BRAPA - To the Manor Barn (A Kimberworth Tale)

Friday night kicked off as all good Friday nights do, on the slow-stopper from L**ds to Rotherham.  Looking at the stopping points along the way (Wakefield, Sandall & Agbrigg, Thurnscoe etc), it was inevitable that someone weird would sit next to me at some stage. 

Tonight, it was a strange young lady discussing massage parlour practices, angrily transferring money over the phone, before complaining to her friend that she wanted to sit "on the inside" seat, and staring at me in an accusing manner as if I might be scared into moving.  I didn't, so she then panicked she needed to get off.  It was a relief when she finally left at Fitzwilliam, 

In Rotherham, a toothless Mum wailed to a druggie man to leave her druggie daughter alone, but they looked like a perfect match to me so I just smiled pleasantly at the scene and pretended I was watching Channel 4. 

The bus took me to Kimberworth for my penultimate South Yorks tick of the current Good Beer Guide.  It loomed out on the main road in the cold night sky like an illuminated stone fronted attention seeking bastard ......

"Waaah, look at me, I'm a big pub on the main road"

1222 / 1968.  Manor Barn, Kimberworth

So, "to the Manor Barn" it was then, and despite the Penelope Keith pretensions, it ultimately came across more Keith Chegwin, and when you think about it is the grand scheme of UK dining pubs, that can only be a positive, dead or not.  After all, South Yorkshire and Buckinghamshire produce a very different end product from the same starting concept.  Despite the traditional BRAPA welcome of suspicion and curiousity, I was allowed to order my pint without delay or hassle.  It was Adnams Broadside or Ghost Ship, I went with the latter, served in a Theakstons glass, proof there are times when having the wrong 'glassware' can actually be a plus point!   I'd been called "Pal" three times during my time at the bar.  £3.40 a pint was over the odds for S.Y., and reminded me I wasn't just in a bog standard boozer.  The locals obviously have taste, so the only available seats were posing tables, not good ever, especially when you have short legs like me.    A very young barman was being teased by a local for not being able to get the cork out of his wine.  When he finally managed at, our chief mickey taking local turned 'Expert Sommellier' and cast his eye over the corked wine.   Yes, this wasn't standard South Yorks.  The friendliest customer was a smiley Mum, on the Carling with her oft absent hubbie who disappeared so often, I think he had a secret second wife in the beer garden.  Their little twild, Dylan (we'll call him Twylan) I felt sorry for, as he had to keep himself entertained in pretty unjoyful surroundings, especially for a kid.  His favourite game was pretending to be attacked by the pub pillars.  On one occasion, he tried to explain the Ghostbusters plot to his parents, but Dad yawned rudely and talked over the top of the poor chap.  And that summed up my 27 mins in this pub!

Quality pint of Ghost Ship in a normal glass.  Jokey sommellier in background

Nice Mum and Twylan wait for Dad to return to his Carling

A delayed bus meant a nice chat with some local baldie, and the then delayed train meant it was a brutal night for the sake of 27 mins in a pub I didn't strictly NEED to do just yet.  But then again, it's all one closer to the final total and it may be national pub of the year next year, you never know!  

Back to York for a quick recovery before Dad's secret birthday trip tomorrow (Saturday).

Si