.  "Oh well, close enough, all up north innit?"  I loved this place already.   I sit opposite the loos, the door is a phonebox.  On each side, locals chat animatedly.  Something about Tony Egan in his cream & brown Ford Cortina.  Oh, how we laughed!  Someone spoke passionately about MOT issues, and I was conscious it was 17:59 and I'd not heard a last orders gong, so started trying to drink my latest 5% stout quickly just in case I'd missed it in my increasing inebriation.   Our lovely hostess returned to ask about Colin, and after rolling out the full BRAPA manifesto, she went to extract Mr Pillars from behind the bar and he came over to chat to me, and showed me around the pub.  Lovely couple.  I asked about the 6pm closure.  "Ho ho, those were our hours two weeks ago, it's all changed now!"  I asked him if he could understand how difficult this can be for the pub ticker and he admitted he could.  I said my farewells, my increased drinking speed meant I now had time for another!   

Pub I visited earlier in Upper Upnor now on the wall in this pub!

Beaming smile on my face, I was trying to convince myself that I was rapidly drinking myself sober.  Not sure looking back how true that was, but 8 BRAPA ticks in a day, what a result this would be, although landlord in Three Pillars had expressed his doubts that this next one would be open!

According to my records, it opens 6pm on a Saturday, and I mean, how often are visitors in Gravesend after 6pm on a Saturday?  I had to chance it, close to the station anyway.  

My past reluctance to visit Kent for BRAPA has centred around the huge number of Micropubs leading me to doubt how much of a rewarding county it would be.  Nice as the beer might be, could it all get  bit samey?  Well, Three Pillars had turned that viewpoint around, and I bounced into the next pub (thankfully open) with renewed optimism.

Disclaimer - my inebriated state might mean I'm not accurately recollecting this pub, but this was how it appeared to me at the time.

"Hello, hi, hello, hi!" I said standing in the centre of the room at the Compass Alehouse (1852 / 3069) looking at the twelve or so folk lining the walls on stools.  A couple blink.  The rest remain unmoved.  A serious man stepped forward out of the shadows, Peter Cushing but younger, and when I said I was looking for ale, he directed me to a blackboard.  The room remained silent.  "Ooh, the pressure is on with you all watching, haha!" I say, glancing around at the 12 faceless faces.  No one laughs, not even junior Cush.  I ordered something I think called Chocolatey Mild.  'All the seats are taken in here, so you will have to sit outside' he says, and marches me into this covered tent out the back, and closes the bottom of a two part door behind me.  It was a bit like being put in a salubrious dungeon cell.  I was left to drink alone, distant noise of chatter from inside.  At one point (well probably two or three knowing me), I needed the loo so quietly opened the door and crept in.  "YES?!" it was the man from earlier, and a woman by his side.  "I'm just looking for the loo" I stammered.  "Oh okay then, it is that way!" and I'll say one thing I liked about this pub, the toilet seat was very pretty (see below).  Back in my delightful dungeon, and after 10 more minutes of solitary confinement, a short bald man with a carrier bag is pushed into the tent.  He stares at me,  I suspect he's been sent out here to interrogate me but doesn't have those Ted Hastings skills.  It gets so awkward, I finally crack and just reel off where I've been today!  He nods slowly, and then disappears back indoors.  Colin did nothing to help.  I finish my mild, and walk through the twelve faceless faces, saying "bye, see ya later, cheers, bye, see ya later, cheers" to a few vague blinks and pursed lips.

When I woke on the Sunday morning, I doubted whether the experience was quite as sinister as my mind remembers it, but this was how I felt in that moment!  

View from delightful dungeon to half closed door

Colin, useless under interrogation 

Lovely loo seat

Probably my mind playing tricks, but if any independent readers have been here, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts below.  How did you find your experience?

It was finally time to get my sorry drunken arse back to London, and relax in King's Cross til the train was due, maybe they've reopened the coffee stalls by now?  But hang on, what is this, Parcel Yard FINALLY reopen, gotta go and investigate!  Just what I need .......

This photo was in focus on the night, I swear

Fullers have kept us hanging on, and despite the extortionate prices and transient clientele, I can't deny even though this now meant nine pints (and don't say I could order a half, I'm not a monster) I was delighted to see it back.  I stagger in, it is almost pitch black, a couple of strangled distant voices suggest there is the odd other customer ,but I cannot see them.  I don't get very far when a smart young man with a clipboard and a pressed shirt jumps out of the gloom, and mentally jostles me into one of those leather booths directly to the left on entrance.  Now I have been to Parcel Yard probably more than any other pub save a handful in York & Hull & L**ds and I can tell you never once have any of those booths ever been free.  Red letter day.  I ask about the ales, and when I tell him 'ESB is probably a bit much in my state!' he agrees rather too readily for my liking!  Eventually, I'm chinged £5.30 for a Hophead, the most I've ever paid for cask ale, a fact I didn't realise til I checked my Credit Card transactions the following day (damn you contactless payments, I'd rather forget!)  And after that, I just sit in the dark with my Hophead chuckling to myself and taking bad selfies until the platform is announced.  

End of a fun day, I can't remember getting on the train to York but presumably I did, despite the rumours that I woke up on a beach in Wick. 

I feel a bit woozy just recounting that last part of the day.

Join me on Wednesday, when I'll tell you about a rare trip to Essex.  Nearly caught up with blogs for first time since late July, though my September pub total will be low.

Si