BRAPA - What a Load of Cobblers. What a Pile of Pies. (Hunmanby and Filey)

Newcastle-under-Lyme may've felt like a rather heavy day on the Saturday, but 11 hours of the good old dreamless, and a restorative pick-me-up (well, iced coffee and banana) meant I was as fresh as the veritable Bertie Wooster on Sunday morning as I toddled off to the east coast.

The weather was as British August Bank Holiday as one could expect, and Seamer railway station must be one of the more purgatory-esque places to spend 45 minutes waiting for a connection.

A group of 50 somethings dressed as assorted fruit & veg had already wobbled out at Malton when, on the connecting train, I saw some scroatastic lads on their way to Bridlington.  With no discernible plan for the day ahead.  Pizza Hut, Cinema, Wetherspoons, even 'Titty' Bar, were all mooted as possible suggestions.

The reason I was over this way should probably be clarified now.  EL of West Brom (a lovely bloke off Twitter, AKA Liquid Len, was up in Scarborough on holiday with his mates and having shown me the pubs of Tipton and West Bromwich in Jan 2017, thought a northern meet-up would be nice).

Luckily, and partly due to my reluctance to care too much about the 2018 GBG new entries for North Yorkshire, I had a few 'ticks' I could do outside Scarbs to add a BRAPA element to my day.

And not long after 12:30pm, I was in Hunmanby, which I'd always called Humanby and imagined as some zombie landscape.  It was pretty wild and desolate (or just plain boring) as I crossed two railway lines to find the pub in the heavy drizzle:

1474 / 2220.  PieBald Inn, Scarborough

It'd probably be disingenuous of me to wander into a pub on a Bank Holiday Sunday lunchtime near the coast, which makes no secret of a pie obsession, and start slagging it off for not extolling the full virtues of old fashioned pub life.  I say 'probably'.  Families, buggies, twild-life abound, Grannies were wheeled in, men with sticks dithered, yes, never trust a pub with a capital letter halfway through its name, it may as well have an @ symbol.  Deserves a fair bit of praise in the circumstances though.  I was given a cheery welcome by the barmaid, who seemed to have drawn freckles around her nose to accentuate what I'm not sure, approachability?  Cuteness?  Another barmaid rushed in clutching three limes, whooping.  "It doesn't take much to excite her" said my barmaid rolling her eyes, and I tried to say something witty back but the witty-window had closed and I was left open mouthed with my pint as she served the next punter.  Shame.    I got something pale and Greene Kingy, and actually enjoyed it a lot.   Where to sit?  The bar?  No, I actually found one (and I mean ONE) high stool not geared up for eating, such was its proximity to front door and blackboard menu.  Downside, people kept trying to stare through me to see what was on offer.  Upside, well, I've pubbed enough to know a table like this was a big bonus in this situation.  Let us admire the pies.  A brilliant selection, and not the poncy bullshit dished up by GBG failure Pie n Ale in trendy Manchester (Raspberry Coulis and Lobster Thermidor anyone?)  This was proper.  Beef, chicken, game, black pudding, even fish (did I really see a Seahorse pie?), and the odd veggie one in case my sister walked in.  Peruvian goat would've been my pick, but I was on a timer.  And could we really beat Rotherham's Pukka Beef & Onion straight out of the microwave?  Ping.    Even the Wifi code was a Pie-fi code!  Bit of controversy as one of the many Peroni swillers (this wasn't an ale drinkers pub, not today anyway) couldn't find a table so plonked his order number and pint on mine, so I edged my GBG closer in an attempt to squeeze him out, and glared at him.  He finally pissed off, a worrying moment.  Worried for a second the staff may try and move ME, but they smiled and seemed very happy to have wet-led scum like me in their midst.  So plenty to commend this place all things considered, well done PieBald.

Password : itspietime

Errm, how about pissing off mate?

Fake bookcase wallpaper at end just to upset me

My perspective

Dunno if you can make it out but some funny poster in the gents

To Filey or not to Filey?  Hmmm, did I have time?  I was at a bit of a crossroads, literally.  Ha ha ha.

So yes, I took the bus from Hunmanby church on to Filey bus station, only about 15 minutes, where I had a micro which I really should've done by now .....

1475 / 2221.  Cobbler's Arms, Filey

Northampton Town theme pub, or a former shoe shop?  That was the question on nobody's lips as I tentatively pushed the door to find myself in a thriving Bank Holiday afternoon scene.  Yes, if visiting a pie restaurant on such a day seemed an unwise move, visiting a Micro in a popular seaside resort when it's chucking it down and blowing a cold wind was always going to invite chaos.  It started off manageable enough.  A young Mum had brought takeaway fish & chips in (tick on the micro bingo board straight away)  and three cute West Highland White Terriers were hoping for some of the scraps.  At the bar, the barmaid could barely raise a smile, rare for a micro.  I almost went for a Plum Porter after yesterday's flawed attempts in Newcastle-under-Lyme but it was an imitation by Millstone, a brewery I've never got on with, so I got Acorn Barnsley Bitter, one of my all time faves.  And good it was, though not Plough in Doncaster standard.  Barmaid finally remembered to force one out (a smile I mean!) and all was fine as I squashed between a quizzical looking couple and a tourist rucksack - hate it when people sit on one side of the room, but lay all their bags and coats on a bench elsewhere.  Selfish!  Or is that shellfish in Filey hahahaha,  I wasn't laughing for long.  The peril started when one of three twilds, one bawling his eyes out, rushed in from a hidden side room and he was wearing a full L**ds United kit.  Now there are full kit wankers and there are full kit wankers, and he was the latter.  His Dad was a good bloke.  At the bogs, I asked if he was queuing.  He turned into Chandler from Friends and said "No, I'm trying to control the kids, but they are totally all over the place .... just like their Mom.  Heyyyy, wait, did I just say that out loud?!"   Back in my seat, there were now SIX twilds, a teenager and three more tiny dogs alongside the three Westies.  It was like a cross between a Victorian circus and a zoo.  The Mum tried to get the kids playing dominoes #PubTwild which was commendable, the teen was watching WWE on his tablet, the total plank.  A woman laughed at how my space and 'quiet pint' had been invaded.  I mock complained to her, but knew it was all great blog material really.  And when I left, FOUR people (dominoes mum, chandler, the quizzical couple) said bye to me so I had made 'friends', ha, which I guess is what they claim happens in every Micropub the world over, innit?

Takeaway fish n chips, dogs, people in waterproofs (the scene SO VERY micro)

L.U.F.C.F.K.W.T.

Westie love

The new dogs on the scene were more twoggy than the Westies

The Mum who tried to get the kids into doms was a good sort, but was exasperated early doors

Granda' got on the whisky, and the kids settled with the doms, as dogs blocked the exit

Phew!  Time to catch that train to Scarborough and let EL know I was finally on my way.....

Join me tomorrow for part 2.

Si

BRAPA : Newcastle-under-Slyme Part 2 (NuL but not Void)

Paul Robinson is ticking his new GBG, but where's my copy?

Halfway through our Saturday then as local tour guide Matthew 'Seethelizards' Lawrenson navigated us through the mean streets of NuL for the final three pubs in the 2018 Good Beer Guide as I tried to put as much distance between my end of year 2016/17 figure of 1236 and the current 1470 in readiness for the great 'cross-ticking' due soon.

I say 'navigated us through the mean streets', pub 4 was directly opposite the awkward yet strangely great Bridge Street Ale House .......

1471 / 2217.  Hopwater Cellar, Newcastle-under-Lyme

"One ale, you've only got one ale, CAMRA want you to fail, you've only got one ale!"  This was the chant that went up from nobody in particular as we wandered into this friendly airy modern bar, and not strictly true as despite this one ale, it had won a recent CAMRA seasonal award, thus cementing it's place.  And full credit to local CAMRA, for I can tell you it is increasingly rare to find 'one ale' entries in the GBG.  The small handful of Sam Smith pubs (and I bet I'm talking single figures), the thing in High Offley, and that gorgeous old heritage pub not far from Wembley, but usually, it's a case of '12 handpumps you say, quick get it in the Guide, no need to taste 'em!'.  Certainly in my local branch that seems to be the case but I'm being slightly facetious.  A pale from Neepsend of Sheffield seemed a nice neutral thing to have on, but Matthew told me they'd recently had some toffee porter (or something) which may be a more acquired taste.  The owner was a thoroughly engaging chap, even giving Tom a blackcurrant free run down of the non-alcoholic things in the fridge as Dad secreted himself into a corner which actually made him invisible.  We chatted at the bar and the owner tells us how he plans to extended the bar, get 3 or 4 ales on in the coming months, so with the weight of #pubmen across the UK on my shoulders, I felt the need to say things like "sometimes less is more" and "quality not quantity".  Oooh, that Bass was really kicking in wasn't it?  Tom drank something Elderflowery, the Neepsend was top class, and this felt nicely relaxed and unchallenging after certain other pubs today.

Great bloke pulling pints, what could be better?

Tom in his amphitheatre of beer (copyright 2016)

Can you see Dad?  No, neither could we.

Jeez taps, get a room! 

Our next pub if not a cellar, was a vaults, and it is funny I have all these Lymestone pumpclips and beermats at home, but I'm unsure I'd ever tried their beers before.  It was down a narrow side street, felt a bit like going into a bar in Barcelona, if Stoke was Catalan which it kind of is in many ways.

1472 / 2218.  Lymestone Vaults, Newcastle-under-Lyme

Special mention for our young host, who on seeing us eyeing up these new, exciting ales decided the time was nigh to wear his Lymestone heart on his Lymestone sleeve and make a concerted effort to impress.  I'm not sure we were underground at all, it just felt like it to me, but he had those eyes and jaw like one of those deep sea fish who crawl along the darkest ocean floors looking for plankton and stuff.  Me and Dad had asked for a cherry beer, and he didn't seem convinced by our choice, so gave me an additional half which was half of this with half a 'Stone the Crows' bitter to 'let it down'.  "That's what people tend to go for!" he said, indicating these wise Lymestone drinkers who didn't really exist.  I took me long enough to polish off this extra half, that when I did come to my 'official' pint of cherry, course it was suddenly too sweet, and we stayed here a while waiting for me to finish!  The pub itself, despite the obvious modern concessions, was cosy and opened up into a back room where old biddies dressed as Tom, dogs yipped, and middle aged doofus's with better behaved twildlife spilt drinks left, right and centre.  Or just centre.

Cherry Stone - the beer of much controversy

Three old dears who'd come disguised as Tom

Mopping floor drama

The type of folk not to be trusted not to spill their ales

One last push then before the bus back to Stoke proppa, and I was feeling free.

"As free as a bird.  On a wire.  A blackbird that is drunk in a midnight choir.  I've tried in my way, for a pee.  In this bog you can not change.  Fuck knows I can't change (my trousers)."  (I think I might be mixing songs up here but you get the gist).

Time to lock me up

1473/ 2219.  Freebird, Newcastle-under-Lyme

When you are starting to 'feel it' (and I mean, really feel it), the last thing you want is a pub that seems more garish than your own wardrobe.  Bright purple walls, retro games machines, American pool tables, throbbing with the threat of DJ's or live music, hairy leather bikers, more saucy seaside postcards, comic strips, ladies in blue shoes, huge windows letting in far too much light.  It's like someone had been let out of Newcastle for a day trip to Birmingham on a fact finding mission to find out how young people want their pubs to look like in 1978, and he'd come back 40 years later with this blueprint.  I quite liked it, a happy atmosphere under the circs if you think of some equivalents like the Alma in Bolton or the Purple Turtle in Reading, not at all moody or up it's own arse, and a nice little suntrap for Dad to go and play in if he needed to escape the yoof of yesteryear.  Tom must have vanished too, buying slimline oatcakes no doubt, as I can't remember much else apart from me and Matthew playing pool and I played a lot better than I was expecting.  Lynryd Skynryd? Who???

Matthew does the honours with the green pen

"Oi lads, we're on next and don't you forget it" I whisper whilst hiding behind Matthew

So there we go.  I ate an oatcake raw and got chucked out of Stoke in record time.  I ate a pie I can't remember, but a nice coffee in Manchester helped me see the world in a clearer light and it was off back to York well before bedtime.  A fun day, and attentions now turned to a bonus Bank Holiday West Brom themed day in Scarborough.

Si 

BRAPA - Newcastle-under-Slyme (Part 1 : Tom Trouble and a Scary Greyhound)

'Twas Saturday 25th August, and not too surprised to not have the new 2019 Good Beer Guide in my possession, I headed out to Newcastle-under-Lyme on the suggestion of Matthew 'SeeTheLizards' Lawrenson, as this was the town he grew up in when he wasn't cradling the Preston lamb, and local knowledge is always good in these situations, especially in the Stoke area, which if you are putting it into human body terms, is very much the appendix (sits there quietly harbouring resentment, then gets inflamed and has to be removed). 

Despite Hull City being away to Stoke City, this was very much an NFFD (Non Football Football Day) for us, Tom had considered going but they made it all ticket at the 11th hour.  Just as well as SIX pubs were on our agenda.

Father BRAPA and I bumped into Tom on the train from Manchester Piccadilly down to Stoke, where we were engulfed by a load of Manchester City fans off to Wolves for a lunchtime kick off.  Tom pointed out, rather too loudly, that it could be worse, the Mansfield fans travelling to Macclesfield were bigger idiots.  "TAPS!" Dad declared as they scurried around looking for seats getting in our way, and I thought he'd seen a GBG pre-emptive out of the train window, but it turned out it was an acronym.  'Thick As Pig Shit'.  Now you seen where I get it from.

In Stoke, by the Titatnic White Star and Wheatsheaf 'Spoons, we took a bus to Newcastle where our first pub was in fact just outside in a Stokey suburb called Hartshill, though we didn't get the best bus option and had a 15 minute walk.  Still, we were in the first pub well before noon.

1468 / 2214.  Greyhound, Hartshill, Stoke-on-Trent

Having noticed this was a Titanic-Everards pub whilst on the train down, I told Dad I'd enjoy starting with a Plum Porter, one of your five a day and all that!  But when I couldn't see it, I went for the Steerage.  Dad hesitated, the landlord, who'd I'd already identified as a grump of the highest order, showed Dad the blackboard and explained other beers were in the back bar, including Plum Porter!  "Oooh, I'll have a Plum Porter" said Dad, glancing at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  Cheeky!  He did offer me a swap, but damage had been done!  Still, only myself to blame.  When will I learn to look at blackboards?  When will I learn to read Sir Quinno's reviews in advance?  And we settled into a calming early morning pint, few old men dotted about reading papers etc.  Not much going on.  "If you were walking the streets of Mombasa for days and found this place, you'd been pleased wouldn't you?" said Dad quite randomly.  Couldn't argue with that.  But then stuff began to happen, BRAPA stuff, weird stuff.  Two cocky Stoke fans came in and shouted to the bloke with the hearing aid next to us "we'll be happy at 5pm when we have all three points!"  Ugh, they haven't won at home since January and still massively confident of beating Hull City.  Then, the paisley shirted Lawrenson arrived on their coattails, then a man with a button on his throat came in and sat with hearing aid man.  One couldn't hear, one couldn't/didn't speak.  Perfect drinking partners.  But then Tom bellowed "I hate medical professionals!" and the barman gave him such a glare, and stared at him for the next 5 minutes.  Was this chap a former medical man?  After all, Stoke hospital was close by.  To try and ease the tension, I asked Tom to clarify his comment as he'd mean no malice, and sure enough, it was all about fear of being poked and prodded with surgical equipment, but it made no difference.  As we left, landlord stood in the doorway and silently growled as we took our glasses back and tried to say a cheery goodbye.  Not a pub I'd rush back to, though beer was good, yet probably not in the top 3 quality pints today.

Hearing aid bloke and the Plum Porter of controversy

Cocky Stokies are about to boast about being brilliant

Resplendent in Paisley.  M.Lawrenson arrives.

I was actually so relieved to be out of there, I can't tell you!  The next pub was listed under Newcastle despite the fact it felt like we only walked up one street in the same area as the Greyhound.

Tom says "Allam Out" as we enter pub number two

1469 / 2215.  Hopinn, Newcastle-under-Lyme

With the name it had, I certainly wasn't expecting to walk inside to a carpetted old boozer, confronted by Draught Bass, with a friendly landlord with beaming smile saying "Hello gents, what would you like today?"  Beautiful stuff.  Maybe Tom could shout something random and upset him?   As I spied the Bass and thought 'come on Si, keep the #pubman spirit alive', Dad said from behind me "don't believe the hype".  Whoah, what was this, some anti-Bass intervention?  But then I noticed he was just reading out the name of a beer on another clip.  Was one of those confusing situations where they have 8 pumpclips on 4 pumps, something my brain has never quite been able to feel fully at ease with!  Even more Stoke City fans in here, ruddy faces, parsons noses, wild roadie types, I think Newcastle must be the discerning Potters pre-match watering hole.   Matthew introduced me to his new pub mascot, Joule the owl (pronounced Jowl like what the ladies in Doncaster have) and said the gents toilets had saucy seaside postcards, yet Tom and Dad were more impressed with the hallway Lincoln to Boston boat photo, probably because they are modern 21st century men who support the #MeToo movement.  Really good pub this one, possibly my favourite of the day, and the ale (not just my Bass but the others we got) was absolutely top quality.  On the way out, we admitted to being Hull City fans and a Stoke fan said something to Dad but he couldn't understand so we just left.  

We marched onwards, and under the underpass to Newcastle 'proper' where our other 4 pubs lay in a more central location.  

First Bass, now subway street-art?  Taylor's gonna sue. 

Our next pub was the most highly anticipated of the day.  Why, well let us try and find out .....

The Employment Hub Inn .... ooops, I mean the Bridge Street Ale House

1470 / 2216.  Bridge Street Ale House, Newcastle-under-Lyme

Pubs are a bit like comedy series really aren't they?  Some of the best have that socially awkward element, which sometimes spills over into wanting to hide behind your hands, or a cushion, or even crawl behind the sofa, almost glad when it is over.  But then, when you talk about them, you realise they were actually brilliant.  Love them or not, things like The Office, Curb Your Enthusiasm, the Brass Eye Paedophile Special.  Amazing.  That's how you'd have to describe this place.  And I say this even with legendary owner Grum (described by the GBG as 'charismatic', by everyone else as 'totally mad') on his 2 week holiday, so you could argue we got off lightly!  We'd barely stepped over the threshold when a cheery young lady of the utmost spirit says "which one of you's from Grimsby then, I went to college there!" and even someone as Tommish as Tom was initially gobsmacked as he admitted it was him.  I'd still not come to terms with the fact it was one of those bar-less micros where the pumps are kind of on a wall, and the staff walk around like customers, always puts me a bit on edge anyway, I like that divide between the two!  I went back for Pork Scratchings, she told me to get proper scratchings cos pork crackling is too lame & easy and I was inclined to agree.  I wanted two packets but was too scared to question only getting one.  We retired to a standy-up stooly area in amongst the mass of pump clips and bright decor.  Tom got onto the subject of mascots, probably inspired by Joule the Owl, and mentioned his own Billy the Tiger, and the time when former Hull City owner Paul Duffen sexually assaulted him.  "Whaaaaaat?" screamed out hostess, for she too was called Billie and when she heard 'billy/billie' and 'sexually assaulted', it alarmed her.  Well, as if I didn't already feel awkward and on edge in here!  So a bit like the Greyhound, glad when we stepped back out into the fresh Newcastle air, but looking back, the pub did have something special and unique about it, great ale, and I probably would go back, but only in disguise. 

They're not Simon's, they're Simmons

Star Wars poster which is probably brilliant if you get that kind of thing

Some more terrific toilet artwork

So that was the first part of the day, hectic!  The final three pubs in part two, but here's where my notes and sobriety end, so expect a vaguer write up on the others.

See you tomorrow for that.  

Si