BRAPA - Ayrshire (Day Two - Up the Coast)

Day two dawned a bit too bright and sunny (hangover) after the five pubs in three hours end to the night before, but a great breakfast and chat with a lovely golfing couple from Motherwell helped.

After an additional can of Irn-bru and some weird fizzy sweets, I was soon on the train to Largs (changing at Kilwinning of course you absolute novices!) and with the rain mercifully freshening me up further, I was the only passenger on the top deck of the Slip to the Isle of Cumbrae.  A bus met me at the harbour, and dropped me in "the capital" Millport.....

Looking back towards Largs

Millport Jetty

Some irritating schoolkids had commandeered "Crocodile Rock" (so I couldn't "play" on it) so I wandered lonely as a cloud until the sun came out, then I hit the pub.....

929.  Frasers Bar, Millport, Isle of Cumbrae

"Aye, the storms are a comin'" warned the barman with a gleam of presentiment in his eye.  In fairness, he was a fresh faced friendly twenty something but in training for the day when he becomes a rugged pirate.   I ordered a nice pale pint of Glasgow Jaw Drop and I think he wanted me to stand at the bar and chat but I was still not feeling my most sociable so retired to a corner.  Also, I hadn't realised the two old locals, one was a blind Scotsman trying to do a crossword and the other was a deaf cockney, so bar conversation was stifled to say the least.  The pub had a nice comfortable front bar with a long thin tardis-like back area which I think became a bit more foody (there was a random woman stood around with cutlery who mysteriously vanished after 10 minutes).  The island 'joker' appeared and told a story about pissed tourists, but apologised for his language when he realised a woman had walked in, but she looked like a pissed tourist to me.  The bus was waiting, as they tend to do here, and soon I was back on the Slip to Largs (gentle touristy town) for ice cream and pub two.

10 second walk from the bus stop was my first pub of the day

Nice start to day two of pub ticking in Ayrshire

930.  JG Sharps Bar, Largs

It sounded shit from the name, the Carling sign jutting out of the side of the building did nothing to help (how many GBG pubs have this feature do you think?), and a huge Sky Sports banner just added to my sense of worry as I entered here, despite trying to keep an open mind!  The pub was long, thin, dark and dingy with a huge screen blasting out Sky Sports News and I could only see one beer, Doom Bar.  I'd like to take this opportunity to apologise for an error I made in my Mossley/Greenfield blog, pubs with Sky Sports don't get 'free' Doom Bar, they may get the odd promotional barrel for free but it is a deal as part of the Molson Coors chain which presumably also explains why huge lager fonts dominated the bar. I did find a neglected looking Deuchars pump hiding behind a cantankerous old man who wasn't going to move, so I ordered this just to be awkward.  I regretted it, it tasted like the seawater I'd just floated across on (and was served in a Black Sheep glass).  The barmaid looked miserable.  A Jeremy Kyle couple came in for lunch, in the huge soulless back room where a window cleaner had earlier gurned at me through french windows.  They had a buggy with an evil looking "twild" in it (term we York folk use for a child who is also a twat, think my sister invented that).  My "snug " area was quite nice and peaceful and ornate even, but this was a rubbish pub experience and noticing my train was cancelled just put the cherry on the top!

A bad "sign" for my second pub.

View from across the road not much better

A lot nicer inside, but still not convinced.

My mood was black by now and Google Maps wouldn't work so I could not work out where to get a bus from.  Why was the train cancelled?   Maybe the phantom storms had hit somewhere else?   In the now searing heat, I walked the 2.5 miles to Fairlie which wasn't too bad, most of the walk past Largs Golf Course (one of many along this coast) so I got to watch some terrible putting close up, and then across the road, some ladies were crown green bowling and they had more of a handle on things.

Arriving at pub number three

931.  Village Inn, Fairlie

The sign said Fairlie is Scotland's first 'fair trade' village, but it didn't feel very fair to charge me £3.40 a pint when everything else had been £3 on the dot.  I'd again made the mistake of entering the left hand bar to find three young smiling waiter/waitress types who guided me round to the bar (well, when I asked) where I said "aye" to 5 burly locals, whilst a sinister version of Tom Quill (gay baddie from Neighbours) played on a colourful mobile phone.  A girl with incredible eyebrows served me, or the eyebrows did, I saw a sign showing a Tarot night was happening later, but the ghost spelt out "w a x y o u r e y e b r o w s".  I took my Kelburn Jaguar (a beer not a large cat) outside as there was no way I was staying in that silent strangeness though to be fair, the locals were friendly in a reserved way and an old lady smiled at me through a conservatory window.  To my relief, I found a 'hidden' upstairs beer patio area  at roof level with about 50 signs explaining how pub ordering works (see below).  It was baking now, about 30 degrees I would guess with no shade but it was a nice outlook and a back car park could take me back onto the "A" road without walking back through the pub, which was perfect.   So mixed feelings but enjoyable if a bit scary on the whole.

Upstairs pint of Jaguar

Nice of them to explain how a pub works, just ignore the word "restaurant".

It was only an extra 10-15 min walk back to Fairlie railway station, where the next train was on time so I had some lunch and waited.  When it arrived, I heard a weird sizzle on the overhead line and then we were delayed due to an electrical fault for the next 20 minutes, not sure if these two were related.  The locals dealt with the news a lot more calmly than they do on the York-Leeds train I can tell you!

Irvine was my next location after another Kilwinning changeover, and the walk to my next pub reminded me of that between Middlesbrough's Riverside Stadium and the station, and I mean that in a good way you might be surprised to hear.  It was all very calming though, and a bit cooler right on the harbour/seafront.

Funny statue with pub just behind it.

932.  Ship Inn, Irvine

I could hear some wailing come from within the building as I struggled to find the entrance, the song was "I'll Tell Me Ma" which I love when done properly (Irish-punk version) but this club style Phoenix Nights version was possibly distorted by the walls.  At the bottom of some steps, I found the entrance, and a  massive group of frail but cackling old dears, the most I have ever seen in a BRAPA pub.  Turned out for listening to the staff that they have four coach trips a year to random locations, and this was one, hence the live entertainment in the back room.  Further staff comment proved they shared my view of the singing quality.  When he finally encored with "Can't Help Falling in Love" by Elvis, most people had left or their ears were bleeding, Getting the last few women out of the loos/venue seemed to take an age due to various zimmer frames, sticks etc ("they're doing the last of the cocaine in there!") one jovial barman kept repeating ad nauseam  until it became no longer funny.  Pub was a fantastic old building, dark and low roofed and a steady stream of diners started to appear just as the coach had departed.  Although these people had booked tables, I loved the no nonsense way they were basically told to "get in, sit down and shut up" without the staff obviously saying that.  Recommended.

But what's that horrifying noise coming from the right of the building?

Excellent old pub.

I felt like I was flagging by the time I got back to the station, where a train took me to Troon which I had been led to believe was just two golf courses with a couple of streets.  Of course that isn't true, it's two golf courses, a couple of streets, and two real ale pubs!

Doon in Old Troon Toon! 

933.  Bruce's Well, Troon

But is he well?  Whether we are talking about Forsyth (he'll die soon, sorry), Steve (don't get me started) or the landlord, if indeed he is called Bruce (a bit thin and pasty looking), the jury would have to be out.  This was much more what you might envisage of a typical Scottish pub experience, you walk into a large room, very undecorated, very basic, 2 ales on and not much else, a few men stood at the bar chatting and laughing and drinking, and you have to say "hi" and look at them all expectantly until one of them cracks and wanders round to serve you, and you are never quite sure which one it's going to be!  Happens a lot in proper pubs.  Just like Kirkmichael, the ale I wanted had a name hard to pronounce for a wee sassanach bastard like myself, Lia Fail, so it was damage limitation as I tried not to look/sound like a total tool.  If ever there was a pub to open a bag of your own mini cheddars and eat them very loudly and blatantly, this was it.  It caused some reaction as Bruce came over to ask if I had the Cask Marque app.  I told him not to be silly but explained BRAPA (of course) which he was interested in for all of 5 seconds.  Then, one of the locals wives rang and asked what he wanted for tea.  "As long as it's got fish fingers and beans with it" came the response.  It was that kind of a pub.  

A pint of Lia Fail in a classic auld local.

934.  McKay's, Troon

Just across the street, things got even better in here and I was feeling reinvigorated by Troon.  I walked in to a great hive of activity, all wooden floors and bare boards with really friendly female barmaids (well, I guess you wouldn't get a male barmaid) and a cracking range of ales with names even I could (just about) pronounce.  She even understood the "would you like the extra 10p" concept without getting confused as I ordered a "Thrappledouser" from the name people who'd brought me the Lia Fail.  I asked about a beer garden as there wasn't a spare seat indoors and I found even that quite full with early evening/post work drinkers, I thought they'd be all golfers.  Luckily, the garden went back for miles and once you got to the grassy bit, people seemed reluctant to use those tables, again perhaps maybe the folk of Troon see too much green and need a break from it.  Whatever, in the more mellow evening sun, I reached my state of contentment for the day.  I declared it "the perfect end to a great day" at first, but I had Prestwick plans forming ....

Outdoor evening bliss in Troon

As I edged my way back towards Ayr, it was Prestwick time .....

935.  Prestwick Pioneer, Prestwick

A heaving Wetherspoons awaited me and it was my first opportunity to test out Pub Curmudgeon's warning about Scottish 'Spoons being a bit funny when it comes to the 50p off vouchers.  As I ordered a Coachhouse Gunpowder Mild (the first time I'd had to go English all day!) I passed my voucher over only for the barmaid to tell me I'd be better off using it on a Friday or Saturday and gave it back to me.  At that moment, a drunk teenage girl knocked over a 'craft bottle' display next to her table and it created the most almighty crash, the whole pub stood up to have a look.  I 'bonded' with the girl next to me at the bar over the incident (Ayr Utd shoulder tattoos always a turn on) and wished me a good rest of evening which was nice!  I lost my concentration in all of this and 10 mins later, went back to the bar to re-quiz the barmaid on the voucher issue.  She explained the pub puts it's prices up on Fri and Sat, but surely 50p off is 50p off??  But she got a bit defensive, "I'm only trying to save you money!" she wailed, well no cos I haven't saved anything but hey ho, it was £1.99, I'd had six pints plus, I left it, but kind of regret it now!  A picture of Elvis stared at me from across the room, disapproving,  He'd come to Prestwick and maybe came here for a burger.  Bet he got to use his voucher.  Ayr Utd girl reappeared behind a door to say bye, the drunk teenager was finally scooped off the floor (they cleared the bottles up first), and I returned my glass with a sarcastic 'thanks!'

Elvis and not my San Miguel!

Seven new pubs completed, felt ok, popped to Tesco to get some supplies in, B&B bedroom picnic, very classy and all tucked up in bed for 10pm ready for day three trip to Glasgow .....

Si

BRAPA - Ayrshire (Day One - Ayr & Kirkmichael)

Day one of my annual Scottish BRAPA trip took me to Ayr, and despite leaving York at 8:35am, I wasn't in a pub until 5:30pm.  Grrrr.  Having changed trains at both Edinburgh and Glasgow, I checked in at the ace Appin Guest House where I learnt that mine host Melissa's hubbie was a " proper ale pub man".  A good start.

I then had a TWO hour wait for my bus to take me to the only GBG pub in South Ayrshire, so I chilled out / got impatient, hot and bothered on the beach.  It could have been Spain, apart from the fact that the locals were blinding me with their pale complexions, and everyone thought that rather than sunbathe, barbecuing as much meat as is humanely possible is a better course of action.

Ayr beach, it is where we go to fry meat.

The bus was typically delayed, I was gagging for a pint by now, and 40 minutes of rickety bus journey later past about 15 hospitals, we were in the remote (and I mean remote) village of Kirkmichael.

923.  Kirkmichael Arms, Kirkmichael

One thing I am learning this year in BRAPA is "never visit the official pub website".  They always manage to make a cosy village pub look like some frightful restaurant and here was no exception.  I was pleased to see the attached "curiosity gift shop" closed as it seemed to sell the kind of tat (scented candles, tartan teddies) that even a posh middle aged American woman would turn her nose up at.  The pub was a delight though, just six burly local men under a very low ceiling, turning round to appraise this strange visitor.  As I ordered my Ayrshire "Scaur O'Doon" (it had to be a Rabbie Burns poem didn't it!), I have never sounded so much like a 1950's Eton schoolboy.  Am sure one local rolled his eyes.  Not to be intimidated, I perched on the window by the bar and tried to understand the strange language.  The first of many boring Brexit chats were witnessed, eye rolling man excitedly telling everyone that Nicola Sturgeon was virtually the most powerful woman in the world.   His joke about Poles/Polls was even worse.  Excitement followed as an unknown blue car was spotted at the bus stop.  "Probably a tourist" commented the burliest man and they all looked round and laughed.  I chuckled back nervously and buried my nose in the local CAMRA mag, hoping to pick up some local pub clues, only to discover most of the mag was dedicated to the local branch trip to Leeds.  Bloody typical.  The beer was ace but the bus was due only 30 mins after arrival, so I scarpered.  A pretty amusing start in a lovely pub.

As much of the locals as I was brave enough to photograph

Great pint, and great mag (if you wanna read about Dirty Leeds!)

I took the bus as far as Maybole where I had some tea and waited at a very tranquil train station before coming back to Ayr, where the conductor struggled to annunciate his words.  I'd past my first Ayr pub earlier near the seafront so I knew where it was.

Give 'em the boot at Wellingtons

924.  Wellingtons, Ayr

It was now a race against time to get the 5 Ayr pubs in before closing time, although not really when I saw they all stay open til half midnight even on a Monday (take that South Yorkshire!)  This was one of those lovely peaceful underground ale bars like Under the Hammer in Aberdeen or Jolly Judge in Edinburgh, and soon I was talking to a nice calm version of Billy Connolly about all things ale and pubs, oh and that the East Coast trains are worse than the West and how I should start every BRAPA journey from Leeds!  The brunette behind the bar was a bit of a live wire too, owning up to drinking an entire jug of gravy earlier on before declaring she was off the Dundee to meet a man but she might come back with tattoos and start acting crazily.  Billy C suggested she become a lesbian but she wasn't convinced.  The Loch Lomond ale was amazing, possibly the best pint I had all trip and that is a lot of pints as you will see.  BC then said Yorkshire was just like Scotland, on it's own away from the scummy south east (oh please don't go all referendum on me), but he took the edge of it by saying he'd just said the same to a couple from Lancashire, presumably about Lancs and not Yorks.   Some other locals were pleased to hear I was going to Geordie's Byre next, and said I might meet some juicy policemen - not sure my blue tartan trousers (which I later left in my B&B!) were having the desired effect!  

Southern Summit by Loch Lomond - try it today!

 This next pub was the only one that took me north of the bridge, and when you say "north of the bridge" in Ayr, everything changes.  Drunkards on the streets, awful karaoke bars, gargling locals and a man running down the street topless and laughing before half-heartedly trying to climb through a window (all things I witnessed in my 5 min walk).

925.  Geordie's Byre, Ayr

About the only thing I read from this month's 'What's Brewing?' paper was that this pub was going to be presented with some pub award in June.  No sign of it happening tonight as two short, squat Krankie-esque females (mother & daughter I'd guest) perched at the corner of the bar, conspiratorially chatting until I arrived.  There were two old men chatting, and that was it, in a small basic but incredibly classy little square pub.  It was all very quiet and serene as I supped my Jarl (pronounced Yarl you English scum!) and was eyeball to eyeball with one of those stuffed foxes in a glass case, though this was the least convincing one I've seen looking more like Transfer from 'Around the World in 80 Days with Willy Fog'.  A third man came in to declare Andy Murray was about the most powerful man in the world (there's a theme developing here) before one the old boys decided he wanted a whisky, he wanted Grouse but they didn't have any because landlord Eddie (who I was later told was a 'colourful character') had fallen out with the Grouse representative!  It was like a Scottish version of Mossley's Rising Sun all over again! 

Pint of Jarl, Skinners beermats, stuffed fox, local whisky drinkers.  All life is here.

Back over the bridge avoiding the terrifying women outside the karaoke bar, a nice sunset fell over Ayr signifying I was moving back over to the calmer south side of town.  

I liked Ayr's main centre, I'd compare it as a cross between the Isle of Wight (my favourite BRAPA trip until this one) and an imagined version of Blackpool where the whole town is disinfected, the heroin addicts were told to behave themselves, and the teenagers were given daily swabs. 

Sunset over the imaginatively titled River Ayr

 

926.  Glen Park Hotel, Ayr

Being the home of Ayr brewery, I'd been told lots of positive things about this place, and the huge amount of awards on the walls speak for themselves.  However, it all left me a little bit cold to be honest.  It wasn't the cosiest hotel bar, and though I went in eager, wide eyed about their ales (and obviously not a local), I thought the barman would have perhaps tried to "sell" them to me a bit.  Okay, so I complain about "tasters" and the "what type of beer do you like?" question BUT a little bit of spark and enthusiasm wouldn't have gone a miss under the circs.  True, he wanted to get back to chatting to his crones (smiley and friendly though they were) but I just thought, local brewery tap, come on, be proud of your produce.  Pour it down my throat!  After all, Melissa at the B&B, young Billy C and his mate, and all been quite rightly raving about the local ales, and the "Betty and the Gardens" (a misheard song title or something) was strong but excellent.  The only other customers were two young lads who didn't speak to each other, just communicating through downloading stuff on their phones,  then grunted when asked if they'd be back in tomorrow!  Interestingly, the place smelt like Blackpool Winter Gardens Punk Fest when they'd just cleaned it and you go in first thing on the Sunday morning.  Late drama as the local crone who was a bit like a prettier Rose West had received scam text messages to say she'd been looking at porn on Google.  So she said.   It was that kind of pub.     

10pm, still daylight, still about 20 degrees, it didn't feel like when I was pub ticking in Wokingham at this time of night a couple of months back!

927.  Chestnuts Hotel

The gravelled driveway up to the building, and the reception desk where I had to ask where the bar was told me that this was not ever going to be the best pub experience of my career!  This was the kind of ultra furnished, posh place that you almost feel guilty coming into just to order a pint of real ale, whether it is in the GBG or not.  Luckily, the young bar chap looked so exhausted I felt compelled to ask him when he'd started his shift (6am or something improbable).  He assured me he got paid well so it didn't matter.  A whisky drinking local (yes, he was on the Famous Grouse) got very excited to hear this and said "just wait til it's pay day, he buys everyone a drink!!" which went down like a lead balloon sadly for him.  I was quite reassured to get sat next to a group of blokes who were unmistakably Yorkshire (were they lost?) though one started whistling everytime he spoke.  A bunch of EU referendum bores inevitably appeared to my left.  A more well groomed clientele started appearing, all Robbie Savage hairstyles (including the girls), pristine white shirts, and sunglasses after 10pm.  Ok, so I admit I was 5 pints in now but this was a peculiar, but not bad, place to drink.

I thought it said "bar slippers" at first (I want a pair!)

I expected a ferrero rocher mountain to be waiting for me.

928. Abbotsford Hotel, Ayr

Another hotel bar, so wasn't expecting a great deal after the last place, and with the time past 11pm when I arrived, I was just praying it was open (regardless of the advertised time).  It was still buzzing though, and when I ordered my second Jarl of the night, the helpful barmaid asked if I'd had it before and I just dismissed her with a sharp "YES" when I should have said "no my darling, please tell me about your Jarl".  I felt even more sorry for her when she tried to engage three student geeks in conversation and they just kept laughing at her.   The hotel bar was an absolute cracker, tartan carpets, amazing decor including the toilet doors!  Such a warm cosy hubbub too.  A group of men to my left were all drinking coffee, coffee at 11pm in a real ale hotel bar?  Surely the Yorkshire chaps weren't amongst this group, but I couldn't be sure.  I scowled at them anyway in a "my Jarl is better than your cappuchino" kind of way.  Barmaid sloped off home looking dejected, but was replaced with a smiley blonder one (new staff coming on at 11:30pm is a new one on me!) and I wondered how long it would take the geeks to break her spirit too.  Landlord appeared and was very impressed to see my GBG, even more so when I told him about BRAPA and he ordered the barmaid to pull me a free half of Thwaites Wainwright.  I was then introduced to the oldest looking man I've ever seen in a pub (about 250 years old) and though I couldn't understand half of what he said, we had a really nice chat about pubs in Ayrshire, he knew pretty much everything.  I hope I'll be like him when I've finished ticking the GBG.  Lovely people!  Absolutely first class establishment.

The Abbostsford is still open, hurrah!

250 year old man, enjoys a quiet drink before he was ordered to talk to me! 

So, there we go, day one complete.  I slept with the window wide open and it was still boiling hot.  You could come to Scotland for 50 years and not get temperatures like I did for my 3 day stay.  Day two would see me get out up the west coast for more Ayrshire pub ticking.

Si
  

BRAPA - Mossley & Greenfield (Heavy Woollen Tour, Year 3)

The Wellington in Greenfield (see pub 920)

Summer is here and that could only mean one thing in the weird and wonderful world of BRAPA, the third year of the 'Heavy Woollen Tour' where a group of unsuspecting work mates join me for some pub ticking.  However, with West Yorkshire having been completed, we had to go t'other side of t'hills (booooo) and rename it the 'light cotton' tour.  

Seven people was a new record turn out. Joining me were regulars Richard and Jason (the yin and yang of Dewsbury apparently), Piper who was our token female attendee and was very scared of train travel, Sy Clark who has a very infectious laugh and is a very positive lad for a Leeds fan.  Chris Hastings, a young jolly Sunderland fan, arrived in a huge thick raincoat despite the 24 degree weather,  and Danny completed the group.  He's the youngster, and this was his first ever day drinking pints of real ale, "popping his real ale cherry" as he put it.  A good group.

They were probably all regretting it as I marched them up steep hills from Mossley train station in extreme heat like some tour guide from hell, but this was our only tricky to get to pub of the day, and it would prove to be worth it .....

917.  Fleece, Mossley

We voted this first pub our "pub of the day" later on, and it was thanks in large part to the excellent landlord who chatted to us throughout.  As Richard commented much to the locals disgust "of course he's good, he's a Yorkshireman" after he'd told us how he'd followed god and the missionary to this pub (or something) but he was no god-botherer, and he recommended me an ace Lady Julia from Grafton.  Mine came in a strange feminine stemmed glass (I think this was supposed to be Piper's pint) but funnily enough, last time I had a pint of real ale in a glass like this, it was a Grafton stout
(in Biggleswade) so perhaps this seemingly uncompromising Notts brewer likes the continental style glassware.  The pub was ultra traditional, multi roomed and when we admired the pump clips on the ceiling, our favourite landlord excitedly told us how he could get a rare beer from Macclesfield within a week.  It sounded rather reasonable to me.  Jason, who'd had 5 sausages for breakfast, had slipped into a sausage coma and could not communicate for a good 30 minutes.  Our host told us how the Rising Sun is one of the best pubs in Mossley but because a CAMRA person witnessed the landlord being horrid to a customer, they've de-guided it.  I hate it when I hear stories like this, it is a Good Beer Guide, not a Lovely Person's Guide!  Grrrr.

918.  Commercial Hotel, Mossley

The walk back down the hill was a lot easier, and not far from the station was our second pub, but it didn't have anywhere near the level of charm of the Fleece.  True, it was delightfully basic, dark with a few moody looking locals, it had a pool table, fruit machine and a stage, and not much else!  I ordered a Millstone Stout which I enjoyed in Ashton-under-Lyne, but here it had a tang which made me think perhaps it wasn't in great condition, though the people who went 'Tiger Rut' really enjoyed it.  We just sat and drank and slagged off work (the problem when work people go out together!) and just as we were finishing our drinks, a problem I had overlooked on a warm sunny day in this part of the world .... Transpennine Scum!  A huge group appeared around the far end of the bar acting like boisterous idiots blocking our way out, and it didn't help I left my bag in the pub so I had to run back for it - unsurprisingly the locals hadn't noticed though one local old boy was chuckling to himself in a nervous way.

919.  Britannia Inn, Mossley

We did well to generally stay a step ahead of the Transpennine Scummers, but as I took the obligatory blog photo, we encountered a particularly hateful sub-group, some cocky young men in lycra masquerading as bikers.  Except that had no bikes.  They did have a bike bell though that they kept ringing.  When one asked Jason for use of his lighter and Jason warned him about the large flame, I was kinda hoping they'd go up in smoke.  Or the lycra would burn into their skin.  Or maybe that is a bit harsh.  Inside the pub, and this was a step up from the Commi, as the landlady overheard me and Chris debating Doom Bar's 'merits', turns out that if you are a pub that has Sky Sports, you get Doom Bar for free!  So that explains why it is everywhere.  A better Sharp's beer is Atlantic and I enjoyed this though the even better Lowry themed one from Hydes had just gone off.   The pub was in a bit of state of flux, preparing for new carpetting and an all round makeover (I still think the Commercial needed it more) so I warned the landlady it better retain it's pubby vibe.   We sat in the front seating area as for a third Heavy Woollen year in a row, the weather was amazing.  

Note the lycra scum to the right

Possibly the last photo ever taken of the old interior.  

It was time to get the train to Greenfield, hemmed in by thousands of the TP scum, so much so that as we stood in the boiling hot vestibule, I told the train guard that we weren't part of them and tried to explain BRAPA.  His conclusion was "right, so YOU are the cream of the pissheads!".  I suppose so.

920.  The Wellington, Greenfield

One of the highlights of the day was this cracking little pub, nestling beneath the hills.  Something about the pub name 'Wellington', it generally seems to guarantee a good pub experience.  The barmaid seemed to find our particular brand of work-gang "bantz" amusing, as I reported how we'd managed to burn off the TP Scum who'd all gone to the Railway Inn as you'd expect from a group of vile, odious sheep.  After ordering a huge amount of Salopian Lemon Dream ,we were soon out at the front of the pub where I went in search of a beer garden, but only found a lane of "vice".  First, two very made-up glamour girls got into a pimp mobile, possibly with the emblem "Greasy Joe's on the side of the car.  Richard claimed the lane was called "Suck Off Alley" though I can't testify to this.  Meanwhile, an old man who still hadn't come to terms with the smoking ban took a huge breath and blew his smoke in through the front door in a defiant act.  Then a girl with sunglasses and short dress walked (bounced) past and tried to look appalled that anyone would look at her.  What a peculiar place Greenfield seems to be.  But we liked it!

Danny's initiation to real ale, as the Lemon Dream's get poured. in front of a local psycho (perhaps)

921.  King William IV, Greenfield

Another classic traditional olde worlde pub, all stone and wood burners, I remember thinking how nice this pub'd be on a dark winters night as I ordered a pint of the Greenfield "Silver Owl" which we kept seeing everywhere and I couldn't avoid any longer.  Again, we sat out at the front of the pub and if I had one criticism of the day (apart from my painful sunburnt neck!) it'd be that despite the rural locations, there didn't seem to be many actually spacious beer gardens.  In a move reminiscent of last year's trip to the Reindeer in Overton, Richard asked if there were any other pubs in the area we could squeeze in, and before I knew it, I'd booked two taxi's to Uppermill but didn't realise the taxi company was literally around the corner so we had to neck our drinks.  Ooops.  Not sure we got the 27.5 minute minimum in here but not to worry, I also worked out I could walk to Dobcross from Greenfield so perhaps I may revisit here on a NFFD or the like! 

 922.  Cross Keys Inn, Uppermill

After an interesting taxi ride where our young Asian taxi men were quite excitable and intense, I nipped to the loo, ordered a JW Lees Kaleidoscope and went to sit in the beer garden (it was almost proper this one) for what seemed like ages, as Jason & Piper hadn't seem me come out.  Apparently, the staff were poor in here too hence the even longer wait.   Pub did have a lovely village feel though inside, as good as any we'd been in today from my brief experience with it.    I took in the scenery and noticed the church I could see was Saddleworth Church, so me and Piper were right, that was probably Saddleworth Moor we'd been looking up at all day.  Now Ian Brady probably isn't in to real ale, but I wonder if he ever came here with Myra for a home cooked child pie and pint of Tennants Extra Fizzy.  Funny what you think of six pints in isn't it?  I hear the pub has been in the GBG for 40 years so even more reason why it was a good tick to get, and for a John Willie Lees, really enjoyed the ale.

Sy Clark enjoys in a pint in the rural bliss

Waiting for my pint to arrive .....

The taxi's took us back to the Railway Inn so we had a swift one there but was still too crawling with TPers to be fully enjoyable, though glad to report I had a pint of Tiger Rut for my 3rd successive time in this excellent pub.

Back in 'Udders, we had a MaccyD's before a trip to premier 'Spoons Cherry Tree which am surprised to see not in the GBG this year as the ale is always superb and the Stancil Stainless no exception.  Danny did exclaim "I could murder a nice cold lager right now!" but on the whole, he'd done very well for an ale newbie.  Train back to York for fish & chips, end of a superb day but it'll be nice to be able to notice the more minute pubby details next week in Ayrshire.

Si

BRAPA - May Review / June Preview (2016)

Hi!  I'm Simon Everitt and you might remember me from pub blogs such as "How to be a Pariah in Penistone", "Chip Fetishism in South Bucks" and "Chorlton-cum-Hardy : just why?"

May Review

After the record-breaking liver-busting festival that was April, there was always going to have to be a come-down.  May was the month where we took to the green tea and bran flakes and declared ourselves "lucky to be alive".  Having said that, there was still time to squeeze in 21 new pubs which is an acceptable figure and still well above the monthly minimum of 15.

The quality of pubbing was very good (though a few places tested my patience), and the Berks/Bucks day on 14th May was a highlight.  Hull City's unexpected day at Wembley inadvertently helped Buckinghamshire to become the surprise county of the month.  Here are my three absolute favourites:

1.  Blackwood Arms, Littleworth Common
2.  Beehive, Harthill
3.  Green Man, Denham

Month end awards ceremony

June Preview

I'm expecting bigger things of June with a crazy first half of almost April Berkshire proportions.

Firstly, it is year three of the "heavy woollen adventure" in Mossley and Greenfield (light cotton?) but with about six work people in tow (and one excitedly using the hashtag #ladsdayout), I've had to remind them of their BRAPA responsibilities and I'm not expecting my blog review to be at it's most detailed and coherent, apologies in advance!

I then head to the West of Scotland for a BRAPA holiday where it looks like my Wetherspoons vouchers will get a good seeing to, but hopefully there'll be some classic old pubs mixed in.

A few days after that, I am back in Berkshire and we are heading to the east of the county again with Datchet and Eton the key locations.

A week off after that for the inevitable summer beer festival frolics (Poppleton), before ending the month in Greater Manchester as we continue the letter "A" and try and decide which (if any) Premier League away games look enticing for the 2016/17 campaign.

There will be Tuesday evening South Yorkshire action too on 14th, 21st and 28th as we look to get Hazlehead done before we start on what remains of Sheffield (spit!) but this crafty beery city will see me well into July aswell.

I'll be disappointed with anything under 30 new pubs, may even push towards 40 but I won't break the April record.

Now, where am I on the NHS waiting list for a new liver?

Si

Daisy the cat reacts with shock to the tough June agenda.

BRAPA - Firbeck & Mapplewell, South Yorkshire

It was the day after Wembley as we travelled back north, quite fuzzy-headed and still disbelieving of how good the day had actually been, but I was just about alert enough to hold Dad to an earlier promise "if you see a difficult pub you need for BRAPA just off the motorway, we'll stop off".  This is why Bernard is a leading BRAPster.

Having reluctantly come to the conclusion that the B4368 Clun - Abermule road couldn't really be considered as being just off the A1 or M1, I settled on a pub that has been causing me much South Yorkshire evening woe due to busses not running after about 3pm.

The location was more remote than I expected, but once we negotiated the country lanes (SatNav woman was suffering from PMT so had stopped talking to us, bless the lord) we found a village so beautiful it felt like it was saying "come on then South Bucks if you think you're 'ard enough!"

915.  Black Lion, Firbeck

In true South Yorks tradition, it's opening times were subject of much debate.  11am is very unusual for a village pub on a Sunday, but everything said it apart from the actual pub sign that said 12 noon.  Why can't South Yorkshire just behave?  The pub had low beams, was well furnished and a nice 50/50 split of traditional and modern, and the inevitable influx of Sunday lunchers somehow did nothing to detract.  This was possibly because most people were eating chip butties with their yearly salt allowance and a generous helping of Henderson's Relish.  It sounds like an S.Yorks stereotype, but it was brilliant to see.  The two barmaids were having a whispered conversation about a couple in the corner "oooh, he used to talk to me, NOT anymore", and "she's got a rubbish dress on, I don't trust her", I couldn't really hear so am filling in the blanks but it was classic bitchiness, and the landlord gave a sideways glance to indicate the lack of professionalism.  The guest ale was New York Pale by Chantry from Rotherham and there can't be many better, but Dad's Bradfield Farmers Blonde was an obvious rival.  I could feel invisible pubby tentacles grabbing at me, trying to keep me here all afternoon.  Despite being at the bar for all of two minutes, a local with a  classic mullet commented to the brunette barmaid "don't mention the football, we blew it" before she replied "Hull City were the better team and what a great goal!"  I thought they'd all be Millers fans (or "Toytown" as they call them) so serves them right, failed glory supporters, and wished I'd kept my Hull City top on now.   Wonderful pub.

Gents to the left because women are right - oh how we laughed (or not).

So, that was that then but fast forward 48 hours plus and much sleeping and recovering, and I was on the always characterful 16:40 Leeds to Barnsley "express" train.

"I'm a real ale man and I like my real ale!" announced an old man being humoured by a young student, a great intro to a BRAPA evening if ever I heard one.  He then claimed Barnsley had no real ale pubs but before I had chance to beat him over the head with a paper bearing the words "Old Number 7", he started going on about how lonely he was since his wife died .... "yeh mate, we've all got problems, you're starting to bore me." 

Barnsley bus station was it's usual classy self so after a Coopland's sausage roll, I was on the number 1 service to Mapplewell, or "Mapp" as Caroline at work told me I should call it.  The skies were grey, the wind was swirling, but a traditional looking South Yorkshire hostelry was on the horizon .....

916.  Talbot, Mapplewell

So imagine my surprise when I found a pub choc-a-bloc with diners, and I mean EVERYONE apart from one nervy looking youth at the bar had their piggy faces in the snoutbag.  However, things took a turn for the better when I was told that the ales (all from Four Roses brewery in nearby Darton) were £2 a pint.  Happy hour!  Til 6pm.  It was 5:43.  Even my comment  "I better get drinking quickly then, ho ho!" made two barmaids laughed, the third obviously thought I was a bit of a tosser, but a 66.67% win ratio is better than normal in the "BRAPA bar room banter" stakes.  I wonder why I haven't encountered happy hour more often on my evening trips, considering 5:30-7 is about my peak time.  Perhaps it is a dying art?  Perhaps the discounts are usually so measly I just think it's a decent value pub?  Perhaps it usually only applies to locals?  The Heron Porter went down well as I squashed in a rare free seat, with only a leather bound menu as opposed to knives, forks and condiments.  I was immediately wedged in by a sour faced couple who were lacking in spatial awareness, charm and were up and down like yo-yos.  Seriously, the number of trips to the 'specials board' made me think they were trying to memorise it a la Generation Game.  Being outer Barnsley though, this somehow still felt a lot more like a pub than a restaurant, perhaps the high proportion of Barnsley home shirts kept the experience down to earth.    Then, an even weirder couple sat at my table with their backs to me, using it as a kind of waiting area before a foodier table became available.  It would have been easy to leave in a 'food pub rage' but instead, I embraced it and with my watch showing 5:58pm, I'd drunk quickly enough to warrant a second pint, something paler.  It says a lot for the pub that I wanted to do this.

Heron Porter and a leather menu

Pint two and Mr Sourface

Pint two with weird back turned couple.

I bussed it back to Barnsley and trained it to York via Leeds in fairly good time, working out I won't finish ticking off South Yorkshire before the new GBG comes out so will aim for the end of the 2016, as I will probably have some new West Yorkies to tick off too.  Thinking ahead! 

Si