BRAPA - Stuck in a Rutland, Stranded in Stamford

It was one of those weird days, even by the standards of the British Real Ale Pub Adventure, where nothing went particularly smoothly, felt nice, relaxed or too much fun.  But on the plus side, it should make for a decent blog write up!

From the sublime ....

......to the ridiculous

The second 'Dad Mystery Tour' of the 2017/18 season took us to Stamford.  Not because I had a craving to visit Lincolnshire (no one has ever had that craving), but because it was close to Rutland, the final English GBG county where I had a sum of zero pub ticks.  This needed rectifying. 

The train journey down from York to Peterborough was painstaking.  We could deal with engineering works making the journey a painful 2 hours long, but we couldn't deal with fans of the worst sport on earth (rugby union) travelling down south to watch England.  As long as the loud Hemsworth father n son behind us didn't get talking to the obnoxious group of posh oldies opposite (Wensleydale and Swaledale), we'd be okay.  They did, and swapped a copy of the Daily Mail for 2 cans of Carling.  A twild sang "Swing Low Sweet Chariot".  Gimme football hooligans any day. 

We had a long wait in Peterborough so popped into that above average 'Spoons, Drapers Arms,  but the service wasn't up to the usual standard (beer was superb) and Dad got short tempered with the barmaid and I had to be diplomatic whilst he went to find a table by the fire.

Me post-diplomacy. 

One exciting novelty factor about today was the chance to hop on a "request bus" but their online service was so shite, I had to ring and speak to a human man to ask if, at 2pm, we could get a lift from a village called Belmesthorpe to Stamford, something that looked eminently achievable on their timetable & website, but in reality was a total flop.  "I can't get to ya til 5pm, but thanks for thinking of us mate" was the reply.

I've only heard of request bus services existing in Lincolnshire, and like the county itself, it seemed synonymous with disappointment, flatness, webbed feet and things that just don't work. 

After a short train ride from Peterboro' to Stamford, an idiot family on the narrow footbridge over the railway line held up the entire human race trying to leave Stamford station by 'trying to reinact a scene from the railway children' which seemed incorrect on so many levels.

Today didn't need pubs to be irritating. 

We had an hour to kill before our bus so we headed to the Green Man pub, with it's advertised 11am opening time in the GBG.  It was closed.  Obviously.

Better luck around the corner at Jolly Brewer, open but only time for a rushed half.  I'd return later and review it then.  Dad too was failing, his inability to take any kind of decent outdoor photo totally out of character, adding to my anguish.  Even he was broken.

At the "bus station"(where incidentally a purple request bus was sat doing sweet fanny adams), me and Dad talked loudly about the bus we were catching and a senile old lady with zero marbles told us we couldn't get to Ryhall from here.  Everyone else looked skeptical, my phone AND research said otherwise, a teenager tried to challenge her and got shouted down by her fellow old admirers so he moodily put his headphones back in muttering "I give up". Good guy.

Dad had wandered off to find a bus stop at a church which didn't exist, I, exasperated, knew she'd told us porkies, so I marched us to the station to find a taxi, Dad walking at a snails pace, me trying to get him to show more urgency, I was absolutely fuming at this point with how today was going.  This was the BRAPA low point of the year.

You can stop reading now, it really doesn't get much better.

Happily, a jolly Asian taxi bloke finally got us to Ryhall.  It shouldn't have been this difficult.  Dad accidentally tried not to pay the poor bloke, maybe our first pub could lighten the mood..... my first Rutland tick n all that.

1143 (189).  Green Dragon, Ryhall

A pretty village and a pub which has probably been there for centuries but has had the heart and soul ripped out of it by years of unsympathetic refurbishment.  There were two rooms to choose from.  A side room behind a sliding door, or straight ahead, the main bar.  Dad reported the main room smelt of dog.  So we made the decision to sit in the white-walled bland side room, with tuck shop goodies and one customer who we suspected was former football maniac John Hartson.  The beers on offer was as dull as humanely possible, but the blonde barmaid in army jacket was a friendly shining jewel in an otherwise shit-stained crown.  We ordered the only ale that didn't shout "Greene King", but it tasted of it and was impossible to pronounce (SBS C+).  I recapped the horrors of the morning quite loudly, Hartson looked like he was gonna kick me in the head Berkovic style, so I went to the loo (nice art deco mirror), then we settled down to 'Come Dine with Me' as Hartson left in a grump.  A nice buttery smell of home cooking briefly wafted in.  The tuck shop sweets looked like they'd been in the pub for 20 years untouched, this wasn't the dream intro to Rutland pubbing I'd hoped.

Yum yum.

John's enjoying it just as much as me.

  The walk from Ryhall to Belmesthorpe was one of the few nice moments of today (see photo at top of blog) and very straightforward.  Time for my second Rutland pub tick, Dad's fourth as he did two in  Oakham with Mum the other year.  Belmesthorpe looked a lovely village.

1144 (1890).  Blue Bell, Belmesthorpe

Heart palpitations as I had to walk past two very shut looking doors before finding the 'main entrance' at the back of the pub in the busy car park.  An elaborate porch way suggested this could be a dining pub, so I was fairly relieved when I walked in to find a group of old locals stood silently in a circle inviting me to 'enter their space'.  I smiled weakly, one man said hello (the friendly one), and an old dining couple were feeding a greedy twog which was camouflaged into the stone walls.  It felt like we'd walked into a seance or a witches coven, and a watchful barmaid told me "to look above yer" head to see what beers were on, they must be floating eerily above my head.  I hurriedly ordered a pint of Brewsters something cos the girl on the pump clip looks like someone I worked with but it wasn't their finest effort (SBS C).  On the face of it, this should've been a nice pub, warmer than the last, yet it was even less convincing and had us being all the more complimentary about the Green Dragon.  It was like it lacked a basic honesty, the human touch, and was just a bit weird.  Dad kept moving tables cos he kept finding 'red stains' on them which made him felt uneasy!  A man came out of a cupboard (crypt) with shirt and moustache straight out of the 1980's.  Had he been in there all this time?  He went to work behind the bar, looking confused by handpumps.  The taxi pipped it's horn, it was here early, good, we don't have to finish this beer.  So we scurried off.

Twog life

View through the bar

As today was today, the taxi driver had to be weird.  He played us a Status Quo medley telling us they were the most underrated band in the world, then gave us a Suzi Quatro quiz, and ended by playing African music ultra loud like he thought he was a chav on a tomato soup advert.  We were glad to escape, back in Stamford.

Dad, so relieved to be out of that taxi.

1145 (1891).  Tobie Norris, Stamford

But any thoughts that the 'hard part' of the day was done, and we could now settle down to 4 pubs in the town, were put on hold when we saw people 'queuing' to the bar, all with menus debating with loved ones whether tomato and basil pesto bruschetta was a good pairing with an ice cold glass of prosecco.  Dad suggested maybe we leave, returning to this pub when the lunchtime rush was over.  But this was the straw that broke the camel's back for me, after a day of annoying events so far.  I marched down the queue, plonked myself on the bar, and when the guy said 'who's next?', I pushed in, telling the lady next in the queue that we were only having drinks so I may as well go first.  Dad said I did it in a charming way, but woe betide if she'd argued the toss!  The rest of the queue looked daggers at me, and her for letting me push in.  The young bar man was lily livered, and had no control over what was happening.  Where to sit with our pints of average Damson Porter by Fullers (SBS C+) was the next challenge.  Couldn't get to side room for the queue and sleeping twogs, other rooms full or upstairsy restaurant.  One chair at the fireplace.  So Dad, buoyed by my actions, went to wrestle a chair off a posh foodie woman in the next room.  Sounds like it took some arguing, but he came back victorious, chair raised above his head, and plonked it by the fire place.  I felt like we were channelling the ghosts of #PubMen of the past, caring not the pub hated us.  The queue died down and solidarity came in the form of a local woman, who sat at the bar, read her paper with a pint, and nodded happily as I recounted how me and Dad had turned this into a great pub experience, for which the pub deserves approximately zero amount of credit. 

Part of the queue of queuers

More of the queue, and they aren't happy.

The dungeon master gets in the way

Two young black dudes march an old man to bar and buy him half a coke!

Woman is pub legend.

Feeling a bit more like we'd taken back the power, we headed to our next pub and it looked like it might be more foodie nightmares, despite being well into the afternoon .....

1146 (1192).  Kings Head, Stamford

We walked into this rather small pub to find it packed to the rafters with zombies, either sitting down very slowly at tables, or bemoaning the lack of free seats and groaning in people's ears in the hope they could jump in their graves, if that's what zombies do, I don't really know.  I went to the bar and got the round in (some tawny coloured liquid fizzing slightly but clearer than some, SBS B-)  and was surprised to see Dad had magically got quite a decent sized table in impossible circs.  "But I wanted an orange juice!" he complains as I put the pint down.  "WHATTT?" I stammer.  "Only joking!" he replies, what a trickster that man is.  Something already vaguely in our minds from most of the previous pubs was that the folk of Stamford are perhaps the smuggest most self satisfied looking individuals on the planet.  Beautiful town they live in, no doubt about it.  But even so, lose the attitude people, you are still from Lincolnshire, and not even good North North East East Lincs.  Dad puts it down to the fact that almost every Period Drama is set in the town.  The clientele are weirder here than the other pubs, yes, even the Tobie Norris.  Two women try to hypnotise each other, a young Mum wrestles two Helium Minions as Twild grizzles and suffocates in a buggy that would probably seat about 10 twilds, no wonder this pub is short on space.  Three bearded lads have that look in their eye that says 'we have shares in Brewdog', and a low rent Keeley Hawes and lower rent Matthew McFadyen talk charmingly about Howards End.  Time to leave.

Next up was the Green Man.  Was it home time yet? 

1147 (1193).  Green Man, Stamford

So the pub we tried to get in at 11am but wasn't open, Dad's theory that 11am openers are becoming increasingly rare seemed spot on.  Once inside, it had the feel of a pub that broke promises.  Dad asked the barmaid if he could have a coffee. "Haha, Dad you joker!" I said, remembering 'orange juice gate' in the previous pub.  "No I'm serious this time" he said.  The barmaid looked confused.  "We don't do coffee, sorry!"  Was she joining in the joke?  Was there a joke?  Fair play to any pub that doesn't serve coffee in my book.  "Never mind" says Dad, and does a quick recce of the bar.  "I'll have a Thornbridge Jaipur then!"  Of course, the logical choice(!)  We sat to the left of the main door.  An old man stared at us perplexed, like he'd never seen people drinking real ale in this pub before.  The bloodstained tables that had blighted Dad in Belmesthorpe were back.  And then, nothing happened.

The Jolly Brewer was the last pub on the list.  Thank fook.  We'd been in earlier.  So we went in again.

1148 (1194).  Jolly Brewer, Stamford

EASILY the best pub of the day, and the best pub in Stamford unless there's something hidden controversially like that Coopers place in Burton on Trent that Twitter loves.  Anyway most of my memories are from the first visit, as you may expect, and we were greeted by a few curmudgeonly old blokes milling around the bar, and a friendly barmaid in Oakham Green Devil top.  I chose an ale cos it had an elephant on the pump clip and she told me it was a local brewer called "Abstract Jungle" - it was v.nice (SBS A-) even though I didn't need to know this information.  The old men then annoyed her by saying "imagine women having a voice".  It was agreed such a concept was "disgraceful".  The pub had a pool table and still managed to be excellent, how very Herefordshire and Worcestershire.  On our second visit, the pub was a lot busier.  We sat to the right this time.  Dad got coffee.  And more coffee.  So I got one too.  Even though I slag off coffee pubs.  I'm such a hypocrite.  But i'm allowed to be.  So there. 

Back in Peterborough, we went to Waitrose for a sandwich and more coffee.  It was a better experience than almost all the pubs we'd been to today!  They just need to put a handpump in like Guiseley Morrisons has. 

A truly hideous day, but fun in a weird twisted way.  At Donny, as the train waited to depart, who should appear in the window but Thos. Irvin.  The day we'd had, it was no surprise!  The poor woman nearest him looked terrified.  We waved and hid, embarrassed but kind of pleased. 

I want to end the blog on a high so a few quick pictures of Monday's 'York Dice Night' trip to the Exhibition, a vastly underrated pub that will never trouble the GBG compilers sadly, but when the beer is not vinegar or pondwater like tonight, is really quite wonderful.  It beat the GBG listed Pivni 3-1 and is now in the quarter finals with plenty of other surprising entries (Seahorse Hotel, Pavement Vaults, Gillygate and less surprisingly, The Fox). 

Until my London trip (unless I do Harrogate Thu which is highly unlikely as my face will be numb, bruised, bleeding or all three), have a good week!

Si

BRAPA - A Good Hartshead These Days is Hard to Find

Suspect font does club no favours

I was joined by unique work 'character' Karl Dawson for this pub tick, an enthusiastic chap who had expressed a desire to come on this trip ever since I mentioned it in passing when the 2018 GBG first found it's way into my possession. 

Karl lives fairly close to Hartshead, in Batley, but despite being off work this week, he still insisted on getting the train into L**ds, walking up to work, doing an impromptu hour of work from 3-4, then walking down with me, and getting the train to Mirfield.  "It's not like I've got owt better to do with my life!" he declared totally deadpan.  "Besides, I want the full BRAPA experience!"

Karl only drinks one alcoholic drink.  Smirnoff Ice.  It's hard to find these days he tells me.  Ordering one for him in a club in rural West Yorkshire was going to be a challenge, and had the potential to make me look like a dick in front of serious West Yorkshire club men. 

We hopped off the 16:23 train at Mirfield.  In the comfort of my York flat, Google Maps said a 38 minute walk.  In the deepest darkest reality of West Yorkshire, it was a 53 minute walk.  Karl's main hobby is walking.  So we walked.  And walked.  Buses exist, but they aren't very convenient from Mirfield.

About three quarters of an hour of slightly uphill trekking on increasingly isolated slippy Autumn leaves, with Karl stopping for a quick interlude at an astroturfed hockey pitch where some honest Yorkshire girls with proper thighs (not the kind of thighs you get in London) were thrashing their sticks around.

On a summers day (I should really have done this pub when the evenings were light) you'd get some wonderful views from the top, and after a quick bus stop recce for later, we found the club on Prospect Lane's vertical hill. 

Ghostly Karl

Ghostly Si

1143 (1888).  Hartshead Club, Hartshead

The entrance was stereotypical Yorkshire club in the middle of nowhere, expectant faces turning to face us, a brief look of disappointment as we were over the age of 60 or people they knew, a full sized snooker table to the right, and a raised stage to the left that looked like it had hosted Phoenix Nights style 'entertainment' for many years.  Some things were less stereotypical, it was light, bright, relatively friendly, a lovely circular bar ceiling area very art deco or something.  It was cosy and 'pubbier' than many GBG clubs I've visited.  It contained that rarest of club creature .... 'WOMEN' who presumably fought for their rights to be admitted here and finally succeeded after a 2015 court injunction.  I fought my way past the bar blockers, Karl had scanned the fridges and was not too hopeful on the Smirnoff Ice front.  Not surprising really seeing as it isn't 1998.  He said "don't worry, just get me a coke".  "No Karl, I've psyched myself up for this moment!" and bellowed the request to the horror of the locals.  Barman was apologetic, reeled off a long list of WKD's and the like, only for me to tell him "coke only" which seemed to throw everyone totally.  I had a Saltaire Blonde cos it was the beer directly in front of me, an underwhelming SBS of B- but decently drinkable.  The next half an hour was Karl talking at me about his latest 'building stuff out of wood' projects, his brother borrowing his new sander, as Culture Club was piped out behind me and I heard "Waiting for a Star to Fall" by Boy Meets Girl for the first time since before Smirnoff Ice was popular.  One quirk I noticed were Sam Smiths beer mats and Taddy Lager on tap.

Don't trip over the pumpkins

Karl puts brave face on his coke

The bar blockers

I told Karl not to miss his bus to Batley, so we left.  I had 55 mins to get back to Mirfield station for the 19:08 which was delayed anyway, I still had time to stop in the Co-Op for a bag of pickled onion monster munch & a capri-sun.

It was an eventful walk back.  A steamed up car down a country lane with handprints in the back windows was rocking, a startled fox crossed my path, and back at the floodlit astroturf pitch, it was now 'boys football' being watched by 'Terry the Terror', the local paedo.  He looked a bit sheepish as I nodded "ow do" and wiped his right hand suspiciously on his trouser leg. 

In the midst of all this chaos, it was easy to forget I should be celebrating.  I'd completed West Yorkshire 2018 GBG entries, my third time doing this, and my first county done in the new GBG so good psychologically!  Although there was no real 'appetite' around finishing WY again, working in Leeds means it's nice easy after work ticks.  Too easy NOT to do!

I'll now look at what I can do in North Yorkshire on evenings before starting on South again, though I suspect the real 'value' ticks will be when I get back over the Pennines to Greater Manchester and get places like Eccles, Hyde, Monton and Patricroft ticked off.  By which I mean GBG regulars and not the Johnny-come-Latelys.  Altrincham can fucking do one.

So plenty to do still, next week could be tricky as I'm going "under the knife" (well, laser!) on Thurs, cannot drink for 48 hours before, but the location of this is Harrogate where I require two pubs so there's a chance I could get them done if I'm not too dead, numb n scarred!  And London bonus Fri evening around Camden/Kentish Towns should alleviate the pain further before a return to Bucks on Saturday where I'm doing 3 of my final 7.

Si

BRAPA - Wild Wonderful Walk(ley) North West of Sheffield

So, just to recap from the previous blog.  It was Saturday afternoon, 4pm, and Hull City were 1-0 up at Sheffield Utd.  We'd been to the Hillsborough Tap, Ship and the incredible Wellington.  3 further pubs awaited, and all was well with the world.

The second half commenced with my work friend Joanna telling me she was in the midst of a York pub crawl with some other ladies, and kept sending me "guess the York pub" pictures:

Three Legged NightMare - guessed it in one!

Eagle & Twild - a terrible York "pub".  Second time lucky.

Hull City conceded an equaliser which had been coming, and then remembered how terrible they were defensively and shipped 3 quick goals, making the "wish you were here on our York pub crawl" messages harder to take.

I could've been here:

But this was my reality:

Crikey!  Soon, we were put out of our misery and after saying farewell to good ole Dad who needed to get home for tea, me and Tom wound our way West and happened upon pub number three:

1139 / 1885.  Portland House, Sheffield West

All the excitement happened in the first 5 minutes here, and it wasn't until we got inside to find a group laughing at us that we realised we'd been photobombed, and I had to serious lighten and edit my photo to get the full genius of their 'amusing' ways.  The wait to be served was fairly painful, and the group next to us chatted with much feeling in their voices with a probable staff member about how this place would probably close on 3rd Dec if a buyer wasn't found.  When I relayed this to Tom, he (not unreasonably from a strategic BRAPA perspective) suggested the sensible move might be to walk straight back out(!) but the walk, 4-1 defeat, and sense of sympathy for the pub made me stay. 
Besides, everyone was drinking an ale called "Last Hurrah (to youth)".  Fitting perhaps.  SBS B, it was billed as a "Super hopped North American party beer" which made me want to punch everything in the face.  Not my North American readers though obviously!  We sat down and I could tell Tom was about as non-plussed about the place as I was.  Large Micropub?  London style "beer canteen"?  With knowing tiles with words like "ginfinity", "beardolicious" and "craftology" (i'm making these up I think) scrawled on them in black marker pen.  Having said that, warm, welcoming, and very west Sheffield which I'll expand on in next pub.  I can imagine it will be missed, not only by pub-tickers who've done it, but by uni students.  But I'd be crying more if Wellington, Shakespeare, Blake Hotel, White Lion, Kelham Island Tav, Bath Hotel etc were going! On the way out, I showed the crazy window group the lightened up photo.  They were semi-amused.

Can you see what I mean?

Crazy window group from inside view

We then had the most painstaking walk of the day, joining up West Sheffield to take us from Sharrow to wherever Commonside is:

Tom and a smoking bloke unfazed by BRAPA

1140 / 1886.  Hallamshire House, Sheffield West

This was a great looking pub with superb windows and a small frontage which opened out into a huge pub inside, which is why they call it the Tardis, which is an infinitely better name than Hallamshire House, which is just as dull as the name 'Portland House'.  What happened to the days when pubs had pub names and didn't sound like accountants premises?  That was my first thought.  My second was why is there a man at the door with a dog buried in his crotch.  After ordering something Thornbridge (I basically closed my eyes, yawned and pointed at one  - SBS B-), Tom asked if the dog was a contender for dog of the year but the fellatio element put me off, despite it's well behaved nature.  The pub was so outer Sheffield, a youthful to middle aged well to do community, everyone very pleased with themselves despite being from Sheffield, loud Saturday evening "top bantz", trying to appeal to lovers of traditional pubs as well as the modern, leather, well heeled foodie crowd, and falling a bit short of both in my opinion.  The only empty room was, no surprise, the pubbiest, delightfully gloomy with a snooker table filling the floor space.  This was fine til some pissed up lads came in, and made us be referees cos they didn't know rules like "if you foul on the blue, it is 5 away" which just made shake me head in silent disgust, but never mind cos time to move on to our final pub of the day.

The calm before the dickheads

It's not even worth thinking about.

Luckily, the next pub was very much just in a straight line up the road, even though this was now classed as Sheffield North:

1141 / 1887.  Walkley Beer Co., Sheffield North

If there was any doubt how micropubby Portland House was, then this was a more welcome "piss in a unisex broom cupboard" style return to micropub form in Walkley.  Very much a beer shop where people have decided to put some chairs and handpumps in, friendly welcoming, I have no idea what I ordered but it was an ale of some description.  It tasted of ale.  But I was too hazy to remember any details, it may well have been rather forgettable sober.  The clientele were posh Sheffield, a bit older than those at Hallamshire House, and we squashed on a table where an ancient philosopher contemplated life as a radiator burnt his hand without him realising.  That's about it.

"My hand burns, therefore I am"

Arty or Drunky?

Well, it's a micropub innit?

Tom navigated us back to a tram stop somewhere not too far from Hillsborough, it was like the day had come full circle as the fireworks crackled above our heads in the cold night sky.

Sheffield done for another year, and a timely early boost to my South Yorkshire ticking, I have 8 to tick off (plus a pre-emptive) over the next few Tuesday nights where possible.  One may need a car, one doesn't open til Thursday, one is a 'Spoons, so should be done by around Christmas time.

Si 

BRAPA - A Wibbly Wobbly Weekend in Yorkshire

The weekend started like all good weekends tend to do, on a Friday evening.  As the train chugged happily out of L**ds towards the moody Interchange of Bradford, you'd never have known by my fellow commuters expressions that two days off work, bonfires and fireworks were nigh. 

This was a rare recent incursion into deep Bradford territory, and the sights at bus stand K were so harrowing, I had to take a photo of stand J instead:

Rush hour traffic turned a 2 mile journey into a painful crawl, I wished I'd walked, but soon we were in the so called "urban village" of Wibsey, which felt more like a nice little sub-town than something so horrific.  This was no Holbeck.

The pub loomed out of the darkness with it's glass frontage, imprinted with the pub name in a way almost any drinking outlet built after 2014 has:

I'm not crossing the road to get a better pic, it's not worth it!

1136.  Hooper Micropub, Wibsey

The scene that greeted me was the type that would probably cause a little flutter in the heart (or crotch) of micropub overlord Martyn Hillier, as this was pretty dyed-in-the-wool if you were looking to observe the 'template'.  Let's just say my micropub bingo card was being dabbed in overdrive.   A square white walled room, some comfy but modern seating totally unoccupied, and two steps up to a small bar area.  First I had to dodge a dog toy, then bulldog (Bruce) and I had to do a bit of impromptu skipping over both Bruce and his owners lead.  At the top, I had to step over a more fragile, cute pup (i.e. twog) called Wilma before muscling in next to 4 local characters at the bar who looked at me suspiciously as I smiled nervously.   I spied an ale called "Nomadic Pariah" (SBS B+, very well kept) which seemed fitting for me in this current climate, a point I made to the assembled crowd, but no-one got it.  Maybe they are like the folk of Chorlton, another potential urban village, and cannot do more than two syllables at one time.  The landlady (Alison?), was a bubbly blonde lady, and the friendliest man had a very unique speaking style.  Close up, he sounded scouse.  The further across the pub you moved, the more Yorkshire he got.  Turns out he used to live in Acomb, not far from me.  As I went to sit down in the seated area, I not only had to dodge both dogs again, and the toy, but Bruce (a particularly unhealthy wheezy thing) had left a trail of saliva on the first step just to make my journey all the more treacherous!  A sign said "real ales, real conversation", there were some board games (taboo, monopoly, trivial pursuit) gathering dust, and a smattering of beer books.  Alison upset the fake scouser (a massive Star Trek fan) by asking "is that the programme with Dr Nimoy in it?  Well, I know it's some sort of comic thing!")  She was politely told "just stop talking".  Most attention was, as you'd expect, centred around the two dogs which everyone was determined could become boyfriend and girlfriend leading to all sorts of comments like "don't be shy now, he only wants to sniff your bum".  Probable Alison seemed to be pushing live music too, the locals seemed skeptical in a place so small, and she was forced to admit it might get to the point where they've have to stop customers coming in(!), from what I could gather.  Bruce and Wilma were taken for a walk, I was told "welcome to the madhouse", but I already had my coat on cos bus was due!  If you like Micropubs, you'll love this.

Nomadic Pariah, that's me!

The gang

Toy, saliva, dog, dog lead - you can see my problem getting to and from bar!

Not too late getting back into York, nearly finished West Yorkshire ticking, and up bright and early on Saturday to join the O.G. Squad (as the kids say), that is Dad and Tom in Sheffield where we'd made the brave decision to see how Hull City would get on at Bramall Lane.

Luckily, I had 5 new pubs to do in Sheffield and aim was to get them all done today.

We started with the modest aim of two pre-match, to encourage 'visitors' (which didn't materialise) and trammed it to Shalesmoor, the Ship Inn to be precise, but things hit a snag when at 11:05am approx, our vaguely emo hosts knocked on the window to tell us they were opening til 12, regardless of what the GBG and Whatpub say.  Just when I was getting to grips with ghost stories and the fine exterior!

If I've found one county which most like to flaunt the 'advertised opening times', it must go to South Effing Yorkshire.  An otherwise great county for pubs n people I might add.

So what to do to fill in the next hour?  After some debate, we trammed it up to Hillsborough where I'd spied a pub on Whatpub called Hillsborough Tap which looked slightly more pre-emptive than the Rawson Spring 'Spoons at the tram stop ......

Hillsborough Tap, Sheffield North

It  was the welcome from the barmaid which really made this pub a positive experience, it could have been rather average otherwise despite a motorbiked Sheffield Wednesday fan hanging from the ceiling (you could say all Sheff Wed fans are best when they are hanging from the ceiling, but I couldn't possibly comment).  Anyway, she was a great lass, loving my enthusiasm around seeing 'Belgian Blue', a cracking purple ale - am not a massive fan of fruity real ales unless they are done proper 'balls to the wall', like Plum Porter and this.  You can keep your saltaire raspberry cascade and shizz though.  Ugh sorry, when did this turn into a BEER BLOG?  Anyway, in a move reminiscent of Kensington, two unfriendly old men refused to confirm the directions of the loo, when I got there I found a nice 'please don't take drugs sign',  and the steps had a lego pattern on.  This was almost like a big micropub in a way but a bit too 'no nonsense boozer'.  Possibly not the best pint of Belgian Blue, but warm, friendly, I'll go to plenty worse GBG pubs between now and Christmas.  (Yes Tom, I said the C word, another £1 for the jar!)

And yes I did get a top up!

Hint - don't tell the pigs* where you work

Tom looks towards the motorbike

It was gone 12 noon when we got back to Shalesmoor, so we crossed the road, saw an old man inside, but still couldn't get in ourselves!  That's because it was one of those proper old doors which need a good push and a bit of a kick.

1137.  Ship Inn, Sheffield : Kelham Island

So in at last and the old man we could see was laughing at our difficulty getting in, especially as I'd suggested he was the pub ghost.  In fact, all the clientele were old sad bastards who sat around looking smug when they had nothing to be smug about, in short, they irritated me.  The staff seemed to be in a band, two young men with long hair and pale complexions, not looking like they'd had to shave yet.  They were friendly though, and asked us why we were here, mentioned the whole "not opening at 11am" thing!  Best thing, one of the ales, called Wild Boar, was £1.50 a pint.  I've never seen Tom jump in to buy a round before, and I don't suspect I will again.  Free blackcurrant too, £3 a round!  This was stingy round buying and there needed to be karma.  There was.  I described the two lads working behind the bar, well as Tom paid, he said "thanks love!" to my immense surprise, later admitting he thought it was a girl but being in South Yorkshire, hoping anyone can call anyone "love".  Hmmm, think he just about got out of it!  "Are you going to put that story in your blog?" he asked me with wide desperate searching eyes.  "Honestly Tom, would I do that to you?"  Considering he'd recently been told off by Christine for calling women "love" made it all the more fun.  And am glad I had that tale to tell cos the pub was an anti-climax to me, the exterior, tiling etc seemed to promise another White Lion or Shakespeare, but it felt a bit too purple velvety modern within.

Smug ghost

The pub being okay but a bit too deliberate.

Now the nerves were really jangling, as we crossed the road again to the Wellington.  The only pub I have failed THREE times to get into.  First, with Dad on 8th December 2004.  Nearly 13 years ago, but we found it closed 5pm on a Tuesday evening.  It had a different name then, something about a cat I think.  We both thought it looked like a good one.  In summer 2015, I was on the train for midweek BRAPA when I double checked to Whatpub only to see it actually (still) didn't open on a Tuesday.  And then last year, when I made it on a Wednesday, only to see a sign in window and a miserable old man told me it was being taken over and would open in three months time!  I admit I was delighted to see it out of the 2017 GBG, presumably for this reason.

But this is 2018 (so to speak) and it's back, so imagine my nerves when we saw a very shut door on the main road.  But we turned a corner and hey presto, we were in!  I could've cried.

Waaaaaaaaah!

1138.  Wellington, Sheffield

And wasn't it worth the wait?  One of those Sheffield classics I'd been expecting the Ship to be like.  Corridor entrance, tiles, side rooms, you know the type, those you sometimes see in the West Midlands and the less annoying parts of Greater Manchester, but are rare anywhere else these days, well apart from maybe Sheffield  Grove in Leeds is probably quite like it, oh the Swan in York.  Anyway, you get the idea!  The barman was a solemn chap, first I thought unfriendly but then I realised quiet and effective, tracksuit bottoms in case he needed to change a barrel quickly, and a good full beard so even Tom wouldn't call him 'love' or blow him a kiss or anything (sorry Tom, I'll stop now).  We had to open a door to the side room to the left, and we chose well.  Two old blokes glared up at us, it was a bit like being in a library, but we were allowed to talk without anyone getting too cross, almost like it was a 'public' house or something.  Average age of customer approx 90.  Ales were amazing (SBS A-) and let's just say it took all our willpower to get ourselves up and off to the game!  One of those where the below pics tell a better story than me blathering on .....

This picture is for Martin

Snapping away like a pub tourist idiot

The true essence of this pub in one photo.

Wards!  Brilliant.  Forgot they existed.  If they still do.  Don't tell me, I don't care.

And that is part one for you.  Part two in next few days, though am BRAPping tomorrow, am out Wednesday too for a bit of pre-emptive L**ds fun, and then we can hopefully get part 2 out on Thursday evening.  

We got to Bramall Lane on time, best atmos ever in that ground on back row of lower tier, and as the ref blew for half time, we were amazingly 1-0 up against the odds.  Could we hold on?  Could I get my remaining 3 Sheffield pubs after the game?  And why should I have been in York all along?  Stay tuned to find out the answer to these questions.

Do we love our Sluts, or is it Sluts out?  The next 45 mins could be crucial.

Si

BRAPA - October Review / November Preview (2017)

The Obelisk, Herefordshire (I don't know why, it just is)

Good evening weary travellers,

Only two months left of the pub ticking calendar year, where has it gone?

39 pubs visited in the month (plus one pre-emptive and one 'bonus' pub) sounds like a great success, sure it was THREE times than number of pubs I visited last year, and also eclipsed the pathetic October average of 19.

Having said that, there were missed opportunities (the Morgan in Great Malvern, Sunday lunchtime ticking in Central London) and with the kind of dedication I showed in September, I should have been more around the 45 mark.  Never mind.  I currently am on 1135 pubs, so the aim by 11:59pm on New Year's Eve has to be 1200 which looks fitting in a way.

If I can stay disciplined on the 'six' a weekend theme (not always strictly possible) and 1.5 pubs per midweek, plus the odd little 'bonus', it should be achievable.  Though sadly no more time off work before January.

I visited some incredible pubs, had some amazing experiences, and met some great folk on my travels over the last month, so choosing a "top three" was very difficult so here are 5, in no particular order .....

1. Plasterers Arms, Norwich
2. Farmers Arms, Birtsmorton
3. Shepherds Arms, Whaley Bridge
4. Wyche Inn, Upper Wyche
5. Pump Room Micropub, Halifax

Enjoying a pint of Hook Norton in Birtsmorton.

I guess I'll have to start thinking about the "worst pub experience" of the year, so here are three we'll put in the hat for the 'year end' awards (I should've done this all year to be honest):

1. Tilted Wig, Warwick
2. Derehams Inn, Loudwater
3. Hope, Richmond

Even this pic couldn't inspire the Hope at Richmond to greatness.

So what have we planned for November?  My aim is going to be 35 as I know December can a complex month as people like to invite me on their "yearly pub outing", and by that, I mean to pubs I've already been to, which can be frustrating, plus people block the bar, don't observe pub etiquette and wear silly jumpers but that's another blog!

It all starts with one of final remaining West Yorkshire ticks, before a trip to Sheffield to take on Championship leaders (at time of writing) Sheff Utd, with all their passing and movement and Chris Wilder and Billy Sharp and blah blah blah.  Pubs before AND after is the order of the day to numb the pain, as I look to knock off my remaining 5 in Sheffield, one of which I've tried THREE times to get to but to no avail!  4th time lucky?

I then look to finish West Yorkshire and we have a special guest BRAPster from work joining me for that, then a bonus trip to help Martin Taylor get a pub tick done, before Sat 11th sees Dad join me on the second of our mystery train trips.  But where will I take him this time?  Clue,  not Warwick.

I'm then going to see what of North Yorkshire is achievable on a Tuesday night before starting on the South Yorkshire massive.  Places like Harrogate, Hensall and even Northallerton look do-able.  Skipton may have to wait til June for reasons I won't go into here, Acaster Malbis is so close by it is painful, but buses just don't run late enough.

Sat 18th comes with a nice little bonus trip to London the day before, a "work trip" but I'm going with a bloke from Rotherham so no doubt a bit of Stones and Wards will be drunk in Smithfield and Cannon Street on the Fri evening, well I can hope!  I'm actually staying over in Milton Keynes (yes, I did just say that) basing myself there for joys like Woughton on the Green which Martin so enjoyed, Newport Pagnall and Stoke Hammond also on the agenda.

And Sat 25th sees me back on the Cheshire trail.  Like Bucks, it is slow progress limping towards the finishing line as I keep wandering into other counties (North Wales, Derbyshire on my last 2 visits).  This time Barthomley is the tricky pub required, but I may be able to combine it with a bit of Crewe or Congleton or the like, which now need return visits since the 2018 GBG.

And if I need a cheeky bonus Fri or Sun to help me get towards that 35 target in that final week or two of the month, then so be it.

Happy pubbing all, and rest your livers on your days off (but not tonight obviously).

Si