BRAPA - Mid Wales : Bad Ankle, Good Anchor. (Part 2 of 3)

Sunday dawned bright and sunny in Bwlch-y-Cibau and although Mum decided not to join us (not trusting pub steps, and she can't put any weight on her sprained ankle, though we did try to twist her arm so to speak!), it was a good opportunity to visit two pubs that open 12 noon on weekends but not til after 4pm in the week .....

Before we left, our host, Lady Auriel Linlithgow, brought us some eggs that her chickens had freshly laid but she didn't seem like the kind of girl who'd understand BRAPA so I kept schtum.

992.  Square & Compass, Cilcewydd

It wasn't far to the practically non-existent hamlet of "Cycle-wild" (as I pronounce it) but the pub was on the main road and the door sprang back at 11:59am to meet one of the jolliest barmen we encountered on our travels.  He certainly loved the BRAPA concept and his equally friendly Brummie wife stood in the background, apologising for still eating her breakfast.  It was one of those funny pubs (like Danby North Yorkshire) where people kept popping in for non pubby reasons culminating in a man with one of those booming Welsh tenor voices who made a show of giving the barmaid a bottle of cheap white wine as a "thanks for last night", sounds like some crazy party had been going on (she pretended to be grateful).  This explained why the Butty Bach was off, with Doom Bar the only ale on and even this had a temporary air lock problem.  At least they apologised, and it was the best Doom Bar I'd possibly ever had! (or was this cos I got zero beer yesterday?)  The pub was small and cosy and very Welsh, lot's of quirky decor including a sign "The lost and thirsty use the Square & Compass, but don't get drunk and cause a...." we couldn't see the last word, the sensible money would be on "rumpus", Dad suggested it might be "elephant".  Whilst a local munched on the longest crusty pork baguette ever seen (with added crackling) I also saw strict rules about not playing the piano and suspect that behind the relaxed jokey facade of this pub, there's one that would come down with an iron fist if you stepped out of line!  As we watched Jessica Ennis-whatsit on a big screen making excuses about not being able to win gold cos she's now a Mum, I realised everyone was drinking Carling.  Carling, Doom Bar but only BBC Sport?  Something was amiss.

Part of the sign that might end with "Elephant"

Possibly the best Doom Bar I've ever had.

Mum might have been down, but she wasn't out.  Demanding constant pub updates and offering her opinions, she suggested any pub that only sells "Doomsday" (as she calls it) doesn't deserve to be in the GBG.  Provocative stuff.

Our next pub was a bit further North, past Welshpool and not far from the border.....

It's buzzing outdoors at the Rodney!

993.  Admiral Rodney Inn, Criggion

Early signs weren't so promising here as a full car park meant we had to park directly in front of a coach, but the driver told us he wasn't moving til 5pm so we were okay (presuming we didn't go on a 4 hour session).  I entered the incredibly rustic and ancient looking building expecting to find it heaving with tourist scumbags, but it was mercifully peaceful and Salopian Oracle plus a beer called Citrus Blast (and Butty Bach) made for the best ale range we saw all holiday (which doesn't say much for the other pubs, but is understandable in such rural parts).  The young barman was a marvel, and candidate for 'staff of the year' award.  Full of nervous energy, he confessed that the carvery was fully booked up.  I told him we weren't interested in carvery, might just want some plaice and chips in a basket but we'd have a think, but he still kept going on about freeing the carvery up for us!  Arrrggh.  But forgive him, he might not be the man you'd want running the London Stock Exchange but a busy rural pub, his attention to detail was superb and he was constantly asking how we found the beer and coming outside to check we were okay, where Dad had found an outdoor table, overlooking great mountainous scenery in the most calm, still atmosphere on earth, despite a fair few tourists.  Oracle is one of my favourite pale beers ever, so that helped.  The plaice and chips was great too.  This, for both me and Dad, was pub of the weekend and as for our capable host (his exact female equivalent had appeared late on), as Dad said, "he might end up connecting Wales to the internet one day".

It was time to go back to Bwlch-y-Cibau to check in with Mum, have a rest and gear ourselves up for the most monumental pub tick of the weekend, and about 6:15pm, we set the SatNav to take us the 28 miles to Anchor!

Despite reading Martin Taylor's excellent recent blog review, various comments and stories about the place and it's location, nothing and I mean NOTHING can prepare you for the remoteness, or the unlikely building which houses this pub.  I was in shock, no, stunned, more stunned than Dalian Atkinson (too soon?) and the relief to see it open was immense, with it's "open 7pm every day" sign daubed onto the pub wall.

Hooray!  Most pleasing pub tick ever.

994.  Anchor, Anchor

The pub smelt fusty and like a library book that hasn't been touched in hundred's of years.  Good grief, if Mum found the idea of food unpalatable in Llansillin, then what would she have made of this? (had we had a party of 4)   In fact, I'd half thought of bringing a pot noodle and asking the landlord to pour some hot water in it, just so I could say I'd eaten here).  Anyway, I tried to hide my wide-eyed excitement as I ordered a Clun Pale (and half a Hobson's chaser!) and we chatted with the landlord, a lovely gentle old chap who didn't talk rubbish for the sake of it but was pleased to talk about the pub  (I loved the half-arsed carved owl with glasses above the mantelpiece but my picture was too dark and didn't work out).  Here were some of the many conversational highlights:
1.  The Sunday 12-2 opening slot doesn't exist anymore, further reducing the opening hours.
2.  It had been the Anchor show earlier in the day, probably the only time in the year anything happens in Anchor.
3.  Some Twilds (not his phrase) had been in the night before causing mayhem on the pool table.
4.  In the last 20 years, he can only think of 3 occasions when no-one has come into the pub!
5.  He took a BRAPA card behind the bar and mentioned another chap who'd been doing a similar challenge who was in here a few weeks ago.  "Oooh was he called Martin Taylor?" I asked.  His reply was typically poetic "It's within the realms of possibility that that was his name".
6.  A Polish guy wanted to be at Anchor Boulevard (near Dartford) and somehow ended up here, his friends were not amused when he rang to say where he was.
7.  This pub is "three golf shots" into Shropshire.
8.  It was a Tanners Wines person who campaigned to get this pub in the GBG.
9.  Best of all, a man (probably a Geordie) got Newcastle upon Tyne confused with Newcastle-on-Clun, came in here looking confused, and asked where Boots was!
An amazing old pub with so little done to it over the years, it is ridiculous but that is almost a compliment.  I went to the loo before we left and an 18th century spider was hanging out of a crusty web.  I think the loo had soap though which if you think about it, makes Anchor more progressive than Atherton in Greater Manchester.  £2.50 a pint wasn't bad either.  His wife trotted out a couple of times, she looked older than him and you do have to fear for the future of this place when these two go - but I've been and it was brilliant!

Clun Pale (I took a beermat for my bedroom wall collection!)

Looks quite a cosy normal pub from this angle.....

Would you eat a pot noodle in the Anchor toilets?

On the way out

Waaah, I don't want to leave

So with a beautiful sunset over South-Mid Wales, it was time to get back for tea and rest up for three more ticks on day three (Monday).

Si

BRAPA - Mid Wales : Bad Ankle, Good Anchor. (Part 1 of 3)

I'm pretty sure that when Mum and Dad invited me the chance to tag along with their Welsh holiday, they knew that the biggest factor (along with their obviously great company) was the chance for me to tick off some pubs which might not be easily achieved due to (a) lacking public transport and (b) weird opening hours.

NOT that I was taking it too seriously, but I did make sure this map was at the the forefront of their consciousness .....

Could I get all six done?  Well, this was no ordinary BRAPA trip out as it wasn't totally in my hands.  My frustrations were bubbling under early doors, as a stop in Oswestry for a cheese and ham toastie was all well and good, but with neither pub ticked off, this was torture for my BRAPA brain.

On a happier note, Dad had programmed our stoic male SatNav companion (Mum wanted the jabbering female but was overruled) to stop at pub number 4 on my map, and after a few winding roads across the border, we were there and hurrah, it was open!

Celebrating the first of (hopefully) many Powys ticks.

991.  Wynnstay Inn, Llansillin

As I sped round to the bar where four companionable locals were chatting nonsense with the archetypal Welsh barman, I had to laugh when I saw York Guzzler as one of the two beers!  At least that gave me a route into conversation "we're from York don't you know?" (surely enough to impress such yokels .... only kidding) and I then embarrassed Dad accidentally by making him pronounce Bwlych-Y-Cibau, where we were staying.  One local claimed Welsh was the easiest phonetic language ever "much easier than English" so Mum and Dad motioned me and our excellent pints of Big Shed Tyger Tyger to a bench table before I got embroiled in any arguments.  Mum had a lemonade and revealed she rated it quite highly and it might be included in her forthcoming 'Good Pub Lemonade Guide'.   The pub decor was all superheroes and salamanders, a weird combination, Star Wars quite prevalent, but incredibly basic and Mum commented she could not imagine feeling appetised enough to eat in here (I had a feeling I'd see at least one less appetising pub this holiday!)  A bit of excitement as I went back for half a Guzzler out of curiosity (poor and according to Dad, he'd heard them whispering it was about to go off) when the landlord, who was quite deaf, had the loudest mobile phone ring ever witnessed in a pub EVER, he couldn't remember it was hiding on a window sill, and then the cash till bit his hand Arkwright style.  A quirky start to Welsh pubbing.

Vintage tractors in the pub car park

York Guzzler, can you believe it?

Spiderman unimpressed with Batman's Prosecco crotch.

After checking in, it was decided that after the long drive, pubbing would be resumed tomorrow so I set Dad to work combining pubs 5 and 6 with a walk around Caersws.....

All seemed set for a straightforward holiday - long walk, 2 pubs, food, sleep, long walk, 2 pubs etc etc.  But it's when you start think like that when BRAPA bites you on the bottom.

The first bite happened that evening as we sat down to our evening Ploughman's, two bats got in and started circling us menacingly (no literal bites to the bottom though).

That might have been a bad omen, as the following day, me and Dad unfairly made Mum jump across a ditch she wasn't comfortable with and her ankle went SNAP and she went down.  Ouch.  After carrying her back through field after field, we were soon in Shrewsbury Infirmary (I'd done most of my pub ticks in Shrews so had been edging towards Aberystwyth's A&E) and luckily, it wasn't broken!

Mum in good spirits despite her ankle woes.

To Mum's absolute credit, she looked up at her lowest ebb and almost like a dying wish, told me to ensure that whatever happened, I got the Anchor-Anchor ticked off.  Proper Pub Mum!  Of course, my BRAPA mind interpreted this as "crack on with your entire pub plan and add a few cos that's all that is left for us now we can't do any walks".  

Meanwhile back in York, my sister's boyfriend reacted to the news by using an axe to smash a coconut.....

Random behaviour from Andy 

A bit of light reading and a cuppa (no beer today!)

Let us hope day 3 and 4 of the holiday could be more productive pub-wise, I had to make up for lost time and you want to read about pubs, not family drama!

Si

BRAPA - Punk Rock Pub Ticking in WEST Lancs

A 16th year of attending the Rebellion Punk Festival in Blackpool (even though it used to be in Morecambe and called things like 'Wasted' and 'Holidays in the Sun'), and I've learnt over the years that you can't just stay in the venue the whole time, visiting band after band, drinking Murphys and inhaling sweat and funny smoke.  No, you'd burn out very quickly.

No, you need to give yourself a bit of escape time getting sea-air,  sitting down and drinking quality (hopefully) beer.

Bald man was seriously unimpressed by this photo.

So on the Friday afternoon, me and fellow punk traveller (not a gypsy) Jig Johnstone meandered through the backstreets (somehow even more scarier than the seafront) to find my final Blackpool required pub tick.....

Don't take photos like this for granted!

987.  The Auctioneer, Blackpool

This pub experience was fraught from the get-go because whilst Jig was taking this photo, a grumpy old man on a shop mobility scooter tried to run him over because he was in the exact spot he wanted to park.  As if he couldn't have parked anywhere else miserable old bastard, luckily two other locals looked sympathetically towards us, otherwise we might have just run away crying.   In the build up to my visit, three Twitterers had all told me this was NO LONGER a Wetherspoons, thanks to them so I didn't make a fool of myself thrusting 50p vouchers down the bar staffs throats.  On first glance, this had 'Spoons' written all over it, but two things were a bit different.  Kindly, older staff and a more local beer range than you might expect. We drank Fuzzy Duck beers from Poulton-le-Fylde, the barmaid refusing to say Pheasant Plucker in case she got it wrong, but the following day, she was more confident with a Cunning Stunt.  £4.10 for 2 pints was pretty amazing too.  Having watched "Homes Under the Hammer" that morning, Jig got into his BRAPA stride a bit too well and started telling me how the bay windows offered much natural light!  I'm glad he's not a pub blogger.  Three men sat on their own with Spa shopping bags in the gloomiest pub areas, one put his loaf of bread, biscuits and milk on the table as though he was going to start a feast.  It was that kind of pub.

Does this look like a Spoons to you? 

"Bay windows offering natural light!"

No-one trips over their words as Cunning Stunt is ordered.

We had bands to see so fast forward to a bright and sunny Blackpool Saturday, as we walked to Blackpool South and took the rural Burnley-ish train to St Annes (slightly delayed but we didn't need a train ticket so no complaints!)  A man spent an age helping his disabled wife step off the train, using the joke "it's a big step for man-kind" not once but twice.  Wasn't funny the first time mate! 

988.  Victoria. St Annes

After a 15 minute trek, mainly in a circle, we found the furthest out pub but it didn't occur to me it was 11:50am and it didn't open til 12 noon until the plant watering lady outside told me.  Had my punk head on, not my usual BRAPA one!  Landlord arrived, we were sat on the pub bench and Jig was worried we looked like alcoholics so to put his mind at rest, I did my usual "I'm not an alcoholic but this is BRAPA" explanation and got assurances they'd be open dead on 12 noon, which they were.  The young barman served us excellent Hopstar Summer Daze, but we also got orange juice chasers as seriously dehydrated from all the moshing and Murphys.  Barman was friendliest of weekend along with our 18 year old friend from Pump & Truncheon, but we took our drinks back to the nice beer garden at the front where I had to field a series of queries from "Lytham Life" twitter account.  A twild was hanging out of a window, but other than that, just basked in sun with two churches either side of us making up for the slightly scuzzy main road.  Oh, but who promotes Pimms at a beer festival?

989.  Fifteens at St Annes

Nearer the station and not far from the prom, it was a hive of activity as the locals took joy in being part of the BRAPA photo opportunity.  "Ohhh, I thought you were doing something like that!" said the old man as I explained visiting every pub in the UK.  You can't tell some people anything.  More on him later.  This was clearly my favourite pub of the weekend, a classic in any part of the country, a typical bar scene was lots of miserable old men slumped over the bar blocking the handpumps, half watching cricket.  The barman noted how many teenagers had been going upstairs to the pub toilet with phones out, looking confused.  Only one conclusion, "there's obviously a valuable Pokemon up there!" they then slagged Pokemon Go off for 5 minutes, I was impressed they'd even heard of it but conscious me following my GBG App to the pub might make me scum aswell.  The pub was a right bric-a-brac nic-nack old curiosity shop of joy, with those things you stick your head in to have a "hilairious" seaside photo, a fussball table and lots more.  4 old women annoyed me by having a virtually empty pub to aim at, and spending ages debating where they'd sit, changing their minds, and eventually going outside.  Grrr, I was fuming, I'm turning into my Dad.

Getting the locals into the BRAPA spirit

990.  Trawl Boat Inn, St Annes

Our final St Annes pub tick was just behind the Fifteens, and the old man I'd been chatting to outside was propping up the bar but obviously pleased to see he wasn't the only one going around the pubs.  Now this place definitely was a Spoons so I used my 50p vouchers on some powerful 5%ers from Reedley Hallows which I'd previously had in Burnley.  With the outside heaving due to the unexpected sunshine, I decided we'd spend the half hour chatting to our new friend, who despite his lack of teeth, was a man who made a lot of sense!  Ok, so he was from Chorlton-cum-Hardy but I won't hold that against him, especially when he started badmouthing all of the one syllable trendy bars like "Scuzz", "Sprog" and "Bum" (sorry, I can't remember their names).  Sadly, he was still semi-proud of it's independence , didn't like my inference it was a glorified young persons Manc extension, comparing it vaguely to Stockport and got excitable about Cheshire briefly, before talking non-stop about his passion for music until I eventually managed to politely tell him our train was due and we had to dash.

 We did get gripped for train tickets on the way back (by THREE different people before the train even set off - no fare dodging allowed here, maybe I was under surveillance), and popped back into Auctioneer for a pee and a pint before the walk back to the festival.

That was it cos sadly I hadn't seen the Twitter comment telling me about two pre-emptive Blackpool ticks but I'll be back in 2017, and failing them being in the guide, there is Lytham itself or Fleetwood.  I almost don't want any bands to be on!

Over the weekend, I managed to offend a man from Kendal for agreeing it was shit (I've never been) and mentioning mint cake, I offended an Everton fan from Widnes by asking if it was in Merseyside, and a weirdo with heart problems from some shitbag village near Blackburn by saying it was a horrid town with no good pubs.  At least a scary Glaswegian agreed even a Glasgow Wetherspoons experience was preferable to paying £4 for a pint of soil (Murphys) in a plastic glass.

Honestly, I try my best to be a UK travel ambassador and most folk just don't want to know......

Si

BRAPA - South Anston (Loyal Trooper)

It was deja vu from my previous train journey to Kiveton Park (Harthill on 17th May), just missing the train connection in Sheffield by seconds so forced to wait twenty minutes whilst disconsolately munching on a bag of Mini Cheddars on platform 3B until the next train arrived.

Once in Kiveton Park, I played one of my favourite BRAPA games "Beat the Bus" where I tried to speed walk to South Anston before the bus would have arrived.  And I won!  Despite standing on a half full can of Vimto.  Yasss!

Nearly there .... and still no sign of the X5 bus

I'm going in!  Take that bus-face!

986.  Loyal Trooper, South Anston

I squashed in at the right hand bar between three friendly local men with an air of the "what of it" about them.  Pete's wife had put his pork chop in the oven two hours ago, he wondered if it'd be done yet.  "Very crispy" was the general consensus.  No sooner had I taken my Abbeydale Moonshine to the rare example of bench seating near the front door, when another man plonked a "reserved" sign on my table.  He told me not to worry, but an 80 year old blind man was coming for tea here at 19:30 and finding his way into the pub was a struggle, so they always put him at the table nearest the door.  Okay then, I had an hour.  More than enough, tempting as it was to stay the full hour and risk being groped by an old blind man.  In typical South Yorkshire village pub style, the pub then took on a huge influx of people between 18:30-18:45 and a cackling group of women were first to appear and ask why it was so quiet.  "Well, this is South Anston on a Tuesday evening girls, not Dodgy Doncaster DJ Disco Dave's Saturday Northern Soul Explosion"  (I didn't say that).   A bit of a rumpus followed as 4 men in identical Carling t-shirts appeared and asked a local if they could have a photo outside the pub, and commented they should really be drinking Carling but they'd "brave the ale!"  Who were they?  Was this a shit version of BRAPA?  Go round all the Carling pubs in the UK?  Back at the bar, I topped up with half a Moonshine to get me through to 19:05 and one of the Carling gang turned his nose up at me, slagged off pale ales (hoppy and samey), but he was on the Adnams Southwold like a brave little soldier.  I was just about to ask him about the Carling tops, when he disappeared into a crack in the floor, or so it seemed.

Moonshine in John Smith's glass on Carling beer mat on reserved table,  Hmm.

I'm a loyal trooper.

Quite a nice historical pub it was, I'll turn a blind eye to the restauranty area out the back, and the Carling/Doom Bar/potential Sky Sports conglomerate, and the beer in wrong glass. It had a great atmosphere, friendly staff, great locals, and if you found it in North London, it'd be like finding the Bell at Aldworth.  

I'd enjoyed the "Beat the Bus" game so much, I walked back to Kiveton Bridge too.  I let it win this time.  Only just over a mile so a short march, tiny bit hilly but the GBG should be encouraging people to do walks like this.  People are so lazy.  Less than 0.5 miles a day they walk, no wonder they are fat,  And the health people have the gall to blame things like drinking too much beer!  Bollocks.

Back in Sheffield, I popped in Sheffield Tap for a very swift  Cascadian Tempest and was served by the Junga/Yunga barmaid from the other week - classic barmaidery.  

In the main bar at Sheff Tap, note the grinning fop who tasted all the beers and then went for Jaipur.

Time for Blackpool's Rebellion Punk Festival!  Am determined to get a Saturday lunchtime crawl somewhere, and of course squeeze in the Auctioneer.  But I won't be too disheartened if I don't get much done.  After all, last year the GBG managed to remove Thornton Cleveleys incredible good Sam Smith's pub (and the good but weird Bispham one) making any BRAPing null and void.  And why does Gillespies never get in, fallen out with CAMRA?  At least Pump & T. is back,  a classic.

Me in the now defunct Casbah stage in 2014.

Me at Victoria Hotel, Thornton Cleveleys last year.

Me at Bispham Hotel last year.

See you next week!  Si

BRAPA - July Review / August Preview

Ruby helping me work out where Criggion actually is!

July Review

Hello pubbers.  27 new pubs for the month wasn't a bad outcome considering I had no time off work.   I'd been aiming at 30 but you can't always legislate for pub closures (Thoralby's holiday farce, the Wellington in Sheffield being stupid), and sometimes, you just run out of time (Lancaster).

Midweek nights have been productive with Sheffield now as complete as it possibly can be, I made great strides towards completing North Yorkshire, another good step in the Berkshire direction (well, Hants mainly), and some bonus pubbing around Lancs and Notts to keep those numbers respectable.

Again, I've tried to summon up the best three pubs in my mind, based on my experiences on the day - these will go into the pot for the "End of Year Awards Ceremony".

1. Old Vic, Darlington
2. Victoria, Paddington
3. Blake Hotel, Sheffield

Pub dog contemplates prospect of August 'ticking'.

August Preview

August is the hardest month for BRAPA, make no mistake.  With the New GBG on the horizon (Privilege Club permitting after two years of administrative cock-ups, I'm expecting to find it on my doormat Fri 26th Aug), I find myself questioning the point of visiting any new pubs in August.  "Waaah, what if this pub is de-guided?  What is the point?  Why am I alive?  The beer will probably be vinegar cos the pub has been rubbish for 18 months."  Yes, I turn into a paranoid, nervous wreck.

But once I "man up", the agenda will be as follows.

South Yorkshire continues tomorrow night (2nd), then I am going to try and incorporate some BRAPA into the punk festival (Blackpool's Auctioneer is a must, a trip to Lytham/St Annes might be nice if bands allow!).  No sooner am I back from that then a trip to Mid Wales which was being secretly guarded until Martin "One Step Beyond" Taylor visited the Anchor Anchor.  Still, I also hope to get some tricky Welsh ones done where even Messrs Taylor, Mackay and Winfield would raise a congratulatory eyebrow.  I may even be able to squash in a bonus BRAPA day between the Punk & Wales.

Later in the month, a NFFD (Non Football Football day) sees me shun Swansea in favour of Billinge, Rainford and St Helens.  ending with an unspecified North Yorkshire day due to the new GBG possibly being with me (remember last years Coxwold/Shipton v Wass/Raskelf conundrum?  No, neither do I).  I'll be back in the South Yorkshire swing by then too.

And then I'll enter the period I call "One Month Reverse Owl Syndrome" which basically means I go quiet for a month (well, hopefully just 2 or 3 weeks up to the official GBG release date 15th Sept), but still pubbing Saturdays, as I cross tick, work out my numbers, and "realign my strategy".

...... Not that I take BRAPA too seriously!

This year, I also have the added distraction of PUB NUMBER 1,000.  Yes, I am dangerously near that magic landmark number and I presume I'll pass it about mid-late month, but I'll drop below it again when I do the "cross-ticking" so what is the point?  Waaaah.  And the depression sets in again.....  roll on September!

Si

BRAPA - West Bridgford

Elsie Mo goes all 21st Century on us.

The annual "Welly Summer Day Out" (organised for us Hull City fans who used to frequent Hull's brilliant but now defunct Wellington pub) was down to three attendeees, the usual BRAPA trio of me, Dad and Tom, as we set out for West Bridgford on a sunny Saturday morning.

Like some bloody woman, I was 'wearing in' new red shoes in readiness for the Blackpool Punk Festival, so with blisters aplenty, I ditched the 'wearing in' long walk in favour of  a short bus ride to West Bridgford, a bustling little republic, totally separate from evil Nottingham scum (am sure that's what the locals would say) and we found our 9:30am opener doing good early trade.....

984.  Poppy & Pint, West Bridgford

A former British legion club that actually let me in, that was a novelty, eff off Penistone!  Sadly, it felt more like a ski chalet than a rugged men's club, all bare boarded and modern, keen eager young staff unable to comprehend someone might want to order a 10:30am pint without a breakfast.  It was all very Castle Rock (even if I did have a Wadworth beer first, then a brilliant Harvest Pale - a beer that  tastes awful in York these days) but I noticed Dad scowling, he could hear screaming kids dominating the pub!  But rather than walk to the furthest point away from them, he chose to sat in a strange 'no smoking' half uncovered outdoors area overlooking a bowling green.  The Twilds in question (twin twats), were playing hide & seek with a trendy beardie Dad who insisted on emphasising things like "oooh, where have those naughty little rascals gone?" and generally making a prat of himself.  As hiding on the main road wasn't an option, they ended up in our seating area.  Pub kids has been a recent common theme, like Pub Curmudgeon's excellent blog  has unwittingly unleashed a vortex of child shit-baggery on the universe.  Their eventual departure coincided with Tom's arrival (as though Tom was Richard III and they were the Princes in the Tower) and we concluded that whilst this place suffered from not being particularly pubby, there are worse places to enjoy a (now kid-free) pint.

First pint of the day (a "bitter", not a "pale")

Inside shot gives a slight clue to the shortcomings

Nice pint overlooking the bowling green.

Poppy & Pint admits it has a child problem.

985.  Stratford Haven, West Bridgford

After a short walk, we were at another Castle Rock pub, where I ordered a pint of Andy Turner, which sounded wrong, but he's some Olympian blah blah zzzzz, which somehow led me to encourage Dad to unleash his fake Olympic past, a task he took to a bit too eagerly but the young barman looked impressed anyway.  Andy Turner sounds like the centre back Hull City never had, and led us to a nice little quiz (Dad wanted to sit outside due to man-flu) where the conclusion was that Jozy Altidore is perhaps the worst striker the world has ever seen.  This was a much more proper pub, despite the obvious signs of a sympathetic Castle Rock makeover, and all the men were old smokers called Harold.  An over excitable dog (due to being owned by an over excitable female) took exception to one old man in the smoking area, it absolutely hated him - and don't you love it when dogs react like this and you see the other customers looking at the subject of the dog's wrath with suspicion as if thinking "this guy is probably a paedo"?  In another politically incorrect twist, I asked Dad what pint he wanted.  His reply "I think I'll have a go at the darkie next", reverberating around the pub garden, sounded bad, but really he just wanted to try the superb Titanic Cherry Dark.  And that really summed up the whole pub, and yes, I'd recommend it fully.

Approaching the Stratford Haven

Asking "Can I have a pint of Andy Turner?" just felt wrong

It was football time, sadly the safety certificate issue had been sorted out, and we were allowed in, at the extortionate price of £15 having had to get a ticket and then go to the turnstiles in one of the least common sense football moves ever.  It was a good game (for 45 mins), nice Allam Out chants, and our beleaguered players did what we always do and won at the City Ground.

Post match celebration at a Nottingham favourite of mine, the VAT & Fiddle.  Arguably not quite as good a pub since the cat died, Dad accidentally ordered 3 bowls of Carry On Soup (Carrot and Coriander was what he meant to say) and pints of Brian Clough and Red Riding Hood finished me off nicely.

Love this pub!

Cloughie is a Bootboy!

The end of a happy day in Notts

I might be back on Tuesday for some South Yorkshire fun, it depends how organised I am for Blackpool, but I'll be back tomorrow night anyway for the month end review.  Stay tuned folks.

Si