BRAPA - Blue Pits Inn, Castleton

For the first time in almost three months, Tuesday night midweek BRAPA returned as I figured, if I'm going to stay over that magical 1,125 number when the new GBG comes out in late Aug/ early September, I need to give myself every chance (it looks a very tall order).

Sadly, I finished work at 5pm so was on the ridiculously heaving 17:23 to Manchester Victoria via just about everywhere in West Yorkshire and Greater Manchester, but luckily everyone lives in Morley these days so it wasn't packed for long.

An hour and 24 minutes later, I was kicked out at a place called Castleton in the shadow of Rochdale, and I saw the pub looming large just across the road.  Perfectly placed.

Greater Manchester is a real Jekyll and Hyde (no pun intended) place for pub ticking.  You have all those wonderful untouched basic boozers from Holts, Robinsons and JW Lees - not sure Hydes quite have the same appeal, not done many.  And then you have the hipster urbanised outer Manc shitness, places that really make you want to cry into your defunct Credence Cloudwater v.9.33 recurring.

1148.  Blue Pits Inn, Castleton

It was obvious before I'd even crossed the road that this was "good GMR", I could practically see the ghost of John Willie waving to me through an upstairs window as some burly men in the chippy next door laughed at me for photographing the pub, but in a good natured way, so they said!  I walked in to a dimly lit, traditional pub, that kind of looked multi-multi-roomed even though it wasn't, such was the trickery of the walls and the light.  A few pubmen looked expectantly at me, and in my best Manc accent (think Kevin and Perry), ordered a JW Lees guest ale so frothy, I was a bit alarmed until the no nonsense barmaid told me the invisible barstaff "hadn't pulled it through properly earlier", a new barrel and a wonderful ale at £2.80.  As I sat on leather benches to the left and got ready to see what I could observe, a bald man called Jonathan brandishing a bag of top quality bread said ow do and sat down next to me.  And stayed there til I left!  He was very quick witted and used long words, too much for me after a tough day at work, but said some great things.  Like "you are looking better on the ale than those hipsters do on the fizzy stuff", recalled meeting beer writer Pete Brown, and said "after Uni, I never dreamt I'd get chance to move back to Rochdale .... thought I'd have to live somewhere like London!"  I bought him a Strongbow Dark Fruits to be polite, and he got onto music history, putting tunes on the jukebox, and making me analyse the lyrics of Abba's Fernando, suicidal pop stars, and told me that while he was in the loo, I should Google "interviews with Brian from The Sweet" but when he returned, his mind had raced on and I never did learn what the significance was!  He then helped me try and work out the best way to one of his fave pubs, the Tandle Hill Tavern (from here or Royton?) - it was all hypothetical anyway as my GBG said closed Tuesday.  If only I knew a man from Tandle who knew Tandle pubs.  Oh well ;)  So that was that, I had stayed for a second pint, but preferred the first.  I said goodbye, and headed back for my delayed train to L**ds, finally getting to York 10pm for sake of one pub.  Tough life this pub ticking lark!

A pint of something widgetty.

Jonathan and his bag of bread - at a distance

Nice loos.

Am determined to keep "wrong side of the Pennines" midweek pubbing going, and plenty more to do on that train line and I get to leave at 4pm next week so perhaps a bit more scope for adventure.  

Before that, I've successfully got Oldham moved to Newcastle (so to speak), it's the work gang summer trip so I won't be at my observant or sober best, but I'll tell you all about it anyway as best I can.

Si
  

BRAPA - Bucks V - North West of the County

Was pub 1146 the pub of the day?  

I was quite anxious on Saturday morning as I set out for the only county that really matters in 2017 BRAPA-world, Buckinghamshire.  Although I only had a modest 4 pubs on my agenda, trains and buses weren't exactly high in abundance and I knew I'd have to rely at least partly on that most evil of transport methods, the taxi.  But I had to achieve these pubs today, it'd be my last chance before the 2018 GBG is released in September.

My nervous mood wasn't helped on the York-Manchester train, as a man called Abdul (so said his Starbucks cup) decided that he wanted to sit next to me, probably trying to prove a point as I was accidentally taking up two seats.  With a smirk, he pulled out a book called "Social Intelligence" just to confirm it.  Then he pulled out the Qu'ran and read it for two minutes.  He sneered at my own reading material, that is the 2017 Good Beer Guide.  So I put a song on called "Go Fuck Yourself" and made sure he could see the title.  Not so clever now are you Abdul?

My mood brightened when I arrived in Milton Keynes, a pleasing sunny modern town of straight lines, smiling people, and the feeling that you are in central Europe.  Perhaps a bit airbrushed, but I personally like it.  I'd worked out my first pub closed at 2pm, so no time to faff around with buses, straight in the first evil taxi of the day.....

1144.  Two Brewers, Thornborough

I won't tell you how much the taxi cost, or how panicked I was on seeing the unpromising creaky 17th century door looking locked.  But as so often happens with doors, you just have to turn the handle and you are through them.  Wonderful inventions.  The pub was empty, a delicious old traditional effort with only slight hints at modernisation, in a beautiful village miles from anywhere (well, 3 miles from Buckingham on a horrible road unsafe for pedestrians - I did check).  After a bit of exploration, I found the landlady outside watering plants and cleaning benches so I tried not to scare her, but she was an incredibly unflappable, unimpressed woman not remotely curious why I was here - which is kind of great.  I ordered my new fave Bucks tipple from errrm Tring "Side Pocket for a Toad" but two Labradors were working as a tag team to block both me and landlady off from going anywhere, she told me they always lay in the most inconvenient places.  I sat over to the right in a window seat, both dogs came over and tried to sit on me - they smelt of dog (urrrgh), but weren't twogs by any means.  Lovely dogs, and I don't often say that.  It all reminded me a bit of the Swan at Three Mile Cross, perhaps even better, quite a compliment.  A posh woman came in, shouted "Val!", and just to remind myself I was in the posh south, I heard most upsetting comment of the day "I don't like sausage rolls, to be honest, I'm not keen on any pastry".  You'd get barred for saying that in Leigh.  ANIMALS.  Not the dogs, they agreed with me.   A couple of ambling tourists came in and asked if they did food, and were soon redirected to somewhere shitter.  On the way out, hubbie said "Phwoar, nice looking pub this!"  Wife looked annoyed, and didn't let him stay for a drink.

No way back from the bar

Feel the quality

Pub pet of the year contender

I hadn't planned on walking to the next pub, 2.8 miles as the crow flies, more like 4.5 in reality.  But the gorgeous weather, huge overspend on taxi, zero phone signal, and lovely countryside made it quite an easy decision.  My neck is still sunburnt now, and apart from a terrifying 2 minutes getting across the A422, it was a good but gruelling walk via Leckhampstead and Foscote into Maids Moreton.

1145.  Wheatsheaf, Maids Moreton

The thatched roof and the lack of words on the inn sign (it looked like a sheaf of wheat, if that's a thing, so assume I was in right pub!) made me realise this was going to be another village classic, and I wasn't wrong.  I have to say though, I felt more conspicuous than usual as the locals all said "hi" out of the corners of their mouths when I arrived, but were incredibly watchful and appraising of my BRAPA t-shirt, without ever talking to me.  I just smiled nervously and the ringleader didn't take his eye off me for more than a minute, and am sure when I went to loo to cool down my blotchy sweaty face, the six main locals all closed ranks and said "don't say anything idiotic, BRAPA is in town" though I may be paranoid.  A spindly blonde sweetheart appeared from a gap in the bar to serve me, her clumsy but aggressive brunette counterpart whistled, slammed furniture around, and eventually went to cellar to take her anger out on the beer barrels.  "You're making a lot of noise there", observed one local who eventually hit his head on a fire exit sign, probably, "IT'S THESE BLOODY BARRELS GRRROWL" she said.  The oldest, frailest local, then asked her what the lovely smelling food was.  "BAKED CAMEMBERT AND I COULD EAT A WHOLE ONE GRRRROWL" she replied, almost killing the poor chap.   As the locals chatted on steam turbines (please guys, gimme something to work with here!) Jon Parkin escaped from the kitchen, and I realised this pub had no beermats and I forgot my emergency one.  Then I rang for a taxi just to make me even more of a pariah than I already was.  He was there within ONE minute.

Frail baked Camembert (right) and head hitter extraordinaire

"Mind your head" haha.  And checked shirt ringleader watches me throughout.

So great news Maids Moreton had it's own taxi service, as getting to Turweston was the key moment of the day now.  But no time to relax, as following on from my train journey, the taxi driver was an incredible enthusiastic Muslim young man, so passionate we nearly drove off the road about five times as I told me to look on YouTube about this dude called "Mufti Menk" and about this local Catholic Girl who'd been converted.  He spoke a lot of sense though and charged me HALF of what the MK shyster had, for more mileage, so I was happy.  And funnily enough, we got lost, pulled up and asked at the local church hall where the pub was.  Seriously, it sounded like a joke!

So moment of truth as I stepped out of the taxi, convert to Islam or tick off the next one......

1146.  Stratton Arms, Turweston

"We're closed!" shouted the landlord as I entered.  "WH..AAA...TTT?" I stammered in despair, thinking back to Bucks mid afternoon closures like Thornborough, Lacey Green and Tylers Green.  "HaHa, only joking!" he boomed, making the couple in the corner laugh as I told him not to scare me like that.  He'd seen the taxi, he'd seen my "British Real Ale Pub Adventure" shirt, and thought he'd wind me up.  Anyway, soon I was chatting BRAPA and he was very interested - he didn't want just ONE card, but TWO to pin up on the bar so he could show both sides.  Sex Pistols "God Save the Queen" seemed an unlikely Bucks pub village song, but it summed up the brilliance of this place, even if it was just on the radio, and soon I was approving of this amazing Hook Norton beer and he told me how the Cask Marque scum (my words, not his) had arrived unannounced recently and given all the ales top ratings.  I could see why, cut above in terms of quality.  He told me about this mythical regular bus service every 40 mins direct to Buckingham, but it didn't seem to ring true to I finally got him to ring for another taxi.  But not before I'd soaked up the joy of the pub, where a twild was introduced to bacon for the first time, and made to go to the bar by Daddy.  "What would you like?"  "FIZZY!"  Ugh, don't you hate these keggy twilds?  The gents were outdoors too, this is a special pub.

Beer of the day

Legends

My BRAPA cards now hanging up in the Stratton Arms

This next taxi driver didn't have a clue where he was going as the pub wasn't in the centre of Buckingham, and he thought I was off to University anyway, so I went with it, used the GBG App, and despite charging me a fairly hefty sum , was dropped at this lovely looking pub.

1147.  Mitre, Buckingham

A fourth brilliant pub in a row, it couldn't be surely?  Not on a BRAPA day?  Well, no, it couldn't and it wasn't.  It looked the part, the oldest in town, well off the High Street apparently teeming with crap bars, but it just didn't sit right.  Main problem, poor beer quality on my Old Hooky, very warm and limp, turning sulphury near the end.  I walked in, and got a friendly but weird greeting from a young man with a ginger man-bun and denim shorts.  But he scared me so I hid round the far end, the young barman tried to be friendly but he had dead eyes, and a middle aged man with the air of an even fruitier Christopher Biggins was trying to chat to any young man who'd listen.  A loud lady leaned on the bar and shouted in southern, some bearded hipsters and tattooed girlfriends appeared from the dark depths, and three men - one of whom did the smelliest fart ever in a 2017 BRAPA pub, acted boisterous for two seconds before calming down.  A blonde twild was doing what twilds do, being watched over by a stern Ryan Moloney in a Barcelona top, well the whole thing was a mess and made me appreciate how wonderful the other three pubs had been,  I'd had two people tell me this was great too.  Shame.  But it was key pub of the day, great to get it ticked off.

 
I managed to get a bus back to MK quite easily, and though I'd harboured brief thoughts of getting Stony Stratford ticked off which would've made sense, I looked up pre-emptives instead.  And found one I considered had potential due to the fact MK has nothing in GBG at present, and when it did, it was things like the Slug & Lettuce, Premier Inn extensions and the 'Spoons.

This, in some ways, just as soulless, yet also, something a lot better.  It was a nice straight 10-15 minute walk down Midsummer Boulevard (MK is perfect when you've had a few and want to check you can walk in a straight line).  Reminded me a bit of the type of bar I was finding in Melbourne.

Nearly asked if there was a hidden thatched roof.

Draft House, Milton Keynes

Bright, shiny, glassy, young crowd, brisk friendly service, two light ales on, one coming soon, ale drinkers served in irritating handled glasses cos presumably that's what they think we like, lots of metallic posing tables, sun streaming in.  It might sound like a nightmare but an altogether more enjoyable experience than the Mitre.  People watching was fun.  Such a strange crowd.  England v Scotland was on, but nobody was too interested.  Even the big group of lads, including pervy young Sutcliffe who liked his lips at any single young lady who walked by, and excitable young Pardew, who seemed to be struggling to keep his friends on the straight and narrow but still wanted to have a good time, and had forgotten to wear any socks.  Then there was a MK Johnny Depp, in Jack Sparrow role, who arrived with girlfriend, and got a round in, and then inexplicably sat down to a business meeting with his suited financial advisor (if I hadn't got 4 photos of them, I'd assume I'd been hallucinating).   Beer was ace, the Dark Star Hophead and Adnams Ghost Ship are two of my faves anyway.  Only piped Clive Tylesdsley was upsetting me.  MK's answer to Rob "Millsy" Mills, complete with psychotic stare and vest so he could show off his muscles, completed a scene of crazy well being.  Scotland scored two freekicks, the pub didn't flinch.  Kane equalised, suddenly everyone jumped around like they'd been watching it.  Am sure this'll get in a GBG in future, and good.

Ales and a fancy menu

The Pards gang clearly not watching the match

MK Depp and GF meet financial advisor

Artistic Shot from the Toilets!

I got the train back to Manc but after a delay at Stockport, I missed my connection so went to check out the often talked about Piccadilly Tap.  Sadly, I couldn't see any handpumps and it just felt like a Brewdog, and I paid £5 for a pint of something cold, fizzy and flavoursome.  Impossible to drink against the clock, especially with Hipsters pouring out of the taps and walls, so thank the lord for that nice man from Trumpton on Twitter who'd sent a video of these two Scottish blokes going into a pub on something called "Still Game" so I put my headphones in and forgot where I was!  V.funny.

The train back to York was notable for sitting in the end of First Glass and chatting to two muddy festival girls off back to Huddersfield but were coming back tomorrow, but all talk was about what the weird stains were on the floor.  And when they left, I got chatting to a man coming back from his 1st anniversary piss-up with his wife. "Drunk Lady in Red" who slept the whole time.  He apologised for Doncaster, totally unprompted by me, but I accepted it and told him I'd been waiting a long time for someone to do that.  A perfect end to a cracking but expensive Bucks day out.

Me with Doncaster apologist and drunk lady in red (possibly a mannequin). 

BRAPA - North Derbyshire

A BRAPA day in North Derbyshire made so much sense, I wondered why I hadn't thought of it sooner.  Derbyshire begins with a "D", Apperknowle begins with an "A", so for those of you now familiar with my BRAPA alphabetical OCD (ABC?), it just had to be done.

I ignored Chesterfield for now, where I know there are pubs to be had, but (a) it has a railway station and (b) I've still not forgiven them for the Luke Beckett Jacobs Cream Cracker Tin days of yore, the utter crooked spire baaaastards! 9 points?  Travelling down to Southend on weekday, stop at Little Chef, the news breaks, we can't get automatic promotion anymore. It's an effin scandal I tell thee.

Anyway, I digress - and it was a sunny Saturday morning in a place filled with 'Duckmantons' and parked in a large carpark and waited for 11am.  Strangely enough, the door was ajar and a few people were already lurking outside, looking for coffee - presumably as they have no concept of what a pub is.... oh dear, BRAPA rage rising and only 10:55am.

Me at Arkwright Arms, why does Twitter try and blacklist this pic?

1139.  Arkwright Arms, Sutton cum Duckmanton

Dad read the script and entered through the correct LEFT hand side, and as always seems to be the case in 2017, this was the no nonsense boozy side, with dining tables making the right look limp by comparison.  We were warmly greeted by the ultra friendly smiley rosy cheeked barmaid (some might call her manic, i won't).  She told us about the 'blackboard' because there were so many other ales around the other side, and we chatted on rushing into choices only to later discover something exciting when you've already settled down with your Doom Bar, for example.  They had some fascinating local ales on, shame both our pints were too warm suffering from "first of the day" syndrome, but I find this harder to forgive since the Fox Hole at Piercebridge told us how they put theirs in the pies.  Cooking Ale?  His evil brother's on twitter.  Whilst the barmaids shared a probably hilarious in-joke about a cheese and salsa sandwich, Dad gave me the now ritual weekly update on Howard's Way storylines (I bought him the box set of this 80's classic, and things have moved on since the last update in Higher Burwardsley). This was a lovely pub room stained glass dragon above the door, adverts for a Hawaiian shirt festival, and camping out t'back.  Legendary Hull City fan Geoff Newby's Derbyshire clone sat at the bar, and the barmaid told him one local brewery had changed their recipes cos the locals didn't like how hoppy the beers had become.  I could almost hear those strangled hipster wails on the wind .......

Nice but a bit too warm, Orsino by Newby Wyke.

Typical representation of a Chesterfield fan

Lovely stained-glass dragon

The bar pre-Derbyshire Geoff.

Tempting?  

Mr Sat Nav reminded us that his re-programming and caused a total personality change, for we turned the wrong way out of the pub, but he stayed silent and calmly told us just to drive to the end and go round the roundabout.  It was nice of him, but he sounded disappointed in us which was worse.  The next pub seemed to be nearer Chesterfield's football ground than the pubs in the town!

The man in the door apologised for photobombing, but I told him he added character to the shot.

1140.  Beer Parlour, Whittington Moor

Well, I'd been joking it was all downhill after that superb first pub but this was, despite not being as pubby, the experience of the day at what used to be a bottle shop, but so many locals drank here, they extended it and it's properly taken off.  It sure felt like a large micro, from the nice but randomly quirky owner, to every local in there.  Seriously, I've been called "duck" a fair few times in Derbys but this set a record for most 'ducks' in a 30 minute spell.  It all started when the owner asked us if we were here for the "festival" (which I assumed wrongly was the Barrowhill steam turn-tabley thing which everyone loves apart from me!)   So I casually, as an aside almost, murmured "nah, I'm just ticking off every GBG pub in the country."  It still got those friendly micro Derbyshire senses going, and soon we were sat under a grandfather clock on leather seats chatting to this lovely dude called Mark who told me I was a "lucky lucky duck" (no less) for living in York, where he loves to go for a pint.  His tipple of choice, Thornbridge Jaipur,  and I thought I was impressive having a 5.5%er at this time of day.  Oh well.  He gave me some good BRAPA day out ideas (Stamford and Matlock were the ones i can remember) and then his wife rang, and he told her totally deadpan "they've got Jaipur on some I'm going to have to 'av another!"  Sound reasoning, and soon Mrs Mark had made her way down, looking a bit stony faced, to prise her hubbie away, but she soon relaxed into ale splendour once he told her we were from York.  They are probably still there now, drinking Jaipur.

Mark apologises for almost walking into shot

I'd love to go to this quiz

It wasn't too far to the more rural setting of our third pub, but you can never get too comfy in BRAPA because something unexpected will always come along to bite you on the bottom, there was a beer festival on!  Whilst Dad tried desperately to park the car something within spitting distance, I went to get the pints in .....

Marquee is the giveaway.

1141.  Miners Arms, Hundall

It was all about putting the blinkers on, finding the bar, and trying to block out as much 'beer festival surround' as possible, as this was obviously a lovely little village pub and I wanted to do it justice.  It didn't help having my Pictish ale served from a Polycarbonate glass - am having a bad run with "not being served in proper glassy glasses" recently!  Me and Dad had assumed we'd have to hover around outside like a pair of out of sorts dragonflies, but I realised how much space there was on the wonderful pub bench seating in the corner, so I went to track him down, lurking around the country lanes, and brought him back in!  Then something funny happened as a local CAMRA guy from Twitter called T_i_B recognised my BRAPAness, came and sat with us for a nice chat of all things North Derbyshire pubby which was a bonus.  He had to go and do what good CAMRA leaders do and leave us to chat to mere mortals(!) so it was time to be distracted by the wheeziest pub dog ever, owned by a group of old-skool rockers ever, under a table.  Poor thing probably should've been put down years ago, like most of the bands they were into!   How bad were the festival band?  That isn't a rhetorical question, for I couldn't hear them, but I heard THREE separate groups slagging them off as 'up there with the worst ever'.  In festival band terms, that is rather damning!  And then, at the loo, a wired twattish version of Jamie Vardy (so probably Jamie Vardy) put 3 bottles of Peroni on the window sill and told a muscular Justin Whittle that he was going to get smashed today, because the Peroni was free unlike the ale.  Not sure they really "got" beer festivals.  Typical footballers.  I zipped up, gave hands the quickest rinse, and left pronto.  It was that kind of place.

Some of the Manson family enjoy the festival

Partial wheezy dog, old rockers and stupid polycarbonate fest pint.

 Dad had parked alongside a cricket match (another current theme of 2017 BRAPA) and we headed the very short distance to the only pub which really really mattered today, in the similarly isolated spot of Apperknowle .....

Cricket at a distance

A fielder running towards the pub

Arriving at our next location

1142.  Traveller's Rest, Apperknowle

Oh gosh, it was like being plonked back in the Yorkshire Dales at the height of summer!  Easily the most irritating pub crowd of the day at this fantastic roadside inn, I heard a middle aged horsey lady say "could be the last day of summer this, snort, snort" which really summed 'em up, as despite the mild sun and stiff breeze, everyone was acting like they were on the Copacabana with their lyrca, and food, and prosecco, and kids, and bikes and arrrghhh, I wanted to close the curtains but it might've looked anti-social.  Inside, the small bar was predictably heaving and me and Dad tried to double our chances by standing at different parts.  I was never realistically going to get served in front of the "glass collection" point, so it was left to Dad to elbow away the now ageing 90's British Eurovision star Daz Sampson  and get our pints of Neepsend "Everything's Pale in Sheffield" Ale.  We sat in the furthest corner away, trying our best to avoid the "teenage life" (sorry) outside, and for some reason watched old YouTube clips of Harry & Paul on my phone.  "I was very very drunk."  But really, 'person of the day' was a father in the loo waiting for his son, who was taking ages in the cubicle.  He told me "it's a full time job this, innit?" and then shouts to son, and I quote "come on lad, doesn't tek thar long to have a pump .... mi beer's out there, going flat!" Classic.  Dad's time to observe next as a tattooed local was unhappy with the amount of salad on his plate.  He decided to kill it with salt, before drowning it with balsamic vinegar.  Then he looked happy.  Good pub this, just caught it at slightly fraught time.

Of course he's drinking a Euro lager!

A lesson in how to make salad more palatable 

Seemed a ridiculously long way back to civilisation / a main road from here, so with my pathetic bladder already giving up, I was delighted when Mr Sat Nav decided "you're near Bolsover, sort of, you may as well do it!"  Despite getting lost, we finally found it, and glad we did ......

1143.  Fidlers Rest, Bolsover

We walked up the bank to this totally unassuming local, you might say drab looking pub, in the mould of some of those Ayrshire classics like Kirkmichael, Millport and Largs (but better).  For all I could tell of the clientele in this fairly dimly lit yet still airy proper locals pub, they may as well have been Scottish for they murmured in a nonsensical way.   I left my phone at the bar (I'm still blaming that 2nd pint I had in Whittington Moor), and a local man returned it but because he sounded like a cross between both Dick Dastardley AND Mutley, it was hard to know whether he was saying "there you go young man, and what a lovely phone it is", or "what the fook were you playing at you utter York ponce".  I thanked him anyway and he shambled off indoors, as Dad had taken us to an outside bench at the front which almost had great views of Bolsover Castle.  Loving a good myth, legend (ghosts, Loch Ness Monster etc.) I was very excited about the prospect of a sighting of the "Beast of Bolsover" until Dad explained he was some old politician man, what a let down!  I wandered back in to use the facilities, admire the stained glass and some interesting local fashions including pink skin tight trousers, I for once felt a bit plain in my outfit.  Never mind.  Intriguing place.  Recommend.

Action shot of beautiful trousers

Our view of the pub from the bench,

And that was that as we headed back for York, where I got myself a KFC and slumped until the thing in London (which Twitter doesn't want me to mention) kicked off, and I ended up looking at it from a BRAPA point of view.  Which I hope doesn't make me heartless!

If I don't BRAP before, see you all in Buckinghamshire - again!  Could still finish the county by the end of the year.....

Si