Beverley, the East Riding's answer to York. The kind of place which makes people gaze up at you all doughy eyed and coo 'ooooh what a lovely town'.
I was here to visit the Wetherspoons, and get the hell out of here ASAP before the day trippers suffocated me. Such is the life of a pub ticker.
My seventh visit in the name BRAPA, yes seven. That must be some kind of record outside Biggleswade. Visiting the 'Spoons as a pre-emptive on one of my previous six trips would have been sensible. BRAPA isn't sensible.
All previous six trips had been in the wintertime. Today, it was baking hot, even at 11am. Daddy BRAPA hits traffic as we approach the centre. I hop out as he looks for a parking space and a poncey coffee somewhere in the Saturday Market, a pretty rabbit warren of streets at the hub of the town. I've only ever been to Beverley on a Saturday, another fascinating fact.
The heat hits me and I glance up at the minster. There's my culture done for the day! Now I can relax.
The 'Spoons is just along the street on the right hand side with echoes of Witham and Maldon .......
In a scene that could be best described as 'chaotic', at worst 'a bloody shambles', I enter the cool, dimly lit Cross Keys, Beverley (1877 / 3306) where the breaking news is that there is no table service until 1pm, App only orders until then. Considering everyone following me in looks like Harry Enfield's George Whitebread character "I'm a Yorkshireman. I say what I like, and I like what I bloody well say!", well you can imagine they have no idea what an App is. And stressed, sweating staff relent minutes later and decide to abandon their ill conceived notion, seeing as a frustrated queue is now snaking outside the door. Roll on Magic Monday (19th!) When the posh lady explaining DNA to her three husbands leaves, a group of NINE twenty somethings enter, looking for tables of six and three. Good luck with that chumps. And they get their heads bitten off by the main barmaid, despite the youngsters being a lot more polite than the Whitebread's of this world! Six of them disappear towards the kitchen, we never see them again. But the steak pies do seem extra fresh, so there is that I guess. My Doom Bar (one of only two on) is drinking well, little did I know it'd be one of the better kept pints today, cool and well conditioned.
|DNA, husbands and Doom|
|"Table for four of you, over there, & use the App!" "Urrrr, what's an App, luv!"|
I find Dad chilling under a tree by the car park, and we head off to Hull. Not because I need a tick there, but because there is far too much time to kill before our 2pm Micropubs open.
Dad requests his current Hull City home game fave, the White Hart, NOT to be confused with the inferior but more famous Olde White Harte.
.... it was onto Brough for our penultimate East Yorkshire tick,