BRAPA - Conquering Cornwall Part 6 : Trevaunance Traumas

Redruth is a particularly scuzzy place for a county as delightful as Cornwall isn't it?  My second time here, both times waiting for a bus to take me elsewhere, both times inhaling vape smoke from an intimidating selection of tribally tattooed denim shorted hooped earinged blingy vajazzled (probably) mofos (whatever they are). 

More people watch Love Island than Poldark in Redruth.  Fewer drink cask ale here than in any other part of Cornwall.  These are BRAPA facts.

My bus, when it finally arrived (everyone else went to Truro like it was some amazing vision of the future), was a rusty minibus with an engine of a lawnmower, driven by a slightly insane happy hippie dude, very much like the school bus driver on the Simpsons.

A weird lady started talking to me.  She was trying to be friendly but there was no 'clickage' and I couldn't wait to escape her clutches.  I was thrown off at a stop called 'Peterville' and walked downhill towards the sea, where St Agnes became a place called Trevaunance Cove.

It all sounded deliciously Scooby Doo, as the pub came quickly into view.  #RhymingWithSimon

The pub wasn't open on time, so I tutted and went to look at the cliffs, sea, and a second hand book collection of dubious nature:

After buying my copy of 'Sticky Fingers' (it's what the cliff fund would want .... I didn't really), I turned around to see a robotic looking woman opening the pub and mechanically faffing with a blackboard, so I breathed huskily and glided my way inside (sorry, that book is getting to me).

Amusing blackboard = warning signs for quality of pub

1393 / 2139.  Driftwood Spars, Trevaunance Cove

Taking the pub on face value, and not thinking too hard, this was a gorgeous little place.  Decorated in that nautical style, obviously old, it was a pubby pub no doubt and evoked memories of other Cornish classics like the Star in St Just and Five Pilchards in Porthallow.  Yet, this part of Cornwall was obviously a bit of a tourist hot spot, and its attempts to cater for this crowd (it is also big on live music) meant it lacked something of that rugged Cornish edge which separates the 'good' from the 'brilliant'.  Our barmaid 'Sarahbot 2.0' was now behind the bar (I was the first customer of the day) offered me a range of locals beers which she proudly told me 'were brewed in that little building just across the road'.  That dirty looking shed I'd seen earlier?  Tasted like it too, flat, warm, and the most expensive pint of my holiday by a country mile.  Served in an awful straight vase of a glass.  To make things worse, I'd inadvertently handed over an old £1 coin and it was rejected.  "It happens" said Sarbot.  Yeh, it happens in isolated dead & alive holes like this, I thought, and turned around to glare at a judgey local fisherman type in oilskins who I was convinced had sat behind me and was enjoying this whole incident.  But when I turned around, NO ONE WAS THERE.  What's worse than a pub ghost?  A judgey Cornish pub ghost.  As I 'admired' the pubs attempts at quirky humour "Keep your pet rock on a lead", "Soup of the day ... Tequila", a few more barmaids appeared, all variations of Sarbot.  Such a funny bunch, friendly on the most basic of levels, programmed to chat with tourist family groups, but if you go 'off topic', they look uncomfortable like they are about to short circuit.  I'm sure they make them out of scrap metal in the shed out the back.  She tried to palm off some local 'Real Ale Guide' onto an obnoxious cockney family man, but he declined the offer on the basis that his pub gets a Canal Towpath magazine which he puts straight in the fire.  Twat.   I still had an hour til my 2 hourly bus, so I went up for another pint.  "Beep beep beep, how did you get on with that first pint?" asked Sarbot after a quick reboot, with a miserable local barfly looking on.  I had to lie, it'd been average at best.  So I deliberately, for comedy value, read straight off the pump clip "errrm, it had a light, herbal and fruity taste!"  But Sarbot wasn't laughing.  And neither was Mr Moodychops.  AWKWARD.  I returned, disconsolately, to my haunted corner, with a darker brown variation of the same filth.  Sarbot was bonding with a new cockney family who'd come in for lunch.  The Grandma character didn't trust contactless payment so entered her PIN.  "Ohhh good for you!" gushed Sarbot. Ugh.  'How about paying by cash ya dickheads?', I thought, but then remembered my fake quid coin incident.  In conclusion, I think you'd enjoy this pub more than me, and I'm being a bit harsh, it's just I was cursed by a dead fisherman.  

"Light herbal and fruity" but no one is laughing

Ghost didn't show up on camera (he's sat to the right anyway)

Cockney families get more love than me here.

Back at the bus stop in St Agnes, our old mate from The Simpsons remembered me and I gave him strict instructions to drop me off at pub number two.  Of course, I told him what it was, I didn't just say "drop me off at pub number two".  That'd be silly.  It was on a main road looking rather isolated.

1394 / 2140.  Victory Inn, Towan Cross

'Ah, this is more like it', I thought as I went inside, unpretentious comfortable almost estate style pub with teenagers with braces (on their teeth and obviously not 18!) playing pool at the front, a smiling if slightly manic couple at the bar, and a German barmaid who put the 'bots of Trevaunance to shame with her open friendly demeanour from the get go.  I'd barely sat down with my pint when the excitable bar bloke starts pointing in the general direction I'm sat in and asks the pool playing kids if there used to be a piranha in a tank where the model ship is, just behind my head?  No one knew, and his female colleague/friend looked embarrassed by this random piranha outburst and rolled her eyes.  "Everyone used to feed it crisps and it got overweight!" he roared with laughter.  After an awkward silence, he added "we are from Hertfordshire and we do house clearances" , as though that'd excuse his odd behaviour.  They left shortly after.  I got chatting with the German barmaid, she even gave me the 'real ale guide' that they were slagging off in the last pub, and about ten back copies (very much the Tim Thomas of Cornwall), but there was an increasingly large elephant in the room, and he tasted of vinegar!  Problem was, I'd drank so much before I realised how awful it'd become, and we were chatting so well, it took me an eternity to mention it.  She admitted it seemed to be 'on the turn' and to give the pub the benefit of the doubt, I had a half of another beer.  Utterly dreadful.  "Is that one better?" she asked hopefully.  I lied and said it was better, wrong I know but all a bit awkward.  I simply figured 'there's no hope for some places' left half my half, and went on my way.  

A fat piranha once woz 'ere

Hertfordshire house clearance fun

Sorry Bram, but I'm taking my happiness with me

Such a shame as this pub was so likeable, yet beer quality like this is truly unforgivable and if this pub appears in 2019 GBG, then there's something wrong.  Luckily, it isn't a regular though 6 appearances since its 2011 debut isn't at all bad.  I'd been warned about Cornish beer quality, but I must admit, up until this morning, I'd not had any real problems. 

Let's see what my 3 'pre-emptives' could throw up later that afternoon .......

Si

BRAPA - Conquering Cornwall Part 5 : The Streets are Alive with the Sound of St Ives

My hopes for this blog title was that it'd sound like a punk rock album, but I've managed to only to achieve Julie Andrews levels of punk rockery (got some of that in my garden).

Anyway, just to re-cap, I was halfway through day three of the second year of my Cornish holiday.  St Ives was lovely, but the Wetherspoons had failed to enthral me as the Tinners Arms at Zennor had.  As for the Gurnard's Head, hard to judge, not being a pub and all.

It was onwards and down a narrow street to the bottom end of town, where the other GBG pub lay.  I had to wait patiently until passing by tourists (no doubt Germans) cleared to allow a decent external shot:

1392 / 2138.  Castle Inn, St Ives

I might be the first person to compare St Ives to Doncaster, but have you ever been in Donny with all the disgraceful toothless chavs, deadheads, scroats and thugs in the street outside, and then you enter the Little Plough and the atmosphere just changes like switching a light on?  Well, this was like a less intense version of that.  Very much a locals pub like the 'Spoons, with the odd visitor wandering in randomly to this dimly lit, stained glass old fashioned joyful pub, not a million times removed from the Tinners Arms.  I was greeted by a few gurning barflies, and barmaid Louella , with her nose piercing and dungarees, a brunette of award winning qualities.  I tried to make myself 0.01% more attractive to her by saying I didn't much care for the try before you buy policy, and would rather dive straight in!  Hmmm, got a decent reaction. "Besides" she admitted "I don't know where any of these beers are from anyway, apart from THIS one, from St Ives" she said, indicating a beer with a huge pump clip that said St Ives Ale brewed in St Ives using St Ives recipes and a St Ives ethos.  Or similar.  How did she know?  It was slightly above average quality.  Music seemed to be main focus of this pub, and it seemed Louella was a musician.  I knew this because on four separate occasions, she started a sentence with "I'm a musician but ....." and she joined the old locals in some 70's prog rock meandering guitar singalongs.  Bizarre but amusing, they all sounded like cats being strangled.  She was bemoaning the fact she couldn't grasp "Boots of Spanish Leather" on guitar, and I'm assuming she means the superior Tony Duggins cover rather than the Dylan borefest.  Sorry Southworths.  I enquired on a pre-emptive I'd heard about called the Pilchard Press.  Louella told me it was "quaint", a bloke said "I'll see you there" and someone else said "doesn't open til 4 so you may as well 'av another 'ere arrrrrr" so I did, and it was better quality.  Really good pub this one.

So I stepped hesitantly towards where I thought the Pilchard Press might be on the seafront, and eventually found an unlikely narrow opening which seemed to lead to it, as you might expect from any given micropub.

Pub frontage of the year? 

"Like pubs used to be" (in Kent in 2011)

Pilchard Press Alehouse, St Ives

As pre-emptives go, this HAS to be a good one.  Not just because CAMRA insist on putting every single micropub in the GBG regardless of whether it's a chilly undecorated tiny square white room full of weirdos, a dog, a kettle and some lame microbrews you've never heard of, but because in the case of this place at least, it was rather wonderful.  It all started as I was having the usual 'phone troubles' that blighted me throughout my two week holiday, so was lurking in the above bin area waiting for my phone to unfreeze so I could take the above photos you see now.  A man appears from the pub, seems to automatically know I'm a first time visitor (cos he is there the entire time), grabs me by the shoulder, and leads me into the pub, giving me a running commentary and introducing me to barmaid and mates, telling them all about BRAPA, which I must've mentioned on the way.  Well, what a glorious place, dark atmospheric, mural of the town Bayeux Tapestry-esque, plenty of micropub hallmarks, but a bit beyond that.  So genuinely friendly and easy to chat and laugh without anything feeling forced or unnatural.  Like they tell you micropubs are supposed to be but rarely are.   Beer fantastic too, and actually nice to see ales that for once weren't Sharps, St Austell or Skinners.  This guy was almost too good to be true, must've worked for Hillier Enterprises Plc or something.  I saw the guy from the Castle Inn sat in the corner and shouted "IT'S THE GUY FROM THE CASTLE!" and waved madly at him.  He nodded.   I'd either had too much ale or was simply euphoric.  All was going swimmingly til I innocently asked "So, is this the only micropub in Cornwall then?"  Well, a thoughtful hush descended on the pub, one bloke ran to get a book from the bookcase, the barmaid scratted around in the till, and an Australian who'd been lurking menacingly behind us slumped over a nearby beer barrel and made a strange noise.  After much debate, the conclusion was "Redruth had one for about two minutes", "The Liskeard one is actually in Merseyside"  So it seemed perhaps it really was.  And now I'd killed the jovial atmosphere, it was time to run for the bus. 

The scene so typically micro

"IT'S THE GUY FROM THE CASTLE!" (now all point and stare)

And that was that!  bad news was I can't remember the bus ride back to Loggans Moor, but the good news was, I'd had quite a steady day (was back early) and when I looked at my GBG map, I really didn't have too much left to do in my remaining day and a half.   But what weirdness would Thursday hold?  Plenty. Stay tuned.

Si

BRAPA - Conquering Cornwall Part 4 : Feeling Well Chouged

After the traumas of Tuesday, where I walked the Lizard peninsula and beyond, dabbled in some Spingo Special, and paid a fortune in taxis, I needed a 'steadier' Wednesday, and was feeling surprisingly fresh as I took the bus to St Ives at 10am but maybe that's the Premier Inn mattresses for you.

The rumours were true, St Ives is a gorgeous little tourist hole.  Narrow streets and steep hills make it less than ideal for the pub ticker on a mission, it is far more suited to the aimless gawping wanderer, and despite being on the pavement, a car wing mirror hit me in the hand leaving a bruise!  When I looked up to shake an angry fist at the driver, I noticed the wing mirror was already damaged and taped up, and the registration number was German.  Make of that what you will. 

This wasn't a good start, and no time to appreciate views like this ......

 .... because a bussplainer was in my ear telling me I was stood in the wrong place for the Lands End bus and had missed it!  Noooooo.  I ran around the corner and luckily a queue of confused Germans was holding up the bus, so I just had chance to jump on.  German retribution.  Ich liebe dich meine kleine lieblings. 

We headed into the beautiful yet desolate moorlands for my most western GBG Cornwall tick unless you count the Isles of Scilly (which I'm not, yet) and having seen a picture of it in a book, I could see it on the horizon from miles away.  Meanwhile, after a stirring rendition of 99 Red Balloons (ok, that was just me trying to fit in), the Germans all hopped off at Zennor hoping to see a Mermaid with hairy armpits, probably.

My stop was next, and it wasn't 11am but I was ready for a pint.  Hmmm, taking it 'steady' did I say?

1389 / 2135.  Gurnard's Head Hotel, Treen

Quite spectacular isn't it?  Well, from the outside, certainly.  But when I saw the 'Eat Drink Sleep' logo, I realised it was part of the same chain as the less than convincing Coastguard in Mousehole.  And my fears were confirmed when I realised I'd walked into a restaurant, albeit one with excellent staff and above average beer quality, even if my early ale order and exact change did cause the odd look of bewilderment.  Now I wanted to sit inside, get a feel for the place, but apart from a tiny central room which wasn't much more than a glorified walkway, and no comfy seat, I sat at the picnic bench at the front of the pub you can see in the above photo, but not before being an idiot pub tourist and getting in the way of waitresses with my photo taking and bumbling apologies.  Oh well, with the sun baking down, the stray Germans who hadn't gone to Zennor were in the midst of putting walking boots on, looking at maps as birds of prey circled ahead.  People kept clocking me and my pint, and nodded respectfully at me in that "ooh he's got the right idea" (in German) way.  All was calm, serene and life giving until an old man with a wheezy chest parked himself next to me and started drinking fizzy water like the monster he was, two women scooped him up like a dried up dog poop, and took him to the back of the pub where he couldn't do any more damage to my sensibilities.  An excitable man who'd gone into the pub for a wee returned to his waiting wife in the car and exclaimed "there's books in there with secret pictures!"  No idea what he meant. 

There was a nice little epilogue to my time in Treen.  I'd been getting increasingly paranoid that the bus times I'd written down were a load of cobblers, and when I saw a man stood up on a grassy knoll behind me waving his phone in the air trying desperately to get a non existent reception, I asked if he was waiting for a bus.

"No, I'm looking for my photography students but they've gone missing, we're supposed to be photographing Choughs". Cornwall's poster bird!  "Typical students!" he moaned.  Oh, this was BRAPA gold, I thought.  I told him my bus quandry and about BRAPA and how Zennor was my next stop.  "I live in Zennor, and I love that pub!" he replied.

After a moments hesitation, he told me he'd give me a lift down there in the absence of any forthcoming bus.  What a gent.  He thought he might find his students there, or see them on the road.  He dropped me off, and I wished him luck in finding them.

It took me ages to find the entrance to this pub, honestly!  Through a beer garden, skirting around the kitchen, past a toilet, under an archway, turn left, in through this little door.  Phew.

1390 / 2136.  Tinners Arms, Zennor

I wasn't expecting much.  7 GBG appearances in total, and this its first since 2011.  Yet the moment I stepped inside, I knew I'd found an ancient establishment of extreme quality.  Low ceilinged, deliciously dark, bench seating, soothing atmosphere, and I was greeted by a barmaid duo, a cheery young lady and a stony faced Russian with the driest sense of humour in central Zennor.  The former was telling a story, "all my friends had a horse when they were younger but I was never allowed one.  There's a picture of me sitting on a cow with a dress on!"  I blinked in the darkness.  "Sorry for the mental image" she added to me as an aside, which made me ordered the wrong beer, it was fine, ok, average, but not the 5% one they recommended to future customers.  A few colourful characters arrived, more tourist than local but still worth the entrance fee.  "What is the soup of the day?" asked an old couple.  "It is such a surprise, even our chef doesn't know!" But it later transpired it was carrot & cumin, and carrot & coriander yesterday!  If this was the Queen's Head in Newton, it would of course have been "deep red" and "slightly deeper red" which of course, isn't reverse snobbery in any way(!)  A woman then got angry at her hubbie.  They came in for lunch, well she was starving but he just wanted to have a drink then go on a walk.  She ended up storming out.  "SCENES" as the kids say.  I hadn't finished scribbling this down from my judgey dark corner, when an Australian couple arrived at the bar.  This was getting better.  "Can I have a darkish beer with minimum hops?" said the bloke, or Ozmudgeon as he was probably called.  Amazingly, they had one.  "And I just want water cos I've gotta droive these scary roads of yours!" shrieked his wife to the Russian barmaid, who gave her a look of such contempt, it convinced me this was one of the best pubs this holiday.

Feel the quality

At the bus stop, I was glad to see the moody German bloke I'd sat next to on the bus was now waiting to get back to St Ives, and some surprisingly English ladies.  The bus was open topped, so I went upstairs, and it was a brilliant journey back, but when I nearly hopped off too early, I sat next to the English ladies and told them about BRAPA.  They winced when I told them Wetherspoons was next on the agenda, "waaah waaah waahhh why don't you go to the Sloop?" which everyone I've since spoken to about St Ives has said.  My reply "Not in t' GBG mate, not interested!"  But how interesting was a 'Spoons going to be that looked like this?

1391 / 2137.  Hain Line, St Ives

It seemed amazingly small for a Wetherspoons, which I suppose should make it 'cosy' but didn't really as it still had big staircases up to a second bar and toilets, just a bit squashed in really!  A GBG debutant, so presumably recently opened, does St Ives really need a 'Spoons?  York doesn't and has two, both quite useless, so there we go.  This isn't Maltby you know.  Staff were switched on, always good when someone with a 'trainee manager' badge gets behind the bar, puffs out their chest, and helps serve to clear the lunchtime rush, and then looks with disdain at their underlings as if to say "you'll never reach my awesome levels in your 'Spoons career".  Only chain I know where this happens.  High stool posing tables were the order of the day, and I spied a locals corner by a Cornish flag, which the local old blokes seemed to be trying to guard as their own little territory.  I wasn't having this, so I barged past them so I could get a seat out of the way.  It was perhaps the highest high stool I've ever climbed onto, practically nosebleed territory.  Uttterly ridiculous.  With local Peter Beardsley, living Keith Chegwin and a tracksuited slob with the voice of Neil Warnock holding court, I did wonder whether I'd have been safer upstairs with the tourists, but I'd made my bed and had to lie in it! 

It was ok though, for happier St Ives pub experiences were waiting, and I'll tell you about them plus a couple of pre-emptives next time out.

I'm actually not pub ticking tomorrow, a rare Saturday off.  Punishing myself for falling too far behind on my blogs!  Plus I'm all a bit pubbed out after the holiday, a little bit skint, and dare I say it, actually enjoying the World Cup. 

Si

BRAPA - Conquering Cornwall Part 3 - More Tales from the Lizard

It was about a three mile walk from Porthallow to Manaccan, between what must be two of the hardest pubs to get to in the entire Good Beer Guide.  Not enough travel bloggers have done this walk (I'm not saying I'm better than them, but I am), and I was in the bowels of the Lizard just glad I saw a grand total of zero vehicles on these narrow country lanes.

At least Mudgeon farm raised my spirits slightly, as I struggled in the heat.  I didn't linger, I can only imagine what the farmer who resides here would be like! 

A fitting tribute 

Another reason I couldn't linger was the mid afternoon 3pm closing time.  It was getting on for 2pm, and I'd absolutely die there and then if I arrived to find a closed pub.

I arrived at what I believed was Manaccan, but couldn't be sure.  Crossed a river that seemed to be running backwards, and saw an ancient tree growing from an ancient church.  Time stood still, sheep danced in formation, a toothless old woman dragged her brittle frame down the street.  Ever seen the film Labyrinth?  It was a bit like that but without David Bowie being an evil nobhead.  

Eventually I found a lovely thatched building that looked like it could be a pub, so I hovered, and a man with an element of the 'Stunted Jonathan Greening' (not as amazing as 'Sexual Jonathan Greening' from Blackpool, but that is a story for another day) saw me photographing the pub and dragged me inside ......

Finally found front of pub, but only on the way out

1386 / 2132.  New Inn, Manaccan

Yes, SJG2 was a brilliant bloke, I think he'd have dragged me inside even if I'd had no intention of visiting the pub, but why else would a stranger come to Manaccan?  He gave a properly rehearsed almost theatrical spiel of food, pub history, lagers, 'craft' ales and eventually the handpulls, and the barmaid was looking as bewildered as me!  He disappeared as soon as I ordered a cask ale (always the way) so I says to her "he's good innie?" but she just looked 100% focused on the job of pulling my pint, which made sense because she was new and still learning her trade.  To the right, a gaggle of relaxed tanned locals (one with disturbingly tight pink shorts) were having a lazy afternoon pre-closure pint or seven.  SJG2 returned with a query for the masses as I hid in the corner and tried to be invisible ..... but in here, well you'd have more chance of achieving invisibility in a Teesside micropub!  "I've got a mate who wants a boat storing .... undercover ..... it has an engine!" he explained in what suddenly became a very West Yorkshire accent.  SJG2, who was a bit of a live wire, disappeared for the final 20 mins, leaving the barmaid in charge on her own for the first time ever.  She seemed panicky at the prospect, but jeez even I could have a go at running this pub for 20 mins on a Tuesday from 2:40pm-3pm.  The locals ordering 'last orders' drinks helpfully told her what to key into the till, presumably so they could get their pints for free.  "I don't like my nails" she complained, struggling to hit the correct buttons.  "Well, I don't like foreigners but we've all got 'em!" replied a local in one of the quotes of my Cornish holiday (he probably meant anyone not from Manaccan to be fair!)  Meanwhile, I had my own query.  "How far to Gweek?"  Well the barmaid guessed three miles, tight pink shorts said 11, but our foreigner lover got it right with his estimation of 7.  "SEVEN?  UGH" I whined .... "Well, when I'm finally sat in there with my pint of Bass, I'll raise a toast to you all!" I concluded, to which they all actually laughed, even though it made little sense, like so much of Manaccan.

Manaccan locals being brilliant in an other worldly way

SJG2 asks where he can hide a boat in Manaccan

Probably some interesting old local photos, but I don't care cos PEOPLE are where it is at!

And that seven mile walk was the most knackering painful part of the holiday.  At least we could find solace in the 'interesting stat' that with 24 appearances in the GBG, the New Inn was a valuable tick, even though you have to go back to 2006 for it's only other post-Millennium appearance, and 1997 before that ..... sorry am I boring you yet?  

After a couple of wrong turnings, I asked two men chatting over a tractor if I was getting close.  "Arrrrrrr, only 20 minutes from 'ere ..... I might see you in there for a pint ARRRHAHA" said the helpful non-deaf one.  

45 minutes later, I finally found it and braced myself for entry.  But not before a lame jokey photo ....

One for the geeks of Gweek 

It's no New Inn or Five Pilchards or Blue Anchor, let's face it!

1387 / 2133.  Black Swan, Gweek

I half expected to find that farmer propping up the bar asking what took me so long, but just as good was a jolly bloke who noted my absolute state of mental and physical exhaustion.  The Bass was on so I could keep my promise to the New Inn locals, and the reason I was so aware of this was I'd read that nice Ian Thurman's Bass directory and it appealed to me.  Not been a huge fan of Bass until my recent trip to Burton-on-Trent, never found a well kept pint of it in York or L**ds or Hull and had it in a tiny canalside village called Zouch once and it was very limp there, but not a GBG pub.  Even in Dolphin in Plymouth back in the day, never found it that amazing.  But here we were, and it was the BEST YET.  Having said that, in the knackered state I was, even a Greene King IPA would've probably been rated as 'rather refreshing'.  Reason I'm rabbiting on like a beer bore is I had little to say about the pub up to this point, pleasant but a bit boring after the last three.  The barman tried to give my change to a jolly / obnoxious bloke at the bar.  "That's why I stand at the bar and chat to everyone" he confided "because he always gives ME everyone's change!"  Interesting tactic.  I sat behind him but he later turned around to ask how I was enjoying my Bass.  "Really good" I said, to which he replied "Good shout, I told ya!" which he definitely didn't as I'd decided what I was having about 3 days before!  As a bit of Chris De Burgh added to the slightly mediocre atmosphere, a nice relaxing sense of well being at having ticked off some really difficult pubs swept over me, and things improved.  A pinstripe trousered Bill Werbeniuk impressed a lady, two old women argued about who was going to pay for their drinks which felt very Father Ted, there was an angry chat about royal baby names being too German, and one of the pool players did a poo and didn't flush.   A perfect conclusion.

Sad I never got to see Jordan x3 and the 4 dogs

Our change grabbing legend

Enjoying my Bass as locals get angry about royal baby names

There were two schools of thought as to what I should do next ..... cut my losses and go back to my Premier Inn, via Penzance, with Porthleven potential.  Or carry on walking for another 2.5 miles up the road towards Nancenoy for another ridiculously remote pub.  

I went for the latter, after all Bass gives you life (well that's probably what a certain M.Taylor would tell you) and I was feeling refreshed and ready to go, even if time was ticking on by now.  

Down some more winding dark country lanes, a bit more traffic but I simply swatted them away like Cornish flies, and an hour or so later, signs started appearing.  

More road walking

Does this mean the pub is around here somewhere? 

Must be close now, just need to find a building to go inside

And with 27 GBG entries, the Trengilly Wartha Inn is the 7th most commonly appearing pub in West Cornwall GBG history, and in every year since 2009, and there's a stat you didn't need to know.

Of course, for all fans of Cornwall real ale pubs AND Neighbours, it is hard not to confuse the Trengilly Wartha with April Rose-Pengilly, but I'm sure you are all aware of this .....

Not a Neighbours actress

Not a GBG Cornwall pub

1388 / 2134.  Trengilly Wartha Inn, Nancenoy

It's a long way to come for a pint of Black Sheep, I can tell ya, but so amused was I to see it on, it had to be done.  What's the worst type of bar blocker?  Probably one who EATS at the bar.  Bowls of chips perhaps, but it was still presented to this pair like a gourmet classic, and they certainly weren't budging, perhaps they couldn't.  I found a seat easily enough despite the surprising busy hustle and bustle in here, but what I did note were the barstools that the blokes were sat on creaking in worrying fashion.  "Oh please give way!" I pleaded to the pub gods, "this would be karma for bar blockers the world over" but sadly the stools just about held on.  Amazingly, they weren't the most annoying people at the bar, this strange bloke who seemed to become some kind of winesplainer (Sommelier ?) enthusing over different wines, and offering unimpressed locals a sip, and even trying to get the barman to try it, even though he was the one being given the tasters!  Despite the problems, I liked this place.  It had a pubbier darker feel than it had any right to, when you looked at those inhabiting it.  Yet, I couldn't quite relax, and I couldn't blame the folk or my pint of B.S.  It was 'how the heck could I get back to Hayle from here?'  Taxi seemed the only way.  So I went to the bar, elbowed a few wine and chip fans out of the way, and was taken to some 'back stairs' (I think this place is residential too) and presented with a phone from 1974, and at the third time of asking, got through to some bloke in Constantine who said he'd pick me up.  Had I remembered Martin's sister lived nearby, I'd have just kipped on her floor instead.  I went back to the bar for a celebratory pint of Potion No 9, as there was an element of Star, Crowlas about this place.  A well-dressed bloke in braces arrived, I thought "heck, my taxi is here already!" and started necking my pint, but he ordered a drink and chatted to some locals so I forgot about him and went to gingerly play the table football game slightly drunkenly, when braces man reappeared and said "you ready then?" so it was him all along.  A funny end to a bizarre day.  

I vowed to have a cheaper, calmer, more straightforward day on the Wednesday.  Did I?  I can't remember now, but I'll do a blog on it in next few days and it might start coming back to me.

Si