BRAPA is the ....... WHITBY ALER

Thirsty Thursday's were about to ramped up to 'peak thirsty' in my quest to get North Yorkshire fully greened off for only the second time in BRAPA's 7.75 year existence.  

With eleven pubs left to green off in NY, I was delighted to see that five of them were on the same bus route between Scarborough and Whitby.  Had I planned it like this, or was I just born this way? 

I took the train from York to Scarborough on this sunny morning, and had a pleasant but ultimately pointless walk around the town before my bus arrived (I'm not very good at 'meandering', 'moseying' and 'mooching', I like my walks to have a purpose, otherwise I'd rather sit down shut up. 

The double decker was busy, the upstairs crowd was surprisingly scrotey, weird blokes with roll ups hanging out of the corners of their mouths having shouty conversations with unwashed backpackers who couldn't understand the concept of a return ticket or Fylingdales.

I was glad when my foot found solid Whitby ground about 50 minutes later. My first pub ticking visit here since 2015, where I unwisely visited over Hallowe'en half term week.  Yes, it was mad!

More serene today

Definitely not scouting for a Colin/KLO replacement, honest 

The Board Inn, a 2014 BRAPA tick

With Keane Lewis Otter in tow, we needed to tackle the famous 199 steps up towards the non too shabby abbey.  

I first tackled these steps in 2014 on my BRAPA debut here, with a broken toe (in tow).  I'd tried to cross a flooded stream 'twixt Grosmont's Crossing Club and Beck Hole's Birch Hall Inn by removing my shoes and socks and wading in.  Thought I was Bear Grylls.  Big mistake! 

So today felt like a walk in the park.  I actually counted 203 steps, so either they've added 4 cheeky new ones, or I miscounted.  Wonder which is more likely? 

101 steps and counting (sort of)

Made it!

A three minute march around the corner past the predictable cacophony of dithering tourist shitwits and I find our first pub tick, opposite the abbey .......

Sadly, I haven't walked quite quickly enough, and one blouse fuelled group of 4 have just made it to the bar before me at Whitby Brewery, Whitby (2030 / 3593) and I can feel the pain of the one perching local bloke, wincing silently.  He must stand here daily, just so he can wince at idiots.  "Oooooh, let's see, we want 2 mushroom pizzas ...... errrm Jeff, Jeff, come over here, do you want to order a beer?"  Ugh, I'm always at my most impatient at moments like these.  When they are asked to provide a table number, the poor lady looks totally shell shocked and disappears into the main indoor area, never to return.  Finally, I'm in, and both server and local breathe a sigh of relief when I say I want a pint of Jet Black and nothing else.  Local bloke even opens the door for me when I express a desire to sit outside in the sun, not wishing to spend the next 25 minutes listening to more mushroom pizza dithering.  The sun quickly goes in, and it looks like it is about to snow!  And with Northern Powergrid drilling through a metal post (sparks literally flying), and a brewery forklift truck behind me beeping and threatening to lift me, KLO and the whole bench into the sky, it perhaps isn't the soothing abbey backdrop I'd envisioned. Vaguely aware of a hardy couple of drinkers braving the now freezing wind like me (more on them later), the Mushroom Pizza Massive materialise, Jeff shouting down the path "toffee! with notes of liquorice! that's wot mi beer was according to the sign, har har har!" before finally pissing off.  Speaking of which, time I had a wee in the outdoor temporary looking bogs, and did the same.

With my long black coat billowing in the wind, I'd look like a gothic legend if it wasn't for the cosy mustard bobble hat, formerly belonging Blackpool Jane, bringing me into disrepute, as I descend the 199 steps back into Whitby proper.  

Pub two is tucked away in the streets just behind the harbourside ......

Whitby Brewery definitely had a quality about it, even if the circumstances of my visit were a bit off, but I cannot be so charitable to Arch & Abbey, Whitby (2031 / 3594), the benchmark in micro doggy depression.  Housed in a former ladies dress shop, it still held that kind of feel, a vast micropub with little concession to pub atmosphere.  The barmaid is absent, so the bloke at the bar shouts her on my behalf, the only glimpse of humanity I'd witness in the next half an hour.  I thank him, wish her a cheerful good afternoon, as I order my second consecutive dark beer (I'm in that kinda mood!) but I don't get a peep, or even eye contact out of either.  He is attached to a dog.  The only other two customers are also attached to dogs.  When it comes to dog interaction in the A&A, everyone is animated, beaming smiles, head scratches, ear ruffling, baby talk, sloppy kisses.  But smiling at their fellow human, not a chance!  You'd have to be a hardcore dogging type (so to speak) to like this place.  My vanilla ale is good, but I'm only telling you this for something positive to say.  As I approach the gents loos, bloke's dog is in the way, so I take the long way around, so he and dog are not disturbed.  I don't even get a thank you for that, despite him being fully aware what I've done.  Ignorant.   I often think 'the prettier the town, the more likely you are to encounter the unfriendly' and here was your archetypal example of that.  I return my glass, finally get a thank you, hurrah.  And to my surprise, I witness two new arrivals are having a Whitby Whaler of a time chatting to the barmaid and dog bloke about being spoilt for drink choice.  Un-be-bloody-lieve-able.  

We needed cheering up, and I'd promised KLO a little bit of fish, so we find a chippie (just beating the kids who are out of school and crash in behind me 5 minutes later).  We enjoy it on the harbour front, and then in the railway station, once a seagull with a roving eye starts following us around and calling his mates!

If Blind Sooty is the sign of a good pub, is Blind Fisherman the sign of a good chippie?

I'd give the fish a solid 7.5/10, but not a patch on my last visit here.  Maybe I should start paying attention of the names of these places, like I do with pubs.

With the schoolkids now piling into the station and getting on the 'Boro bound train, I had one final Whitby pub before the bus down to Robin Hood's Bay, a 4pm opener so I had to hang around for a few minutes.  

Customer's already in, go go go!

It took me a shamefully long time to locate the entrance considering it was obviously going to be on a very small station, but Waiting Room, Whitby (2032 / 3595) provided the redemption to what had so far been a pretty average pub day.  I'd even considered a revisit to the fabulous Little Angel at one point, and you know BRAPA doesn't do revisits on BRAPA days if it can be helped.  I knew as soon as I walked in, and the couple with slightly West Mids accents blinked at me nicely, and the friendly landlady greets me warmly.  Not hard to be friendly is it?  And seeing two Ashover ales on, my favourite lockdown brewery, one of the few breweries which get me animated on beer, that made a route into the conversation even easier.  Another couple arrive, yes it is the hardy outdoor couple who sat outside Whitby Brewery earlier.  "We're not following you around, lolz" they chuckle.  Sam & Paul, ladies and gentlemen, today's BRAPA cameo heroes.  I gave them a BRAPA start up pack (well badge & beermat, not sure I gave them sticker & keyring, not that generous!) so hello again if you are reading.  It soon becomes just a nice 'round the room' chat between the 5 of us, at times like if I was a Pub Ticking After Dinner Speaker which could be a great BRAPA side line, as long as no more the 8 people are invited to such dinners.  Landlady's favourite pubs seem are the afore mentioned Birch Hall Inn at Beck Hole, and the Shakespeare in Sheffield.  A lady of immaculate taste.  Time flies when you are having fun, and I realise my bus is just around the corner, so I have to dash.  Nice to end Whitby on a high.

Dusk is falling as I hop off at the top at Robin Hood's Bay, close to the Victoria Hotel, which I ticked off with the Dolphin back on that Hallowe'en 2015 weekend.  

I'd almost forgotten how steep that descent is, and of course today's required tick couldn't be much further at the bottom!  Very reminiscent of my Cornwall ticking.

I make a bit of a twit of myself by trying to enter through a door that probably hasn't been opened since the 18th century, but a couple drinking their pints outside set me straight .....

Daddy & Mummy BRAPA were less than enthused with their visit here on a busy September daytime, so that fact that I'd class the Bay Hotel, Robin Hood's Bay (2033 / 3596) as my favourite pub experience of the day, really shows the benefit of off-season visits to these tourist friendly resorts.  Having said that, the first thing I witness on entry is a little L**ds Utd sticker stuck on the inside of the bar.  But once my eyes had finished stinging, I was greeted by a cosy, unpretentious hotel bar, a little fire bubbling away at the end, where two windows look out onto the sea, deepest blue becoming full on black by the time I'd left.  The staff are cracking characters, 'bantering' with visitors and locals alike, I don't think thirty seconds went by without the next cheeky comment coming out of someone's mouth.  'Fake Tony Duggins from the Tossers' was the staff member not working, but drinking, and he helped bridge the gap between customers and staff, like a boss.  I won't pretend two Theakston's beers alone enthused me, but I tell you what, that Lightfoot was a cracking pint.  It didn't need a top up, but the staff insisted.   'Fake Garlic Bread Megan Formerly From Work' and her boyfriend chuckle along, as the most gigantic badly behaved hound ever kept trying to jump onto tiny benches.  Even dogs weren't annoying in here, just funny and ridiculous.  And it's owner, a Rolling Stones loving lady who's partner looked like a respectable Jonjo Shelvey, was suitably contrite.    A Scottish lady starts buying drinks for anyone she recognises (so not me) as it is the anniversary of her husband's death.  Then,  a dark haired Katie Hopkins arrives with child flung over her shoulder, chewing on a toy giraffe (the child, not Katie).  As soon as the child sees the giant dog, he becomes proper enamoured and starts cooing and pointing.  This was peak BRAPA, and I had a ringside seat.

Walking back up that hill quickly in the dark after four pints was fairly punishing, I was puffing and blowing by the top.   At least the bus turned up on time, I didn't need a wee too desperately, next stop Scarborough!

And I'll tell you about my Scabby tick, a fairly limp Scabby pre-emptive, and the beginnings of a rural Hertfordshire classic with Simon & Daddy Dewhurst, next time out. 

But I've written enough words for now, and need to get back to Saving Neighbours, so see you all on Friday, or tomorrow if you do Twitter.

Si 

BRAPA is ..... BURSTIN' IN BURTON (Staffs Pt 2/2)

With Alrewas and Barton-under-Needwood safely greened off (the first two alphabetical GBG pubs in Staffordshire too, which makes me happy), it was time to take the bus back into Burton for the remaining four .......

Page 371 .... up yer bum!

What I forgot to mention in part 1 was that this was an overnighter.  NOT because I was expecting a repeat of my drunken 2019 visit here, but more so because one of my remaining pubs didn't open til 5pm (which is very rude behaviour on a Saturday) and being a bus ride away, I didn't want to leave myself panicking about late trains to York.

I jumped headfirst off the bus before we hit Burton centre, leaving me with a shorter walk to my Premier Inn, which is a 25 minute walk from town.  You'd have to speak to Former Si to understand the rationale behind staying here ahead of the Travelodge, pretty much opposite my sixth pub.

After a speedy check in where the staff applauded the reasons for my visit (well one did, the one checking me in looked bored silly), I marched to the centre.  In the time between getting off the bus and getting to my room, the new look revitalised Hull City had gone 2-0 up against Swansea.  So I dashed merrily towards Burton's GBG ticks on a cloud of Black & Amber joy.

Situated in a quiet corner of the market square next to the church, Old Royal Oak, Burton (2026 / 3589) was this year's mystery Burton tick I'd never heard of before.  It will probably fall into that 'GBG guest appearance' territory that the Last Heretic and The Crossing have occupied in recent years.  The reason for GBG inclusion is immediately obvious, now owned by a brewery called Fownes, from Brierley Hill, having a full range of their beers on, and an upsetting modern shaped pint glass I could never quite grasp!  One of the oldest pubs in town, it felt rather sparse and lacking atmosphere on my visit.  I wait patiently whilst a bloke who'd been here once before was waxing lyrical on his favourite Fownes ales, wife eye-rolling, but he's jollied along by the excellent landlady, who immediately spies Colin and says "hiiiii Colin!" and I'm like "he's got an unconvincing Brummie accent so do you really want me to do his voice?"   A threat of a DJ setting up in a raised area to my right doesn't materialise, which I'm almost sad about.  Was I here just an hour or two too early?   I take my pint of Elephant Riders to the back of the room, and I'm pretty anti-social in these early stages .... so invested in Hull City, I can't relax until full time has sounded and they've won.  Once that 2-0 news comes in, I raise my head to join in.  The bloke from earlier is enthusing over a coffee beer.  I join in by saying "you can't peak too soon with darks" which causing much sage nodding!  As soon his wife nips to the loo, bloke is straight up to the bar, asking the younger barmaid what her name is.  WHAT A LAD!  After ascertaining she shares the same name as Postman Pat's black and white cat, wife returns earlier than planned (just a wee), and bloke, sensing wifey eyes boring into the back of his head, quickly sits back down.  You had to commend the sheer bravado.  

Col's favourite pub today, but the glassware was just one reason it didn't thrill me

"DJ, DJ give us a song"

Not to be Fowned upon

Just a few minutes shy of 5pm, it was time to take the bus out to my awkward outlier.  

Only a short ride, in fact, Stretton felt more like an suburban extension of Burton than in place in its own right, but the GBG have listed them separately, so who am I to argue?  

Yes, with hours of 5-10pm Fri & Sat, plus a more recently introduced Sunday daytime slot, Junction, Stretton (2027 / 3590) was a great one to get greened off.  It can't have been open too long when I arrived, but the place was bustling, and everyone seemed to be in the process of establishing themselves as drinkers who'd be here til they were kicked out!  I sensed a kind of 'champing at the bit' restlessness about the folk, a bit like at Great Ayton's Tannery.  Limited hours leaving the punters wanting more?  It ain't a bad tactic really, though not so good if you are a ticker.  My visit would have to be rushed however, the next bus was only 25 minutes away.  The kind couple behind the bar served ales from Blythe brewery, another new one on me, from a place called Hamster Ridgewell.  A great centre back in his day, big cheeks, terrible on loan at the Tigers.  I suddenly realised how much more palatable this pale ale was than the Elephant Fownes one, which had been kept great, and I'd THOUGHT I loved at the time, must be to do with hops or something I don't understand.  The lively crowd started to relax a bit, which put me at ease.  So I went to test out the quirky loos that Eddie F had told me about, with green and red pedestrian lights to tell you when weeing was allowed.  If only they'd had them in Newark Northgate. 

Green really is the best colour isn't it?  (but not for urine)

Spoilt for choice!

Say hello to Mr and Mrs Junction

Col nabs a beermat for his wall

Yawning or shouting, or just very happy.  The Stretton locals make the most of their pub being open

The bus stops by the church, I'm the only passenger still onboard by the time we are back in Burton proper.  The city centre streets are deserted too.  Saturday, just gone 6pm.  Tsk.  Where is everyone?

I'll tell you where, all crammed into the same popular pub!  

Taken at 10am when I first arrived in town

Devonshire Arms, Burton (2028 / 3591) is a bit of an institution.  I know that from my Twitter #PubMen alone, 'tis very well regarded.  So much so, that back on that fateful drunken summer night in 2019, when this pub was merely 'pre-emptive', I was encouraged/persuaded to go by my followers who saw I was in Coopers Tavern & said I had to try this one.  I'd had nine pints, I'm only small, I was thinner pre-lockdown, and I actually remember half hoping, they'd tell me either (a) I was too drunk or (b) I'd missed last orders (it was gone 10:30pm).  But the bald chap was lovely, the ale on first sip was immaculate, and a few late drinkers smiled over at me.  I could, despite my hazy state, appreciate what a great pub this was.  But I made the mistake of closing my eyes.  The room started spinning.  Worried I was going to be sick, I raced to the loo.  But I was ok.  But no way I could finish my ale.  I'd drunk less than a third.  I therefore refused to count it as a 'tick' when it appeared in the GBG the following year.  Unfinished business.  I have one other GBG pub in the same situation as this!

My last Devonshire photo in 2019 before I realised I wasn't very well!

TOTALLY different atmosphere tonight, earlier evening, standing room only for the most part.  Four burly Bass bar blockers (the worst type of bar blocker) are like "GET YERSELF IN AT THE BAR MATEY WAHHHEYY" because for some reason, I'm lurking behind them like a timid mouse who'd never been in a pub before.  I get my Bass, and the one remaining table, hidden behind a pillar and fruit machine in the centre.  An old lady on a bench hasn't read the script (the script being 'jovial atmosphere', 'strangers chatting', everyone having fun) and gets well pissed off when a 'new' couple and her fellow bench companions try and squeeze up to allow more people to sit.  If I'd initially been annoyed to have a table that offers no vantage point for pub observation, by now I'm grateful to have anything.  A trip to the loo helps me get my bearings, I'm in the opposite room from my 2019 visit.  Cracking place, of that I have no doubt, the Bass is on top form, but just not the easiest ticking circumstances I found myself in.  Weirdly, I'd preferred my 2019 visit!

Col plays Bass-peek-a-boo

I could feel the ale kicking in by now.  One tick to go.  I remembered walking past this one on my 2019 trip, because it was located so close to the Travelodge I (sensibly) stayed in on that occasion.

I tell the Shifty Forlorn Looking Mark E. Smith (SFLMES), smoking outside, that I'm very happy for him to be in the outdoor photo if he wishes, but he slurs something at me that sounds like 'Drink Y'Self Fatter' and staggers over to the right, thus making the above photo sadly boring.  I clatter through the main door at Weighbridge Inn, Burton (2029 / 3592) and I'm not totally enamoured by the place on first glance, especially as the lady behind the bar seems totally floored by whatever she's been sent on her phone, struggling to regain concentration to serve me.  I'm not in Ware (home of British pornography) yet, that is next weekend, so surely it wasn't anything too dodgy?  Time for a Stout, a Coalface Stout, it feels right. I tell her this (she's still smiling about whatever that 'thing' was on her phone), Bass bridging the gap for me between my earlier pales and this.  The beer screen looks a bit Ceefax/Teletext, the locals in the main bit seem a bit 'knowing', people talking about beer is always a bit of a turn off I find, and it smells of Play Doh (Mop Top Hair Shop to be precise).   So I go through to the small room to the left, where to my horror SFLMES is the only other person.  This is awkward.  We both glance away, pretending neither of us have noticed the other or can remember the awkward little exchange outside.  But as I sup slowly, and SFLMES finally leaves, I can feel something strange happening - this pub is getting a hold of me, and I'm actually starting to enjoy it!  Like really enjoy it.  Like 'shall I stay for another?' enjoy it. Maybe I did, I can't remember, it was only just gone 8pm I know that!  And I can't explain why this place started to get its claws into me, but it did!  Mauled by the Weighbridge.

Burton never disappoints, and for a fourth consecutive trip here, I stagger back towards my digs happy but not really knowing what's going on.  

Join me on Wednesday, where I'll tell you about a particularly thirsty Thursday on the Yorkshire coast.

Until then, thanks for listening, Si