BRAPA and ..... THE MASTER BUTCHER OF LEIGH-ON-SEA

Oh yes, you've got to love a bit of Carter USM.  And if I was to labour the blog title even further, you've also got to love one of my favourite Hull City players, Leon C .......

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, and on yet another unseasonably warm mid-September morning in Essex,  I arrived to find a more unconventional, and therefore, slightly more interesting, estuarial resort with lots of boats stuck in the mud not doing much like a random pile of logs in a gastro pub.  

A peculiar route led me from station to centre and seafront, passing all these quaint weatherboarded cockle & mussel shops.  The day trippers were out in force, heavy old estate cars squeezing down the narrow road.  All were full of screaming Mum's shouting at sweaty stressy Dad's that they'd missed yet another potential parking space, whilst three kids squashed in the back are crying and hitting each other on the bonces with plastic spades. 

I was looking for a pub called the Mayflower, but saw the other central Good Beer Guide pub first .....

A bit confused at the lack of life emanating from within, I span around on my haunches to find a garden with a 'host'.  Turns out the Crooked Billet (1853 / 3070) was the most outdoor only affair since the pubs reopened (this being my 101st tick), even the loos were outdoors.  The friendly host gives me the Covid manifesto, and I park myself at a table and complete the obligatory form.  I ask what ales are on, only one, Rev James.  Oh dear I think, not a beer I really like, though most of my experiences of it have been in Ember Inns on bleak suburban roads on the outskirts of West Midlands towns at 10am.  I enjoy this pint of it more than I'd even done in even Cardiff.  You have to play the hand your dealt in this BRAPA game, and I'm just contemplating how much mileage I can get out of suspecting a window cleaner of being a burglar with a short ladder, when I notice the lady opposite clock Colin.  This is Sarah, who runs a retro shop selling 80's / 90's stuff including soft toys!  Her partner Jamie is a poet, and we get chatting.  Meanwhile, the broken card machine has been fixed so the staff can charge me now, having previously admitted that he was terrified of everyone running off without paying.  Jamie and Sarah are a lovely duo, and Jamie in particular seems happy to pack up his current lifestyle to become a pub ticker, such is his BRAPtastic enthusiasm.  He even offers to by me a drink, alas one pint per pub is the rules!  Jamie, being a poet, wanted to have blog input so he co-wrote this next bit.  "Jamie then produced Sarah's random Bounty bar from a sidepocket, to hearty guffawing from all who witnessed the event".   And on that note, it was off to pub number two. 

Colin making new friends

Probably not a burglar (though he might've become one in this blog if not for Jamie n Sarah intervention)

Equivalent of my view towards the bar

Much like a real ale loving bear in Halifax, I meandered down the High Street and initially, my heart sank when I saw what I thought was THE pub hatch, crowded with ice cream gobblers.  Not a pint of bitter in sight!

Luckily I followed the cobbled street around the corner and saw a much more pleasing sight ......

An actual pub entrance, what a blessed relief!  Inside at the Mayflower (1854 / 3071) and a queue to the bar was probably inevitable.  I spied the sanitiser and track & trace forms before the others (experienced pubber you see!) and set off a trend, as the others followed me.  When the barmaid pipes up, "can you all fill in a form whilst you are waiting?" the bloke behind me peers past me, gives her the sickliest smile ever, and says "Already done it, mwah, mwah!"  What a creep!  Bet he used to give the teacher an apple at school.  Reminds me I had been told to look out for a real ale they sell here called Bell End bitter, sadly I couldn't see it but got the closest thing I could, Cock-le-Boats.  Or was it Cockleboats?  I'd barely sat down when who should arrive for a very welcome cameo but Jamie from the Crooked Billet.  I'd dropped the 'award winning' BRAPA stickers and he'd run down here to return them.  Shows the measure of a man does that, wonderful.  A bloke next to me chugged down two quick Fosters with the sole intent of draining the pubs electricity supply by charging his phone.  Despite the tourist crowd, most of whom were in the outdoor area slamming down plates of fish & chips to a Michael Jackson soundtrack, the pub still managed to carry itself well, with some sense of atmosphere and history, and you could imagine how pleasant it could be.  Unlike Messi, this pub could perform on a cold Tuesday night in Feb (in Stoke).  I suspected I was missing some of the drama outdoors, as a barman returned to the bar hurriedly, with a customer just behind.  Barman was saying "sorry Sir, I didn't mean to annoy you on purpose!"  Wish I'd have witnessed what sparked that.

Semi appropriate beer (excuse the pun)

Returned stickers

The only smiley customers here

400th anniversary of Mayflower this year, so a good year to visit this pub!

Sadly, the other Leigh GBG entry (the Brewery Tap) is 2 or 3 miles north of centre, and every bus I looked at seemed to run east to west rather than north to south, suggesting it'll pair better with a day when I go to Southend and can get a bus that rattles past the northern bit of Leigh-on-Sea.  True, I could've walked, but there's easier pickings back down the train line towards London.

The first of which was this rather delightful club .........

Leigh had been a really positive experience, enjoyed the place and people.  But what it did lack was a nice dark moody locals boozer, 'that's what I like' as Chas n Dave might've said if they were still alive, and that is what I found at South Benfleet Social Club (1855 / 3072).  I got a bit of the old confused staring 'what's your game?' style glances when I first walked in, as you tend to in a club, but once I explained I was one of those CAMRA loons, I was asked to sign this guestbook/Covid register that am sure had been there since 1975 with its nicotine stained pages.  I paid with coins for the first time in a pub since July 4th, having parted with many fivers, so I think some of these coins were those I received in change from the Woking Railway Athletic Club, which is a pleasing type of symmetry.  My task was made harder as the guv'nor appears in a Chelsea shirt, and 3 co codamols are flung across the guest book whilst I'm still writing in it!  The locals are perched at the near end, as Everton score 3 goals in 10 minutes, so I'm relegated to the far horse racing end, beneath a TV no one knows how to work.  A group of gregarious Benfleetians smile reassuringly at me, but 'Eileen' hasn't read the script and keeps turning around on her chair to eyeball poor Colin who is trying to remain an anonymous as any Cauliflower could be in these conditions.  The beer wasn't as well kept here as in the two Leigh-on-Sea pubs, but hey them's the breaks and it was a fun, amusing experience.

Halfway through the day already?  It had flown, and I didn't want to make the same mistakes I did in Kent the previous week (i.e. get incredibly sozzled) so it was time to slow things down a bit and get to some harder to reach places.  I'll tell you about them, a shut pub and a wonderful pre-emptive, in part 2 on Friday.

Si 

BRAPA has ..... ONE FOOT IN THE GRAVE(SEND)

"I don't belieeeeve it!"  Having been in a zombie-state in Upper Upnor's Tudor Rose, just minutes early, I actually got a second wind in the other Good Beer Guide pub in the village, which means I should probably write nice things about it ......

King's Arms, Upper Upnor (1849 / 3066) certainly was a more pleasant pub than the Tudor Rose, despite an awkward start!  I said 'hello' to an attractive young lady, peering around the entrance as I walked in, but she glared back at me like 'I don't work here, how dare you speak to me!' and her beefy boyfriend half launched himself up, off his stool before deciding 'he ain't worf it'.  I scurried on towards the bar, where the local gents fell silent, and waited to see what my next move was.  The barmaid smirked.  I ordered a pint of something called Mad Cat with an air of hushed confidentiality in my tone.  In friendlier circs, I'd have asked how come there were so many bags of charcoal below the bar, and there might've been a little bit of jokey back n forth, but no chance I was going to try that now!  Never have I been so pleased to escape, pint in tact, without further incident to the lounge bar.  This would prove to be my haven, away from the scary airy basic main bar.  It was a glorious room, the plush carpet sort of crept up the seats, into the benches and beyond.  It was a bit like Teen Wolf where he first realises he's 'changing' and the hair creeps up his body.  The only downside was that being the only customer in here, I felt a bit distanced from the hub of activity, where a landlady had now appeared and was having some 'top bantz' with the cheeky old boys about a birthday cake or some such nonsense!  On the plus side, Hull City were beating the Gills already and I got to see the goal on my phone.  In any case, I was a lot perkier as I headed back into Strood for pint six (it was still only 3:45pm!)

Google Maps didn't want me getting too comfortable however, and walked me back a totally different route, which involved a lot of pavementless road walking!  Luckily, as I mentioned in part one, traffic in Strood seems surprisingly non existent which gives a real 'end of the line' feel to the town.

I missed the turning to the pub (despite the huge 'MICROPUB' sign), a narrow snicket in the shadow of the railway bridge, the pub built into it.  One of the more tasteful 'railway arch' pubs I've been to (and there are literally, like about 3,000 in the GBG alone).

I was shocked when this side path opened up into the hugest micropub garden ever, and with this warm September sun still beating down, it was no surprise to see that the place was absolutely heaving, I even wondered if I could get in!  10:50 From Victoria, Stood (1850 / 3067) was its name, and you will NOT be interested to learn it doesn't refer to a train time, but the arch number. So any 8:15 from Manchester or 4:50 from Paddington jokes are rendered obsolete.  Eventually, there was a parting of the waves, Remi Moses style, whoever he was, and I was confronted by two fraught overworked ladies.  Felt quite sorry for them, as soon as they got rid of one customer, two more appeared.  This went on for the entire half an hour I was there, not a minutes peace.  I'd managed to commandeer one the few indoor raised seating areas for myself.  And if people weren't asking for craft beer, cider or an artisanal gin, they were asking where the loos were.  I did that.  Two portlaloos outdoors.  A group of jolly rosy faced locals helped me further with the directions.  "....But don't go in if old 'Roo is in there!" the loudest one warned me, and I gingerly pushed the loo door in case Strood's giant mythical kangaroo was having a poo. #RhymingWithSimon   On the way back, the group roared "Ohhh you found the bogs then, nice one mate!!"  Not since I was potty training have I felt such a sense of accomplishment in this aspect of daily life.   Had this pub really only been open since 4pm as advertised?  Absolutely no way.  A well done place though, note the train track flooring too, as the GBG loves to say "a good addition to the burgeoning Kent micro-scene". (I may've made that up).

If Heineken did micropubs ...... oh hang on, is that Carlsberg?

How had I already done six pubs with my train to York not until 9pm?  Well, knowing September wouldn't be an easy month for pub-ticking, in that moment there in Strood at 5pm, I thought it best to exploit the situation.  A mistake in hindsight, for I could barely move a limb the following day, but Gravesend was calling my name,

Gravesend has four GBG entries, even one would be a bonus this evening.  I headed for the one due to close at 6pm as I thought it might be interesting to see how 'last orders' played out, something I don't see a lot of in BRAPA being largely a daytime drinker.

It is worth noting I didn't clock these pub opening times as I walked in

Down the stairs without falling, you've got to love a good basement bar, and this was very atmospheric.  Three Pillars, Gravesend (1851 / 3068) was a real cracker all round actually, friendly to a fault, a welcome relief and that had been something missing from many of today's pubs.  "Are you from Mansfield?" asks the landlady suddenly hearing my slight Northern accent as I order a pint in the middle of the room.  "No, York" I tell her.  "Oh well, close enough, all up north innit?"  I loved this place already.   I sit opposite the loos, the door is a phonebox.  On each side, locals chat animatedly.  Something about Tony Egan in his cream & brown Ford Cortina.  Oh, how we laughed!  Someone spoke passionately about MOT issues, and I was conscious it was 17:59 and I'd not heard a last orders gong, so started trying to drink my latest 5% stout quickly just in case I'd missed it in my increasing inebriation.   Our lovely hostess returned to ask about Colin, and after rolling out the full BRAPA manifesto, she went to extract Mr Pillars from behind the bar and he came over to chat to me, and showed me around the pub.  Lovely couple.  I asked about the 6pm closure.  "Ho ho, those were our hours two weeks ago, it's all changed now!"  I asked him if he could understand how difficult this can be for the pub ticker and he admitted he could.  I said my farewells, my increased drinking speed meant I now had time for another!   

Pub I visited earlier in Upper Upnor now on the wall in this pub!

Beaming smile on my face, I was trying to convince myself that I was rapidly drinking myself sober.  Not sure looking back how true that was, but 8 BRAPA ticks in a day, what a result this would be, although landlord in Three Pillars had expressed his doubts that this next one would be open!

According to my records, it opens 6pm on a Saturday, and I mean, how often are visitors in Gravesend after 6pm on a Saturday?  I had to chance it, close to the station anyway.  

My past reluctance to visit Kent for BRAPA has centred around the huge number of Micropubs leading me to doubt how much of a rewarding county it would be.  Nice as the beer might be, could it all get  bit samey?  Well, Three Pillars had turned that viewpoint around, and I bounced into the next pub (thankfully open) with renewed optimism.

Disclaimer - my inebriated state might mean I'm not accurately recollecting this pub, but this was how it appeared to me at the time.

"Hello, hi, hello, hi!" I said standing in the centre of the room at the Compass Alehouse (1852 / 3069) looking at the twelve or so folk lining the walls on stools.  A couple blink.  The rest remain unmoved.  A serious man stepped forward out of the shadows, Peter Cushing but younger, and when I said I was looking for ale, he directed me to a blackboard.  The room remained silent.  "Ooh, the pressure is on with you all watching, haha!" I say, glancing around at the 12 faceless faces.  No one laughs, not even junior Cush.  I ordered something I think called Chocolatey Mild.  'All the seats are taken in here, so you will have to sit outside' he says, and marches me into this covered tent out the back, and closes the bottom of a two part door behind me.  It was a bit like being put in a salubrious dungeon cell.  I was left to drink alone, distant noise of chatter from inside.  At one point (well probably two or three knowing me), I needed the loo so quietly opened the door and crept in.  "YES?!" it was the man from earlier, and a woman by his side.  "I'm just looking for the loo" I stammered.  "Oh okay then, it is that way!" and I'll say one thing I liked about this pub, the toilet seat was very pretty (see below).  Back in my delightful dungeon, and after 10 more minutes of solitary confinement, a short bald man with a carrier bag is pushed into the tent.  He stares at me,  I suspect he's been sent out here to interrogate me but doesn't have those Ted Hastings skills.  It gets so awkward, I finally crack and just reel off where I've been today!  He nods slowly, and then disappears back indoors.  Colin did nothing to help.  I finish my mild, and walk through the twelve faceless faces, saying "bye, see ya later, cheers, bye, see ya later, cheers" to a few vague blinks and pursed lips.

When I woke on the Sunday morning, I doubted whether the experience was quite as sinister as my mind remembers it, but this was how I felt in that moment!  

View from delightful dungeon to half closed door

Colin, useless under interrogation 

Lovely loo seat

Probably my mind playing tricks, but if any independent readers have been here, I'd be interested to hear your thoughts below.  How did you find your experience?

It was finally time to get my sorry drunken arse back to London, and relax in King's Cross til the train was due, maybe they've reopened the coffee stalls by now?  But hang on, what is this, Parcel Yard FINALLY reopen, gotta go and investigate!  Just what I need .......

This photo was in focus on the night, I swear

Fullers have kept us hanging on, and despite the extortionate prices and transient clientele, I can't deny even though this now meant nine pints (and don't say I could order a half, I'm not a monster) I was delighted to see it back.  I stagger in, it is almost pitch black, a couple of strangled distant voices suggest there is the odd other customer ,but I cannot see them.  I don't get very far when a smart young man with a clipboard and a pressed shirt jumps out of the gloom, and mentally jostles me into one of those leather booths directly to the left on entrance.  Now I have been to Parcel Yard probably more than any other pub save a handful in York & Hull & L**ds and I can tell you never once have any of those booths ever been free.  Red letter day.  I ask about the ales, and when I tell him 'ESB is probably a bit much in my state!' he agrees rather too readily for my liking!  Eventually, I'm chinged £5.30 for a Hophead, the most I've ever paid for cask ale, a fact I didn't realise til I checked my Credit Card transactions the following day (damn you contactless payments, I'd rather forget!)  And after that, I just sit in the dark with my Hophead chuckling to myself and taking bad selfies until the platform is announced.  

End of a fun day, I can't remember getting on the train to York but presumably I did, despite the rumours that I woke up on a beach in Wick. 

I feel a bit woozy just recounting that last part of the day.

Join me on Wednesday, when I'll tell you about a rare trip to Essex.  Nearly caught up with blogs for first time since late July, though my September pub total will be low.

Si 

BRAPA ...... MAKES HEADWAY ON THE MEDWAY (North Kent Part 1 of 2)

I could tell as early as 11:59am that today was going to get messy.  True, no one was forcing me to drink so much, but like watching a car crash in slow motion, I didn't seem to be able to control the wheel.

I'd started the day bright, fresh faced, excited for my North Kent BRAPA debut, frolicking from York to Chatham via London like a frisky fawn ......

Real life footage of me crossing London at 9:30am 

 Less than twelve hours later, evil bitter beer had forced me into this state .......

So how did it happen?  Well, let us relive the first four of nine pubs on what was my heaviest BRAPA day of 2020 so far.  That'd be an achievement, had I not been in one between March-July. 

North Kent of course, was a blank canvas for me, so the pub options seemed limitless.  That was the first problem.  However, I decided to strategically avoid Gillingham in case I get to go there as a Hull City fan next season, Rainham's GBG entry seemed to be 'take out only' which wouldn't count under BRAPA rules, Brompton looked very closed, Rochester's Effin' Frog is getting refurbished, and I'd done two both the Man o' Kent and that Who'd a Thunk It? back in 2012.  Suddenly, not so limitless.

It was left to Chatham to save the day early doors, both entries open 10am.  Boom!  

Some great bands, The Singing Loins and Billy Childish is from this part of the world, so at least I could get myself in the mood with some classic tunes ....

Once in Chatham, the locals had an interesting glint in their eyes, they moved their contorted bodies in strange Neanderthal ways, their jaws large, mouth smirking with dribble forming at each corner. I described them as a 'motivated bunch' on the day.  

The local Wetherspoons lurched abruptly forward from the high street like a paedophile uncle emerging from a hedge by a primary school .....

A grand old former post office, Thomas Waghorn, Chatham (1845 / 3062) is named after a chap who worked out it was a great idea to deliver post from Blighty to India via Egypt.  This was represented on the wall in the form of a rope, but it takes a great deal of imagination on my part to imagine this as a route across Egypt!  After a bit of queuing and track n tracing, the chirpy barmaid tells me I'm the first customer to order the Betty Stoggs today.  Already regretting it, I'm relieved when she tells me it has 'just' gone (errrm, what like last night?), so I go for the Wolf Mild, the first of many dark beers today.  She takes off the 50p discount before I'd even shown her a voucher, is that how CAMRA I look these days?  Not a fan of high stools because I like to keep my feet on the ground.  I enjoy this one because it is leather and spins around automatically, so if the locals are boring, I can at least pretend I'm the girl from the exorcist to pass the time.  They aren't boring of course, although a family in Gillingham shirts arrive for breakfast.  Do they know fans aren't allowed into grounds?  Saddos.  Wish I'd worn my Hull City one now, that'd shake things up.  Overall though, a gentle enough start, what could go wrong? 

No wonder she has her head in her hands, I feel the same

Carpet a bit worn and lacking vibrancy

Ordering brekkie on the App

Colin develops a growth, brandishing a Sainsbury's bag

The rope that stretches the imagination

Just across the road, the other Chatham GBG entry can be found.  I like it when getting between pubs takes the littlest effort imaginable ........

This was more 'Spoons than 'Spoons, Prince of Wales, Chatham (1846 / 3063) is probably a pub that won't please everyone, but for the pub purist, or the GBG ticker who is sick of the middly-twiddly dining dominance, it is a rare treat to come to fabulously unpretentious town centre boozer full of friendly old crocks.  There are more medical conditions than you could shake an MRI scan at, all presided over by hardworking staff determined to ensure even those 'passing through' will enjoy it.  It felt like I was St Helens, it felt like I was in Rugby, it didn't feel like I was in the South East.  Maybe Kent really will be a county that opens my eyes to pub ticking?   The Adnams Broadside is drinking well, too well, perhaps my beer selection today wasn't the most responsible with hindsight.  They sit me on a table reserved for 'Chris' from 12 noon, so they obviously aren't expecting me to stay for too long.  And who needs a book, newspaper or to bury their face in their phone when you can just beam your pearly whites around the room at all these lovely characters?  Colin feels right at home, most of them have similar shaped heads.  I get talking to this lady with a broken leg which she wants me to ask her about.  Her own fault she tells me.  She should've been taking tablets,  I think she said epilepsy, but if she does, she can't drink, and she wanted to drink ..... and the rest is history.  I make a sympathetic noise, laced with someone who needs the loo and is worried they might miss their train, so I say cheerio and head off into the Chatham daylight.  

These cheeky chaps tapped leg lady on the shoulder and pretended it wasn't them!  It's all fun in the PoW (Prince of Wales, not Prisoner of War camp)

Colin cameo as I tick off Chatham

Don't worry Chris, I'll be in Rochester by 12

And I was!  One step closer to home, Rochester seems a pretty place in parts, well it has a castle.  I had to fight my way through towards my pub, an incident involving a fleet of ambulances had caused a lot of moronic gawping in the town, I felt like the only person not interested.

Past the castle and leaning on the wall opposite the pub at 11:55am, taking the obligatory photo and waiting for it to open, the late summer sun still beating down even as we hit mid September.  

11:58am, and that happiest sound in the world as you hear the door being unbolted from within, a key jangles in the latch, and a centuries old door creaks open.  Magical.  I give it one extra minute 'to be polite' and 11:59am, I'm already in my third pub of the day.   Inside Coopers Arms, Rochester (1847 / 3064) the ancient atmosphere hits you with the full force of the supposed 1189-1199 era it was built, though they took their sweet ass time about making it a boozer, 1543, too late for Catherine Howard to get it ticked off (sorry but I always imagined her as the pub ticking type).  Personally, I would not let 'lack of a head' stop me from ticking the GBG.  The gaffer seems a good chap, he takes my temperature (luckily I'm cool as a Cauli at the moment), and not quite sure why I order a third dark beer but hey ho.  He tells me where the pub garden is, but why would I wanna sit out there when you've got this environment?  Well, I soon kind of realise as some intense drilling and knocking starts up!  I must look a bit startled, and the gaffer apologises.  Turns out his son is getting sockets put in his room.  They've had since 1189 to do this, just my luck it had to be today!  Luckily, it is pretty sporadic and I can still class this Coopers as a jolly one! (cos some pubs are called Jolly Coopers, sheesh, my humour is lost on you lot).

Another train stop in the right direction took me to Strood, as in the song 'Strood Lights' (lalalala) which you probably don't know but should.  Or the even better Christmas version 'Christmas Lights' including the amazing line "Walking through this town of Dickens, queuing up for a Christmas kicking".

A peculiar kind of place, it felt very end of the line in a Withernsea kind of way, and although there were main roads and a sort of centre, there was close to zero cars.

From Strood, I walked a good old yomp to a place called 'Upper Upnor' which had two whole GBG entries.  Google Maps took me quite a picturesque route, and locals had written motivational signs to encourage you that you were on the right track ......

Yeah, cheers for that!

I was seriously flagging anyway, and had to stop for a tropical Capri Sun, bit of tomato & feta quiche and a discount scotch egg on a bench.  Even three pints in, I could feel the Mild, Broadside and Stout weighing me down.  The heat wasn't helping.  

I finally dragged myself through Upper Upnor and the first pub came into view, right on the banks of the Medway, today's second castle over to the right.  The pub looked a bit like an old fashioned hardware store i thought, or the sign did at least .....

 

Tudor Rose, Upper Upnor (1848 / 3065) was actually from the 'Eat Drink Sleep' chain which always makes me think Work, Rest & Play.  A rich Mars Bar themed Shepherd Neame stout would've done nicely, but I simply had to make to with Spitfire, Master Brew or Whitstable Bay so I went with the latter, suddenly conscious of my 'struggling state', something light perhaps was a good idea now.  The interior felt airy, temporary, staff were functional, and a smattering of timid day trippers lurked around like mice who didn't know how to behave in a pub.  If it wasn't for the steep cobbled street down to the river, this pub would've made almost zero impression on me.  Dull.  Reminded me of the Old Coastguard in Mousehole, but with a more limited interior.  I was glad to get the main seat outside, though I had hesitated in case the large group of ladies wanted it, but incredibly, they sat indoors.  Here was my 'zombie' moment of the day, for I would gain a second wind, but here, I drank incredibly slowly, and was so still, a tame robin bobbed around my feet, eyeballing both Colin & the GBG, before hopping onto the seat next to me and judgily pouring scorn at my drinking speed.  So much so, I wondered if he was a reincarnated pub ticker of old.  Alan 'Wing'field?  The couple now sat opposite me were loving these red breasted shenanigans, it almost made the pub interesting.

Time to drag myself from my slumber, and get to Upper Upnor's second pub.  I'll tell you about that tomorrow night, along with my continued descent into drunk oblivion.  

Si