BRAPA AND THE IRRITABLE OWL SYNDROME : LOST IN COCKERMOUTH

Just to recap, Father BRAPA and I had just left Tallentire where we'd been to the superb Bush Inn, a 6pm opener on a freezing cold Saturday night in north west Cumbria. 

It hadn't been an easy day .... even with the benefit of 'being in the car' but buoyed by this recent success, all that remained was to get ourselves the few short miles back to Cockermouth, dump the car, relax and enjoy the three pubs in the town.   As those bloody dreadful Meerkats used to say, 'Simples .... squeak' ........

Fallen tree blocks road  

Nothing is ever 'simples, squeak' in the world of BRAPA, I should know that by now.  Never rest on your laurels, although I guess in this case, the laurel was resting on the road! 

The shock of it made me suddenly choke on the sausage roll I'd been eating, then I realised I needed to pee badly, so with the aim of alleviating both of these problems plus attempting to move the tree, I burst 'Action-man' esque from the passenger door straight into the grass verge, only to step ankle deep into muddy sludge ruining my wholly inappropriate New Balance trainers.

The tree wasn't budging, Dad got out to help, but it had nowhere to go, at least I'd pee and dislodged the sausage roll (not in the same motion!)  As you might be able to tell from the above photo, no way Dad could turn the car around on this single tracked country lane, so all he could do was reverse in as straight a line as possible with me as commentator!  

It was a relief when a turning into a farmers field allowed us to turn the car around sooner rather than later, and we took the long was around to Cockermouth.  Jeez, think we were both ready for a pint .....

My Sainsbury's carrier - still going strong .....

But there was to be little room for relaxation at the Castle Bar, Cockermouth (1693 / 2910) as we were balls-deep in Saturday night festivities.  It wasn't exactly late on, the Newcastle v Chelsea game was in its dying embers at a deadlock 0-0 if that gives an idea of the time we were here, and yet there was a surprising amount of total pie-eyed local Cockers.  One lady threw her arms above a plasma and sang 'Don't You Want Me Baby' by Human League in a passionate non-ironic way, as if this song is actually top of the 'hit parade' in Cockermouth.  I wondered if folk had shunned the brighter, trendier lights of Carlisle (a sentence I thought I'd never write) for a night in their home town.  I brought our pints to the very back room where Dad had positioned himself.  In the absence of a table, we sat on old cinema seats gripping our pints tightly, relieved when Human League lady told her incomprehensibly drunk male counterpart to down his pint, cos they were off.  Even more incomprehensible was Newcastle's last minute winner.  I didn't need to see Steve Bruce's face in widescreen, and when Dad commented of the goal "that was wonderful, no one could fail to enjoy that moment", I thought of a few Sunderland fans I know.  Despite the relative chaos of the pub atmos, a glance around at the sloping layout, stone walls, breweriana (I hate that word!) made me realise it'd make a very nice experience in calmer circs, and the pint of Hawkshead Pale was as wonderful as everything I drunk on this fateful weekend. 

Getting served by the headless barman

HLL gets IDMC to drink up, 'we're off!'

Day-glo Brucie bonus reveals he doesn't know how they won

Martin the Owl celebrates - but would it be his last ever act in a BRAPA shirt? 

Chalking on additional years to the 2015 GBG poster is what we kids call 'a mood'.

It felt like roles had been reversed between Dad and myself.  I spent the whole of 2019 bemoaning his coat with the infuriating zip he could never do up.  And he spent the year bemoaning my lack of 'dressing appropriately for the weather'.  

And here we were, marching through Cockermouth in sub-zero temperatures.  Me with my new sensible chunky new winter coat, but with impossible double zip, and him striding out in shirt and thin jumper like some Cumbrian party boi.  'Absolute scenes' (as us kids say).

Our next pub wasn't too far luckily - not having a near 73 year old ending up with hypothermia on my watch! 

Looks like Dad has finally seized up!

'Oh yeah, Cockermouth is the home of Jennings, ooh goodie(!)' was my first thought as we entered the cosy atmospheric ancient Swan Inn, Cockermouth (1694 / 2911), hoping ordering a pint of Jarl instead of a Jennings didn't make me some kind of visiting ale scumtwonk.  But I do love a Jarl, and why was the beer quality so good in all eight pubs this weekend?  You could spend a week in London without finding ONE this good.   Sounds an easy lazy slur for a northerner to make, but it is true, so stick that in yer Antic pipes and smoke it.  Not sure I liked Jennings (or is it Marston's?) modern branding though, pump clips like Wensleydale cheese and a strange scientific theme with all these protons, electrons and probably even neutrons flying around!  Anyway, we stepped carefully along the lovely stone flagged flooring, weaving around the pillars, to settle down below a TV where an ancient Martin Tyler was remembering a series of rather forgettable past encounters between Liverpool and Man Utd.   Still quite lively like the Castle Bar, but an older crowd.  

More cheese Grommit? 

4. Nee opening on New Year's Day in Sheffield

Haddaway ye canny marras, I'm off for a wazz

Across the river in the centre of town, and down a cobbled icy death trap of a bank which evoked memories of the White Cross in Lancaster the other week (why are pubs always trying to break my neck?), it was time for the final pub of the night .......

And I think I'd say we'd inadvertently saved the best 'til last with the New Cock & Bull, Cockermouth (1695 / 2912) putting in a fine performance - combining the olde worlde atmosphere of the Swan with the vibrancy of the Castle Bar.  We were back on the wonderful Great Corby ales where the night had begun in style at Great Broughton's Punch Bowl.  I seem to remember it being very cheap though obviously, I'm a bit hazy by now!  It was a disarming start as I observed a few visiting walkers and friendly gimmers dotted around watching the snooker, as we took our pints to a raised bit of bench seating opposite the bar and 'relaxed' and I'm thinking, 'proper old person's pub this!'  Without realising, a small group of 'younger' people were forming to my right, and growing in numbers by the minute, to the point I'm suddenly instructed to take a photo of them!  Crikey. "You should've got one on your phone for BRAPA" said Dad, and I'm thinking 'missed opportunity' when after five minutes of scrutiny, they must realise they don't like their faces according to me, and ask me to do another one, and one in landscape (jeez, demanding much!) so I'm like yeah, but on the condition I can get one of you all too for my BRAPA fans.

Cockermouth says hi

 

So that was all very well and good, off back to our underperforming Premier Inn for some snacks, water, MOTD and a very ropey cup of tea, before a good night's sleep and some pubs tomorrow on the way home which I'll tell you about shortly.  

Martin the Owl Epilogue

But on the Sunday night back at home 24 hours later, I was just dozing off when I thought "I HAVEN'T SEEN (BRAPA MASCOT) MARTIN THE OWL SINCE I GOT HOME"  Nooooooooo!  I searched high and low, Dad said he's not in his car, and I can't remember seeing him during our Sunday pubbing or when I was packing my bag.

Conclusion, he got left probably in one of the Cockermouth pubs.  After all, I did photograph him in Castle Bar and what with the flimsy Sainsbury's carrier bag, did I go to put him back in and miss?  But then again, I have half a memory of him in the Swan.  Maybe one of the Cock n Bull massive pinched him, though they look honest don't they?  Or maybe he just fell down side of my bed/sofa in the Premier Inn?  

Well, I hope he gets to retire in a good pub.  I'm not about to launch a Facebook / Twitter appeal and don't expect a GBG-esque outcome.  He'd been with me less than a year.  And since he declared himself a Sheff Wed fan on New Year's Day, he's been going off the rails a bit.  More moody, more unpredictable, more irritable.  He may've got into drugs.   If you are ever in Cockermouth's above trio, look out for him.   

I'll write a tribute to him tomorrow along with Sunday's two pubs.  It's gonna be emotional.

Si

 

BRAPA ..... GETS TO THE GILCRUX OF THE MATTER

I want to make it clear that I wasn't twisting his arm, using any persuasive tactics, whining too shrilly or using any advanced pub-ticker mind games when, back in about October, I was one day bemoaning the difficulties of pubs in the North of Cumbria to the sympathetic ear of Father BRAPA.

"Well, how about in the New Year, I drive you up there and we have an overnight stop in a place with few pubs, and I can drive us to some more difficult rural ones along the way and on the way back?!"  And that is why Father BRAPA IS the best, it really was that simple.   

After a bit of thought, I came up with Cockermouth.  It has a Premier Inn and three GBG pubs, and on the outskirts, some of the most anti-social pub opening times in awkward villages I can remember seeing in the whole book!  What's more, as the plan developed, the three bloody awkward ones around Appleby were factored in for the Sunday journey back.

It had been a stop start kind of year so far, so here was a chance to really light the Stabillo green touch paper on 2020 ........

Let the Roadtrip begin!

Timing our arrival was always going to be tricky, with two of our pubs not due to open til 5 or 6pm, even on a Saturday, and we were making such good time, that Dad thought it advisable to get one of the outer Appleby pubs done whilst we had the time ..... and would take pressure off tomorrow's journey back if we only had two to do instead of three.

Soon, we were in the pretty little village of Great Asby with bridge over a stream, quaint church and most importantly, a pub open at 12 noon ......

Welcoming committee 

Let's get that first one under our belts shall we? 

Dad went the full Martin Taylor with his "I'm not going to join you for this one, see you at the car in 27.5 mins" last minute comment.  So there was a bit of a surprised look on the face of landlord and a 'local' here at the Three Greyhounds, Great Asby (1690 / 2907) as I strode in, tee shirt, ankles out, unsuitable footwear, swinging a Sainsbury's carrier bag under my arm.  "Where's he appeared from?" was the expression, but I dead pan ordered a gorgeous pint of some Derwent Bitter and the bloke made a point of pouring some of it away as it was the first one pulled through of the day.  He may've seen my CAMRA book in my carrier bag!  I swivelled on my heels to see a classic 19th century pub scene, the cricket on Sky above a roaring fire with Dom "he plays for Somerset, that is why he's so good" Bess terrorising some fuzzy wuzzies with demonic off spin.  I joined in the 'bantz' as England put down a catch at short leg "yeh, well it looks easy in slow motion" I reminded them and they liked me after that.  Very much in my element, I glance out of the window to see Dad roaming the graveyard like a cute version of the Woman in Black.  Turns out the 'local' was a bloke from Hampshire who'd washed up here by mistake, and he tried to show off his interior designs but the landlord told him Salvador Dali had the same idea first.  Hmmm.  Two ladies came in, a very friendly duo, they were looking for lunch. "We didn't think it was worth putting the oven on because you are literally the first people to ask for food in here in 2020!" explained the landlord as though it was mid-August, but it was all so friendly and amicable, and they were given some pointers in Appleby.  After a quick bit of beer and pub chat, I said thanks and ta ra. Strong pub this, and one on the near impossible page 95 of the GBG.

Classic pint of Mutineer

If we'd got off to a great start, the next few hours set us back quite badly!  Firstly, the farcical Premier Inn check in where the booking system decided to charge a totally random price and we had to faff around for ages forwarding emailed booking receipts to the ladies on reception, who despite not being at fault, hardly inspired confidence and got very Gestapo about breakfast arrangements.  

We then headed up to the Barn Bistro at Gilcrux, the one pub that should've been open, five miles north of Cockermouth said the GBG but total bullshit, more like 10.  Closed.  Turns out winter hours are 12-2 and 6-11 and it was a grotty looking bar part of a caravan park, not the posh roadside dining pub I'd been imagining.  Both GBG and Whatpub had the summer hours listed.  Would we return at 6?  

So all that was left to do was pretty much reverse into our 5pm opener at Great Broughton (it was only 4:15pm) and listen to 5Live, who immediately told us Hull City had fallen behind against WRDCFC.  We were both feeling pretty downcast at this point! 

4:50pm and with the light seriously fading, a light comes on!  Hurrah, so at least this pub was going to open.  And it did ........

The kind of opening hours that keep us pub tickers awake at night!

The Sainsbury's bag glows atmospherically

'Pub of the Year' said the banner, and no disputing the joys of the Punch Bowl Inn, Great Broughton (1691 / 2908) as a deserved champion against most pub opposition.  The Great Corby IPA at 5.5% was Dad's beer of the weekend, I'd only had their ales once before but I'd soon be seeing them everywhere.  The woolly hatted lady serves us after the locals, of course, this is a community pub saved from certain closure back in 2012, and here is the only 'but' for me.  Because with 'community owned' pubs comes a sense of 'our pub, not yours' which I've also experienced at places like the Golden Ball in York and Gussage All Saints.  Just that lingering feeling that one time visitors couldn't possibly hope to understand the 'bond' the locals have from the hardship they've been through, and it was clear we were being eyed a bit more closely than you'd normally expect - which at the time I put down to 'maybe people are just a bit weird in this part of Cumbria!'  But if we'd both been feeling a bit depressed and ropey sat in the car, the ale, fire and farmhouse style atmosphere were putting the colour back in our cheeks - complimentary crisps always a touch of class.  Okay, so we argued over whether Gilcrux was worth another try (I of course said 'yes', Dad thought they looked more permanently closed).  A few hundred dogs were lead in by various locals, one stunk of wet dog as they are prone to do, but it couldn't really put a dampener (excuse the pun) on a positive pub experience.

Top quality ales at the Punch Bowl Inn

Dad smiles for first time in a few hours!

Pint, dogs, and mustard topped locals I can appreciate

Complimentary crisps try to outshine the highlighter pen

Bit of face splash and posh soap - top selection!

With the time approaching 6pm, it was off to a village called Tallentire for a pub that was due to open at that time.  It was so dark around and about, we missed the pub the first time, eventually squinting at it through the gloom.  

Dad's car created the only light in the village.  The place looked dead as a doornail.  5:59pm.  It isn't going to open is it?  

Still arguing over whether to give Gilcrux another go, we compromised on me trying to ring them (far too sensible for a normal BRAPA course of action!)  Well, well, well, I got through to this voicemail that said they were closed til 4th Feb.  DAD WAS RIGHT.  He always is.

I was just breaking the news to him, 6pm, thinking we'd best just go back to Cockermouth with my tail between my legs, having had two failures, when this pub just kicked into life from nowhere and a lady opened the front door.  WHAT A MOMENT.  It no longer felt like Gilcrux defeat, it felt like Tallentire victory ......

Me running into the pub!

Bush Inn, Tallentire (1692 / 2909) , pub saviour, pub moment of the year so far, and if I meet a nicer couple running a pub in 2020, I'll be surprised.  Absolutely lovely people, and of course, I excitedly explained the events of the last three minutes to them not pausing for breath!  Symptomatic of the whole weekend, the ale was of the utmost quality which was a relief, as someone joked to me that the local CAMRA struggle to get around their branch pubs due to the opening hours and tricky locations, so I wasn't sure what to expect.  The pub was as beautifully basic as you hope - wood burner, minimal furniture, wonderful slate/stone floors with linseed oil top(!) and just had an atmosphere which had us favouring it over Great Broughton, and that is some tough competition.  A local arrived to shout across from the bar as we tried to discuss Keswick, Hesket Newmarket and the like.  Super pub.

With my mood well and truly restored, it was surely all plain sailing now and off back to Cockermouth for the three pubs there.  What could possibly go wrong?  Join me tomorrow to find out! 

Si

BRAPA is ...... MICRO MANAGING WITH THE MILLERS - A NIGHT IN ROTHERHAM

I have a real soft spot for Rotherham.  It was the first place I had a drink in a pub.  On the 25th March 1995, Dad shoved me behind the front door on a curved bench and ordered me a cheeky half of Fosters.  I have no idea what the pub was called, it was very close to Millmoor, not too big, and assume it got demolished when they moved grounds.  I drank my half in extreme fear, Dad's nervous expression didn't help, and then we watched us lose 2-0 and I remember we'd just signed Gary Lund on loan for a second time.  Two seasons before, we'd come here and he'd scored the winner but today, he headed it into the ground from two yards out and it bounced over the bar!  "They say you should always head it down" squeaked the 15 year old me to Dad, and he laughed.  See, I've always been funny.  I was probably pissed.

These days, I love a football trip to the Millers, and despite having flu on 3rd Jan, I was still allowed to enjoy one of my fave pubs in the UK, Cutlers, even if my energy levels meant I decided not to do my BRAPA pubs after the exciting 3-2 cup win. 

Our players huddle around half a pint of Fosters out of respect to BRAPA

So what with my lethargic start to the New Year, I knew I had unfinished business in South Yorkshire and needed a boost to my January pub numbers.

Is Thursday the new Friday?  Friday was the new Tuesday, but is now the old Thursday.  Saturday remains the same Saturday. 

What I'm trying to say is, I'm experimenting with doing my 'midweek' BRAPA on a Thurs in 2020.  A few reasons for this -  I'm always knackered on a Friday evening, always have a busy Saturday the next day, Thursday BRAPA allows me chance to write about it on the Fri, therefore leaving me less to do on the Sunday, and there's the double-edged sword of pubs often being heaving on a Fri evening, especially micropubs, which can make them uncomfortable and I often have to secrete myself in the coats by the front door (bit like back in 1995!)

Tonight's ambitious after-work trio were all self-styled micros, and if you aren't a fan of the micropub concept, these are probably unlikely to sway your opinion too dramatically. 

A bit of top local knowledge from Dave B at work told me to hop off the train at Swinton and catch a bus to Rawmarsh from there, to save me time.  It made sense coming from a White Shiterley direction.

Swinton, Rawmarsh and Parkgate seemed to be teeming with solid looking old traditional pubs, turning the bus journey into a kind of "look what you could've won", (flat roofers, WMC's, gurning men in windows), still, no guarantee they sell any ale I suppose, not that I'm averse to a cheeky pint of Stones occasionally!  Alan Winfield would've done it justice.

And now for the immediate flip side of choosing Thursday rather than Friday to do your pub ticking, as I entered the Something Brew Inn, Rawmarsh (1687 / 2904) , surprised to find myself the only customer, in what was a decent sized venue.  Under these circs, you are looking to the staff  to help 'guide' you through your pub experience, and after some brief weather chat (she had a creaky old tree in her back garden and was worried it was going to fall on her house in these strong winds), she went to wrestle the toilet door, where the wedge to prop it open had actually jammed it shut.  I made a few sympathetic noises like "oooh", "aaah" and "eeee" and worried about my impending loo trip, but whatever she did seemed to work, and I didn't get stuck.  With a giant Magic Radio plasma now my only company, playing some of the worst 80's classics imaginable, I admired the pub for not going the full 'Hillier' on the micro concept of zero electronic devices (it'd actually have been a more depressing experience without it!)  My ale, Sleck Dust by Great Newsome, a nice steady one I'm well versed in thanks to my many Hull trips, was decent but not the best, felt like it needed turning over a bit more.  But that's difficult when you have no customers! 

Failed attempt at action shot of toilet door wrestling incident

The pub home kit, and a Magic reflection

View t'bar

Not locked in the loo

Thanks to Matthew Lawrenson for the comparison pic!

It wasn't a long walk into Parkgate for pub two, though the wind and rain was really whipping up a storm by now and with my new coat having a double zip (worst invention ever!) , it was hard to do it up and stay dry so I was sauntering behind this poor old man tugging at it furiously, and I think wondered what I was doing, poor bloke! 

Oh well, shall we go into pub two?  Yes, let's.

Such was the (superior, atmospheric) 'mood' lighting at the Little Haven, Parkgate (1688 / 2905) , I had a brief moment of panic as I wondered if we had a 'shut pub alert' on our hands.  I needn't have worried, I peered into the gloom and a healthy gaggle of locals were smiling up at me, a couple even said hello.  The lady behind the bar moved the two pumpclips so I could see them and asked me how I was on this fine evening!  With an Elvis mural and statue too, a typically well behaved greyhound, and some gents from Chantry talking about a new 'open to the public once a month' brewpub venture (definitely 'connoisseurs' if you know what I mean, cough cough St Helens, cough cough, just stolen a recent Martin Taylor joke cough cough), this was EASILY the best pub of the night.  What's more, she even kept me at the bar asking what I'd been up to today etc.  This is HOW micropubs should be.  Sadly though, when I mentioned GBG pub ticking, she basically told me we were ten a penny and she'd loads of 'tickers' in the last few months!  "Waaaah, I like to think I'm special and unique!" I protested.  "No" she replied.  Brutal.  Well, she'd been such a star, only BRAPA etiquette to let her do the green highlighting sponsored by Stabilo.  "How many other pub tickers have let you do this?" I asked her, mid-greening.  She told me none.  I felt vindicated, still the 'Special One'.  Then I spent ages wondering what a Cheese Beard was and why it cost £6.  And it took me ages to realise the entire menu was a joke!  Shame as a bottle of Slags for the train ride home seemed to be free of charge ......

Top highlight in difficult circumstances, impeded by the pumps.  Top effort.

It was quite easy to pick up a bus back into 'The Interchange' which felt strangely cathedral-esque in the calming, near deserted Rotherham Thursday evening.

After a brief exchange with a hi-vis toilet attendant who was fuming because "THEY" were coming to expect the toilets but hadn't given him any notice, I managed to catch a bus to the 'Stag Roundabout' , home of BRAPA pub tick 'The Stag' just over two years ago.

Nowadays, they've shoehorned in a micropub into the tiny shopping precinct next door, which gave it both a 'Frotherblowers, Peterborough' outlook, and a 'South East London What Was the Point in That Then?' additional feeling ......

 

There was nothing wrong with the Dragon's Tap, Rotherham (1689 / 2906) as such, it just felt a bit clinical and lacking pzazz, and that was despite two happy groups of blokes, those at the door even said 'alreet' as I both entered and departed.  The barmaid seemed nice with all her 'luvs' and whatnot, but even then there was a sense of 'going through the motions' about the whole experience.  It seemed far too bright after the Little Haven.  But I actually spent a good ten minutes searching for my return bus ticket I thought I'd lost!  Let us blame the double zipper for also being quadruple pocketed.  My pub highlight was probably the mildly perilous unlockable single toilet, and the strange exotic 'sea-mist' effect generated by the tap.  Give it a try when you go, you are unlikely to be disappointed!   Good pint of Kaldo from the always reliable Chantry though, beer of the night, so there was that at least.

Drama next as I headed for the bus stop and it whizzed past me, a full FOUR minutes ahead of the schedule Google Maps reckoned.  I walked on to the next stop and a nervy but nice lady tells me the times aren't exact due to some strange time shift continuum thing that only exists in the Rotherham area.  Then she got me nervy by telling me it'd be a race against time to make my train connection, which was utter bullshit as we were back at the Interchange in about eight minutes, and I even had time for a half of ale in another low-key fave of mine, the Bridge Inn, with its budgie, crazy old leaky toilets, old men playing dominoes, friendly staff and football scarves galore.  A good tonic after three consecutive modern ones.

Despite nothing going really wrong transport wise, I still wasn't back home til 23:42 so it just shows how long everything takes, and after a quick MaccyD's and glass of juice, it was time for six hours sleep before work on Fri.  Phew!  

Big Cumbrian weekend coming up with Father BRAPA playing a key role.  K/O 4pm Sat going right into Sunday.  So keep observing my progress on Twitter, and I'll be blogging about that early next week in two or three parts.

Si