BRAPA Special - Drawing a Blank in Great Yarmouth

The family, that is myself, Mother BRAPA, Daddy Chauffeur BRAPA and even Sister BRAPA (not a nun) travelled down to Great Yarmouth for Uncle Roger's funeral on Tuesday evening, arriving at 9:30pm.

Of course, I'd researched late night BRAPA potential with three pubs in the GBG.  I must admit that in Good Beer Guide terms, Norfolk is one of the things beginning with an N which I give zero shits about, like Northamptonshire, Northumberland and Nottinghamshire.  Ask me again in 2029.

Nevertheless, a chance to go to the appropriately named Tombstone Saloon for last orders/rites sounded almost perfect, until Mother BRAPA looked up at me with sad eyes and said "you won't go off late night gallivanting on your own, you WILL stay and have a drink with us won't you?"  How could I say no?

After all, perhaps the pub built onto our Premier Inn would be pre-emptive?  We checked in, Sister BRAPA dawdled, but we were in by 10pm after the obligatory photo op .....

Brewers Fayre, Great Yarmouth

So we wandered in to the sad sight of both handpumps turned around.  I'd researched it, and it was supposed to be Sharp's Doom Bar or Adnams Southwold, better than a kick in the balls I thought, (probably).  In the absence of ale, Sister BRAPA made the wise call to survey the fridge for bottles but the personable young yokel behind the bar told us the fridge was broken so everything was warm.  I still went for a child sized can of Dead Pony Club made with loving care by those paragons of virtue up at Brewdog.  Dad hit the San Miguel like an England World Cup fan abroad, after asking me which lager I thought would be best out of this and Becks Vier, and Sister and Mother BRAPA gave up all together and smashed the wine like Keith Floyd on holiday.  We ordered 4 bowls of chips and before we'd barely sat on the 'menu-stacked' corner table, they were with us!  Frozen oven chips probably out of the microwave, what a delight!  Possibly the worst bowl of chips all of us had had.  I compared one limp chip in the bottom to a foetus, Sister BRAPA couldn't see it, lacking my imagination!  Mother BRAPA found two hairs in her chips, how curly they were she didn't say.  However much vinegar I soaked them in, they remained dry.  Someone popped a balloon and found it hilarious, this was the tail-end of a birthday party and a load of hammered middle aged women went up for last orders.  I'd experimented with 'arf a Guinness but was now on the San Miguel with Dad.  We convinced ourselves it had a "very real" taste, almost like an ale.  I think we were comforting ourselves.  Chatting went well, it had raced on to 11:30pm and any chances of getting last orders in at either of the alleged 'midnight GBG closers' had passed.  Not that I really believed they'd have rung last orders as late as 11:40pm on a Tuesday.  We were asked to leave, almost politely, and the morning breakfast tables were being set up - which I ended up enjoying a lot more than this experience, mainly due to some surprisingly "on form" black pudding.

Worst chips ever!

Dad necking another one.  Round 3 came in a Becks Vier glass to spice it up.

I thought it said "refreshing bottoms" at first, it kind of does!  Pass me the wet wipes.

So, a bit of a pointless review you may think in BRAPA terms, but I think it is worthwhile every so often to remember that there are terrible pubs out there, and when you use the GBG, you start to take quality for granted and it was a good reminder that you (I) shouldn't.  So there!

The day after was the funeral then, a strange mish-mash of a ceremony with Dad's amusing speech and the funky disco music when the coffin disappeared being the highlights.  Oh, and meeting our two long lost cousins Robert & Edward - both live in East Yorkshire, both were semi-impressed with BRAPA, Edward loves ale and especially the Transpennine Crawl and works in a bank like me,   Robert hates real ale and drinks gin and is some kind of arms dealer.  Fascinating times.

The "after party" was at the Imperial Hotel, I spied Greene King IPA a bit too late, a weird American 'crafty keggy' font, I wanted fresh orange juice, but Sister BRAPA swapped it for her Pimms which she didn't like.  I failed to harpoon the strawberry in the bottom, but I nibbled two sausage rolls, good quality.

We passed some Norfolk villages on the way back that have BRAPA pubs - this was painful for me, but back in York for evening and a celebratory bottled ale (Old Hoppy Hen) to toast the Uncle properly.

Cheers!

BRAPA - Dawdling in Audlem

I was STILL all "beered out" as I took the train over them dark hills to the west of lovely superior Yorkshire.

And now I've lost half my readership, we'll continue and all felt a bit like a replication of Aston/Nantwich/Crewe day early on, what with changes at Manchester Piccadilly and Crewe, and the little one carriage train south, minus the lovely Justyna and Lucy of course (oh, and the even lovelier Tom obviously!)

Whitchurch isn't in Cheshire, which may not be "revelation of the year" to those of you with UK geographical knowledge, but it seemed a sensible base as I could get a 15-20 minute bus ride to Audlem.

I walked through Whitchurch, a friendly place with only that slight "almost Welsh" feel, I guess you'd say the locals had 5.5 fingers on each hand.  The "bus station" was actually part of Tesco car park, so when my bus didn't show, paranoia kicked in and I started searching for actual "bus stations" but I was in the right place, and me and one old lady who appeared from nowhere with an air of the "what of it" hopped aboard.

Confusingly, we passed a Combermere Arms but I hung on til we reached Audlem Square, and I saw the pub across the road .....

Looks promising .....

Shall we go in?  Yes!

1199.  Lord Combermere, Audlem

But perhaps a bit of a "wolf in sheep's clothing" of a pub, for when I went in, I was immediately hit with modernity, and worse, a woman smiling up at me from a low leather sofa flanked by two kids and a dog (note I'm being open minded and not declaring them twilds or twogs yet).  Beyond the bar, I heard a Mum placating a definite Twild (waah waah waah), by asking if his toy was a friendly frog.  No one ever answered this conundrum.  A panicky old woman's husband materialised from the shiny wood panelled floor and was told "I got you a coke, did i do the right thing??"  He didn't reply either.  I gave a nice shoulderless brunette barmaid the exact change, did this make me more attractive to her?  Another unanswered question.    If this was becoming a theme of the pub, so was antiques.  Bargain Hunt was on above me, and the pub was hosting it's own version of Antiques Roadshow.  A cynic might say they are auctioning off all the proper pub furniture and memorabilia now it has gone down the 'half trendy diners' route, but TBH I didn't have the energy to dislike this place.  But the signs were there, when smiley woman left, a barmaid was out within seconds disinfecting the table.  I hate Wetherspoons sticky crumb tables, but there ARE limits.  The staff were nice though, as were the few old men, one of whom apologised for having Shropshire Gold instead of the "exciting guest" (which I wasn't massively enjoying as it tasted like Toilet Duck.  Pine fresh).   The biggest dog EVER walked in, you could feel it breathing from across the pub - but am not sure the barmaid (who boasted she was off to Leamington Spa shortly, impressing nobody) calling it "a beast" was a compliment or not.  Okay pub all in all, but expected just a little bit more.

When a beer says "try me", you probably shouldn't.

Huge lager fonts to dull right hand side, ales in vibrant left.  Good!

After a bit of confusion about where the bus would actually stop to take me back (the local bike shop weren't much help), it did what I wanted it to do and soon we were chugging back to Whitchurch with some great effort.  I was a bit torn, could I be arsed doing Whitchurch.  Three easy pubs but wasn't in the mood, so decided I'd leave it to fate and see if anyone "alighted" at the station.

They didn't.  So I was soon back at Tesco and took this as I sign to sample at least one pub.

GBG Boring Stat of the day ..... This would prove to be my first Shropshire 'tick' since I watched a World Cup game with some mad locals in Shrewsbury's excellent Woodman pub over 3 years ago - I actually had a few pints and convinced myself the ghost of the landlady who died in a 1923 fire and haunts the pub was sat right beside me.  The pub is still in GBG today so was a good tick to get.

"Enter as strangers, leave as friends"

Can see the pub.

I do on a Tuesday, but not always a pint of Joules!

1200.  Old Town Hall Vaults, Whitchurch

"This was more like it, nice way to bring up a mini-landmark"  I thought as I ambled in slowly admiring the typical Joule's stained glass - though I think the Glebe in Stoke and the Cross Keys in Chester (where I fell asleep, in my pint of Slumbering Monk no less) are my only previous experiences of the 'chain'.  I'd thought their "enter as strangers, leave as friends" strapline was a bit risky (don't make promises you can't keep) but almost immediately, a chirpy grey haired and grey skinned old local was asking me BRAPA related questions and the personable young bar lad (who looked like every guy off Emmerdale and Coronation St in a blender) was joining in, and true, I was making friends!   The pub had outdoor loos, another sure-fire sign of quality, but I didn't wanna push my luck, so sat in the front bar, smiling briefly at the wife of 'knee support Brian Butterfield'.  A dog jumped up at me like a little mad bastard, but I even liked that, and didn't whisper twog in it's ear once.  I stared around wide-eyed like a proper pub tourist, but drama came in proper human form when a nice young barmaid with an element of Willow from Neighbours (but older obvs), was made to go out and buy some chips.  5 mins later, she returned, Iceland didn't have any (what?!) so she went to Tesco.    15 mins later, she came back traumatised, she'd got some, but the shopping bag burst and the chips went right through them.  Poor girl was having a bad time of it, and I went before the inevitable tears followed..... perhaps.  Lovely pub.

The pub looking nice

Their own Green Monkey lager sign, in the loo where it belongs, probably.

Knee Support BB and wife chatting the chit.

Despite this great experience, it didn't push me to do the other two, and there was a direct train to Manc shortly so I walked up the road, and got it.  It stopped at Wilmslow where I needed two ticks, "hmmm sounds like a proper traditional old Cheshire town" I thought, uh oh!

1201. Old Dancer, Wilmslow

A little taste of Chorlton-cum-Hardy had arrived in Wilmslow, even down to posers sitting outside despite the chilly wind and light rain.  "We're having fun out here, honest!"  they shivered, praying the staff would bring them blankets.  Inside was buggy heaven (if you like babies, young mothers and buggies that is), their wideness not designed for a small continental style bar like this (the buggies, not the mothers!)   I couldn't see a staff member serving, but two black shirted dim wits who were members of staff but not "on duty" due to shovelling food into their faces, stared at me, but didn't ask anyone to serve me.  Poor show.  I took my hopelessly appropriate Tiny Rebel ale (v.good quality btw) to a table between twild groups under a mural of "Old Dancers".  The Clash played to help my mood, then Morrissey (which predictive text changes to "mortuary" on my phone) seemed more in-keeping with the atmos.   When "Enjoy Yourself" came on, I knew the playlist was taking the piss.  At least female black shirt dimwit finished her food and smiled and said "hi", cos no one else did.   The lazy eyed blonde Keeley Donovan did a job, but lacked charisma.  A Mum thanked me as I moved my legs, before a buggy could sever them clean off.  The toilets were confusing called the Urinoirs, which may be french for "Black Piss", which you may get if you have a 12 hr sesh in here.

Old Dancers

Background Mum and ginger twild compliment the BRAPA scene very nicely

A few mins walk down the road, I found the other Wilmslow pub and as soon as I saw the italic text looming on the horizon, I had a feeling I'd be thinking "that Old Dancer wasn't such a bad place really" in a few minutes time ......

1202.  Coach & Four, Wilmslow

So, here's a question, in pub-terms, what is more depressing than an Ember Inn?  I'll tell you, a pub that isn't an Ember Inn but ticks so many boxes on the Ember bingo card, that it may as well be.  Snooty middle class diners with superiority complex?  Check.  Piles of logs serving no purpose?  Check!  Young families studying menus bigger than their children?  Check.  Cluttered sticky table? Check!  Oh well, a few highlights I can report.  I couldn't really pronounce my ale - "Willamette Pale" or something, so made a joke of it and barman found it hilarious!!  I wasn't even trying.  What a dude.  Secondly, I was gobsmacked at the bar to see the mystery beer (Solstice Amber) I had in Truro's Rising Sun here too.  What?  I'd presumed it was a Cornish microbrewery ale.  But a closer look at the pumpclip told me it was brewed in Manchester's "Media City".  I figured out it was a HYDES beer all along, confirmed literally minutes later by someone on my Twitter!  So the whole "14 consecutive Cornish ales" etc had all been a lie!  That then led me to the question, "was this a Hydes pub?"  Surely not.  Not after Fletcher Moss in Didsbury.  It can't be.  It even made Q in Stalybridge look like the Anchor Anchor did this boring hell-hole.  I faced an old couple doing the crossword together which was quite sweet and lightened my mood as I failed to get told off for using the disabled bogs despite my best effort.  The old gent wore full maroon, which I very approve of.  I guess you could call it a "Somerset CCC Playsuit".  Lovely effort.  A good last thing to witness before I left.

Pirate scarecrow thing fails to make this pub interesting

Proof of the Truro ale (left) back again, my 'amusing' Williamette on the right.

Mr Somerset Playsuit doing the crossword.

Back on the train to Manc, of course I could've got off at Stockport but it'd be wrong to go to such a good ale town (wouldn't it Mudgie?) if I wasn't feeling on top pub drinking form?

So I got a huge coffee, and was on the train back to York by 6pm.  I felt like I was kind of rebelling.  Against who exactly, I don't know, but I could hear Tom's voice in my head (never a good sign) saying "Si, you could easily have whipped in six pubs today, I'm very disappointed".  And that pleased me.  Liberating, I don't have to push myself every bloody time.  Stupid BRAPA.

So, I need a break and I'll get a break, I thought last Saturday.  Uncle Roger funeral midweek so would there be chance for any Great Yarmouth ticking?  Stay tuned.  And if not, I'll be back to review Saturday 22nd trip to Buckinghamshire, probably my last time there before the 2018 GBG comes out.

Have a good un,

Si

BRAPA - Brampton Miles & Chesterfield Smiles

Two full days recovery from Cornwall was nowhere near enough, despite my revolutionary cheese and cucumber sandwich and cranberry juice diet, but it would be nice to have a day out with Dad as I hadn't had a pint with anyone I knew in a very long time.

It wasn't a chauffeur day though, I'd give him a day off with something that would be useful to BRAPA and was easily achievable on the train.  Before too long, we landed in Chesterfield ready for action.

We've never had a good outlook on the home of the football team as crooked as their spire, dating back to football days pre-GBG, many vague memories of rubbish pubs, dropping baguettes in muddy puddles, Luke Beckett money stuffed in Jacob's cream cracker tins and police and stewards showing no interest in controlling skirmishes in the corner of Saltergate.   There was a good day around 2011/12 for a friendly match, multi levelled pub was excellent, but i chose a peppery beer I regretted instantly!  No idea what the pub was, didn't go in it today.

So the conundrum was, do we walk to the first pub in Brampton, about 1.5 miles - or do we try and pick up a bus?  I wanted the former, Dad keen to look for bus station.  A chance for early redemption as a man saw us debating it and asked if he could help - I explained our predicament and he simply waved a hand and said "sounds like you know what you are doing".  We didn't!  That was the whole point.  Weirdo.  This is WHY the town annoys me.

Anyway, we'd walked half the distance to Brampton already so I said to Dad, we may as well walk there.  We'd not seen one bus despite about 800 supposedly going in that direction!  Being a Thursday, the Tramway and currently deguided Tap House were out of action til 4pm but we found our first pub on t'corner.

The Rose & Crown, honest! 

1193.  Rose & Crown, Brampton

We were probably the first customers of the day so we scanned the ales and the helpful barman drew our eyes further to the left, where the Brampton ales were.  Interesting they weren't the "first you would see" on arrival, but am sure they have a strategy.  He seemed keen for us to try one anyway, what with his Brampton brewery shirt and all, and even paused with the pulling of them so I could take a better photo - felt like such a beer geek!  Was it even worth explaining BRAPA, probably too early in the day to inflict this on anyone.  We had the 50 gallons a week top seller, Golden Bud, Dad even broke BRAPA protocol (very Tom's Dad) and went back for an extra half, but this was as much about showing his appreciation for the quality ale than anything else, at £5.80 you couldn't really knock it (two pints I mean, not one!)  Pub was a huge old thing anyway, Brampton mirrors & memorabilia, power cables leading to toilets in case you wanted to die here, 'flower-offs' with the neighbouring pubs to see who's got the best hanging baskets etc (allegedly) and just very comfy, reminding me a bit of the Arkwright in that Duckmanton place.  Dad and I reminisced on previous 2017 pub outings, including quote of the day "That Martin Taylor was a nice chap .... and he probably still is!"

The GBG pushpins weren't behaving themselves (bad plotting!), and we must have walked straight past our next pub, though it was a shop so easily done perhaps.  Brampton was a strange place, full of hairdressers and salons, it must have the best manicured people in the world, and I saw EIGHT ladies coming out of the dentists together like they'd had the time of their life!

1194.  Real Ale Corner, Brampton

I always have reservations about shops in the GBG, and I've been to places like Arcade in Huddersfield where you can sit and have a drink, or Bier Huis in Ossett, and they lack comfort.  But this place was great because it managed to be cosier than most micropubs.  That doesn't say much probably, so actually, comfier than most 'bars' too, oh go on then, AND a lot of pubs!  Our host, a talkative friendly lady from Ayr with a Scottish little face (so I could bond with her over last summer's trip to Ayr) told us about the centuries old tradition of the Brampton Mile (one of those "there's so many pubs, let's get wasted" kinda crawls).  Apart from trying to sell us these "rare breed" bottles for £3.80 which all had species on like weird hawk moths and arctic terns, everything she said was highly reasonable although being married to a policeman frightened us a bit.   When I was in the loo, Dad explained BRAPA so I could reappear to a roomful of applause (well, in my imagination anyway).  My ale was steady, a old duffer customer finally arrived but he might have been a 30 year old who'd done the Brampton Mile a few times, and we agreed to move on before we started buying bottles.   Quality again from Brampton.

Where we sat

Ignore the jam jar, here's the ale

Just a few of the bottles

Helpfully, there was a pub on the way back into Cheaterfiddle, kind of on the Brampton border and although I needed the loo, I let Dad stop to contemplate the lack of butterflies this year.  "Look at this Buddleja, it should be full of butterflies!"  I bet not many people have said that before entering a micro pub, in fact, let me know your favourite quote before entering a micro pub.

Dad, post butterfly observation.

1195.  Chesterfield Alehouse, Chesterfield

What I liked about the feel of this place was that even though it knew it was a micropub, and it said it outside, it had a sense of "we're too cool to be associated with that crowd" and had a very rock n roll air, and almost hipster enough to out-hipster the hipsters, which is like a double negative if you think about it, but in a good way.  I'll stop rambling.  Up some little steps to the bar, barman looked interested (errr no way I'm trying a beer with coconut and pineapple in it mate!), nice red walls offering warmth (best pub colour, apart from lime green and salmon stripes, obviously), a surprise upstairs room to upset the purists.   Even a free cheese and biscuit session on a Tuesday - "I'll have to bring yer mother 'ere", a classic stock Dad quote which if he followed through on the promise, my Mum would need to have her own GBG and highlighter pen!    Oh, and our favourite feature, some striking portraits of what appeared to be a band, as we're not sure that young Lenny Henry, Robert Peston, Ian Brady and young Joan Bakewell have ever toured together.  It was that kind of place. 

Next up, a short stroll around the corner back into the market place.  Could've sworn I visited a Chesterfield market pub circa 2000, but am sure it wasn't this one......

Why is Dad hiding? 

1196.  Market Pub, Chesterfield

So I asked Dad why he hidden himself in the doorway, obscured by a couple of hanging baskets.  Turned out he was embarrassed in front of the nice ladies sat outside, aaaah.  We walked in, it was exactly the sort of thing you'd expect from a market place pub in a proper town, bare boards, dimly lit, the kind of place you feel you can almost still smell the smoke of 10 years ago.  The barman looked as us like "ale drinkers, crikey me!", a couple of locals made jokey Derbyshire noises, and I made a song and dance about ordering a pint of Titanic Stout in hot weather, like I thought I might get some special pub recognition award.  No one cared.  No one cares in Chesterfield.  Originally, we sat in the lighter right hand bar, very pleasant, even when Mr Vesty Tattoo did the teapot, as Martin elegantly put it.  But we went to sit outside as we were hungry and felt smuggling our snacks might be easier out here, as this was definitely not a non-food pub.  It was very peaceful watching the market stalls close down before our eyes, and in the sun, you could almost be in Lisbon or Rome, well if you had 10 more Titantic Stouts.  One thing that did catch my eye, "Harry Potter Murder Mystery Dinner" - I don't know where to start with that.  I've read the books, watched the films, and they are not remotely 'murder mystery' in a say, Poirot or Miss Marple way.  And combined with the fact that Chesterfield has the least number of Potter enthusiasts in the UK (an official BRAPA fact), it just seemed bizarre.  But then the whole place was kind of quirky, without meaning to be.

We continued our meander back towards the station, where we happened upon pub 5 ......

1197.  Rutland Arms, Chesterfield

My enthusiastic pose was soon a thing of the past when we walked in, a pretty soulless dining pub with the clutter of knives and forks and menus obscuring the tables, a big screen emitting some eerie music, and I don't mean in a good hallowe'eny way.  We stood at the bar for a while, before the blonde girl who'd been sat at a nearby table, heaved herself up with a bit of a sigh and decided she'd serve us.  Our sausage rolls had only made us want to soak up the ale even more, so not long after sitting down, Dad was back on his feet to get two bags of crisps.  Oh dear, she wouldn't like this, as she'd gone back to sitting and eating and reading, but the transaction was performed with the utmost delicacy and we weren't barred or anything.  You know, when some people don't seem to get the concept that they WORK in a pub, and they are not just a customer in their own right.  And we've seen from the Seven Stars in Falmouth what poor staff attitude can do to an ace pub, so in a limp one, it just exacerbates the misery.

Worst toilet selfie of the BRAPA year.

Dad's "brave face" expression say it all.  

Even closer to the station, was our final pub of the day, we'd done well for time, still plenty to spare before the train home .....

1198.  White Swan, Chesterfield

From the mosaic entrance way, to the chirpy barman and the Raw ales (their brewery tap I believe), this was a better experience within seconds of arrival in t'Mucky Duck.  Well, I remember me and Dad agreeing this was far better than the Rutland as we sat at the far end on black leather sofas and craned our necks to see the looming crooked spire of the church directly above us, Dad at a better angle to get a better picture than me.  But then it hit me, I couldn't finish my pint (Dad was already on the lime n water) or remember anything else that happened here!  Add it to the "pubs I owe a revisit in future" list like Cross Keys in Chester, Black Lion in Leighton Buzzard, Combermere in Wolverhampton and probably a few more, due to hazy or half-arsed BRAPA performance!

A more deliberate photo than you'd think.  Is this an owl looking at me?

My failed attempt at Spire piccie.

Dad's better view of the drunken spire.

 The train journey home was more memorable, Penn or Teller blocked me from getting to the loo, a student girl accused me of being harsh, and then we chatted with a nice girl from Malaysia who's got a BRAPA card so is probably reading this as we speak.

Back in York Tap, Dad said bye and went to the loo and I joined two friends for a brief cameo,  but it was my turn to be on the pint of lime & water (told you I was feeling it!) before a short wander home.

I'll be back for last Saturday's write up as I continued the Cheshire quest.

Cheers, Si

BRAPA - Summer Special Day 6 - Guten Mawgan from Cornwall

It was Monday morning, and the longest BRAPA holiday to date was finally at an end, well almost, as I packed my bags and walked into Newquay 'proper' to locate the bus station.

This was the deepest I'd been into Newquay, and despite some people telling me it was a "shithole" in the build up to my break, I'd be a lot kinder and say it was "quite okay".  Somewhere between Blackpool & Filey on the BRAPA seaside town scale.

I joined the handful of retired old colonels on the bus, heading in the general direction of the airport - about 5 miles outside of Newquay.  A couple of miles along the coast was Mawgan Porth, and wonderfully picturesque resort - but most importantly, a GBG pub.....

The beach at Mawgan Porth, last Monday morning

The pub did look a little bit terrifying!

1191.  Merrymoor, Mawgan Porth

I have to confess my heart sank a little when I saw how unpubby this "pub" actually looked, with it's huge glass windows obviously designed at enjoying what was outside rather than within!  In fact, even walking up the correct steps you see in the picture above, it still seemed easier to accidentally go into the adjoining (a) Blue Fish Bar or (b) Upstairs Hair & Nail salon, so I took my time ensuring I got the right entrance.  Indoors, everyone was on the coffee or cream teas, so when I walked to the bar and asked for a pint, the staff did a little wide-eyed double-take as if they were thinking "Shit!  Beer??  Oh yes, we DO sell that ...." and soon I was sat in the comfortable easy lounge environment drinking this superb quality pint of Cornish ale (even if I had broken my 'Cornish run' with the Bass yesterday).  Views of course were great, and this was a hard place to dislike in spite of my conventions!  It did feel a bit like I was waiting for someone to appear through a side door and call me through for my cuticles doing, watch an arty French film, or even to pick up a Chinese takeaway.  All that did appear through a side door was Henry Hoover, such a Monday morning pub thing to see when Henry gets his weekly airing!   This made what happened next a bit bizarre.  A couple came in, Yorkshire accents, bloke a bit lame, faffing over some J20 order.  Wife, straight on with same pint as me, waxed lyrical on it #PubLady  He was bald.  Got a comb out.  Combed his scalp.  Odd.  Even odder, she went into door next to me, where Henry Hoover had come from .... "ooops, I thought, this must the unmarked ladies loo I'm sat next to?!"  But then two new ladies were sent around other side of bar when they were looking for the loo.  5 mins later, Yorkshire lady reappeared.  Had she just been sat in a dark closet with Henry Hoover?  She looked happy anyway.  My cue to leave.

Worth noting from a BRAPA OCD point of view, this was also a key pub because it meant I'd 'ticked' a Cornish pub on each page of the GBG (apart from the first one with just Altarnun and Blisland) so was a satisfying one to highlight in green!  Problem with this page, it has Luxulyan (my one big miss of the holiday), Kilkhampton, Launceston and Marhamchurch (too far North), Lostwithiel (one perhaps for next year as it's mid Cornwall and has a train) and Lelant Downs (a 2018 definite).  Not actually a hard page in truth!

The bus was delayed, I had no signal, so chatted to a German couple and glad they advised me to hang out, as I had considered walking to St Mawgan but once bitten, twice shy re the roads around here.

The bus didn't go through St Mawgan anyway, this only happens a handful of times per day so I hopped off at the airport and walked the downhill 0.7 miles from here instead - easy enough as not much traffic on this side road.

Considering it's closeness to the airport, St Mawgan was a beautiful place, as nice as any village I'd been in this holiday and I cut through this grassy church area, saying hi to some lurking old lady, probably vicar's wife or something,  and saw the pub down below the road ......

1192.  Falcon Inn, St Mawgan

In my mind, I was imagining about three Cornish old men stood around the bar muttering, but perhaps a bit too fanciful as I entered a narrow courtyard where people were eyeing up food menus with a lunchtime drink.  Everyone said hello, blinking slightly at my floral patterned t-shirt which was clashing with the pub garden!   I wandered inside and sure enough, 2 expectant waitress girls were brandishing menus ready to accost any new arrival, so I pretended I'd seen a spider on the wall to distract them (well, I looked above them in a startled way) and got straight in at the bar.  The older barmaid was a snappy so and so, but luckily she forgot the price of beer and suddenly became more human.  I then noticed a recurring theme I've my holidays I'd not mentioned, people who order cider down here do it in a rude way.  But beer orders are much more gentle.  Cornwall.  I held a heavy door open for an old dude, and headed outside, and ended up sitting next to a woman with a superior expression and three dogs.  I got my GBG out (not to hit the dogs with) and turned straight to the brewery section (said no-one EVER!) to see if my ale was Cornish.  It was Devonian.  Grrr.  Didn't enjoy it much.  I was all ale'd out.  The locals told the woman their collective term for 3 dogs together was a "woof" of dogs.  All found it hilarious.  Apart from me.  What is wrong with people's sense of humours?   A weird family arrived and went through a gap in the hedge to the garden.  But the "children" (all about 40) were told off by Mum, an apocalyptic Anne Diamond, for not telling "Adrian" (an irritable 50 year old father from the home counties) what drinks they wanted.  19th century Jewish moneylender Granddad tried to calm things down, but this group were determined to break the peace of this delightful pub.  I 'toasted' my 25th and final pub of the holiday, cheers!

My Golden Pig was from Devon, arrrghhh.

My view at the front of the pub

Apocaylptic AD and 19thC Granddad act as go between for kids and Adrian.

I could've stayed for another .... I didn't, and good job as the steep climb back to the airport took it out of me.  Even so, when I saw my flight was delayed for an hour, I considered going back!  But didn't.  The flight back when it happened was fine, the woman next to me a bit boring, ears popped less, and I was back in York for teatime.  Job done!

So in conclusion, a terrific BRAPA holiday.  Best yet.

25 pubs, not a really rubbish one.  They got better as time went on, one 'Spoons, no Embers, no Micropubs, hardly any obvious "chain pubs" actually.  Most good, some magical - guess stand out moments would be things like St Just, Mevagissey, Piece, the Fowey-Botallack ferry place, Falmouth's 'Front, Truro Old Ale House, but too many to mention really.

Beer wise, I didn't have a poor quality pint all holiday.  Some better than others, but standard high, and of the 26 pints I consumed, 22 were Cornish, 1 was Devon, 1 was Bass, 1 was West Midlands and 1 was amazingly / retrospectively Manchester which I'll talk about in a later blog.

Flying was a great decision, despite delays both ends, saved time and money - which I promptly spent on taxis!  Walking around was almost impossible, bus links quite good, trains too but not very frequent as I'd like but that is understandable.

Vague plan in place for my 2018 'return' trip already.  I want to 'mop up' all the pubs I didn't do between Par-Penzance (oh, and Isles of Scilly!)  I will stay more west.  St Ives kind of way.  And will say a more realistic target of 4 a day rather than five or six as it's only gonna get harder.  And if I get chance, maybe a day in middle of county somewhere, like say,  Bodmin.

And that means I can look at 2019 too, which by then I hope the pubs I'll need to be in Cornwall will be all in the North of the county, things like Launceston, Saltash and Bude.  And that will tie in nicely with a hop across the border into Devon, which (beginning with a D) will be high on my agenda by then too for the next long distance county.

Gotta have a plan!

Si