BRAPA and .... Pepsi n' Shirland

I always try and amuse myself where possible during this pain-staking process of trying to visit every pub in the Good Beer Guide.

I took a bottle of Oral-B mouthwash to the village of Thoralby.  I took a Pumice Stone to Penistone (it could've been worse I guess), and tonight, I took a can of Pepsi to Shirland so I could 'do a joke'.

Sadly, tonight's pub was such a 'quirk fest' from start to finish, it didn't occur to me to fish the can of Pepsi from the bottom of my rucksack until I was on the train home.  FAIL!

As usual, I hopped aboard the 16:04 L**ds to Alfreton train and after the usual 90 minutes of agony (a bit like watching Hull City) I arrived a few minutes behind schedule and had to stride out across town to reach the bus station.

And yet again, that blind bugger with his funky white stick just got in front of me and blocked me off at the station exit.  He's doing it deliberately I'm sure, what a BRAPA crapper that man has become!

And JUST like last week, a 'Comet' bus was just departing the moment I arrived at what Alfreton calls a bus station.  Bugger.  But the next one was only 15 minutes away, and Shirland was just a quick 'whizz' up the road.

The fairground was in full swing, it looked high octane stuff .....

This ride was later found in a field on the outskirts of Wirksworth

I decided not to cross the road and take photos of the folk (mainly teenage girls) enjoying the fair, for fear of being arrested and put on one of those registers, so kept my eye firmly on the prize and headed down the road past a toothless family where the pub was inconveniently located off centre.

The two banners scream 'NEARLY PUB' but it was a winner in my eyes

Shoulder of Mutton, Shirland (1689 / 2662) was, for me, the favourite of my six outer Alfreton Friday night pubs, so glad I saved the best til last.  The bloke you see in the above photo gave me a friendly "arite duck" and then about 5 more 'duck' references just as I was getting served.  I ordered the one ale I could see the name of, pronounced it wrong, and as it settled, he said "give us a slurp and I'll top it up!"  It doesn't happen often, and always evokes memories of a scary pint of Guinness in Crediton in 2001.  This was about as perfect a Derbyshire local as you could get, evoking memories of the Shinnon in North Wingfield, as I turned to see crackers, a cheese board, cured meats and homemade chutney all on offer.  And eggs!  I always say boxes of eggs for sale are the sign of a good pub, but this was ridiculous.  It formed a wall between me and the locals, and only the number of teacups hanging from the ceiling were in higher abundance.  I had a limp cracker, but 'gourmet babe' (who I refused to take a photo of on wokeness grounds) spent about 5 minutes delicately getting the cracker/cheese/chutney ratio just right for her and her father.  A dog arrived, a local called it Killer as it drank some water, but soon the owners appeared and sat with me, revealing she was a 4 month old naughty puppy called Poppy (my second Poppy pub dog in a week!)  Poppy found some post-it notes, then ate a couple of beermats (only Fosters, don't worry) and Mr & Mrs Poppy chatted Derbyshire pubs with me, telling me the Stags at Wardlow Mires used to keep guinea pigs in a cage which they put on the food menu!  Does that pub know no end to its legend?  With Poppy yelping wildly, Mrs P finally took her out for a breather,  and I was just chatting with Mr P when the lovely gentle 'Slurp' barman came over, crouched down, and whispered to Mr P that the guv'nor was ill and grumpy upstairs, trying to sleep, and he'd asked if that dog could be shut up!  Uh oh, felt sorry for the barman cos you could tell he really didn't want to say anything, but had to, but Mr P could see that and it was all very amicable and well handled.  My cue to leave, wondering why BRAPA and pub drama always seem to go hand in hand.  Nonetheless, a superb pub I'd recommend wholly.

Nice of them to put my owl picture up

Teacups everywhere

You're pulling my chain

Poppy has a slurp

Eggs, eggs and more eggs

View to the bar and complimentary snacks

Of course, getting back to Alfreton was quite straightforward and I promised myself I'd do the remaining Micropub only if I had time before the next train.

Sadly, there was a direct L**ds service just 20 minutes away so despite the Prospect looking like a rather good prospect, I'll have to just hope that Poison one gets in the GBG instead.

Turn right at the Pukka Pies chippy for a new micropub not far from the station.

Also, I had a VERY heavy day in South Derbyshire / Staffordshire planned for the Saturday, so best not to overdo it.  I'll tell you all about that in 3 parts soon, you've been warned!

Si

BRAPA is ..... Buried in Burythorpe Betwixt Brassy Castles & Batemans

Two Saturday's ago (13th July), I was trekking around North Yorkshire (well, Dad was driving me) having a nice leisurely day for once.  Crayke had been okay, Pickering had been very good and Thornton-le-Dale had its moments, but won't be one I'll be telling the Grandkids about whilst unwrapping Werthers Originals in the year 2060.

But the best was yet to come.

Before that however, we were in the 'slightly less popular than Pickering' market town of Malton, where the Blue Ball stands out as an all time BRAPA classic.

A bit less grade II listy was today's effort, a Brewery Tap no less and as people milled in the doorway getting in the way hoping to be noticed by a Hollywood agent, Dad had serious doubts ......

But I could reassure him here in the Brass Castle Brewery Taphouse (1687 / 2660) that over the last 5-10 years, drinking in York, me and my friends admit Brass Castle produce some of the most top quality 'modern style' ales you are likely to try.  Problem is, at beer festivals and the like, they've developed something of a 'rockstar' reputation, which puts us off them a bit, jumping on scaffolding for 'awesome' photo opportunities, 'oh so quirky' wardrobe backed temporary bars, and an entourage of festival faithfuls who surround the Brass Castle section and don't move all evening.  I didn't tell Dad any of this, it was like he knew.  Nevertheless, I was greeted warmly by a very lovely barmaid, only had two casks were on so my ultimate favourite 'Bad Kitty' was on.  Seriously, if you like strong dark beers, you'll love this one.  The 'Christmas Kitty' is just as good, if not better.  I managed to find an empty upstairs room with a nice foisty old smell and feel, and I coaxed Dad up who'd been behaving like a timid kitty since arrival, but he hesitantly relaxed into the situation and with no people (I'd have probably hated every single other customer), it became a positive experience with the Kitty drinking as well as it always seems to in York, and just like every beer they do, they've made their brewery tap excellent too.  Bastards.

Vinyl Night?  Mario Party?  Everything I'd expect.  

Coaxing Dad into the room ... "Here kitty kitty"

The always brilliant Bad Kitty

On the way back to the car, it was nice to see Martin Taylor's new chain of drinking establishments had open their first northern branch ......

I'll let you guess where the other two are.  One in Cambs, one in Berkshire.

Speaking of the delightful "RM", our drive to the fifth and final pub of the day had shades of 'North Dorset' about it.  Despite plugging it into the SatNav and also asking Google Maps, we were still going round in circles for five minutes in the countryside south of Malton.  Luckily, Dad found it, even if I accidentally camouflaged myself outside the pub and turned invisible ......

One of the true joys of BRAPA is entering a pub with absolutely no expectations and fanfare and finding a true 'hidden gem'.  Of course, there'll always be plenty of folk out there ready to tell you how great the Coopers Tavern in Burton or the Square & Compass in Worth Matravers are, but the Bay Horse, Burythorpe (1688 / 2661) to my knowledge has never had such a reputation.  And I have no idea why.  Perhaps it has only just put cask on, got a good owner, cleaned itself up?  Who knows?  All I can say is it is an absolute corker.  Quiet too, just a handful of folk and most of them were sat on the benches outside, so the landlady took the time to have a friendly chat with me, and that just doesn't happen in rural North Yorkshire cos everyone is miserable as sin.  I spent a long time just weaving in and out of the dark side rooms and corridors snapping photos to prove I'm not making this up, and the All Hallows ales made us realise this is the sister pub to another rural gem, Goodmanham Arms (Burythorpe probably better on balance), so it all started to make sense.  But obviously, being fifth pub of the day, I've no idea if anything strange or funny happened cos it is my least observant time of day!

To reward ourselves for sticking to the agenda and getting back to York in good time, there was time to pop in to one of my favourite York pubs, Waggon & Horses.

Yes, a timely reminder of why this is one of York's finest establishments, nicely off centre, only students can potentially irritate but it general has a local feel, rare for York, and today we got a peaceful seat in the front bar which hardly ever happens.  The Oakham Citra was on top form, Dad went for one of his faves, 'White Rat' though I always feel a bit bad for not having a Batemans.  Again, I can't remember any quirky incidents but they'll be in abundance in my forthcoming three blogs (rural Derbyshire you see) so I'll just leave you with some nice pictures,  good night!

Si

BRAPA in ..... Crayke or Fortune? Return to North Yorkshire

When I officially 'completed' the Good Beer Guide Ticking of North Yorkshire for the first time in Melsonby on 2nd April 2017, I made a solemn vow to strategy enforcer Mummy BRAPA Everitt that I would put my home county behind me, and focus on new ventures.

Sadly, living in York and seeing new 'gaps' appear in more recent GBG's has proved too much to resist, and with Father BRAPA willing to chauffeur me around some of these pubs, the vow was broken.  Would Mother BRAP disown me?

And in truth, after the crazy exertions of the previous night in Derbyshire, the easier day for me the better.   My legs were stiff as John McCririck, and the odds on this BRAPA horse galloping down the home straight by Saturday evening were rather bleak.

So, here we were, 10:55am, Saturday 13th July, in the car facing our first pub praying for an 11am opener as promised by the good book, the sky grey, the pub looking pleasingly stolid and stoic, which we hadn't necessarily expected .......

Yes, the Durham Ox, Crayke (1684 / 2657) has a local reputation (amongst Dad at least) as a pub that specialises in high quality food at high prices for gullible tourists and the Queen Ethelburga's crew, that poshest of boarding schools.  And true, you could tell you weren't in Rochdale, but it was at least 'pubbier' than expected, the red walls offering a bit of warmth and colour even if the so-called 'main bar' where we sat still gave the impression that if we were still here between 12 noon-1pm, it could be as Twining (not the tea) as the other rooms.  We'd actually sat in the car til 11:05am wondering why that door wasn't open, and it wasn't until we got out to take the above photo and "put a bit of pressure on" that we realised it had been open all along.  I've done that far many times than I  should've done over the past 5 years!  An old couple were walking around looking very miserable, as though they didn't understand the concept of a pub and seemed to be treating it like a museum or art gallery.  Dad sensibly ordered a tiny coffee with a tiny bit of 'tiffin' and the bloke said "two coffees?" and I was like "nooooo, piiiint!" but it wasn't that dramatic or slow motion in reality.  £6.80 the round cost me, which seemed a bit steep.  Dad recognised the gaffer, not to talk to, but he used to work with the bloke's wife, so pointed him out.  At one point in perhaps a strange attempt at self promotion, the bloke actually shouted his own surname.  For no reason.  Interesting tactic.  Decent pub, but glad we were here before noon!

Art gallery couple, finally settled but still miserable, maybe they wanted an 'event'?

View through into an even posher dining area

Gaffer on right, about to shout his own surname for no reason

Our (Dad's) toughest drive was next, as we headed up towards our furthest point at Thornton-le-Dale, going out towards Scarborough, quite east of here.  But being a sunny summery Saturday and heading straight through the centre of Pickering, a 'popular market town', we thought it wise to get this done first before we reached 'peak' afternoon. 

And it was a good call.  We ended up much more central than expected, and Dad had to use his trusty parallel parking skills to squeeze into a tiny space in a car park by the river, proving once again why he is the 1988/89 football season parking equivalent of Kevin Sheedy (I'd be Paul Merson).  The boy done good.

And soon, after a slight wrong turn (my fault), we were on a main shopping street facing our next pub ......

The pub feels warm

Martin Taylor recently raved about this pub and he wasn't wrong, the Bay Horse, Pickering (1685 / 2658) was a haven of tranquillity considering the central location, historic and traditional to a tee, full of gnarly old blokes enjoy some trad bitters and a chat.  It had a few other rooms, and whilst Dad got the round in, I had a pee and found this calming back room, though the seat heights and shapes were far from normal, the only off-putting aspect!  So I was glad to return to the main bar and see that a perfect window seat had just become available and Dad was plonked in it, happy as a sand boy, and what's more, he was still on the soft drinks with his classic 'Orange J20 topped up with lemonade' which he always orders in an urgent voice which sounds like he's on the stage in Stratford.   The barman reminded me of a cute Igor, I'm sure he has a dracula in a crypt somewhere below to the pub which he feeds with pints of Tetley's on a daily basis.  

I could pretend he's on the murk again, but even the kraft kids wouldn't use a straw, or would they?

Lovely bar

The shot of the day that most says "proper pub"

View from the window seat

Back to the car and fight our way out of Pickering then, and a poor young lad on a bike was stopped dead in his tracks by a posh lady bike enthusiast who quizzed him .... "Is that a 6 6 chopper?"  The poor lad admitted he didn't know, 'no need to be personal', I thought.

We continued east to Thornton-le-Dale, one of three North Yorkshire GBG locations beginning 'Thornton' I need to do, though I haven't got much appetite to get to the other two any time soon.  Even though the close-by former GBG entry Buck Inn was prominent, it took us a while to find this one the other corner.

The sign, well the way the "N" and the "I" swished around, the 'red flags' (as us woke kids say) were flashing in my mind before we even got inside.  What would our good mate and font expert Lawro think to such lettering?  That was my first thought.  Well I can tell you.  "Script fonts have their place, but it's not on pub signage". 

And it did the pub no favours (the swishing N and I continued to swish on the inside walls, like a Basil Brush's camper, bushier tailed brother, if that is possible) because once inside the New Inn, Thornton-le-Dale (1686 / 2659) I realised it was (just about) pub first and posh North Yorks nonsense second, just the way it should be.  A delicious pint of Hobson's Best could even have convinced me I was in the Anchor Anchor, Shropshire, though fewer cobwebs, obviously.  Ok, so the music was twee and a few people dined.  A man in a wheelchair dropped his knife and fork, and got a bit angry, blaming everyone but himself, which isn't the right attitude.  And best of all, a crazy old lady saw a couple minding their own business with a 'cute' dog, also minding it's own business, trying to sleep under a table.  "Awwww, she's gorgeous, what's she called?!" she shrieked.  "Poppy" they replied.  "Ohhhhh, Poppy!  I could steal that dog!" she shrieked, to which the owners looked concerned, the couple near us raised their eyebrows, and I said that if we hear of a dog-napping in Thornton any time soon, we'll know the culprit.  It was, in some respect, the perfect note to leave this pub on.  

'Twas a good pint here

View of the pub trying to look slightly pubby

Bit of dining and great green clothing, but I should really have got a shot of potential dog stealer instead

So there we go, end of part one.  We still had work to do as we started to head back in the direction of York.  I'll tell you about that in part two soon, and the latest from Derbyshire isn't far away.

Si 

BRAPA is ..... Pissed As a Newt(on) : Derbyshire Evenings

For a second consecutive Friday, I was on the 16:04 sweaty pacer from L**ds to Alfreton, having to contend with unpredictable behaviour of a ginger student, bound for Nottingham, who just couldn't keep still.  She irritated throughout.

But I was in single minded mood in my ongoing quest to complete Derbyshire before the new GBG 'drops', ready to hit the county with all the ferocity of John Leslie hitting .... errrrm, well you get the idea.....

A ten minute delay at Sheffield set the scene for a much unluckier evening than the one I encountered in Ripley & Swanwick the previous week, putting me under severe pressure to make the bus connection. 

And when a blind man with a funky white stick was first off at Alfreton, the rest of us could only shuffle 'patiently' behind him, over the single file railway bridge.  Agony.  I'd never make the bus now, time for plan B, a 29 minute walk to South Normanton.

I'd barely crossed the Alf-Norm boundary when traffic, booming music and motorbikes appeared.  This was the Rock and Bike Festival, and a poster kindly told me Toyah & the Macc Lads were the two main headliners.  Woah, this was a SERIOUS festival, fair play.  I could hear a fantastic punk version of 'Irish Rover' as I powered towards South Norm, and I'll be buggered, it was one of my old Rebellion fest fave bands, 'Neck'.

Other acts included 'Tom Jovi', that is a bloke from Benidorm doing covers of Bon Jovi and Tom Jones.  WHERE DO I GET A TICKET?  Stupid boring BRAPA.

I turned a corner at a Shell garage and suddenly South Normanton became very 'real' very quickly with hooded kids on bikes stinking of weed, dark eyed fat ladies in tattoo parlours, fried chicken shops and nail bars a plenty. 'Twas a sign of pubs to come ......

I formed totally the wrong impression of the Devonshire Arms (1682 / 2685) as I walked in through the 'dining' area, and was a bit sad to see tables kitted out with knives and forks (all obviously empty).  A friendly young bar lad smiled at me with his tongue out, he looked like he didn't have a thought in his head, I liked him.  I ordered a Screech Owl, £3.10 for a 5.5% ale, not bad is it?  I'd paid with a tenner but asked him if he wanted the 10p (so he could give me a straight £7 in change).  Well, this blew his mind and after 2 mins staring accusingly at the till, he told me, with an air of embarrassment to 'hang on', went to get his Mum/Grandma, who had to explain he owed me £7 with a roll of the eyes and a big sigh!  He blushed.  I told him I was sorry for confusing 'things' (i.e. him).  I pushed through a door where a busier bar was full of tanned blokes in hi-vis downing pints of lager and I went into the adjoining room, where a 'half-friend' of the hi-vis gang seemed engrossed in an ITV3 drama repeat, resplendent in his Isle of Man jacket and bovva boy cap.  My table had a Ladbrokes betting slip and one of those little pens, 'twas that kinda pub!  When IOM guy left to smoke, a quirky bespectacled bloke with loud voice said he wanted to put the tennis on 'instead of this crap'.  He left the room and returned with the landlady, who was brandishing a pool cue (not 'queue' as I erroneously said on Twitter, but thanks to Mudgie for being on Russ duty to correct my error).  He says "don't you have a remote control?".  "No, it's broken because someone pissed on it!" she replied, and expertly prodded the buttons with the tip of the cue.   We got chatting (well, him shouting across the room in a strong Derbys accent at me), he wanted Nadal to beat Federer.  I said I didn't care, but whenever I watch Nadal, he loses, so it ain't a good sign.  Sure enough, Federer won the set.  In all the insanity of this pub, I nearly didn't notice my Screech Owl was pretty dire.  And yet, in the grand scheme of things, I didn't really care!

Shouldda gone Proper Job!

IOM skinhead loving his ITV3 drama

Ladbrokes, hi-vis gang and my not very good pint

Changing the channel for our Nadal fan due to pissy remote issues p.s. love her dress!

More character in that one pub than Gainsborough and Retford had mustered in a combined five!  It inspired me to keep going.  Yes, buses to Newton (arguably the hardest of my outer Alfreton ticks) were sparse in evenings, so a 44 minute walk north it was!

Wasn't a terrible walk, footpaths for the most part.  An owl hooted from a nearby tree as we got within sight of the village.  My Vietnamese work colleague told me earlier a hooting owl is an unlucky sign in their culture, I wish I'd heeded the warning!  

Still, as I approached, all looked well.  Another solid, sturdy, no frills Derbys pub of old.  Right??  

Expecting jugs of Bass, friendly old blokes and a jolly barmaid at this point.

The black door you see above didn't really look like an entrance, so I continued around the perimeter to the front of the pub, where the scene changed dramatically. 

The multi-coloured picnic benches at the New Inn (1683 / 2686), strange cabaret signs and heavy glass door were the first signs all might not be what I'd been expecting.  And inside, the scene turned into a horrific nightmare.  Not quite sure when this 'refurb' has been done, I'd suspect quite recently, but it was like they'd enlisted a design team who'd most probably have never been inside a pub in their lives.  I wondered if Gemma Collins and Rylan had been involved.  Hell, it made the Dog & Partridge in Yateley look like the Holly Bush in Makeney, and I barely exaggerate.  Utterly vile, and a surly barmaid got annoyed when I asked a question which I annoyed myself with "Is this the only ale you've got on?"  It was, it was Dukeries, and it was fantastic quality.  But then she asked if I wanted a top up and smiled, and I felt even worse for as I'd now been identified as a real ale twat.  Yet, the pub was so wrong, only a bloke with the most ridiculous toupee who kept eyeballing me was a source of amusement.  I couldn't stay inside this gaudy pimp bordello of suffocation any longer, so went out to the 'garden', a twee astroturfed effort of zero character.  The lame 'positive quotes' like "be the best you can", "keep believing" and much worse that I've blanked from my memory were on the outer walls too.  I ate a packet of my own crisps in protest.   No wonder the George & Dragon down the road was much busier and full of happier folk.  I returned my glass to the bar due to the quality of the ale, and an older barmaid said 'thanks darling' but the damage was done.  If this pub had been a footballer, I'd have booed it off the pitch.

Just say no

Oh dear, my eyes

Toupee bloke sups, some purple lighting for no reason

Great pint, wrong glass

I hope I get out of this pub alive though

My outdoor view.

'Protest crisps .... in response to pubby oppression'

And my misery wasn't finished just yet as Google Maps 'claimed' to have come up with a scenic route back, which turned me onto this footpath called the 'Blackwell Trail' and claimed I could cross the adjacent Normanton Brook.  

But try as I might to find a bridge / crossing, I just couldn't, and I spent so long searching, that by the time I bit the bullet and decided just to return to via South Normanton, I was in serious danger of missing the last train home 21:44 via Sheffield.  So I had to power walk like I've not power walked all year .... and finally started to get back within the realms of 'train catching', even getting greedy and wondering if the 21:33 final direct service was still on.  It wasn't really.

The festival was in full swing as I powered down the home stretch, and then the lucky break I deserved, the 21:33 was delayed to 21:38.  I reached the station at 21:36, legs shot, totally out of breath!  

What an effort.  And I spent the journey back contemplating the pubby conundrum.  Poor beer but amazing pub at South Normanton versus great beer but abysmal pub at Newton?

Now, I know they call it the Good BEER Guide so my head tells me Newton deserves its place in the GBG (one ale on or not) and I'd like to think I was just unlucky beerwise at South Normanton but if that's the usual standard, it should be dropped from the Guide.

Yet every other fibre of my being would MUCH prefer to be visiting pubs like the Devonshire at South Normanton than the New Inn at Newton.  A conundrum that is enough to keep me awake at night!

Si