BRAPA in ..... CROSSING WITH SI AND DOTTING WITH (DADDY) B. : Tales from Outer Morecambe

If today's quest to 'green' all six pubs in that awkward north western coastal corner of Lancashire was to be a success, public transport had to run like clockwork.  

Silverdale ("you're so northern, you're practically Laaaakes") was the awkward outlier.  I calculated that we had four minutes to change trains at Preston, including a brisk run across a railway bridge.

Trespassers on the line just outside Burnley Manchester Road scuppered my dreams.

Daddy BRAPA obviously saw the anguish in his son's tired eyes, as I desperately scrabbled around in the depths of my mind to work out a way we could still do it.  I can see he's thinking 'let it go, let it go, let it gooooo' after one of his favourite 2013 animated Disney musicals.

"I tell yer what, I'll drive us one day (this summer).  We can combine it with Cumbria, then I can take you to that awkward one in Hesket Newmarket".  I don't deserve Daddy BRAPA.  Legend. 

The blow was further softened by the news that our next changing point, Lancaster, had FINALLY opened a pre-emptive on the station.  Those uphill walks to the Merchants always seemed a bit too far.

A lady in her fifties, possibly a rogue pub ticker, posed in front of the pub sign for a photo just as we were walking up, so I copied her style ......

Tite & Locke, Lancaster must be a shoo in for the 2023 GBG, 2024 at worst.  If a place looks, feels and smells like a GBG entry, it probably will be.  I don't even have to make a candid comment like "this place has got every chance of achieving Guide status" because I've not been given inside knowledge.  Considering how dreadful current GBG entry the Cornerhouse was on my recent visit, I feel confident.  Lancaster pumps adorn the bar, I've always had a bit of a love/hate relationship with their ales, but today, this IPA was bangin'.  Superbly kept.  The Craft Beer Wall might entice you beer lovers more, if I've learned one thing this week on Twitter, there are more beer fans than pub fans out there.  Not for the first time today, we'd arrive into a bar at exactly the same time as a flurry of other folk, sending the staff into a spin.  I'm disappointed the hidden room to the left is dark with posing tables, they could've done something a lot more 'Whitby Waiting Room' with the interior.  On the flip side, the enclosed outdoor area is supremely done.  A really nice space, views of trains and station, but done in a way that you don't feel that you'd ever be part of a commuter scum scrum.  It's a promising start, and I'm totally over the Silverdale disappointment, honest.  Don't cry, it'll be fine.

We decided to start north and work our way south, so Carnforth was our starting point.  I'd done the Snug back in 2013 with friends, and the locals gave us free curry pasties at 11am, a lovely touch.  

After Dad and I made a few obligatory 'Brief Encounter' puns, our required tick was immediately visible from the station.  Or so we thought .....

Oh hang on, this entrance leads you to estate agents / post office.  

Take two ......

Hotel reception desk.  "Are you looking for the bar?" says a friendly staff man.  Yes we are.  "Back out where you came from and around to the right".

Oh okay, take three!

Despite the Junction / Last Drop Inn signage, this is still the Royal Station, Carnforth (2237 / 3799) okay?  99% sure anyway.  The vast array of handpumps would suggest it, as would the quality of the beers.  And a quick scan of the GBG tells me it does refer to it as a 'Junction Bar'.  Phew.  The GBG also describe it as "more basic". Errrm excuse me?  Seems pretty ornate to me .... makes me wonder what the depths of the grand old Victorian hotel look like?  Daddy BRAPA grabs the GBG, final tick on the double page, which means he can do his trademark green dot in the top right hand corner!  Two ladies who lunch are the only other customers.  We are both hungry.  But these are not food smuggling surroundings by any means.  Dad locates a courtyard / smoking area.  Our bus stop is opposite, the bus is advertising Sky TV's new Midwich Cuckoos.  Maybe that adds to the unnerving sense that we are being spied on as we try and smuggle our scotch eggs!  Firstly, slowest hanging basket watering can man EVER wanders around us.  I swear, no one needs to water hanging baskets this slowly.  Then, our barmaid comes outside, peers at us with the pretence of having a cigarette.  And finally, a teenage stable-hand unlocks a Victorian stable door, peers at us, and locks it again, nods and leaves.  Then watering can man returns.  Sheesh, they did a job on us this lot!  Still a good quality tick though and I did get the scotch egg polished off. 

Absolutely dreadful

Our view and distant Mr Hanging Basket

Nine legged spider light

Sure Col's smile gets broader in the pubs he enjoys

"Basic"

I had the white one with the sun on, Dad had Odin

Interesting sideways ticking (showboating, or worried about smudging?)

Note the Daddy B green dot in top right (adds value to GBG when I auction it on eBay for £5,000,000 next year)

The bus took us towards Morecambe, I had the presence of mind to buy a Day Ticket, Dad obviously goes free.  We had a tick to do en route.  

Hest Bank seems a gorgeous spot, you can see a canal and the sea in the same view.  The canal is below walking level.  And the pub is situated superbly at the level crossing ......

Pub of the day for me, Crossing, Hest Bank (2238 / 3800) a nice way to bring up a landmark of sorts.  Some places just ooze class, they draw you in, and hold you there with invisible woollen mittens - or so it feels when you've had a few pints anyway.  Like all the best pubs, it takes its lead from a superb owner - chatty, full of life, charismatic, but not too in yer face.  The ale, needless to say, is spot on.  I'm on the 'Hotel Barrinfornia' from Glamorgan, because the name tickled me, Dad's gone Durham Jarrylo but is disappointed it is more full bitter than pale.  He's been here before, with #MummyBRAPA on a walking holiday.  He's sad that two ladies are sat on 'HIS' table, with the best view of the trains whizzing past, though we get the second best one in the room just around the corner.  The steps down to the loo are uneven, so be careful if you visit.  I'm trying to have a nice long loo session, if you know what I mean, but TWO men are waiting outside, wishing this pub had unisex loos like other micros!  "What the hell is that?" says the owner, noticing Col balancing a beermat on his head, before adding "does he want that beermat?"   We tell him about our forthcoming pubs, and what we've just done.  "We all support each other around here .... one little community .... we hate cliquey and try and be welcoming to all" he tells us.  Well, the formula is working.  As the song goes, such an enormous sense of well being in this place.

Although it is tougher on the old bladder, it is important to stay on the next bus as it chugs all the way through Morecambe and onto Heysham.  Our furthest point south.  Jeez, I'd forgotten how long Morecambe was.  The Peter Crouch of Lancashire towns. 

Ah, Heysham, it has been a while.  2003-2005 in fact.

When the Punk Festival used to be held at Morecambe pre-Blackpool, I used to stay in a Heysham caravan with Sister BRAPA and a couple of mates.  Now this really was basic.  I once lit the fire with a match stuck to the end of a banana with a piece of chewing gum at 3am.  It was the only way.

Although the covered mobility scooter offers hope, the location of this next Micropub ties in with all the crummiest Micro ticks I've done i.e. situated in a row of shops / small businesses.  Brough in East Yorkshire and Blythe Bridge near Stoke spring to mind.

We wander in and the contrast in atmosphere between here and the Crossing couldn't be much starker.  Watchful, quiet, perhaps it is a Heysham thing but we are hardly welcomed into the bosom of the Bookmakers, Heysham (2239 / 3801), oof.  Suddenly, we're both wondering if the landlord in the Crossing's comment about cliquiness was a coded jibe at this place, considering he knew it was next on our list?  To be fair, a man with tree trunk tattooed arms recommends me a 5% Marble Lagonda with such passion that although I wouldn't normally go 5% at this stage, I don't wanna go against the big lad.  We creep over to the front of the pub, though two mad blokes are face timing their mate very loudly behind me. "You had a shag then maaaate, waheyyyy?" they keep asking him.  Relief when they buzz off.  We occupy ourselves by playing a game of "guess who the covered mobility scooter belongs to".  Dad suggests the lady, but when she starts dancing around the pub, he has fresh doubts.  Still, that doesn't prove anything.  Who can forget 'benefit stick lady' at the bar of that Whitby pub who, having told everyone how disabled she was, on dropping her phone and purse onto the floor, did a full fluid one movement pirouette like an Olympic diver to retrieve said objects!  The ale is good, but this was easily the weakest pub today.

The bus meanders slowly back into Morecambe, and yes I do have a soft spot for it (not quite as much as Blackpool) after those 2001 and 2003-5 festivals.  Rita's Cafe.  Buying my yellow Doc Martens.  The Midland Hotel.  Mr Blobby World.  The Platform, Dome, the 20 minute walks to the Carleton.  Taking dodgy beer back in Davy Jones Locker and the staff refusing to change it.  Oh happy days!  

I'd BRAP'd here before, the Eric Bartholomew 'Spoons'  and the Royal are still in the GBG, but I had two new ones to do.  Firstly, a few minutes walk from the station .....

A Dee-liteful place.  Thanks people of my generation!

No sadly, that wasn't the tick.  The truth looked plainer.

That's more like it!

Morecambe Hotel, Morecambe (2240 / 3842) was an interesting one.  It was apparently built before Morecambe itself, which is very clever isn't it?  Being the notorious fifth pint of the day, I couldn't afford to overthink that particular thought!  Lincoln Green Marion was served by a man who looked like he'd seen a ghost sat at the corner of the bar.  The table we sat at was one of the prettiest pub tables in BRAPA history.  The worst two being at the Nightjar, Hebden Bridge, and Major Tom's Harrogate, if you wondered.  It was a rootsy sort of place considering all their concessions to modern bland bollocks. A screen showed clips of Morecambe F.C. in their more successful seasons including the unmistakable bald head of underrated legend Kevin Ellison. And these clips were interspersed with grainy black and white footage of Morecambe seafront in 1901 which was interesting viewing.  Bit of a schizophrenic type of place, but not 'arf bad. 

A 21 minute walk along the seafront and slightly inland took us to an area of Morecambe called Bare, close to the next station down the line called Bare Lane.  This pub was recommended to me pre-lockdown in Windermere's very interesting Baa bar ......

Talk about timing your arrival wrong!  Having been quiet all day, the guv'nor later told us at Little Bare, Morecambe (2241 / 3843) everyone had just arrived together, and we were last in line.  'These things happen, it is absolutely fine' we said as he profusely apologised about five times.  Such a people person, no surprise that this is the pub that came closest to pushing the Crossing at Hest Bank for the overall 'pub of the day' crown.   He obviously fosters a fabulous atmosphere (without selling Fosters), full of jolly locals, it perhaps lacked a bit of depth and softness of the Crossing but again it is one of those where photos alone don't do it justice, you have to be immersed in the Little Bare's little space to appreciate the full extent of the atmosphere and charm.  No idea what brand of murk I was on, but sixth pint of the day these things don't matter to me.  Nine ticks until the half way point, I am getting there (albeit painfully slowly so far in June!)

The threat of replacement buses had been our 'elephant on the high street' on all day, part of the reason we didn't want to be too ambitious re Silverdale earlier.  

Thankfully, a small group of locals were hovering about Bare Lane station looking for it, otherwise we wouldn't have had a clue where the bus was due to pick us up from.  

It whizzed us to Lancaster, pain free, and a train took us effortlessly down to Preston.

SO much time before our train to York, this was potentially dangerous.  Only one thing for it, show Dad what excellent form the Black Horse is in of late.

It might the current day double pronged strikeforce of Titanic Plum Porter Grand reserve and Robinson's Old Tom (the Bannister and Warboys of ales), but the sparkling heritage interior seems to glimmer with more gusto than ever before.  I've known since 2003 that this pub was something special, but only these last few months I'd put it up their in the echelons of best pub ever visited - and this was even without SeetheLizards present today.  Dad got stuck into the jukebox - "no, not ABBA, please Dad no!", though Blur and Suede really hadn't been cutting it.  Another thing I love about this pub, you can be as anonymous and left alone as you like, or you can find someone to chat to at the drop of a hat.  Represents Preston perfectly I feel.  We got chatting to a couple opposite.  And it was no surprise that Dad told me, a few days later, the BBC Website did a top ten historic pubs and the headline photo was the exact bench we'd been sat on!  Wonderful.  Not everyone agreed on Twitter, someone even suggested there are better 'pubs' within 200 yards, though I suspect these folk put more stock on unusual beers than the buildings that house them.  Each to their own I guess!

So that was that.  And up to date on blogs for the first time in months, though with my pathetic June total of 9 ticks so far, it is a bloody good job.

And the situation doesn't get much better as work are again asking me to work my #ThirstyThursday.  Craft cans in my pants whilst restructuring SONIA loans?  Who's gonna know?  

But Saturday, Daddy BRAPA continues his recent run of form with a chauffeury day around a county I'm determined to finish in the next few months.  

See you then, Si 

 

BRAPA in ..... EDDIE'S WEDDY : A DAY OF WEST YORKSHIRE PRE-EMPTIVES

 

Live footage from Ossett

A wedding evening-do for fellow pub ticker, the great Mr Eddie Fogden, meant I didn't want to over commit myself pub-wise on Saturday 4th June.  

I'd considered Littleborough, perhaps even straying into Rochdale for a cheeky onion bhaji at Bombay Brew, but having not sought international clearance from, or given advanced warning to my old mate Tandleman who bosses this shire, I decided to hold off on this idea and keep it strictly east side of the Pennines. 

The 'do' was occurring in Ossett, so I started in the only logical place any sane person would, Achey Shakey Wakey.   

Wakefield was looking a bit tired and rough around the edges on this overcast Saturday lunchtime.  There was barely a soul around.  I presume they'd gone in hard on the Jubilee Friday, and were all still nursing hangovers.

I've long suspected Wakefield is very much like Barcelona (bear with me on this point).  It doesn't come to life until the late evening time, and then people eat, dance, party and drink right up to 6am.

When is a pre-emptive actually an 'emptive'?  When the GBG has allegedly left the pub out of the paper edition of the book.  That was a story at today's first tick.

Jolly Tap, Wakefield is unsurprisingly empty, as the clock ticks towards 1pm, the barmaid seems both surprised and relieved to have a customer to serve.  My giant overnight rucksack probably suggests I'm not a local.  It is owned by Jolly Boys brewery, and having hammered it myself yesterday at a mini beer festival in York's wonderous Fox, I spent the majority of my 75 minutes here (a BRAPA staying in the same pub record?) slowly nursing this very nice, medicinal Jolly Collier Porter.  There is no one here and nothing happens until my final 15 minutes, I've never known a less eventful pub experience.  Eventually, a couple of groups enter, fresh from whatever Jubilee parade has been happening in Wakefield, so I go back up for a half of something pale in case someone does or says something quirky, or tries to engage with me, but they don't.  Probably just a timing issue, but most boring BRAPA tick of 2022, and not even really a tick!  Or is it?

I mosey on up towards Wakefield Bus Station, which I always think is an unnecessarily long walk from Westgate.

I board the Dewsbury bound bus and strewth, the number of dead heads on here, it really is like a scene from 'Shannon Matthews : The Musical'.  

I hop off at Horbury, where my accommodation is for the night.  I always thought Horbury was quite a posh place, so was expecting some cute little boutique hotel full of scented candles and pot pourri.  

Vic/Victoria, Horbury is probably one of the least pre-emptives I've done this year, but who knows when someone will take it over and make it crafty?  "You stayed 'ere before?" says the young guy behind the bar, as a few old blokes watching the horse racing and cricket turn round and nod silently at me.  When I say 'no' he looks a bit surprised, and gives me a 1 minute guided tour.  Four bedrooms upstairs, a bathroom and kitchen.  And a very creaky landing.  The room smells of the 1970's but is clean and tidy.  Daddy BRAPA said I should stay in pubs more rather than Travelodges and Premier Inns but this experience only makes me glad I've spent a fortune on nine Premier Inn nights for my summer holidays down south.  I keep bumping into an old lady in a dressing gown on the landing.  She keeps apologising.  Her 'partner', a hairy man in a vest, is walking around with a towel draped over his shoulders, brushing his teeth.  It is 2:30pm.  'Oh well, when in Rome' I think and go down to the bar.  The young barman seems surprised I'm hanging around for a pint.  Do I dare risk a lynching / being laughed at by asking what cask offerings are on?  Of course not.  I can see John Smith's Smooth is the closest to Cloudwater they've got on here.  I sit at the far end and watch the Test Match.  It is a pleasant homely proper pub in many ways. Transfer the Jolly Boys beers into this building with these locals, you're onto a winner.  I 'retire' back upstairs to change and powernap before the evening.  Some drunk people are playing pool, laughing a lot.  This plus a very jagged, springy mattress means I can't sleep much, but get an hour or so.  

Side door for later - just in case I lose my bearings!

Time to catch the bus to Ossett.  This part of Horbury does seem a bit grotty, my imagined cute boutique town seems a long way off.  I should've listened to Sister BRAPA.  Her boyfriend's punk band rehearse in Horbury.  In the adjoining building, a dog ate another dog.  Hence the phrase "Horbury is a dog eat dog world".  My sister reckons dogs are ALWAYS eating each other in Horbury.  

In Ossett, some ticker or other (either Eddie himself, or Jim who was also coming to this evening do) had mentioned another pre-emptive a few months back.  Time to give it a try ......

Prop 'Ur Baa, Ossett was everything the Jolly Tap wasn't - eventful and laugh a minute!  There'd been a Jubilee Beer Festival in town.  Everyone was very well oiled.  "We're not always like this!" croaks a local lady seeing the fear in my eyes as I wedge in at the bar.  I'm served by the owner who gives the pub its name, a former rugby prop.  I think the 'baa' thing might be because we're in the Heavy Woollen part of the world.  Both times I'm at the bar, he manages to eschew the virtues of rugby league as the best sport in the world.  His former playing days can be seen on the walls.  But it is England football on the screen above us, and Hungary score a penalty the moment I arrive.  Someone jokes it is my fault.  There is virtually no room, so I 'prop' myself and wedding gift on this tiny stool between rooms.  Then 3 idiots come and stand directly in front of me, blocking anyone walking between rooms, and it becomes me who has to move cos they have no spatial awareness!  When they finally leave, I rant to the two husband and wives opposite about it.  Nice folk, two from Dewsbury, two from Ossett.  I warm to the women more, mainly cos everything I say makes them laugh.  One of the blokes measures me on the height chart behind.  5 foot 9?  I've grown 2 inches then.  An old lady in homemade purple dress, brandishing Union Jack helium balloon wanders in, the quintessential British eccentric.  She sits by these two unsuspecting lads and talks to us all.  She can't walk very far due to a recent knee operation.  We believe her, but she still lifts up her skirt a bit too far to show us all the operation scar!   I decide to stay for a second pint, I'm loving this place, and being fashionably late is cool right?  One of the ladies show me photos of their homemade hats they've been wearing today as part of the festivities.  Scrolling through on her phone, they go one photo too far, inadvertently showing me one of a bloke in this very pub with very short shorts (think Steve Hodge World Cup 1986) sat in the corner.  Papping strangers with unsolicited shots?  Could never be me.  "We can send it you for your blog if you like?" one whispers.  I politely decline, they tell me to keep my voice down, worried he'll cotton on.  Doubt it.  It has been wonderful, but time is getting away from me.

It is a good 20-25 minute yomp out of Ossett central to the Ossett Brewery Taproom, situated right down the bottom near Brewers Pride pub which I visited in my debut BRAPA year.

Eddie chose the venue partly because it might be slightly pre-emptive, showing what a top pub ticker he is.

Despite strict instructions not to go to the Brewers Pride by mistake, I still manage it, and the barmaid's already started pulling me a pint before I realise I'm in the wrong place - oops.

Never mind, she directs me, and a very mean cat is acting as bouncer .....

 ..... I follow the boom boom boom of classic 80's tunes, towards something that looks like a brewery .....

Ossett Brewery Taproom at last , just after 8pm.  Eddie is thankfully one of the first people I see, hard to recognise him without hi-vis on.  He introduces me to wife Becca, resplendent in red, and they seem tickled by my #WWWSI inspired gift.  Daddy Robertshaw admires my green jacket, trying to work out if I'm more Davis or Walker Cup.  I need a pint, and all the ales have been rebadged with Eddie and Becca in mind.  I laugh and comment on each one, the poor bar staff being very patient as I try and  explain them as best I can.  They look at me like "Si, nobody asked".  I then see the only other person I know here, Jim Brunt, off of pub ticking fame.  Third time I've met him.  Nice man.  We have a chat on the intricacies of Stalybridge, then he introduces me to his wife Cathy, of Northern Ireland fame, and I grill her Louis Theroux style on what it is like being the other half of a football ground AND pub ticker and is she going to mentor Becca re 'how to cope'?  She encourages me to get some of the  delicious homemade pie which is the inspired food choice at this do, and a kind one-eyed man and his malnourished assistant serve me some cracking cheese n onion.  Cathy eats the crust and leaves the filling, and I do vice versa because #Keto.  It is cake cutting time.  I'm the only one facing the wrong way.  I'm too full for cake right now, but I don't get another chance cos these greedy ladies scoff the lot in 5 minutes.  I buy Eddie a pint of 'Fogden's Bond' (Yorkshire Blonde) and I get one to do with pet guinea pigs and Amarillo which has no Eddie themed name.  Then I get chatting with this 'character' with fluffy sideburns who really could be a stand up comic.  We chat to Eddie's neighbours, a lovely duo.   Time has totally flown and it is about 22:30, I can't find anyone to say bye to so I leave, but the neighbours put me in their taxi and I swear, if hubbie says '...to the brow of the hill' one more time, am gonna strangle him.  They very kindly ask their taxi to take a detour to get me back to the Vic and won't even let me give them any money!  Lovely stuff.

"Oooh you might just get in for last orders, light is still on!"  says Mrs Neighbour as I hop out of the taxi.  This'll be interesting at 11pm considering what Vic, Horbury was like at 2pm!  He confirms he's not called last orders yet and he's okay to serve me, but not before a lady engulfs me and everyone at the bar in air freshener spray.  "Someone's either just farted or shat themselves!" she explains.  Well, you don't get that in your New Forest Ember Inn.  I opt for Carling's take on Strongbow Dark Fruits this time.  It is the nearest I can see to Duchesse du Bourgogne.  "Yeeee look likes a goblin in tha' green jacket!" slurs a drunk and slightly aggressive man, pointing at me.   "I can't deny it" I reply, giving him a nice smile to take the edge off.   And sit back in my 'safe seat'.  The music is like something from a SeetheLizards TDK mixtape.  Air freshener lady hushes everyone up as Lee Marvin launches into 'I was born under a wanderin' star' after that very long intro.  Next up is George Formby's 'When I'm Cleaning Windows' , the whole pub sings along.  Superb.  Soon, everyone files out and I explain to the barman I'm staying the night here. He looks sad for me, and unlocks a door near the pool table.  One last bump into dressing gown lady as I have bottle of lemon barley and then brush my teeth.  I don't sleep well, but hey ho, fun experience, cheers to Eddie and Becca for inviting me, here's to many ticks in Coniston - ooops I mean a happy honeymoon.

Join me on Wednesday, and I will tell you what the Morecambe area has got to offer GBG wise.

Until then, goodbye, Si 

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