BRAPA - Summer Special Day 3 : Truro Love

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

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

Si