BRAPA - Gleethorpes Part 2 of 2

It was Saturday afternoon, and our gang of six were approximately halfway through a great day in sunny Cleethorpes.  I was in my element, all seemed well with the world, but there was a division, an internal split forming within the camp! 

Of course, everyone's favourite bearded revolutionary Tom Irvin (imagine Che Guevara in a 'Monkey World' fleece) was behind it.  He wanted to take me to a pub called the Spiders Web.  It was listed under his hometown of Grimsby, but was only just over the border from Cleethorpes.  Knowing  July hasn't been a productive pub-ticking month, I was determined to get my full quota of six pub ticks in today, and 27 minutes walk didn't look terrible, so I agreed.  The others thought we were mad, and headed for Wetherspoons / Fish & Chips and told us they'd meet us later on. 

I'm a quick walker but Tom set a challenging pace, sweat beads dripping from his head as he burnt calorie after calorie from his brittle frame, and looked to prove that Google Maps had overestimated the walking time.

I was interested to know when exactly we'd cross the 'Grimsby border', and as we turned the corner of Carr Lane, Tom said "somewhere about here" as we crossed a road.  Right on cue, a dog started barking madly from 'beyond' and a rare breeze blew across us.  It was quite spooky really, almost as spooky looking as the pub itself, which I hoped had a 365 day a year Hallowe'en theme.

1436 / 2182.  Spiders Web, Grimsby

There aren't enough classic estate pubs in the GBG, standing alone as it did on a main road serving a community with no expectations beyond drinking and having a good time.  Pubs can be very simple things when you distil them down, which makes me wonder why so many tie themselves in knots with their brewhouses, kitchens and what-not knots.  Having said that, I know plenty of people who would not enjoy this pub, but happily, me and Tom weren't two of them.  We wandered in with a pool table as the centrepiece, a game of doubles between two father & son combos, one all crew cuts, competitiveness and danger, and one, more gentle and studious in their play - we got quite into their game!  The staff felt like proper custodians who 'owned' the space, known and loved by those around them, and the ales were unapologetic in their national brewery offerings.   Tim Taylor Landlord, John Smiths, Proper Job (third time I'd seen this today already!) and Wainwright which was obviously the 'continental' fruity choice as it had no pumpclip.  We sat in the far corner and noticed the pub pet, a parrot or budgie of some description, had escaped from the cage though there was no sign of it circling the room.  There might be a BRAPA prize for best absent pub pet at year end, so watch this space.  Was sad for Tom really, who has been hoping to train a pub parrot to say "Brian Laws is a wanker" for 4 years now.  Nowhere would it be more fitting.  The news came through from the others that Wetherspoons was rubbish, whilst my Tim Taylor Landlord was good quality, which helped me feel better about the long stride back to Cleethorpes that faced us. 

Beers of repute

Twool 1

Twool 2

Where's the birdie gone?

The pace on the walk back towards Cleethorpes station did drop dramatically, our aim to get to pub number five before the others seemed a real certainty for they were now having fish n chips on the lovely old prom like some New Tricks reboot:

Cleethorpes station has not just one, but two pubs.  Or at least one pub and one refreshment rooms.  Now it has been said before that if you see a shopmobility scooter outside a pub that it is a good sign.  So imagine how much better it must be if the shopmobility scooter contains a person sat stock still, drinking a pint of real ale.  

1437 / 2183.  No 1 Pub, Cleethorpes

And I wasn't to be disappointed.  PUB OF THE DAY.  And I say that knowing how marvellous the Notts was.  Before we even got inside, Tom's now legendary 'Allam Out' card was quizzed by the couple on the bench next to our Shopmobility friend, who seemed to be a mute.  When I explained about it being about the current owners killing Hull City football club, all they could say was "you won't get much sympathy around Grimsby ho ho ho" so I just thought bah humbug losers and went inside.  I've been to some joyous station pubs over the last 4 years, and longer, this being like a vast version of the Mallard in Worksop for sheer true pub joy, managing to avoid that transient feel that stop places like York and Sheffield Tap from ever entering the realms of 'best of the best' for all their other plus points.  I managed to miss the Bass yet again, but this is what happens when local bar blockers don't let you see all 8 pumps.  I like to look out for funny charity boxes because I know it's something Martin Taylor looks for, but that meant explaining to one of the grizzliest locals that 'I'm a big fan of this fisherman guy' as I took the picture (see below).  I thought he'd think I was a right weirdo but instead, he turned the charity box face on and said "look, he's looking at you now so you've got an even better picture!"  It's little seemingly insignificant moments like this that can sometimes make a very good pub excellent.  The others had now arrived to share the joy but no time to linger, as a SEVEN pub plan was now vaguely forming in our minds.  

Kept misreading sign above bar as this being the Northern Ireland CAMRA pub of the year

You know what you need to do if you want a pint in here.  WHISTLE!

Pre-conversation picture

After local interference

Dad and the red triangle of joy having a post fish n chips slump

The kind of photo you will only find on this blog towards end of day

Over the other side of the station, we came to the other GBG entry.  I think it should be mandatory that all towns and cities have at least two GBG entries on the station.

Christine in 'pose of the day' winner

1438 / 2184.  No 2 Refreshment Rooms, Cleethorpes

I don't know what it is with Cleethorpes and Cornwall ales, but after a day of seeing Proper Job nearly everywhere, now you are presented with signs for Doom Bar and Atlantic here, and it was Atlantic for me in this much more expected Station Tap, nice & all, friendly faces greeting you on arrival but a bit 'busy, and if I'm honest, a bit of a come down after the joys of No 1, a bit of a surprise to me for as you regular readers will know, I normally find a Number 2 eminently more satisfying than a Number 1.  Dad was now in sensible mode,  the J20 was flowing with that modern evil keg hue which Twamra keep telling us we should embrace.  Personally, I'm more likely to embrace Embrace, and they were fucking atrocious.  Did they do a World Cup song?  Anyway, we sat outside on these rickety little seats because too crowded within, and after another foray into Hull City quiz land, the gang announced that a 7th pub 'was on' if I drank up and got on the next train.  Wow, at one point, I didn't think I'd get 6 in, so this was a timely boost in a quiet July.  Dad went on ahead, to get back to York for a reasonable hour, but would he regret not making it to Grimsby districts current pub of the year? 

Dad and his murk (indoor version)

Dad and his murk (outdoor bonus shot)

So, here we were, Habrough, just a few short stops on the line from Cleethorpes where the locals seemed to be armed against a BRAPA invasion:

Only one to go!  Genie lamps are coming soon.

1439 / 2185.  Station Inn, Habrough

Back in 2014, the debut year of BRAPA, I had to change trains in Habrough.  I had an hourly plus wait, and yet despite this pub being very prominent just across the railway line, I didn't go in.  It looked awful.  Tom chastised me for not viewing it as a pre-emptive, and never let me live it down.  And then it went and got in the GBG!  And how it had won a Pub of the Year award!  Proof if I needed it you should treat EVERY pub as a pre-emptive.  They'd certainly made it look a lot more presentable in the intervening 4 years, perhaps a little bit too much for my liking, and a steady selection of 3 ales were on ... "sourced regionally .... often Caledonian" as the GBG entry says!  Before I could say 'hoots mon, there's a mariner shaped moose loose aboot this hoose', we were sat down, I think Christine did a 'try before you buy', can't remember what we had (memories hazy by now but Bateman's judging by the glass) but it soon became dreadful and turned to vinegar even before the half way point.  Ugh!  I tried to find a positive in the slightly namby-pamby surroundings, and was trying to praise the internal exposed brickwork, when the others told me it was actually wallpaper!  Doesn't take much to fool me after 8 pints.  The others said goodbye, leaving me & Tom, as I struggled with my pint, and chuntered about having been right all along about this place, when I heard a strangulated breathy sound.  I looked up, and Tom was properly out for the count!  What do they put in that blackcurrant?  Actually don't ask in here.  A limp end to what had been an otherwise wonderful day.

Village Twog trying to get to me

Goodnight Mister Tom

I had to change at Doncaster, of course, and briefly considered popping back into the wonderful Draughtsman where the day had begun all those hours ago, but decided to be good and got a coffee and a twix like a #pubman who knows his limits.  Yes, I do want a medal.

Back at home 9pm, I opened my own micropub but it had limited opening hours so I got zero customers.  Good!  (You see, I have the micropub owner ethos already).

Simon's BRAPA Shed (Pool & Ale) 

It closed down on Wednesday. 

Join me WRochdale Write-Ups on Sunday.

Si

BRAPA - Gleethorpes Part 1 of 2

9:01am last Saturday and the Draughtsman in Doncaster station, that most impressive of pre-emptive pub ticks, was enticing me and Dad inside already.  It was going to be a long day!  Ben joined us shortly after for a 'swift half', whilst Tom was seen wandering on the far platform like a ginger Sasquatch.

Discussing tactics for the day ahead

Iconic red shorts as Ben tries to blend in with Donny Rovers fans, probably.

On the busy train to Cleethorpes, we finally bumped into Tom properly.  He was swigging off a carton of tomato juice, as he's the finest exponent of anti-oxidants in BRAPA history.  It was a cleansing slimming juice of zero sugars, and that is a fact, especially if his Mum & Dad are reading.

Off the train in Cleethorpes then and the kind of welcome I presumably deserve when landing in any foreign Lincolnshire town, and England doesn't get much more foreign than Lincs.

Yes, today was what we call the 'Summer Welly Day Out' where our Hull City friends who used to drink pre-match in the one time best pub in England, now defunct, the Wellington in Hull, get together to recapture the golden days of 2005-10.

 Christine and Colin were here for rare BRAPA appearances, but sadly Tom's parents were unavailable (renal stone x1), as was Lizzy who had moved house from Macclesfield to Chorlton and was presumably entering a period of pub mourning in a black veil, blinking up at an old photo of Waters Green Tavern whilst the Cribs play soulfully in the background.

It suddenly dawned on me that I'd not thought at all about today's trip at all, in terms of pubs, planning, all the usual things I do in advance.  "You mean you were happy to leave the day in my control?" enquired Tom hopefully, but I knew Christine would stop him doing anything ridiculous.

In-keeping with good BRAPA practice, the furthest away pub was tackled first, and we hopped aboard a land train called "Lollipop Trains" and I was upset NOT to be offered a lollipop.  Not twild-like enough I presume.  All SIX of us squashed into a tiny carriage to take us half way there.   It was like clowns getting in a mini.

A sign told us the record number of waves from passers by was 102, me & Tom were on the 'waving' side but got our tactics wrong.  Tom just kept chanting 'Allam Out!' to non-plussed passers by who probably don't care about Hull City, and after three people ignored me, I resorted to shouting "Gizza wave ya dickheads!" and we ended the journey with a grand total of zero waves.

We walked through this weird tiny station, to find the first pub of the day, the "smallest pub on the planet"

Pub in failure to accommodate shopmobility scooter shocker

1433 / 2179.  Signal Box Inn, Cleethorpes

'Twas a bit like clowns getting into a mini (can you see a theme developing today?) as we edged in one-by-one, and a lady who I'm sure has served me in at least 25% of my BRAPA pubs (she looked so familiar) sold us pale delights, but then the more exuberant landlord appeared.  He seemed to have gone to the 'Platform 3 Claygate' school of how to be chirpy in a tiny pub, and was soon regaling us with stories of old steely loco drivers reeling off geeky details of the signal box of old.  A tale that seemed to impress Tom more than a claustrophobic looking Dad, as I nodded along sagely like I was taking it all in, but I'd noticed a mini pool table and football table on the ceiling, which I own both of.  Before we vacated for 'other customers' (how dare they?), the landlord had time to rattle off a convenient tale which seemed to emphasise this pubs place as the country's smallest.  It goes like this.  The owner of the former Guinness world record holding small pub walked in, says "hang on", gets his phone out, and rings someone (presumably the ghost of Norris McWhirter) and says something along the lines of "hold the front page Norris, we ain't the smallest any more".  What I liked about this place was the properly done outdoors drinking area, not like most in this category where you have to take your chances spilling onto a street or under a flimsy gazebo erected two seconds before, plus the ale was good despite the polycarbonate drinking vessel.  Ok, so the Brewers Fayre across the road was looking like a tempting pre-emptive, but I resisted, and the others found out that the tree shading us was a curly willow, well who knew?  Or cared?   With Tom threatening to 'fluke a 150', it was time to move on.  A promising start to the day.

Ceiling decor I could enjoy

A curly willow

Pre-emptive joys worth crossing the road for? 

We then had a good 20-25 minute trek back into 'Cleethorpes proper' and what a nice seaside resort it seemed, when you compare it to Blackpool, a bit like a happy Morecambe.

We took in all the culture, the famous statue of a boy with a leaky boot and the Princess Diana memorial garden, as she loved nothing better than a trip to Cleethorpes to go on the 2p machines back in her prime.

 It was time for pub two, and pub AND a brewery.  How incredibly exciting.

I took this crossing a road with a taxi about to hit me 

1434 / 2180.  Willy's, Cleethorpes

So how could a pub with hidden Bass and quarry tiled floors still manage to rubbish?  That was the conundrum I took away from here, but we've all been to crap seafront pubs, whether it is the King George in Whitley Bay, the Marine Bar in Bridlington, or nearly everything in Southend.  The GBG seems to like putting 'brew pubs' in the GBG, regardless of what the 'brew' tastes like, or any other factors, something I've seen a fair bit in Cornwall what with the likes of the Crown in Penzance and that Trevaunance Cove thing.  As Christine stepped up to ask for a 'try before you buy' , the attitude of the two young barmaids seemed less than forthcoming, and whilst I couldn't really fault my pint of Willy's Bitter, it did taste like it had come from a sewage pipe facing the ocean, just a very nice sewage pipe.  Then the moment to make the oldguards dicky tickers skip a beat, as Tom pointed out a hidden Bass pump, near the back of the pub, not with the other handpumps, but with keg ciders and lagers, and set slightly back from the others.  This just adds to this famous ales mystique, does this pub have a staunch band of pub men who jealously guard it and don't want tourist scum touching it?  It was almost New Inn at Tywardreath levels of Bass mystique!   The pub itself had the persona of a middle aged man suffering a very awkward mid life crisis, and only some top Hull City quizzing from Dad & Ben could help us temporarily depart from the grim reality.  

It was time for a timely pick-me-up, and next on the agenda was a pub that even Cleethorpes staunchest critics have admitted to me in quiet moments is 'a good pub'.  

The Tetleys lamp, a very encouraging sign

1435 / 2181.  Nottingham Hotel, Cleethorpes

"TURN LEFT EVERYONE!" ordered Christine on arrival, as the others threatened to go off piste like some naughty biology schoolkids of yore.  Good someone was observing the 'BRAPA choice of rooms rule', and she explains the left is a bar room and the right is the lounge.  Both were stunning here in the Notts, which was living up to its billing immediately.  It was my round, and the poor rather hapless barmaid told me her colleagues had all disappeared, and a couple of the pumps were new and sticking, which led to one of the longest, most pain-staking drink buying sessions of my 'illustrious' pub ticking career.  I even apologised, quite unnecessarily, to a grizzly old bloke who'd arrived just after me and probably just wanted a pint of Carling, but had to wait patiently, as I'm the one normally in their position.   We retired to the lounge area, and Christine took the opportunity to ask the bar if she could leave some copies of 'Iron-Brew', the Scunthorpe CAMRA mag for which she writes, and they accepted nicely (it'd never have happened in Willy's) which was even nicer because it is a unique publication as only 14 people in North East Lincs can read & write, and that is a BRAPA fact, though many others have learnt how to chew crayons since I first visited.  Intense conversation surrounded our next pub, and it caused a split within the group, as me and Tom were the only ones willing to cross the border into Grimsby.  More on that in part two, and the other pubs we did last Saturday.  A great pub the Notts, a must visit if you ever wander into Cleethorpes by accident, which you won't.

 
Four more pub reviews coming up tomorrow!

Si

BRAPA - Dripped on in Skipton

'Twas a grey drizzly Friday evening in Skipton, my fifth visit to the North Yorkshire town in the name of pub-ticking, and not a town that has every really convinced me.  Just a bit too twee to have that satisfactory down to earth 'Yorkshireness', reflected in the Good Beer Guide entries over the years, a selection of boring Micros, a French cafe, canal side flops and cliquey clubs.  Even so-called 'proper pubs' like the Woolly Sheep feel little more than tourist 'passing through' chaos chasms.

As I squinted into the heavy grey sky, I saw my first of two pubs through a gap between shops probably selling pagan incense sticks and dolls made of lavender, and got a blob of rain in my eye as I took the photos, even the low down one!  I perhaps wasn't approaching this with the usual wide-eyed enthusiasm!

1431 / 2177.  Early Doors, Skipton

Full marks for selling all their ales at £3, regardless of strength, always nice to know where you stand, and also full marks for naming your pub after a classic pubby sitcom, although this lacked a 'Grapes in Stockport' traditional lived-in feel.  The landlord was lurking behind the door when I arrived (had he heard I was in town?) but I spied him and we exchanged 'hellos' before the delightful Mrs Mandy Doors served me in that lovely clucky northern hoursewifey way.  I ordered my pint of 'Milking It' from Old Spot in Cullingworth, a superb milk stout it was, and eyed up some very warm looking chunks of pork pie in a dish, as micropubs sometimes do offer.  I was hungry, but not this hungry, and besides, an excitable strapling in a pinstripe suit soon swooped down for the final two pieces.  "To the regiment, I wish I was there" I whispered under my breath as I edged to the wall of this cherry and cream, narrow thin pub.  There was no Tommy, there were no crime cracking coppers.  It was airy, unremarkable, boring you could say, certainly not a micro to hold your attention for more than one drink.  Four jolly blokes appeared, the bald one had an unnecessary raucous laugh, the kind which makes you think he's trying to over compensate for something, and one which you wouldn't bat an eyelid at in say, the New Inn in Denholme, but in a pub and town like this, stands out like a sore thumb.  When I realised they'd rather block the whole pub than sit down like civilsed citizens, I edged to a stool by the door which was comfier, the barman started signing Sinatra, (or was it Sinitta?), Mandy left, and after reading about Birds of Prey in Thirsk,  I wasn't far behind.

The rain had stopped now, and the air smelt like a mixture of farming and Friday fish suppers, though I had to skirt around Aagrah curry house onto the canal edge to find my second pub, hidden around the back.

Before that, a brief moment of controversy as a woman tried to get her weird husband (I described him at the time as a 'senile old fucker' but then wondered if I was being a tad harsh) to wait so I could get past, so I went on through, but he didn't see me and made a weird gargling noise, almost slipping and toppling sideways into the canal!  I heard the wife telling him "what's wrong with you?" and he did seem to be over dramatic about the whole little incident, almost Neymaresque.  He was practically signalling for VAR as I glanced back, but the pub was now in front of me.

1432 / 2178.  Boat House, Skipton

Full marks here for the owl on the roof, a sure sign of quality if you're an owl-lover like me which no one is.  Who needs a silly red triangle when you've got an owl?  This pub was immediately more interesting and life-giving than the previous one, though I say that, the staff were more interested in themselves than the customer, and the beer, Chimera, whilst perfectly fine, not as high quality of that in the Early Doors, a bit gassy.   With classics like 'Everything but the Girl', 'Texas' and 'Lisa Loeb' pumping out of the speakers, the pub did seem to be trying to channel some canal fuelled mid 90's retro summer of love vibe.  I'd done well to squeeze into the one remaining decent seat in the main room, and the sheer openness of this place was more befitting of a scorching Sunday afternoon than a grey drizzly Friday night, with conservatories and windows open wherever you looked.  Give me an underground dank dungeon to drink in over this, any day!  The couple of my right looked like they thought they were on the Costa Del Sol.  But the Boat House had been done up nicely, and with care, and apart from FOUR dogs who all arrived together and sat in a twoggy cluster of doom, you couldn't say this was at all 'Micro', despite the limited toilet facilities.  I took my glass back and departed to an unfriendly grunt from a hippy barmaid who was on her phone, and that was Skipton for another year!  I won't be at all surprise if it has something new in 2019, it's that kinda town.

I'm in Rochdale tomorrow, but my two parted Cleethorpes adventure will start on Wednesday night.

Si