BRAPA is ..... TOPPES THE POPPES : FAREWELL MARTIN, EVE' HALSTEAD

Time to say a tearful farewell to the Sheffield bound Martin Taylor.  At my behest, I ask him to abandon me in one of the more obscure villages with a pub tick, and some pretty mean opening hours.  Being a Friday though, I was in luck.

As a parting gesture, he kindly takes my photo outside the pub, and even more kindly suggests I should mirror the Green Man's pose, which I try, failing to notice the two old ladies standing on the edge of shot, laughing at me.  Fanks a bunch Martin!  

I never quite nailed it

Martin drives off chuckling, and I enter Green Man, Toppesfield (1848 / 3277) where the two ladies are hovering by the bar.  They turn to ask me if I've finished posing, which piques the interest of locals and BM.  I can tell my entrance would otherwise have sparked an 'American Werewolf in London' vibe, so I'm glad of the icebreaker.  They even let me get served before them, suggesting I've earned it.  Joining a group of four other old ladies to make the magic group of six, they chuckle and smile sympathetically at me throughout, which is at odds with the watchful rest of pub.  It is a little bit of an unconvincing interior, not Ridegwell brutality, but not Belchamp joy.  The garden is deliciously deep and undulating, so I sit outside with my PumpHouse ale, brewed on site,  in the building next to the pub.  It tastes like an ok Greene King IPA.    I think I've been clever finding a shortcut to the gents through some patio doors, it feels a bit more like a house than a pub, and I don't mean that in the cliched but flattering "walking into someone's front room" sense either.  A man later locks them, waving at me with two fore fingers in the process.  Maybe it really was their lounge I'd walked into?  Whatever, a bit of an underwhelming tick, but being the only pub in with UK with community owned brewery and shop too, I'd expect many more GBG appearances, so a good tick to get knocked off.

PumpHouse brewery

Toys to keep me occupied

The patio door of contention

My view, and distant lovely older ladies

A much needed 3 mile walk along a peaceful country lane with the flutter of Meadow Pipits and a species of butterflies you don't get in York takes me to the 'nearest' bus stop, on a perilous hill just outside the town of Great Yeldham from where I catch a bus to the 2 GBG pub town of Halstead, which shares its name with a very nice Twitter man.  

Just when I'm about to lose hope of it showing, it bounds around the corner like an over exuberant Twuppy.   It isn't the most relaxing bus journey, when we reach Castle/Sible Hedingham, it becomes the local school bus.  Aren't tweenage kids insane?  Me and the only other old person on the bus exchange nervous glances.

I press the bell by the hospital, tempted to admit myself, but instead I scurry downhill to the nearby pub.

Despite the flouncy hand painted sign on the pub suggesting otherwise, the Dog Inn, Halstead (1849 / 3278) is a bit of a classic.  The gurgling of old blokes, the rattle of dominoes, standing room only in the main bar, I'm a bit like a rabbit caught in headlights until a kind young barmaid comes to my aid, reminding me I need to find a seat!  She (reluctantly) suggests the garden, I agree, but one look at it, by crikey, it is the longest, furthest away beer garden I've seen in my life!  I can't have her bringing my pint all this way, so I intercept her in the carpark like a cross between David Pleat and Brian Laws, and we agree that I'll sit in the side bar instead.  She seems to appreciate this, and when I've hurdled a mean French bulldog, and observed one bloke being 'sent to the corner' by his mate for 'being a prick', so do I.  Sad of course I'm not closer to 'the action'.  One Dad has brought two of the after school brigade in - soon it is Robinson's Fruit Shoots and Quavers all round in the lower snug.   Great stuff, the archetypal example of  'wot makes Essex pubs so good'.

Furthest away beer garden ever

A walk around the corner takes me into the centre of Halstead for my final tick of the day. 

Considering it was pub five, I can recall the Dog Inn with amazing clarity, which sadly isn't the case with White Hart, Halstead (1850 / 3279).  The lack of human interaction is what did it, but I can feel every inch of the alleged 13th century history, a former coaching inn.  It creaks and groans as you walk through it, like it knows it is too old for this pubbing lark these days.  Like Toppesfield, it does its own brews, and the staff must be proud of this fact as they almost encourage me to come towards the bar to see the pumps and glance, 'from a distance' as Bette Midler once did, which I wouldn't say is unheard of pre 19th July, but certainly rare.  I sit in a dark corner, and after the strange case of two disappearing men (probably ghosts), I move around to watch the latest Euro 2021 match, Switzerland v Spain and the pubs old fashioned beams obscuring my view remind of lower league away games in the 90's where you had to crane your neck to see, before stadiums became modern and identikit.  It was a relaxing if uneventful end to a great holiday in Essex.

Now ya see 'em

Now you don't

Lower league delight

Time for a few days off.  Essex was looking a lot greener though I was annoyed Boreham, Colchester and Wivenhoe evaded me .....

But still great progress, and it was time to sober up, watch a bit of Wimbledon (1987/88 football highlights with the likes of Terry Gibson, not the tennis) and have a fridge freezer delivered.

And then it was off to North Wales for three more days of pub ticking, which I'll try to tell you about tomorrow.

Cheers, Si 

BRAPA and ...... JOYY BELCHAMP

Okay, so that title is supposed to be based on former Oxford Utd flair player Joey Beauchamp, always great for me on Championship Manager '93 but frustratingly injury prone.  Not really worth it when you have to explain it is it?

An odd but enjoyable breakfast

So here we were, my final day down in Essex and everyone's favourite pub ticker and one of the world's nicest humans, Martin Taylor had kindly agreed to help me mop up some obscure rural outliers.  

The sun was beating down hard.  He gave me the exact co-ordinates to the back of an industrial estate nearby (a bit like something the OCG would do on Line of Duty).  He ambushes me and rather than extracting my fingers with pliers, drives us in a Belchamperly direction.  

Essex was greening up quicker than Bruce Banner when his milk's gone off, and it would get even better .....

It doesn't get much more obscure than Belchamp Otten.  Even with all the technology in the world at our fingertips, it was a bugger to find, leading us to MARVEL at those early-days GBG tickers, before smartphones were a thing.

Arriving at 11:55am, the pub resplendent in pink ......

... we didn't want to put pressure on them opening bang on 12 in case we jinxed it, so Martin did what Martin's do and started walking in a rurally direction. 

OI, COME BACK!

We then got distracted by a recently dug trench.  

I hate it when GBG pubs dig a BRAPA grave when they find out I am in the local area.

It was just after 12 now, and my stomach lurched a bit (probably the breakfast eggs n spinach), and then leapt for joy as Martin confirmed it isn't a mirage I see before me, the door is open!  

Red Lion, Belchamp Otten (1845 / 3274) and the guv'nor is young and full of vim and vigour, as is the Oakham Citra which looks bubbly, and is one of finest pints I've had in July.  Martin asks the question on everybody's lips (well, mine and his, so 100% of the clientele), how DO you pronounce Belchamp?  'Belsham without the P!' says he.  "Ahhh, now we know!" I say out of the corner of my mouth, and aware that this line of conversation has been exhausted, mine host beats a hasty retreat to the benches out the front, where an old grump in a snazzy shirt has arrived.  He's probably been drinking here every day since 1752, keeping the pub afloat.  He even has his own Grade II listed heritage status around his neck, probably.  Indoors meanwhile, Martin is wowed by my lack of North Wales GBG ticks, thus planting the first little acorn in my brain of an idea for my second week's holiday.

Martin about to take some great pub photos

Nice isn't it?

Incredibly good quality pint

Half an hour per pub is the strict rule I must keep to if I'm to do three pubs with Martin and have him drop me off at a fourth.  He has to get be back en route to Sheffield some time just after 2pm for his Cream Tea and Neepsend supper with Christine and those sk8 punk lads.

Our other Belchamp is bigger, and both chocolate box and picture postcard.  Village green, beautiful thatched pub, pond for dunking the visiting pub ticker since witches went out of fashion, Essex lunchers preening and posturing like they are really sumthin'.  Martin takes the photo and walks away from the pub.  He got this tick over 30 years ago.  (Hang on, doesn't that mean it has lapsed?) 

Alright pal, nothing to see here, get back to your pint

Bit of an intimidating entrance at Half Moon, Belchamp St Paul (1846 / 3275) with rusty ancient farming implements on the walls, enough to make your genitalia ache, but again, that could be the eggs and spinach on further reflection.  Considering there's MUCH food going on, I'm greeted warmly in that 'thank goodness for simple customers like you' (oi, who are you calling simple?)  I notice what a fabulous old musty smell the pub has, one that any amount of 2021 cooking cannot cut through!  In fact, the whole pub has a bygone joyfulness.  Even more remarkable when you consider the group of elderly flappers behind me.  The huge blackboard of specials is causing them problems.  The man wants sausage & mash.  "But we had it only last night!"  squeals his wife.  "Oh ... oh yes, I suppose we did.......  Haddock?" he replies, with the air of a man who has spent a lifetime keeping the peace with his other half.  She eventually replies she feels a haddock/headache coming on.  But the problems aren't over yet, as the more elderly crones in their group can't read the blackboard, and don't know if they are allowed to stand up and go closer.  I suddenly notice my 27.5 mins is up.  2.5 mins to have a wee, return my glass (illegal?), thank the staff, and find Martin.

Idyllic as Belchamp St Paul is, Martin has swiftly come to the conclusion that it would be a boring place to live, and incredibly unwise if you were a pub ticker.  Not like you can trot seven minutes to a main line station is it?   Don't talk to me about trots today.  Egg and spinach.  

Well, the Belchamp duo had done us proud.  A hasty amendment to the BRAPA schedule performed in our last pub has worked out that the hardest of all the North Essex village pubs was Ridgewell.  (I'm not saying Steeple Bumpstead is easy. but at least it has one infrequent bus!)  So that is where I asked for next.

Things had been going too well pubwise of late.  There had to be a decline.  Oh look!  SiFiPieFri? 

These weird contraptions were the first sign that all might not be sweet pubby heaven at White Horse, Ridgewell (1847 / 3276).  Actually, the second sign.  The first had been when I mentioned this pub to the magnanimous guv'nor in our first pub, the Red Lion.  He wasn't the sneering type, but he definitely sneered as he said "recent takeover .... they even do 'cocktails'!"  Takeover.  He wasn't kidding.  I don't know what antiquated pub delights used to be found within these four walls, but am pretty sure the pub that was put in the GBG wasn't this.  You could argue it wasn't even the White Horse anymore.  Certainly the Track n Trace App had its doubts as I scanned the QR code ....

Tell me a worse pub name, I'll wait 

I make to sit down in the front bar, thinking that the 'look' they have gone for is modern hipster minimalist.  Exposed pipe and brickwork, beer barrels, you know the type!  Sadly I didn't get a photo immediately as the barmaid shouts over that I can't sit in here, it 'isn't finished yet!'  You never can tell.  Funny actually.  Shame, the bit near the loos is particularly atmospheric. 

You can sit in the 'back room' she tells me.  Promising?  Errm, no it didn't do it for me.....

So the rather characterless outdoor drinking area is my only real solution, though if Martin hadn't have gone for one of his legendary strolls, I may well have knocked on the window of the Mart-Mobile and drunk my pint in there, much more pubby.   The staff are nice, don't get me wrong, obviously trying to put their stamp on the place.  But it doesn't feel at all GBG, and the ale quality isn't up there with either of the Belchamps.  Colin looked like a stunned mullet throughout.  

Such is my haste to get 'done', I actually have to wait for Martin to return from his walk.  I have one final request before his long drive home to Sheffield, can he abandon me in the seldom heard of village of Toppesfield?  He says he's happy to!  More on that, and a place called Halstead, and a new fridge freezer, in tomorrow's edition.  

Sweet dreams, Si 

BRAPA in .... WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY THAMES

The end of the previous blog found me in low spirits.  Broxted had unwittingly depressed me.  Could the Plough, Debden (1842 / 3271), the next village on the bus route back to Saffron Walden, cheer me up?  

Well, it could.  In much the same way that listening to Leonard Cohen after Radiohead would cheer you up.  Barmaids beamed, chirped and squeaked encouragingly.  Punters sat outside had a bit of bantz with them, whilst blousey middle aged dining ladies just behind my eyeline were given exemplary service.  I, sat in the middle of the floor (not literally, they did give me a table - as was my legal right pre 19th July) with my pint, blinking up happily at anyone who crossed the threshold.  My jaw muscles tired after 27.5 mins of attempted smiles.  Colin made friends due to the curious table of strange creatures opposite.  The carpet gave me hope for the future.  And that was that.  

Spot the odd man out

Old pic of pub?  How marvellous

A carpet worth holding onto

The bus took me back to Saffron Walden.  I had 25 minutes until my connecting bus, and what should be situated between the two bus stops but a pre-emptive recommended independently by two different Twitterati whose opinions I'd trust.  Would be rude not to wouldn't it? 

Railway Arms, Saffron Walden.  Considering it was being held up by scaffolding, I wasn't too disappointed when, standing on the gravel to the rear left having already had a large group of blokes go "wotcheor mate!" in true Saffron Walden style, a Scottish guv'nor approaches.  "Hoots mon there's a moose loose, aboot this hoose" he says (not really) before adding if I take a seat, there's an App to order from.  Uh oh, not sure I have time for this being against the clock n all,  but it's one of the easier ones to fathom.  My half Buntingford Stout goes down like a mole in a hole, the shed next to me look like it covers up a myriad of heinous past crimes, but isn't it nice to see the community taking ownership of an old pub rather than opening up another tiny little space in an industrial unit? 

Good job it ain't Tier 2 eh?

The bus ride back to Cambridge is as pain-staking as the one here.  My poor bladder is in bits, it took well over an hour, even worse as I was meeting the effervescent Martin Taylor and didn't want to keep him hanging on. 

When 9:20 means nine twenty

At 9:20 (fancy that), I jump off and cross this weird bit of grass called 'Christ's Pieces' which sounds more like a 1960's Batman expression.  'Christ's Pieces Batman, the Joker is getting away!'

This next pub didn't feature in either of the two GBG's when I was on my 'quest' to totally green up Cambridgeshire, so I wasn't expecting much from it.  But as luck would have it, 'twas a bit of a corker!

Martin is as good as his word, nabbing the prime table leaning against the bar.  Better still, the student quiz has finished.  Better better still, he's ordered me a pint.  Ok, so it is Greene King IPA, but a combination of the old fashioned pump clip, and everything else going on, means this might be one of the best GK IPA's I've ever sampled (and I don't realise til I'm into the final throes).  Champion of the Thames, Cambridge (1843 / 3272) , what a jewel!   It has an atmosphere which a kind of mixture of Cambridge's own Free Press, and Layer-de-la-Haye's Donkey & Buskins.  Being central Cambridge, everyone in a pub takes pride in being a bit odd.  Two vampires sat opposite (see below).  A man with a little scooter decided it made him more appealing, muttering saucy but mainly indecipherable comments to local ladies about sexing them up.  'Blog material' we both agreed, otherwise quite dumbfounded.  Cracking pub.

Colin gets in the way, but who does that huge leg belong to?

Definitely two blokes sitting there when I took this photo

Sexiest man in Cambridge thanks to scooter

Old style GK pump clips save the day

Martin walks me in the direction of my final pub of the night, determined to show off his encyclopaedic knowledge of the mean streets of Cambridge.

He takes the obligatory outdoor photo, and one for luck just to allow me to tilt my head a bit for effect ......

I ask him if he's joining me, but he looks at me askance as if to say "are you mad?"  He may've actually said that.  No, he's got to rest up before an even tougher BRAPA assignment tomorrow, which I will tell you about in our next edition.  So, I, Solitary Si, walk into Pint Shop Cambridge (1844 / 3273) and such is the 'winding down' atmosphere, I change my opening gambit to "I'm not too late for a drink am I?"  It is mainly rhetorical, and I'm ushered towards a narrow bench facing the bar, next to a group of students who think they are hilarious, which of course, everyone in Cambridge is.  As is often the way in a pub like this, there's about one cask ale on and a zillion keggy ones.  I get a Dr Rudi's Three Blind Mice in a tankard.  Murky, furry, sweet, a bit cheesy and blows my cotton socks off.  The loos are up so many flights of stairs, Wetherspoons would blush.  And I'm regretting my decision to leave my phone down there.  When I return from my expedition, the students have been allowed to move into the little secluded side room that I'd been eying up.  Grrrr.  So probably circumstances, but I can't say Pint Shop wowed me anymore than the chaotic Birmingham version, which may also have been circumstances.  And really, wouldn't Punt Shop be a more appropriate name?  

The side room of contention

You know the type of place

Murky sweet, cheesy and furry (and I don't mean Colin)

Up by the loos with phone which suggests I went twice (which sounds like me tbh)

Join me tomorrow, where Martin does what no other man could do, gets me to the Belchamps.

Til then, take care y'all.  Si