BRAPA - Back in Dorset Part 8/10 : Born Again in Wimborne

As the bus crawled up Wimborne Road through the Winton area of Bournemouth in the evening rush hour traffic, I banged my head against the window in frustration and hummed a sinister tune, proof of my unravelling mental state.  I'd been up since 8am with the sole purpose of visiting Dorset pubs, it was nearly 6pm now and I'd only been in two.   The life of the pub ticker at times is hard!

My Dad text me to say he was in one, before Hull City's evening game against Rotherham.  I should've been pleased for him, but I was just jealous!  Would we ever reach Wimborne?  Why hadn't I got off at Poole and got a bus from there?  Why is Chaldon Herring so rubbish?  Was walking to Pamphill in the dark a good idea?  Just some of the many questions floating around my brain. 

I'd be back in Wimborne tomorrow morning, but it was hard to get a sense of it on a Tuesday night.  The way people talk about it in Dorset, you'd think it a thriving metropolis, but it doesn't even have a railway station, and let's be honest, is it really any more than a poor man's Beverley? 

One of the two pubs here was on the road up towards Pamphill, which would be opening for the evening session at 7pm, so it made sense to do one Wimborne pub now so I wasn't there too early ....

Pub approaching

Pointless crossing of road just so I could get a better pub photo for my blog (I DO spoil you all)

1504 / 2474.  Green Man, Wimborne

'Please step over the green man when entering the pub' said the GBG, and I thought I might've missed him, so I stepped back and did it again.  Had I just cancelled out the luck that this was supposed to bring me?  "Hi darling, how are you?" said the barmaid.  Well, that was a nice intro, so I actually told her but I didn't realise what she'd actually meant was 'Which of the three (delightful) Wadworth ales would you like this evening, don't take too long to decide?!'  So I went for 6X.  A few people I'd met on this holiday had told me Wadworth were boring, and whilst I don't really have a strong opinion of the ALES (they seem fine to me in a standard way), on the rare occasions I've been in their PUBS, I found them bland as owt.  And five perky locals did their best to create a jolly atmosphere, Heart FM on a day-glo display dominated.  Kelly Brook was trying to put herself in the shoes of a sad single bloke on Tinder and how she'd edit her profile this Valentine's to secure a date with a girl like her.  Finally, people sat near me.  A sallow cheeked twild and her knackered Mum, I think Daddy worked here as he proved he was comfortable in these surroundings by fondling every surface and member of staff he could see.  "Mummy, how do you spell Freya?"  asked Twild.   "Is it F-E-R..." "HAHAHA NO!" replied Mum, doing nothing for her daughter's confidence.  "Actually, I don't know myself" she admitted.  Daughter whips out a phone and Googles it within seconds.  "You got it?  Good" says Mum, not displaying the slightest curiosity of how you would spell Freya.  And in that one exchange, I think the whole pub had been defined.  If that makes any sense, which it doesn't. 

Green man in the floor

Perfectly okay pint of 6X

Martin the Owl fails to be too thrilled

Don't shoot!

Locals of the past

So, now it was time for the key part of the night.  It was 6:50pm, Pamphill pub opening in 10 minutes.  It looked about a 20 minute walk on Google Maps.  I carried on out of Wimborne on the same road, turned left by the hospital and I think, a football ground.  It became rural very quickly, no pavement, puddles and potholes everywhere despite no rain since Saturday.  My phone light was no help, better to let my eyes adjust to the dark.  Why don't I eat more carrots?  I just prayed  I wasn't going to see too many vehicles approaching.  

Luckily, I didn't see one!  On the uphill side road up to Pamphill,  it was flooded at the bottom so I had to jump like some kind of wild gazelle onto the grass verge.  This was vintage pub ticking.   To my intense relief, the pub was glowing in a 'we are definitely open' kinda way.  Are you watching Chaldon Effin' Herring?  

1505 / 2475.  Vine Inn, Pamphill

I must've missed the main entrance, and came in through a side gate and a side door, descending some steep stairs to reach the bar.  Some gentle old swing music was playing to help enhance that ultra-traditional atmosphere.  You could feel the history in the air, electric! A few luminous vested Twyclists who'd probably come from Cambridge, they had that look of self righteousness, occupied the other bar, and I was so glad I was the only customer round this side.  The formidable and friendly landlady told me the guest ale was from Wakefield, so I got the other one.  We got chatting on all things pubby & Yorkshire, as I BRAPsplained to death, and she told me this pub had been in her family since 1900.  She was even a fan of Martin the Owl (no offence to him but it doesn't happen much), obviously a lady of extremely good taste, and she told me about other local owls in her neighbourhood that her and her husband know(!)     Beer was superb too, and we talked about how it was good to have two on instead of ten.  It was one of those I just wished half of pubby Twitter and friends back home were here to witness.  Speaking of which, Dad told me Hull City were 2-0 up at half time against Rotherham.  So a lucky pub too.  And if you can only go to one pub in Dorset (not that I can imagine a scenario where that'd be the case) I'd make it this one, yes even ahead of the Square & Compass, but perhaps its more understated hidden charm is what keeps it so special.  Pub of the holiday, and all of the trials and tribulations of the day were suddenly worth it! 

Descending into the bar

I think it is Dorset for something?!

Locals with pumpkins, just because they can

Sooty jealous as Martin the Owl becomes centre of attention

Of course, as soon as I left, everyone else in the other bar did.  In cars.  I thought they were on bikes?  All catching me up just at that flooded corner in time to give me a farewell splash!  And by the time I was back in Wimborne, Rotherham had scored twice and it was now 2-2.  Oh well, the magic was good while it lasted.

I soon located my other Wimborne tick, 'Taphouse' sounded like it might be too beer orientated to be a cosy lovely pub, but hey ho, gotta be open minded .......

1506 / 2476.  Taphouse, Wimborne

Now, I'd not envy the pub following the Vine in Pamphill, a bit like a vague arsty headline act following the Celtic-punk local support act who has just had the crowd jumping.  So I think the Taphouse deserves a lot of credit for being a very good place to have a pint.  Okay, so it was one of those where you couldn't see handpumps but just had these mysterious barrels draped in black and a few boards indicating what was what.  The barmaid somehow managed to be amazing throughout despite spending most of her rummaging under the bar in boxes like a cute tortoise (she may've even swallowed a lettuce leaf whole at one point) so I just sat in the corner enjoying my Eight Arch (that's what we experts call LocAle) and occasionally rubbing my knees Shooting Stars style, smiling and going "mmmmm" so perhaps she thought I was enjoying it a bit too much, but the point was, I'd not missed the last bus from Wimborne to Bournemouth so my sense of well being was further enhanced.  The maps in the toilets were spookily of the mid-Cornwall area I'm going for the BRAPA summer fest, I figured this would've been a great pub to end the holiday in, but I still had 7 left to do, never mind. 

Blokes gather, spot the barmaid

Mysterious gothic casks

I'd actually like to see a ska version of the Charlatans, if that's what they are

I'll be here in June!

At the bus stop, an old lady asks me why buses in Poole and Bournemouth are so confusing so I put my hands to my face and said I wasn't local, please don't hurt me.  She left me alone after a bit more chuntering.  I got off the bus probably at the wrong stop in Winton to complete my Bournemouth micro quintet, better late than never (and boy was it late!)  Remember, I'd try to come here on Sunday lunchtime but it hadn't been open til 3pm so I hadn't hung around ......

1507 / 2477.  Micro Moose, Winton, Bournemouth

I suppose being well after 10pm on a Tuesday in February in a Micropub, there was always the chance they could've already called an early last orders.  So it was with some relief that I was greeted warmly with a grey haired lady.  Her expression took on a glummer look when I ordered the Vanilla Milk Stout from Hertfordshire or one of those obscure counties BRAPA tries not to think about.    "Ooooh, you won't like that, someone drinking your favourite!" a local says to her, she admits it is a sad moment, so I apologise but I don't really mean it but I slope off to a table as far away as possible, not easy in a Bournemouth micropub, should just be glad this pub had a bar I guess!  I think there was a theme in this place I couldn't quite put my finger on.  Lots of images of mooses, bears, rocky mountains, snow, people killing things between the eyes with guns, weird senses of humour, these odd red maple leaves on a flag, probably Labbats lager adverts.  Hmmmm, I just couldn't quite place it.  A bloke who looked like a stand-up comic in a tracksuit chatted to Mrs Moose in a similar accent, though he looked like he was definitely from Bournemouth.  He had that unhealthy look of a man who's soul was destroyed back in the 80's.  But I liked him.  Quite amusing.  Nothing happened, and then the last orders bell was rang with force, and I realised this was the first time I've heard last orders in a micro so at least that is something to remember this place by. 

Who'd have thought it'd be that colour? (Saracasm)

Trying to work out the theme of this pub

Still not quite getting it.

He's not sure either

Back in Poole, I got off at the wrong place, got lost in the football ground, if that is what it was, and was well after midnight when I got in.  Oh dear!  Needed to be at my best for tomorrow, as I'd have company in the form of Martin Taylor for the final day of my holiday.  Despite being a bit "all pubbed out", I was looking forward to getting to some of the more obscure parts of the county.

Si

BRAPA - Back in Dorset Part 7/10 : A Red Herring in Chaldon

After the success of my Mad Monday around the Isle of Purbeck where I found some great pubs, great pints and great folk, it was perhaps inevitable that Tuesday would be something of a come down.  I could tell as early as the first bites of my Premier Inn breakfast that it was going to be a tough day, the sausages that bit more gristly, the mushrooms a tad more rubbery!  BRAPA always knows.

It was a good 75-80 minute ride from Poole bus station to the small village of Winfrith Newburgh.  I got talking to a Scottish bloke (my third of the holiday) at the bus stop, a lovely old man called Robert from Paisley.  He beckoned me to sit with him and asked if I was aware of the paisley pattern.  "Errrm, I KNOW Matthew Lawrenson" I replied.  Soon, he was talking to me on Yorkshire Puddings, Saffron Walden's Rhodesian history, and a whole host of other things.  If I so much as glanced at my phone or out of the window, he clawed at me so I had his full attention, much like my Grandma's dog Lettuce used to.  Yes, it was a long journey.

Once in the village, I breathed a sigh of relief in the fresh country air and saw a sign for the pub, encouraging that I was obviously approaching it in the right way ......

Closed Mondays.  But open Tuesdays?  Right? 

About a mile walk down a country lane past little farms and a running stream took me into Chaldon Herring.  I was a bit early for 12 noon opening so decided to carry on my walk right through the village centre.  But I glanced at the pub opening times and got a nasty shock ......

Yes, the Tuesday lunchtime session didn't seem to exist.  Nooooooo!  Not what the Good Beer Guide or WhatPub website says!!  I phoned my Mum in case she could 'do something', I don't know what, but she couldn't.

Instead, I sat on a bench at the front of the pub looking forlorn in the hope someone would see me through a window and let me in anyway, or a neighbouring local would walk up to me and give me the local gen.  But apart from a bloke cleaning his skating company van (which had a bad pun like Skate Middleton, Skate Winslet or something) ,  I didn't see a soul.

I'm the caged parrot 

So I traipsed disconsolately back to Winfrith Newburgh where I had a long wait for the 2 hourly bus.  I took refuge in St Stephen's, the lovely old village church.

If I ever finish ticking the GBG, village churches might be a good thing to do if there is a book where you can tick them off from, of course!  Nice little place anyway.

Move over bible, there's a new book in town

I asked God if he was available for a quick pub strategy chat.  He didn't reply which I took as a 'yes'.  I told him of my predicament and he told me I had to really push myself to get out to Pamphill and Wimborne Minster even if it meant a late finish.  It was good advice from the big man.  "But God, it means I'll have to be more demanding of Martin Taylor tomorrow and ask him to drive me to even more places than I was expecting and I don't know if that is fair?!"  I asked.  "Don't worry son" replies God, "RM loves that kinda shit".  And with that, I realised I was going to miss my bus if I didn't get a wriggle on so I put a few coins in a jar and signed a guest book.  Just like a GBG club really!

The bus took me further west, past my 'imaginary' Dorset line which divides east and west to a place called Preston, just outside Weymouth which I didn't quite get to back in October.

The pub was tucked away of the road, down a hill, over a River Jordan, and lots of signs for it, obviously paranoid that visitors won't be able to find it......

1503 / 2473.  Bridge Inn, Preston

Prettier from the outside than in, this was at least a proper no-frills old pub as the setting and entrance had me predicting something a little bit gastro, light and airy.  The landlady with amazing green pullover had a good air of authority about her, and I think, a Northern Irish accent.  A deaf bloke with his wife who seemed highly embarrassed by everything he did seemed determined to sit on two tables with giant 'reserved' signs on them.  "NO, NOT THERE, THEY ARE RESERVED FOR THE TUESDAY CLUB FROM 2PM" she boomed at him.  "Well, I'm not coming here anymore!" he replies, laughing, jabbing me in the  arm.  What is it with old blokes jabbing and prodding me today?  "Never mind!" replies the barmaid.  Was she joking?  She definitely wasn't joking.  For all his deafness and inability to hear anything his wife said, he loved it when 'Spirit in the Sky' came on the jukebox, very quietly.  Yes, I had my suspicions!  My Forty Niner ale was welcome as I'd been up since 8am, and it was 2pm now and this was my first pint, but perhaps not the best quality I'd had this holiday.  I nursed my drink as it was, intrigued as to what form this 'Tuesday Club' would take.  Bit of an anti climax when they finally appeared, all looking like either Douglas Hurd or Mick McCarthy.  A couple of rugged looking locals had now appeared, but when a twog started running around , they could only communicate with the creature by putting on these Kenneth Williams voices.  It was a disconcerting end to an okayish sort of pub experience.

Legendary landlady looking all holy by the Jaeger bowl

'Deaf' bloke being mischievous 

I made a GBG edit - very therapeutic

I was going to walk back into Weymouth but with time no longer on my side after my Chaldon nightmare, I managed to just run across the road in time to hop on a bus.  I had a nice walk on the beach, and got a coffee and a kit kat in Weymouth station as I had a long wait for the train to Wool.  I didn't realise only certain trains stopped there.  

I finally arrived in Wool (or Vegan Wool as it was apparently nearly renamed after complaints from vegans, I can't believe even my number one vegan,  Sister BRAPA, not a nun, would feel offended by that!)  about 3:30pm.  The air actually smelt of farms and cows and carcasses and things, and I'm not even joking.  The pub was just around the corner ......

1504 / 2474.  Black Bear, Wool

The beaming smile of a young barman greeted me, a few locals half smiled, and I got the immediate sense that this was your archetypal community local ("more than just a pub") as I sat down with my excellent pint of Maiden Voyage, having studiously avoided the Fullers as Martin Taylor had been in here only yesterday, and reported back that it had probably been on just a bit too long.  Mum's bringing their kids back from the school run supped Prosecco and chatted as their kids wired themselves up to tablets and played Fortnite. A man came in and was complimented on his new haircut, but someone announced "Cecil has died" which led to a 20 second period of quiet reflection.   At the bar, blokes snorting loose tobacco off their hands (snuff?) gossiped, but all I could pick up on was "he's slipping 'er a length!"   The majority had complexions a bit like garden furniture that had been left out in the rain during a summer thunderstorm after a boozy barbecue.  Really good atmosphere, but I didn't hang around as I 'thought' I had a train to dash for ..... though I'd got my timings wrong and ended up having to stand around for another 35 minutes.  

It was now 4:30pm, and I really needed to get four more pubs done before closing time.  Could it be done?  Find out in Part 8 tomorrow.

Si

BRAPA - Back in Dorset Part 6/10 : Beware(ham) of the Frogs

'It's not easy being green', said my highlighter pen halfway through day three of my Dorset adventure, what had so far been a fantastic trip around the Isle of Purbeck.   I was approaching an amazing landmark, a third of the Good Beer Guide, that is 1500 pubs out of the 4500 total.

If Swanage had seemed a little peculiar, it was ramped up to full blown 'weird' as I waited for the bus to take me back to something approaching civilisation.  A lady was entertaining the old folk by talking to her miniature dog.  A man had brought his dustbin along, it likes an occasional outing on the Breezer.  But both were overshadowed by this young woman loudly speaking down the phone to her Mum, recounting various doctor trips and prescriptions.  The bus driver curled his toes when he saw her getting on, he didn't get a moments peace, none of us did!

Swanage in one photo

Luckily, Langton Matravers wasn't far. I pressed the bell and he grinds to an abrupt halt.  "There you go, right outside the pub!" he declares.  "You know me far too well!" I reply, but then he looked a bit scared, he wasn't expecting that. 

1499 / 2469.  Kings Arms, Langton Matravers

In many ways, there was no reason why this couldn't be a low-key rival to the Square & Compass, with its rambling, ramshackle ancient interior, the first thing you see is actually a well polished Bass mirror, the cleanest thing in the pub.  A confusing myriad of small dividing rooms took me further right than I'd expected, and although I could see the barmaid and ales through a glass divide, my arrival was not welcomed by the other bloke in this room, who seemed to be on an urgent phone call and started frantically gesticulating to the barmaid to get me into the main bar to serve me.  I'd already taken the hint!  "It's okay, you can go back and sit in there in a minute, he was just on a call" she said.  I liked her, gap in front teeth, look of humour in her eyes, tiny pub dog called Ernie refusing to do anything he was told.  I ordered a pint of Sunbeam, not because I was trying to force Gordon Banks to die, but because my Dad also had this ale in here, and you can't do too much better in a Marstons in my opinion.  The three old blokes dotted about the main bar were obviously characters, but there wasn't really room for me too, so I headed left this time to a curious room with a tank full of black and yellow frogs, lizards and beetles.  It seemed rather incongruous, especially as it was on the same shelf as jars of local jam and old books! Although multi roomed pubs are great and all, I felt a little bit closed off from the action here, and just didn't 'feel the magic' as a cosy old hostelry, for all the promising outward signs the pub had to offer.  A young bloke with a picture of Harry Kane on his tee shirt came in.  "Wotz wrong wiv Chelsea lads, why are they rabbish?" he asked.  No one knew the answer.  "I'm more of a rough onion man myself" said an old bloke, but I think this was in relation to something else.  And later, he broke my 'WokeSi2019' code of ethics by returning to the bar, asking "Can I have a girlie half this time?"  Brave, surprised she didn't lamp him.  I really had to nurse my Sunbeam (decent quality, no more) as I had a long wait for the bus, so just did a bit of BRAPA strategic planning to pass the time.  A pub that promised a lot, but somehow, despite being good, didn't really deliver.

Next stop was Wareham, where there were two entries in the GBG though I'd not really considered either OR the town itself, apart from a moment on the Bournemouth bus the previous day when an old lady said Wareham had been ruined by 'young Londoners' but that wasn't the impression I got tonight! 

After buying a few food supplies for when I got back to my hotel, I headed to what I thought was 'my furthest point from the railway station' but I actually got the order mixed up.   Still, pub one looked a nice one ........

1500 / 2470.  Kings Arms, Wareham

A second consecutive Kings Arms, and a third of the GBG complete.  I strode in with a more confident swagger than normal, I wanted to bask in the glory (the glory which no one here knew or cared about apart from me!) of my achievement.  I got a hand on the bar between some jolly ruddy faced oldies who'd obviously been in here most of the day.  'Oooh what shall I have?' I said, half to myself, as I often do.  "Arrrr, are you driving?"  they asked.  Well, that's a 'new' question!  'No' I confidently declared.  "Well get this American Pale Ale then, it's a strong 'un!", so I did, and because the pub was quite dark and the blockers were blocking, no idea what percentage it was, which is always the best way in such situations.  This was a gorgeous old pub, and it hugged you with those invisible pubby arms which is EXACTLY the feeling that was lacking back in Langton.  I sat by the roaring fire at the end of the pub, where a Scottish man was chewing the ear off this poor local chef.  Whether it was Quinine, Sala's plane or the British Legion, he had a Scottish twist on it, very much like the old guy in Goodness Gracious Me who says everything is Indian.  To my horror, he soon edged the focus of his conversation towards York.  I put my head down, if I admitted I was from York, I'd never get rid of him.  "Pubs in York don't let Territorial Army guys in" he claimed wildly, "....but when they found out I was 'Air Force', they let me in, some even bought me drinks!"  He was turning into Jay from the Inbetweeners now.  "I bought half a pig there once!" he said, warming to his special brand of bullshit.  "I was eating pork for years ..... but now I'm on the roast beef and Yorkshire puds.  It's great up there in York!  Black pudding too, great in Lancashire you know, but better in Scotland".  And like that, he downed his ale and disappeared into the night.  The chef puffed out his cheeks and rolled his yes, I told him I was from York but wasn't getting involved!  And we had a nice 5 minute chat about food in pubs needing to be pub grub and not restaurant food, before I took departed.  Classic, great ale too. 

So one final push of the night and despite the strength of today's new pubs, I didn't have any expectations as I walked down the street and turned the corner to the Horse & Groom,  After all, I thought it was going to be a bit dining perhaps, newly refurbished, perhaps a bit soulless, but you just can never tell can you? 

1501 / 2471.  Horse & Groom, Wareham

Shades of  the Duke of Cornwall in Weymouth, last October, in the way the locals at the bar took me under their wing from the moment I arrived, the most welcoming being Joel (of Dorset Life publication fame, no less, the editor) who grabbed me a stool and was sat to my left.  He had some intellectual chats with a kind young Welshman on the other side of me, enough to make my six pint addled brain spin in awe.  The barmaid was a brilliant bleached blonde lady with a dry sense of humour who did a lot of her talking through a series of nicely nuanced facial expressions, mainly happy to let the locals ramble on til their hearts are content.  And just when you thought it couldn't get any better, a bloke who had similar dress sense to me wheeled out a box of forgotten 70's vinyl, going through each record one by one, much to the chagrin of his patient young daughter.  "Daddy, I'm hungry!  Please can we go so I can have my tea?" she asked.  But it was in vain.  ABBA's rare blue-pressed Voulez-Vous waits for no man, nor starving daughter.  I was drinking some historic Dorset ale, that hadn't been brewed for a hundred years or something, but was making a come back, and by gum, it was good!  As was the 7% Coconut porter from Cerne Abbas I was allowed a try of, but no way I could drink a pint of this, even though I'm the guy who takes the Bounty chocolates out of the Celebrations at Christmas cos no bugger else wants them!  Even Martin the Owl made a brief cameo to say hello to the gang.  Dorset.  What a county.  Not since Tim Thomas and Sir Quinno (very much the Kylie Jenner and Khloe Kardashian of Berkshire) gave me a tour around their respective Newbury and Reading have people been so hospitable.  I staggered out into the cold night air in the general direction of the railway station with a smile on my face and nice warm glow!  Great end to what would prove to be my joint favourite day of the holiday. 

But no time to rest on my laurels, I had to be up quite early tomorrow for a long bus ride to this place called Chaldon Herring.  What could possibly go wrong?   Find out on Sunday.

Si