BRAPA - A Battle of the Hills : Malvern v Richmond

If one beacon of light had shone on our damp squib of a Thursday in Great Malvern, it was venturing into the railway station where Dad noted "you can get directly to Paddington from here!", knowing I had a Bucks/London trip planned for the following day.

And after all, would it really make sense to drive back up to York on the Friday, have less than 15 hours recovery, and then have to be on a 6am train down to Kings Cross?  No of course it wouldn't!  After all, I had my overnight bag.  So after a bit of hotel booking jiggery pokery, I said farewell to Mum and Dad in Malvern on the Friday morning at 10am and went to get a ticket to Paddington.  It had been a great holiday.

And I wasn't done yet, I pleaded with the ticket lady to put me on the 12:36 (she seemed reluctant to let me stay in the town any longer than possible due to cancellations on the trains both before and after "Listen to me!" she boomed  "I can get you to Snow Hill where you change."  "But Miss, I don't wanna go to Snow Hill, I want to stay in Malvern for a bit!"  I got my way in the end.

But did I head straight for the 10am opener?  No, I dillied and dallied for half an hour like a chump taking in the town sights and hills around (looked nicer on a dry day), buying food n drink for the journey, and this would ultimately cost me.  I got to my first pub just after 10:35am.....

1120 / 1866.  Great Malvern Hotel, Great Malvern

It's usually a little bit daunting wandering into the hotel at this time, heading straight for the bar, praying they'll give you the pint you need (no questions asked) to get your 'tick' in.  But for once, I found the bar easily in the room to the left, there were no shutters across it, and no sooner had I chosen a Malvern Hills Ale (SBS B-) when a wiry whippersnapper of a lady put down the Pledge, flung the Brasso to one side, wheeled Henry Hoover into the corner, and ran round to serve me.  She was soon back on with the morning chores, and I was left alone in the bar (they should really know better!) where I breathed a sigh of relief at finally having a pint alone in my pure BRAPA state, but also stared through the window into the street, hoping to catch a last glimpse of Mum and Dad coming out of an antique shop so I could wave goodbye.  A wistful moment.  A bearded man who looked important walked into the bar to answer the phone, looked shocked at seeing me sat there in my lime green anorak smiling at him, he then fiddled with a tricky handpump, and made a call which I'm sure included him saying "it's my head which is the real problem here!"  Music played for old fogies like "Strangers in the Night", "Love Me Do" and "Runaway" (the last easily the best) and although it was cosy and well done, the total lack of customers made it duller than it might've been.

Pint of Green Pear was nice and didn't taste like pear.

They seem to love their Morgans in Malvern so perhaps they are made there.

My view of nothing much going on.

I'd really needed to be arriving at my next pub very close to it's 11am opening time to stay on track, but it was a fair trek north of centre, and the old tunes and solitude meant I'd drifted into a state of relaxation in the hotel.  It was after 11:20am when I arrived, rubbish Simon!

I always wonder how strict these pub 'no swearing' rules are!

1121 / 1867.  Nag's Head, Malvern

Having waved at a Phil Jupitus beer delivery driver on the way in, and wondered why anyone had dropped their headphones in the carpark, I walked in (careful not to swear), and thought "ahhh, this is more foookin' like it" as I found a quiet creaky wooden bar area with friendly staff, good beer (Dragon's Blood, SBS B) but irritatingly, they were all saying farewell to a young visitor chap, wishing him "good luck on your quest, great to meet you, thanks for the card" and all that nonsense, if he's a new BRAPA, he's a dead man walking.  He saw me arrive and obviously knew it was time to skidaddle.  Bet he was going to the Morgan for opening time, the utter bastard.  Ooops.  Eject me now!  I realised this pub opened up into a rabbit warren of snugs and side rooms, I hid behind a glass panel and all I could hear were ales being pulled through (thanks Mr Jupitus).  This was until an old local walked in and asked how he was "oooo arr, too busy for moi loiking!" was his reply.  Classic Malvern Bantz.  "Ha ha" replied the landlord.  I chuckled to myself, and finally was joined by someone, not a pub goer, but a pub window cleaner.  He seemed a jolly chap, even if I did have to crane my neck so he could do the window behind me for the first time since 1685 by the looks of it.  Top pub this, in keeping with the standard of the whole week.

On the way back from the loo

Random pile of logs, but wasn't complaining.

Dragon's Blood, bit dark for 11:20am, so what?

The window cleaner doing his thing.

I'd really needed to be at the 3rd Malvern pub (the Morgan) at 11:59am ready for opening, but it was a mile walk just the other side of Great Malvern station, so leaving here about 11:50am, I'd ultimately left myself too much to do to get a pint in, 25 mins, and back on train for 12:36.  It was 12:10 by the time I got back to Great Malvern station.  Especially annoying when I found out it was Duncan Mackay's Dad's local.  Rubbish Simon.  This is why your numbers never improve!

For now, I decided in light of all other trains that afternoon to Paddington being either delayed or cancelled to just get myself to London, check in at my Hounslow Travelodge, and do the rest of my pubs from there. 

It was about 5pm when I got to Hounslow Railway Station proper, and although for about the 15th time in my life, I seemed destined for Feltham's Wetherspoons, I blindly hopped on the first train I saw and realised I was on a totally different line.  After some hasty GBG cross checking, I hopped off one stop after Richmond, at a place with a funny name called North Sheen, which reminded me of cleaning lady co-owner from the Great Malvern Hotel.

A short walk later, I was FINALLY at my third pub of the day......

A bike outside a pub in London is like a shopmobility scooter outside a pub in Lancs

1122 / 1868.  Mitre, Richmond

If the location seemed gentle backstreet classic London boozer, and the pub had the appearance to match, it was spoiled slightly by a cacophony of noise on entry, not helped by overly high ceilings and a circular typical London bar playing havoc with the acoustics.  Of course, the people were to blame.  Only 4 groups and an exuberant barman, but you know how it is early Friday evening, everyone turns their voice level up to 11 for no apparent reason apart from perhaps 'weekend exuberance?'  And you know how it is, one group raises their voices and laughs, it has a domino effect, and I'm not talking Fats Domino either, god bless his soul.  Another thing I'd noticed since my foray into South West London was how anti-social my lime green rain mac was now viewed.  Acceptable in the Malvern Hills, but looked at like I was offending people's eyes around here!  I should've sat on the back wall ..... remember me telling you how in recent micropubs in Brighouse and Peterborough they've had forest/wood/nature murals on one wall to maximise space, make you feel you are out in the country?  Well here they took it to the next level with a video version, moving pictures of rolling hills, forests, tree close ups, it was rather odd but the old people migrated to this part of the pub, especially an old man in shorts and socks, worn just to compete with me.   But don't get me wrong, this was a really nice pub, top beer (SBS rating B+, chosen because it had a deer on the pump clip), good service, and ok yes I had to get the emergency beer mat out, and some students tried to be cool,   but as London pubs go, it was worth the Fri evening clamour.  

Beer, look I could've had one from Stalybridge to impress Quosh!

Boisterous men and barman laughing at stuff loudly

Old man takes heat off my lime green raincoat

Students who can't quite just sit still and enjoy a relaxing drink

As the sun disappeared over what was probably Richmond Hill (despite being chilly and nearly pitch black, loads of couples sat on benches opposite the pub overlooking nothing eating pots of pasta, kissing, or in one case, trying to unfasten tricky zips - I didn't stay to find out what it was all about!)

My camera was luckily pointing the other way across the road, where pub two of the night loomed in sinister fashion ......

1123 / 1869.  Roebuck, Richmond

The overwhelming female-male ratio was the first thing I noticed in this grand but homely pub, it's still so rare that I feel rather outnumbered and took solace in the fact that one of the only other males, an old man with saggy cheeks, was at the bar eagerly ordering a pint of Greene King IPA like it was the first time he'd witnessed such a 'delight'.  We were both served by a statuesque Irish girl, imagine if Robbie Coltrane slipped on his Hagrid outfit one last time, and had a lovechild with Andrea Corr, this would be the result.  If I'd expected this pub to be slightly foody middle class dining boredom, I was very wrong as I wandered around the back of the pub and I found a totally empty area, as pubby as you could imagine.  But I wasn't cut off from the pub, oh no, a crazy group of middle aged prosecco drinkers saw to that!  They were like something from a Martin Taylor pub nightmares scene, the loudest one (quite an achievement amongst these five) commented "my son actually calls me Prosecco Gob!" as a friend poured her another glass, which then led her having to explain the word 'gob' to someone who'd never heard of the word!  Female power ballads like Mariah and Whitney blared out of the speakers, reminding me I was in some psycho-fanny apocalyptic vision.  The woman was at it again, telling them her son (he of Prosecco gob fame presumably) "is probably half German, we may as well stick him in the England football team!"  Not to be outdone, her friend told them about the 'Night Manager' at her place of employment.  "He fought in Papua New Guinea against the Japanese, now he hates anyone from Japan, he's brilliant!"  This group were the BRAPA gift that kept on giving, but I had to go, but not before a blind (not really) German tourist tried to intimidate me, and Andrea Coltrane congratulated her chequered shirted blonde colleague for catching a falling plate.

My view of the pubby part of the pub, I couldn't quite see the prosecco ladies.

The blind German tourist bonds with me over bright raincoats in SW London.

It was an even longer walk through Richmond, back to the centre, and just the other side of the station across about 4 busy roads to get to the next pub.  It felt like an effort, would it be worth it?  I was feeling pretty good about the world, last two pubs had been good, and Richmond on a Friday night had a real happy friendly feel to it, "I could live 'ere" as Dad might say .....

Trying not to get run over

Phew, finally made it across!

1124 / 1870.  Hope, Richmond

So it's obviously busy, the staff seem pretty clueless, especially a wide-eyed Spanish waiter who seems to have ended up behind the bar.  So I manage to use "all my experience" to muscle in between two wet farts, make eye contact, and I'm in!  Pretty sure it was my turn, or "I just wanted it more!"  Anyway, to my left, a bald ginger moaner (they are always bald and ginger, think Gary Megson but less cuntly) tells our Spanish waiter he believes he was next, and is winked at and told "you must be quicker next time mate!" which annoyed me, because bald ginger wasn't even looking at the bar, he was mooning over a blonde girl with nice legs and slutty shoes, like the other blokes in her gang, and the term "Girl with Legs Gang" was born.  I sat down, found my ale a little too chilled n boring (SBS C) and glared at the gang, taking the odd pic - for the blog narrative, not to be a pervert, you must understand(!)  And then Spanish waiter (who now thinks wearing a back to front baseball cap will make him look more business-like) comes along and tells me I'll have to move in 15 minutes cos a live band are setting up in this corner.  Girl with Legs Gang go outside to smoke.  I tell Spanish waiter, "ok, I'll move now" but he says "non non non, not yet, you've got 15 mins" but I've only drunk about 2 sips of my pint and I'll be buggered if I'm going to be pushed out in front of Girl with Legs Gang, so I 'jump' instead, and sit across the other side of the bar.  So now, I hate the band almost as much as I hate the Girl with Legs gang.  I'm determined to stay here until they start, so I can walk out midway through their first song.  It takes them 25 mins to get going, more tuning up than Metallica at Donington, I've been seriously nursing my pint.  The backing band turned up with a twog with a better haircut than any of them, and the main girl was like a shit Adele with a limp.  Then a bearded bloke sang the first song anyway, and Girl with Legs foot tapped with her slutty heels whilst the bald ginger smiled at her longingly and wondered why he'd lost his place at the bar again.  I walk out midway through the first song.  Hope?  I'd call it Hopeless.

My pint and a background view of Girl with Legs Gang

Girl with Legs, two of the gang, and the Spanish waiter

At the other side of the bar

A woman with trousers I approve of watches the band

I couldn't visit another pub after this, my faith in pubs had been destroyed for one night and although I still needed one more to get my "six quota" I was aiming for, it was 9pm, I was cold, I had 5 episodes of Neighbours and 2 Podcasts to catch up on before I went to sleep, as I was meeting some Neighbours fans tomorrow as part of my BRAPA day, so for now, it was back to Hounslow to recuperate.

But on reflection, I wasn't expecting to do any pubs on Friday two days previously, so rather than see it as one lost, perhaps it was "five gained".

I'll write about my Saturday trip this Friday (I'm out with friends tomorrow), so look out for it as it features BRAPA anecdote of the year so far!

Si

BRAPA - Worcestershire Force

It was morning on day three of the holiday, with Dad still determined that we could get up onto the Malverns from our cottage.  Problem was, it was a foggy morning and although we finally did get high up, the promised 'breathtaking' views in the guide book just didn't materialise.  Atmospheric though .....

Me looking sad

...and to your left, you can see amazing views of ... oh hang on!

Our cottage just about visible in the distance

After consoling ourselves with mushroom soup and an afternoon's relaxing, the question on everyone's lips was "which pubs are we ticking off before tea time?"  Or was that just me?

After about a twenty minute car journey, we arrived in my first Worcestershire pub tick since 2007 .....

1116 / 1862.  The Marlbank, Welland

Here's a tip for you - never read a GBG entry before visiting a pub, you'll only be disappointed.  The description here made it sound like some Happy Harvester with a kiddies play area when in truth, despite the roadside location and the fact it was quite a large building, it was a homely as they come.  Basic too, and the now typical holiday combo of a humourous old landlord and an even more amusing local (Eric, the most popular man in the pub) greeted us, with a quick fire Q&A session which I had to be on my toes to field.  "What beer style do ya like?"  "Do ya want a straight glass or handled mug?"  "Did you know I don't drink and I don't smoke .... I used to chase all the girls, but now they can just walk away from me?"  Well, me and Mum chuckled but Dad had already started eyeing up a piece of furniture he seemed determined to shove in the boot of the car when no-one was looking.  We'd timed our arrival well, it soon filled up.  Most notable was an emotional woman, who acted like she'd been abroad for a year, going around the whole pub (apart from us) hugging everyone at random, tears almost in her eyes when she pounced on poor Eric.  From what i gathered, she'd been away for two whole weeks.  We sat in a cubby hole to the right of the bar, I thoroughly enjoyed my Battledown Original as much as any ale this holiday (Simey Beer Score - B+), and Mum came up with a great idea to make GBG cross ticking easier - get a stamp made up so I can just go "bang, bang. bang!"  Bye bye green highlighter, well at least for those tricky two weeks in early September.  And then use the highlighter for THAT year's ticks.  It's all in the detail.  Great pub.

Beers and the back of another lovely landlord

Eric and some other locals

Emotional woman leans in for the kill on a fragile older dear.

Our second pub was back down the road we came from, and just off into a little village not at all far from where we were staying.  It didn't open til 6pm because it was obviously trying to prove it had micropub credentials (I'm joking) so we lurked in the carpark til exactly 6 with a vintage fire engine providing the entertainment.  The pub looked promising too:

1117 / 1863.  Farmers Arms, Birtsmorton

Once open, an ancient wheezing landlord who walked at 0.01 mph smiled at us with all the effort he could muster and pulled us some standard Hook Norton ale (SBS B) and we went to sit on the left of this absolutely incredible low roofed timber beamed inglenooked fireplaced pub, which felt every bit as old as it's supposed 1480 date.  At 6:02pm, a man who looked almost as old as the landlord came in, looked very hurt at our presence (it was the first time since 1975 he hadn't been the first customer in) and tried to order a pint of Hooky but no words escaped from his lips such was his shock.  We sat to the left, Dad hit his head on a bell, which was actually protecting him from hitting it on the wooden beams, me and Mum laughed cos we are cruel, the landlord chuckled in a "everyone has done that since 1st Jan 1480 but it's still totes LOLZ babe" kinda way.  I am sure that is what he was thinking.   I didn't make any notes, just sat contently loving the place and it actually wasn't far off my imagining of the perfect pub.  For those who think rural pubs need restaurants, fine dining, twildren and twogs etc. to bring them "up to date for the 21st century", they need locking in here for a session.  Quality speaks for itself, and in a week of high class pubs, this was perhaps the best example.

If the weather had seemed miserable on day three, then we should've been careful what we wished for on day 4 as it absolutely bucketed down ALL DAY.  Walking on top of the Malverns suddenly didn't seem like such a great idea, so instead we went to the town of Malvern itself for a "town walk", which involved a lovely church but then a walk up 99 steps to find a 'wellspring of death' (or something) which didn't actually seem to exist!  My phone still has water in it now, and was a bit of a low point of the holiday.  I wasn't fussed re Malvern pubs as the place has a railway/train station.  But I did have a couple of 'harder to reach' ones in mind.  Things soon looked up:

Drenched but saviour is at hand.

1118 / 1864.  Wyche Inn, Upper Wyche

Whilst Dad went to park the car in this hilly misty little part of the Malverns, me and Mum trudged inside, past a couple of pool tables (which obviously stands for quality in Worcs) where a young dude who reminded me of an angelic Johnny Rotten served me a pint of something Cotleigh (SBS B-) and two tiny cups of coffee for the parents with a complimentary mint (which we'll come back to).  I spied a witch near the pool tables, so had a photo opportunity despite my soggy demeanour.  The pub even had Robinson's cider on, though possibly not from Stockport though with ales from Tring and Devon, who knows?  Even a session under the hand dryers couldn't dry me off, so it says something for the no frills supremely relaxed atmosphere about this pub that it was perhaps my second favourite of the holiday after Birtsmorton.  Yes, we were obviously tourists, but none of the North Yorkshire toffee nosed snooty attitude, simple and friendly.  It had signs like "sod the dog, beware of the Stafford Rangers fan", something you just don't see in every pub!  Dad dropped the remaining 1/100th of his mint on the floor, and then spent the next 5 minutes under the table searching for it.  Had he not been properly fed this holiday?  Still, laughing at Dad in a pub was becoming a fun theme for me and Mum.  Two men walked in with a wet dog, friendly in a theatrical way with their "weather" based humour.  I had to drink up and leave, otherwise they'd have boxed us in for an afternoon long chat.  Nice though.  The dog smelt horrid enough to make it the first twog of the week even if it was cute.  On the way out, we dodge two threatening oiks playing pool, but they were actually friendly too, if that was Donny, I'd have been speared with a cue.

Mudgie Cider.

Pool tables equal classy pubs

Proper locals, proper broomstick

I've pulled!

Later that evening, we set out in search of my final "must do" pub, the Alma Inn in Linton cos it has no bus or train symbol in the GBG, signifying it's difficulty to get to.  However, a road closure put paid to our plans.  Dad, somewhat unfairly, seemed to blame the pub - "it'll be out of the Guide next year, you mark my words, and gud bluddy riddance to it!"  

I had to think on my feet and with the heritage pub called Three Kings not due to open for another 45 mins, I took us back towards Malvern ......

It was dark, wet and visibility was poor, I almost felt guilty, but that sense of anticipation I always get before a rural BRAPA bonus outweighed any negative emotions .....

View from the garden, not taken in the best conditions

Dad poses as the Grim Reaper

Mum speeding towards the entrance like a woman in need of lemonade

1119 / 1865.  Brewers Arms, West Malvern

Yes, so the view you see in the top photo is actually the "best pub view in England 2005" which makes you wonder what went wrong before the 2006 voting took place.  The pub itself was another surprisingly basic one roomed affair, with a farmhousey feel and though we could see a kitchen and chefs through a window, it didn't feel a foodie enough place to eat, which we had been vaguely thinking about.  The young barman was practically mute, and glared throughout in a "I'm psyching you out, BRAPA" kind of way.   Mum and Dad claimed he was disinterested, but I reckon  there was a lot going on behind those eyes.  He reminded me of the Grange Hill school bully in the mid 80's that they weren't brave enough to cast, probably cos he stole Phil Redmond's dinner money.  The Malvern Hills Ales 'Bertie's Best' was superb (SBS B+) though not before Mum had shown her pubby inexperience by sitting on the far side near a loud 'baby' gang when there was a perfectly good seat by the fire, albeit 'twixt scary barman and even scarier local, perhaps the most Worcestershire pub man ever, who fell asleep, and then finally left.  The 'baby' was upgraded to 'Twaby' status after some intense howling, but I was about to praise the thoroughly irritating Mum on 'walking it around the pub' to try and calm it down, but all she was actually doing was Skyping her friend with twaby in the other hand.  "Bad pub etiquette, that's what it is!" I raged to Mum and Dad, and for a second, the Grange Hill bully looked up, almost in admiration of my rant, but then remembered he hated me.  Time to leave as it felt like we could get stranded here overnight, and that would be scary!  Great pub nonetheless.  

The back of the school bully and a wonderful pint

Owl cushions were a plus point

#PubMan

Mum counts her winnings as the twaby as background man says "no, don't give me the twaby!"

It was back 'home' for tea and an episode of Hamish MacBeth as I'd stupidly only brought one disc of Monarch of the Glen, but with Friday approaching, I had my mind on BRAPA friendly plan for the final day of the holiday ...... 

I'll write about THAT tomorrow.

Good night all.

Si

BRAPA - I'm Only Here(fordshire) for the Beer

Mum and Dad made their annual mistake of inviting their son on holiday with them, which must have become clear a week before when he (that is I, Si) presented them with the following "demand" map:

Artwork at its finest I'm sure you'll agree

I didn't expect to get all 13 complete, but two or three a day was my not unreasonable aim, though with Mother BRAPA's ankle now recovered, she was keeping a watchful eye on proceedings, so it was always a tricky subject and I had to get out of "BRAPA holiday" mentality and into "walking holiday healthy health walking free hit" mentality.  It was only fair.

Day 1 was notable for the journey, as the remnants of Hurricane Ophelia swept into the west of England, and the sky above Hopwood Park Services was orange as a result of Saharan dust, so they reckoned at the Met Office but who can trust a weatherman? 

Being a BRAPA legend, Dad had a pub plan in place before we even got to our accommodation, thinly disguised as a walk between two churches, in places called Edvin Loach and Edwyn Ralph (no I'm not making this up).

Edwyn Ralph

Preaching a BRAPA sermon 

On the ruins of Edvin Loach, like a diva.

The wind was getting up, so we headed south to Bishops Frome, one of my "three key pubs" so chosen because there is no bus sign or train sign in the Good Beer Guide (others were at Chance's Pitch and Linton).  The car park was across the road from the pub just to give us that extra sense of effort made to get there.

That is NOT the pub in the background, that'd be too easy

Me and Mum standing strong against the wind

Dad at the entrance looking happiest he had all day!

1112 / 1858.  Green Dragon, Bishops Frome

On arrival, the first thing you saw was a huge roaring fire to the right just across from the bar,  16th century apparently with a 'witches cross' (to stop them coming down the chimney), though a more skeptical person might suggest it was etched on in 2005 by an enthusiastic Spurs fan.  We were greeted by friendly young barman and a local barfly, both of whom were amazed when I said "right Mum and Dad, it's my round!"  They must have heard about my reputation.  (Not really, I'm tres generous usually if I remember!).  The 'local' bloke had a London accent and revealed he was from Tottenham, he was a gardener his t-shirt said, and like all good #pubmen, was interested in BRAPA and made some good comments including criticising local CAMRA for recently taking this pub out of the GBG to "give another pub a chance".  "It will make people think this pub has done something wrong, deteriorated in some way" he said, and I agreed.  Once in the GBG, you should stay in unless you go downhill, get taken over, etc.  Sounds to me like Herefordshire needs some of London's overly generous pub allocation.  The pub was as traditional and cosy as I'd hoped from a rural Herefordshire pub in my mind's eye, stone flagged floors, rooms through to the left and right, with the bar the cosy centrepiece though sitting by the door near the fire in these winds meant cold legs, hot middle, cold neck!   I remember thinking if we get to a better pub all week, we'd be doing very well.

Top pubbing

Arm of a gardener from Tottenham and vague witches cross

Day 2 was Tuesday, dawning surprisingly sunny (little did we know it'd be the last time we'd see sun this week, and probably this year).  Our cottage was so remote, my bedroom backed onto this huge wood and all night, owls went hoot hoot screech screech.  I could go off my favourite creature.

We were at the foot of the Malvern Hills, right on the border with Worcestershire so Dad & Mum had this bee in their bonnet about being able to walk onto the hills from our front door.   The plan was to walk on the right hand side of the wood, but we got sucked further and further in - bad news as the wood was also part of the 'Land Rover Experience' where rich men with small willies pay thousands of pounds to drive Land Rovers around dirt tracks with huge man made puddles, which made our walk treacherous.  Hope I phrased that ok!

On the plus side, I started to see what was happening here and before Mum could realise, we'd snaked further and further north west around the wood and by 'chance', a GBG pub appeared at the other side!  Oh, and it was lunchtime.  What a coincidence.  

"Well, we may as well go in now we are here!"

1113 / 1859.  Wellington Inn, Chance's Pitch

Again, we walked into a very traditional bar area, and were greeted by another wonderful barman, he had bryl creamed hair and looked like he stepped out of the 1930's, even more so when he said the ale hadn't been pulled through yet so he siphoned it into a jug and brought it to the bar where he poured it into pint glasses in front of us.  I wondered if it was all for show, but it was again the Herefordshire I had imagined.  We were eating, unusual for BRAPA, but not in these circs, but were a bit surprised when he said we couldn't eat in the bar area and had to go down into the carpetted comfy, but modernised left hand side.  At first, I was annoyed by this, but as Mum rightly pointed out, if this was normal BRAPA and I'd just been drinking, I'd have been delighted that they were keeping the bar as a 'drinkers only area'.  I mustn't be a hypocrite.  Even though we ordered sandwiches, portions were huge and they were like door stops, no doubting the quality but how much coleslaw and rocket leaves does one man need on his plate?  Don't answer that.  This is a pub adventure.  I'm not Keith Floyd.  Ok, that was a bad example.  Anyway, we then fell out over drinking strategy which meant 10 minutes of awkward silence, but good BRAPA-wise as we could observe the coffin dodgers around us.  Two posh women, one telling her life story to a bored one .... "you're a great listener!" (she wasn't listening).  And a characterful group behind us, doing that rural community thing of dangerously trying to have opinions on current affairs.  "But John, you are not an immigrant!" exclaimed one hyperactive posho, as John tried to put himself in an immigrants shoes, if the immigrant was an 80 year old farmer who thought a shopping trip to Ledbury was "going into the city". 

Mum, before we got moved.

Me trying to get comfy at the bar.

Beer, not in the pumps.

The walk back to our cottage was the most painstaking part of the holiday, but by evening, me and Dad were raring to go for a pubby car trip.  Mum decided to stay behind and recover from the walk.

Our first pub was on the main road, we'd actually driven past it yesterday on the way here, just the otherside of the Ledbury metropolis.  

Dad looks like a man who can smell apples.

1114 / 1860.  Oak Inn, Staplow

We wandered in through a porch which smelt distinctively of apples.  You couldn't see any, perhaps they were brewing their own cider out the back like that pub in Warwick, we were in the right part of the world for it.  Now, as the old BRAPA adage goes, there's nothing sadder than a shut pub, and although this wasn't shut, there's a new BRAPA adage which goes "the second saddest thing is a P.I.S.S. barmaid, especially when she's a brunette".  But seriously, she gave us absolutely nothing ... NOTHING.  She looked almost terrified.  Dad even tried to make a joke of counting his change in the failing light but absolutely nothing, until we left, I returned the glasses, she said thanks,  and I saw her cackling with two Eastern European ghoulish women who were either having casual job interviews of were brewing a potion with rotting apples and eyes of newts.  Such a shame.  And I say all this cos there isn't much to say about the pub, it was comfy, felt old, warm enough, sat on very low slung settees, but it lacked the charm of the others this holiday.  The weakest.  Beer was pretty lame too (Ledbury Gold, Simey Beer Score C minus), perhaps even a tad on the turn.  Two local men roused themselves into loud chatter, the ringleader boasted about his days drinking with Tolkein and CS Lewis in Oxford at the same time, Dick Turpin probably popped in for half a Cloudwater DIPA V.7.1 too.  He then started talking about York Minster "ooh, they may charge to get in these days!" he said.  "Correct" whispered Dad.  Time to leave.

Dad's expression says it all

The corner where we sat

Turning camera away from barmaid so she didn't call police

We drove a bit further east again, took a turning, and went down this impossible country lane.  At the other end, we were surprised to see not just a large pub, but a huge community, who'd have thunk it?  And how busses get down here, I'll never know but apparently, there is one cos the GBG says and obviously it never lies. 

I'm there somewhere!

  

1115 / 1861.  Farmers Arms, Wellington Heath

 
So quite a large echoey pub, first thing I noticed really and this was partly because of a game of pool going on to the right hand side of the pub, it sounded like walking into a snooker hall.  Now I don't know about the UK as a whole, but in York, I find that pubs with pool tables are usually the rubbish ones with bad or no beer - a shame cos I like a good game of pool, but time and time again in this Malverny part of the country, I saw pool tables in some of the nicest pubs which was reassuring. The welcome we got from the young bar lad was the perfect tonic after Missy PISSY, and his young trainee wide eyed honest faced girl hovered in the background, they actually looked like they were pleased we'd found their pub.  And after a bit of 'helpful' beer chatter, which you tend to get whether you like or not in pubs that maybe have a slight dining 'leaning', we felt better about the world.  We did spill our drinks everywhere though, total lack of head, not that I'd EVER encourage a northerner to take a sparkler down south.  'When in Rome' and all that.  Beer quality was superb btw.  And despite it having a slightly airy dining feel, building itself was old and classy enough that you grew into it as time went on.  On the way back from the loo, one of the pool players did perhaps the worst impression of a Dyson Airblade you could ever imagine (sounded more like one of the owls outside my bedroom window), but this was a nicer pub than first impressions may suggest.

Fish and (just the one) chip nights.

We retired to our cottage for a bit more Monarch of the Glen DVD and Ploughman's supper, we know how to live, but what treats would await us on day's three and four in the world of Hereford & Worcs pubs?  

Tune in tomorrow similar time (hopefully earlier) to find out!

Si