BRAPA in .... OH WHEN THE SAINTS GO MARCHING IN (TO MAINLY MICROPUBS) : Hants Pt 6/6

 

Southampton was my location for my final day of pub ticking on this epic six day Hampshire crawl.

Six pubs I'd like, and the town had twelve GBG ticks I needed.  Imagine if I drank halves, I could get them all done!  In and out of the pubs in ten minutes, forming no lasting impression of them, no need to write a blog.  I do make life harder for myself, but I can't stop now.  Plus, I love it.  

BRAPA and Southampton goes back to 2005.  Platform Tavern was my debut pub, a beauty and still in the GBG today.  2 years later, fish & chips on my own in something called the Crown.  Not seen it in the GBG since.  Got drenched.  Quick pint in Guide Dog, but far too busy for me to enjoy it.  By 2011, despite an evening kick off, I got Junction and South Western Arms in pre-match.  In 2013, I enjoyed the Rockstone and I'd walk past it today, but no longer in the GBG.  And my most recent trip, Hop Inn, then Butchers Hook where Dad and Tom met Martin Taylor for the first time (it now has a blue plaque I believe), and post match, an epic three pub session with Daddy BRAPA in the Freemantle area.  Still epic, as I'd found out later (see pub six).

Map drawn, train on time, I was raring to go .....

And I'd have got to pub one sooner if a Deliveroo rider hadn't blocked my path and asked where Starbucks was, he can't see it anywhere.  We are right outside it!  He looks ashamed, and so he should. 

11:59am, and on this my final day, I am waiting for a pub to open for the first time.  A silhouette appears and tells me he'll just be five minutes.  Come on mate, the BRAPA clock is ticking .....

Handle Bar, Southampton did what it said on the tin in so much as our host, the previous silhouette, was now visible, and had a handle bar moustache, or at least the beginnings of one.  A nice chap, just like in Flower Pots at Cheriton yesterday, I was so close to getting into conversation with him, but it never quite transpired.  Maybe before my first pint, I'm Too Shy?  Talking of eighties pop groups, there was a decent amount of Brewerianarama in here, plus quirky shit like spiders.  A nicely done place, not my favourite of the day, but my no means your box room serious drinkers micro.  A few old blokes were soon on the scene, chatting freely with the barman.  It had been a long way to come for beer from Malton, I was enjoying it, but the others were all slagging it off for being too 'floral'.  Two men had a conversation (shouted over the top of me) where they must've mentioned about 8 of the 12 pubs on my 'to do' list.  This odd dog kept eyeing up Colin and slobbering, but that was as close as we got to interaction.

None of the pubs were too close together, but this one was a ten minute amble at least.  Southampton is a deceptively large place, I'll never moan about Sheffield again.

Something about the smell of fusty old books that really lends itself to creating a good pub atmosphere, and that was the real clincher during my trip to Bookshop Alehouse, Southampton.  You know I despise nothing more than fake bookcase wallpaper (well, it'd be in the top 10 BRAPA hates) so it was very nice to see so many of the real things!  Not exactly Falmouth, but it is a start.  This time, as the only customer in early, I get chatting to the personable young barman, a twenty year old student, Ben.  Not the same Ben who was singing in Eastleigh Steam Thing last night, but he tells me he was in there, in one of those train seats.  He finds it funny when I ask if he owns the place, but as I've learned the hard way, you cannot assume business owners!  He tries to encourage me to buy the humungous bird book I'm looking at, but being five times the weight of the fricking Good Bloody Beer Guide,  no way I'm lugging that around with me, even if it is a snip at £3.99.  

A decent trek across town took me past the Rockstone of 2013 pre-match fame, and uggghh why didn't I go for a wee before I left?  Absolutely nowhere you could go for a sly tinkle around here either.  Pub three better not have anyone in the loo!

'Craft beer and punk rock!' screamed the blackboard at Beer & Boards, Southampton.   'Well there's a concept no company has ever thought of making money off before!' I thought sarcastically knowing full well it must be deliberate, surely.  I liked this place, bright and sunny, a bit sparse and bare furniture and decor wise, but the guy who served me (Menzingers top, good band, on their day - can't get into new album) was a top lad, I said hi from Ben (cos his girlfriend works here, but not today), and not fancying the cask offering, I wound up with this Kiwi Fruit Gose thing that was a proper grower, like ringworm in a woolly jumper, danker than Fritzl's cellar.  You don't get this content on Untappd.  A bloke behind me mentions he is from Wakefield every five minutes, as all West Yorkshire men over the age of 50 do when they are in the south of England.  He goes to get changed in the loo, it takes forever, painful cos even though I'd relieved my full bladder, it had filled up again with fizzy kiwi by this point!  After they left, I got chatting a bit with rest of the pub and all very pleasant.  I won't use the 'B' word but I never did quite work out whether this was a tribute to them, or a sort of two fingered punk rock salute 'this is how ya do it!'

Col hides from Yorkshireman

Octopus, scrabble and beer keg seats, the scene so very micro

It was a good long stretch down towards the pier, about an 18 minute walk, but there were three pubs I needed down there to take me to the magic 'six for the day' mark.

But you should never get complacent in this game, best laid plans n all that......

SHUT PUB ALERT!  I admit I hadn't checked the hours on social media, but I really hadn't envisaged a Sunday closure.  Oh well, still two pubs close by .....

Duke of Wellington, Southampton seemed to be the perfect tonic, after three consecutive micropubs, offering something very different.  It certainly looked the part, both out and in.  Okay, so it was very foody, and the staff seemed sullen and disinterested, but I took my pint of Wadworth 6X into a gorgeous back room, I couldn't have been more perfectly situated considering it was feeding time at the zoo.  A bloke in a snazzy maroon waistcoat who I take to be the guv'nor comes over to the group of students next to me, amiably chatting with them, seemed a nice touch of customer service.  I hadn't really been enjoying the 6X which is unusual for me, and about a third of the way down, it descends to pure vinegar.  Funny what a bad pint can do!  Suddenly, everything about this pub seems less lovely.  I struggle manfully on for a bit, but it is getting worse, so I pull the old pub ticker trick of pouring it into the nearest plantpot (hypothetically you understand, I didn't want to wilt any flora or fauna).  Felt very much like some of York's ancient city centre mock tudor 'classics' which never come close to troubling the GBG compilers. 

Don't drink it mate, you'll never get out alive

So today was providing an instructive lesson.  Three micropubs, and then a gorgeous looking old timber framed thing.  And look which one I'd ended up disliking most?  And I claim to be less bothered by beer than pubs?  But it seems a bad beer can change everything!

Luckily, there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon ......

Dancing Man, Southampton would prove to be my favourite pub of the day.  A brewery tap really, but the best of its kind.  Housed in a 14th century Grade I listed building, and you could tell they hadn't scrimped, they'd spent the money and done it well, whilst it not only 'retained its character', but it also felt weirdly cosy like the New White Bear in Tingley where I used to go in the eighties with my grandparents, play with my fuzzy felts, burn myself on the lights on the carpetted stairs, eat butterscotch ice cream or black cherry sorbet for pudding, and pretend I was controlling the fruit machines even though I'd not put any coins in and it was just a demo!  I should've felt more grounded than this.  It was so busy, I'd taken my pint of Jesus Hairdo (I was a big Charlatans fan back in '97) to a table beneath the spiral staircase, and asked a baldie if I could perch at the end.  He said 'yes', and moved a few fur coats around to accommodate mw, but I didn't quite realise how many ladies were joining him.  A veritable hareem!  They must've heard about virile baldies.  Great place, much recommended.

Tell that to the Duke of Wellington!

So with the unfortunate Crammed Inn closure, I had to head back north beyond the station, to get my sixth and final pub of the day complete.

The Freemantle area is only a few minutes away, but it has such a different atmosphere from everything else I've witnessed in Southampton, it may as well be a different world.

The Wellington, Waterloo and Freemantle Arms were all absolutely jumping on my previous visit (one can't remember which was having a 'closing down' party), proper old school, and Retired Martin who visited around the same time got told to f**k off just for having the temerity to cross a road.  I'll never forget.  

This pub, well it just picked up where those others had left off in April '17.

If Key & Anchor, Freemantle, Southampton looks a good honest solid street corner boozer, then that is because it is!  A culture shock after my previous five, I don't mind admitting.  Glad I was five pints in on arrival, six on leaving, or it might've been slightly intimidating.  Locals line every square inch of the large circular bar.  I'd call them bar blockers in most pubs, but not here.  Firstly, I'd be too scared.  Secondly, it just seems to be the way they do pubbing in Freemantle. It's all about sociability, loud voices, bawdy jokes.  Wadworth 6X is one of the three ales on, got to give it another go, and it is superbly kept.  Take note Duke of Wellington, insane that cask ale can taste so different between two pubs, but isn't really insane at all when you think about it!  Unlike this place.  Bored kid wants to go out and play on his bike.  I've never seen parents so torn between a desire to sit at the bar peacefully and get smashed, and a need to protect their son from busy traffic.  I think Grandma sorts it out in the end.  Grandma always sorts it out!  Col quite happy to sit this one out.  Soon it is raffle time.  785?  You'll never get out alive!  Same bloke seems to keep winning.  Suspicious.  Cracking boozer this.

Now that's a pub table!

So that was a fine way to end a 36 (6 pubs in 6 days) week - unless you count the one in London I'd do the following morning.  

A bloke told me earlier in the week "if you've enjoyed the Winchester pubs, wait til you get to Southampton, even better!"  Hmmm, not sure about that.

In fact, I'm not sure I've ever enjoyed a pub as much as my 2005 Platform Tavern debut here.  But still six to do in the GBG, which I'll be hoping to do some time before October 2022, so we'll see if the likes of Bitter Virtue, Olaf's Tun and Witches Brew can sparkle. 

Until next time, which might well be Friday now, I will bid you farewell.

Si 

BRAPA and ..... THE FLOWER POT MEN OF CHERITON (AND OTHER TALES) : HANTS PT 5/6

Saturday 6th November.  My penultimate day of what was becoming one of the more epic BRAPA holidays of recent times.  Mid Hants, I salute you!  

As I force down more Travelodge coffee, cornflakes, a carton of OJ, a pain au chocolat and a flapjack, Col turns to me and says "look chief. we're gonna have to go south if we're gonna keep up our six pub a day progress".  And I turns to Col, and you know what I says?  I says "damn straight Col, I didn't think we'd be having to go beyond Eastleigh, but it is symptomatic of what a successful week we are having".  And he looks me straight in the eye and says "aye, best crack on then Si". 

So we hopped on a bus to take on the last two pubs which really were mid Hants.  Here was the first, just after noon, and I just had to be happy that this remote village had a decent bus service.

Home of the Flower Pots beers which I absolutely love, I was expecting big things from the Flower Pots Inn, Cheriton.  And the ale straight from the barrel was as immaculate as I'd imagined.  The pub itself left me fairly cold though.  A bare boarded, pastel decorated thing, not quite the rustic, ragged old rural retreat I'd mentally conjured up on the bus.  The locals don't quite fit either, men with colourful baggy trousers drinking out of silver tankards, the lady opposite half talking to herself, half scowling at me.  The overall 'village-life' American werewolfy feel, where irresponsible fireworks spook ponies and make them escape from nearby fields into country lanes they shouldn't tread.  I was always teetering on the edge of being included in the conversation, but it was always tantalisingly out of reach, despite the main lady throwing a lot of nods and smiles in my direction as if encouraging me to become a 'Cheriton guest star'.  But locals closed ranks skilfully enough not to appear rude, just as I was about to tell the anecdote of Daddy BRAPA nearly burning down our shed by attaching a Catherine wheel to it.   And the whole pub experience was very that, 'the nearly man' of classic pubs.  More Nicky Banger than Rodney Wallace.

I had been contemplating a very long walk to pub two.  It looked achievable, but my 'Emergency Taxi Fund' tatty envelope still had £40 in, Cheriton sapped my sense of adventure, and this bloke reluctantly agrees to come and get me, and drive me on to pub two.

A nice chap, think an Italian Andy Caddick.  We bond when a local cyclist refuses to pull into a lay-by to let us pass.  "Wot a nob 'ead" I say.  IAC liked that.  "Yes, too many blokes around here with a massive sense of entitlement" he sneers with a big Italian hand gesture like a taxi driver who has been stymied once too often, and not by StymieSi. 

It would prove an interesting prelude to pub two ......

A mass of historic GBG window stickers invariably means you are entering a good pub, and Hampshire Bowman, Dundridge was that, a warmer unspoilt version of the Flower Pots, the uneven stone floor, little wood burner bubbling away, and more great quality Flower Pots ales served straight from the barrel improved my mood no end.  I perch 'twixt bar and fire in the corner, the perfect position.  And yet.  It was so so strange on every other level.  Busy with the Saturday lunchtime crowd, many tables included dogs and children.  But it was so Bjorkesque.  Oh so quiet.  And still.  Without the loud bit, or the attacking reporters at airports bit.  How could all these people be sat so silently eating?  It was the same story in the other room where you went towards the loo.  Okay, I heard one teenage girl ask her Dad a bit loudly "can you pass the sauce?" but she immediately looked guilty and bowed her head.  Combine this with a few strict rules re mobile phones, cash, not touching hot fires, and local village stuff, I felt sort of uncomfortable, disconcerted and a bit confused.  If anyone walked by, they remained totally expressionless.  Pubs this good should not be this serious.  

As remote as Dundridge seemed, it wasn't a long walk at all to Bishop Waltham, which might not have contained a GBG pub, but was the perfect transport interchange.

Google Maps occasionally surprises me, and did so here by leading me down an unmarked path, saving me from going back to the main road.

I had my doubts, but we came out in a nice churchyard full of Autumnal leaves ......

Delighted to find the public conveniences open, I then witness the local butcher encouraging an old man to come and buy something.  He strides off without entering the shop, and seeing the forlorn look on the butcher's face, I go in and buy some pork scratchings for the bus journey.  Some whoppers in that bag!  Contactless only payment though, in a village butchers?  World's gone mad.

The bus journey was insane.  The driver was a right character, and everyone on it followed suit.  A Mum and some kids were 'jokily' told they'd be kicked off if they didn't behave.  Then a young lad dressed as Harry Potter for a late Hallowe'en party gets on which causes much excitement.  Eventually, I am the only customer left and despite being halfway back, driver shouting to me like a jolly taxi driver Cilla Black style "what'ya do chuck, and where d'ya come from?" so I bark back the BRAPA manifesto.

Well, he explains he's an ex-publican.  Suddenly, his gregarious manner make sense.  He drops me in this made-up place I've never heard of called 'Botley' cos there's a GBG tick there.  

Down a narrow side street, through a billion hopbines, and into CrackleRock Tap Room, Botley.  The place absolutely ponged of beery beer.  Oof, and I've been to Cobbett's in Dorking.  Combine this with a gorgeous warm red colour scheme, loungey airless atmosphere, and it stands out as a cut above your average bar of this type, very well conceived, and if you were here for final pint of the day, or even 5th, I could imagine it'd be easy to be swallowed up by the atmosphere, lose your mind, fall asleep, or just lose all discipline and stay for another.  Less impressive was our barmaid, cos I walk in all happy and full of the joys of autumn, and she offers nothing!  Rhiannon from Weyhill needs to get her schooled.  Seems the further south in Hants, I went, the ruder people were getting.  But then I look at Southampton the following day, and that bus ride, and you probably can't generalise.  Sure, you couldn't shut her up when two bald locals asked about her psychology degree at Pompey Uni.  Maybe I was just being deliberately 'psyched out' for a case study?  One bloke near me, waiting for Baldie 1 to bring back his pint, was left pintless for ages as a result!  The ale was good, Crackerjack I had cos the pump clip was green, no other reason.  And that was that.  Apart from singing Fraggle Rock to myself, obviously.

On the walk to Botley station, I passed something that looked so fantastically flimsy, it had pre-emptive future GBG certainty written all over it, but I didn't stop, so expect me to be kicking myself in 12 months time. 

Now, it was time to really embrace my new found South Hants other self, and the train took me to this place I'd never heard of which sounded like Portsmouth and Manchester crossed together.  Terrifying.  The mean streets were quiet, and the pub was a fair trek from the station but with the new filtering through that Hull City had actually won at Barnsley, I was feeling extra happy ......

So I was a bit thrown on entering the Cormorant, Portchester to encounter a 2020-chic "Please Wait to be Seated" reception plinth.  A smiling young lad or lady (I couldn't tell, I don't do genders #WokeSi2021) seats me on a single table right next to the plinth, and asks what beer I want.  I take out my binoculars, last used to observe a Cormorant/Shag on the Norfolk broads (maybe), scan the line up and opt for HSB, or Hampshire Sexy Bitter, if you want to try and make the locals laugh.  But they don't.  They never do.  The table service was totally at odds with the pub I'm glad to say.  A raucous massive one roomer, carpetted to the gills, every generation of person, a real family vibe, but in an 'alive' pub of old kinda way, unlike Dundridge earlier. So unfussy, so much like a pub you'd go to as a child in the 80's with your parents and grandparents for a Sunday roast.  A couple sat awkwardly together on a low leather sofa have a cute dog, and as such, are being hassled by a perky old couple.  "He looks like Muttley!" says the lady who won't leave them alone.  These twentysomethings haven't even heard of Muttley.  Tragic.    They had a dog too.  The man seemed nice, even if he reminded me of Neil Warnock and Roy Hodgson.  Greavesie's ghost drank happily at the bar.  A really great pub experience this, the HSB drank like ESB, though I was told Fullers have 'ruined' the original recipe by someone who knows.  Isn't it always when you least expect it that the pub experiences are that bit more magical.

Time to get back up the line in a Winchesterial direction for the last two pubs.  

Next up Fareham, and I nearly didn't get there cos I was getting confused with Farnham and wondered why I had to change at about five stations!  

Bonfire Night was in the air, more so than official Bonfire Night yesterday.  Fareham's main drag, reminiscent of somewhere off the Tube in South London, was a feast for the senses.  You had all the bangs, snaps, crackles and pops of the fireworks, and acrid smell in the chilly night sky, combined with KFC, curry and kebab shops.  Unique!  

 

West Street Alehouse, Fareham was packed to the rafters on this Saturday evening, 'deservedly popular' I kept hearing people saying with a nod through their bearded half of murk.  I fought my way through the happy atmosphere, where staff were surprisingly quick to serve me as it seemed about three deep at the bar.  I took my Steam Milk Stout around the corner, in hope of unearthing a peaceful side room or upstairs balcony.  No such luck!  Being wedged between craft can fridge and the toilets wasn't ideal, so I braved the outside, where I asked the two blokes above if I could perch on their rickety bench, the kind that flips your pint up every time someone moves.  Heaton Chapel with a heart.  When they left, I sat where man on right was close to the window, convinced a rocket or red kite was about to land in my stout, such was the screeching from up above.  I'm soon joined by two more lads, chattier duo, excited to see a GBG and wanna know what my game is.  One is wearing a very Clint Eastwood patterned poncho / coat type thing, Fareham fashion? Love it. The other, a coach driver, doesn't get to drink often, so he's enjoying tonight and his top-knot swirls excitedly in the breeze.  I have to dash for my train, but from awkward uncomfy beginnings, quite a winning Micro experience.

One short train ride takes me to Eastleigh for my final pub.  

The two blokes who leave the station just in front of me, well I try and try but I just cannot overtake them.  I even try going over this grassy hillock, but it isn't the shortcut I hope and they still just remain in front.  They've got 'pub goers' written all over them, and predictably, they enter first!  Grrrr. 

There he goes, the bloody bugger!

Would've been rude not to visit Steam Town Brew Co. Eastleigh at some point this week, considering how many of their ales I've sampled.  From the Old Vine in Winchester (my second tick of the week), to the last place in Fareham (28th), I've been enjoying them.  To my delight, neither of the two unovertakerable dudes go to the bar, they both make a b-line for either the second level (people sat on repurposed train seats trying to look comfortable) or the upper third level, where "Happy Birthday Bridget" banners wrap around every surface.  I wandered up later, but a lady (possibly Bridget) looks at me like 'do I know you?' so I retreat.  Then a train seat beard looks at me like "no repurposed train seats available for BRAPA, hard cheese!" so I have to stay at ground level, where I have a brief chat with a lady about random piles of logs not doing anything.  She wants me to watch her fluffy coat.  I figure this pile of logs can at least support my bag and her coat whilst I sup my pale Steam Town beer, and watch the live music act who tries very hard to whip up the crowd as the clock strikes eight.  "Hi I'm Ben from Burlesdon" he says apologetically.  "I can do 400 songs so if you shout one out, there's a good chance I'll know it!" he adds somewhat optimistically.  Worried that Sheb Wooley's 'Purple People Eater', 'Smiling at Strangers on Trains' by Million Dead and 'Eighteen with a Bullet' by Pete Wingfield might not be in his repertoire, I keep schtum and am glad when 'Country Roads' and 'Candle in the Wind' stop me having to make a decision.  It is an amusing way to end another day's ticking.  

Fluffy coat gone AWOL

Back to Winchester, and before you ask, no still no single packets of crisps in Tesco!  

See you all tomorrow for my final day, again we'd have to hit the deep South.  Southampton in fact.

Si