BRAPA is ....... ONE SANDRIDGE SHORT OF A TICK-NIC - PART 1 OF 2

Finally!  A York to London Saturday with no Lincolnshire diversions.  Two hours it took me to get down, I'd forgotten it could be this good.  In St Albans for 09:40am.  My only problem now was the long wait for pubs to open.

Oh well, Snalbans is a cute town to have a mosey around.  And having been twice already in 2021 to tick off their pubs, it seems that they were ready for me third time around:

Market stall veg owners shouted at the top of their lungs, as I held on to Colin for dear life.  We'll sell him eventually, but only for a seven figure sum to a Championship outfit.

My Herts progress is going well, though frustratingly, this is my last trip down here until February for which we can blame Christmas, New Year, the FA Cup, LNER, North Yorkshire and Staffordshire.  So I really wanted to make the most of today and get my six ticks.

Note Amwell misplaced, more on that later

I stumble into a little coffee shop.  You can't have too much coffee on a pub ticking day right?  Lacks a bit of comfort, but the staff are nice.  One waitress smashes a load of cups.  Nobody says 'wayyyyyy' like they do in pubs.  If there was a physical book you could 'tick' independent coffee shops from, I'd probably do it once I've done the GBG.  More appealing than ground-hopping.

The prettiest star

I'm feeling optimistic as I go to join the old crones at the bus stop about 10:30am.  Pretty sure I've spied an 11am opener.  Okay, Google Maps says 12, that makes me slightly nervous, but surely the pub's own website, Facebook and WhatPub can't all be wrong.  Can they?  CAN THEY?

11:05am and still no sign of life at the Green Man, Sandridge.

A wander around the village, seems the only things working at this hour in this place are the local bees:

Ten past now, I can see a woman cleaning up in one of those 2020 vintage outdoor marquee things so I knock on the side, she opens a door and I ask when they are opening.  "Noon" is the answer.  I explain the pub website, Facebook and Whatpub all say 11am.  "No, noon!" she barks, and that is that.  I look down at the hole in my jeans, and turn and head away.

Now had she said "oh gosh, I am sorry, we need to address that.  You poor thing coming out here, unacceptable social media maintenance on our part.  I'll feed it back to the relevant parties, and get the three sources you mention updated immediately.  And do not hesitate to have a pint on the house when you do finally call in, if we are have done enough to warrant you returning of course", it would've softened the blow by 1%

But she didn't.  So it didn't.  The blow remained unsoftened, so to speak.  

And yes I'm aware after this weekend's events, I sound like a serial moaner, but I wrote most of this on Friday, jeez December pubbing eh?  Might take a Scottish football style 'winter break' in 2022.

Softening the blow by 0.1% was the fact that I could walk 40 minutes to the next nearest rural outpost during this 11-12 window.  And I didn't even have to walk along the road.  It diverted off to a nice country pathway, with some nice views, and some weird oldies doing a cross between a pagan ritual and some aerobics.

Like I say, it made me feel a tiny bit happier ......

Don't trust the Good Beer Guide re this next entry.  That would be my advice for anyone attempting it for the first time, despite the fact that we are immersed in their spiritual heartland of Herts. 

We'll refer to the map from earlier ......

Note 'Amwell' plotted here just south of Wareside.  This is wrong.  The pub in question is actually between Sandridge and Wheathampstead - see the far left hand side and tiny asterisk.

I think the confusion has arisen for two reasons.  South of Wareside, there is a 'Great Amwell'.  And our pub is situated on 'Amwell Lane'.  'Amwell' though is a made up place, it doesn't exist.  

The fact that there was a carpark and bus stop near here called Nomansland shows you the struggle CAMRA has in giving the pub a 'home'.  Under Wheathampstead maybe?  It is walkable.  Under St Albans?  That is the official address, but further out than Sandridge.  Maybe 'Nomansland' or 'Amwell Lane' (as Durham used to wrongly do with 'Hamilton Row') might work better?  

Just a thought if anyone is still awake.

I'm sorry.  How long is this blog gonna be before I finally get a blinkin' pint?   I'll just write about two pubs in this part, you've suffered enough.

The pub finally can be seen nestling in a hedge.  I thought the road sign was instructive too.

It is still only 11:50am, so I perch on a wet bench in the pub garden, which has a wigwam.  A bloke disappears into and never comes out.  Maybe it has a back exit?  Two families have just pulled up in cars, but it seems that they are using this pub carpark as the start of a country walk, and they eventually disappear down a path.

At 11:59am, I see a shadowy figure by the door.  Probably the Grim Reaper knowing my luck this morning, so I go and 'apply some pressure'.  The door springs open, and a #PubFamily stare back at me.  "You open yet?" I simper.  The Dad looks up at the clock, it chimes noon with a big dong (where's Russtovitch when you need him?), and he says, in a kind of Eastern European Kenneth Wolstenholme style "We are now".  Bloody 'ell I need a pint!

Elephant & Castle, Amwell (1972 / 3535) and after surprising them by saying I'm not here for food (which seems to be the exception), I'm lead down to the lower bar and presented with my second ever pint of Farr beer.  I'd been impressed with it in Slip End's Rising Sun, but despite the fact I was thirsty as a Sailor on a Thursday, I couldn't get on with this beer.  Kept well enough, just a bit light and nothing.  The pub itself is not too far off from being the perfect, atmospheric, rural getaway.  It has age, character and is a pleasing shape.   And yet, it struggles to convince, even before the dining masses arrive.  Few too many people leaving draughty doors ajar, bit excessive on the Christmas decor front (and I'm no Scrooge, I love this season to a point!), shit poppy loud piped music, plus this average pint.  When a pre-booked dining group arrived, the female members of staff suddenly come to life with high pitched 'hiiiiii's'.  What I did like, the landlady asks if they are real fans?  "We'll have two apple juice, two mulled wines and a lime and soda for Dad cos he is driving".  I think that was no.  The landlord chats to me a bit more on the way out, as I wrestle with the bane of my life, my double-zipped winter coat, and you know, it isn't 'farr' off being a decent pub.

Watch yer back Col

Keep your distance Col!

It is only a 15-20 minute stride up into Wheathampstead, a proper town with stuff going on, which is mad considering how rural this had all felt.  

Our next pub has more Farr Brewery emblems adorning the windows ...... they are takin' over the world like a Rural Herts Brewdoggery!  

A patient wait was required at Reading Rooms, Wheathampstead (1973 / 3536) with no staff to be seen in this tight little bar area, and an old bloke looking at this watch, it was obvious I was in a queue of sorts.  A large group of well fed students have been catered for, and are sat down discussing how HS2 will benefit them more than young people from Oldham, and the kind of other things mid Herts kids talk about.  Being a 'reading rooms', I browse a 1955 school annual, then a 'clump clump' of footsteps and an out of breath landlady races through, apologising to me en route for the delay.  Old bloke says nothing, but gets presented with a pint of lager.  He grunts, hands over coins and walks off.  Oh to be a pub local!  Something I will never get to experience, only marvel at.  I perch on a far leather seat for a while but am not convinced.  A trip to the loos changes this, where upstairs lies a curious broom cupboard with bog which surely Ed the Duck and Andy Crane would approve of (where's Wilson the Butler to wipe my arse?).  An empty but more pleasing seating area.  A bit like the Bursley Ale House, with nicer people, is my lazy conclusion.  Not enjoying my Farr Christmas special, Brewdolph, well kept, strong, but poorly executed (listen to BRAPA, the master brewer!), in my opinion anyway.  Farr are rapidly becoming a brewery I wouldn't turn to in my hour of need.  It is a tough drink, and as such, am in danger of missing the bus.  But not quite, next stop Harpenden.  Which I'll tell you about tomorrow.   For now, I'll leave you with the photos wot matter.  Cheers!

BRAPA in ..... WUTHERING HEIGHTS & SMOTHERING NIGHTS (From Oxenhope to Leeds)

When Kate Bush wrote her best selling novel Wuthering Heights back in 1978 about these three sisters called Bronte who lived on the hills above Keighley with their no-good vampiric pub ticking brother Bramwell Stoker, it became a smash hit overnight.

Soon, tourists were flocking to said hills, one of the consequences of course being that it allowed pubs to stop being cold one roomed ramshackle farmhouses serving one man and his dog a pint of Fosters and a bone, and meant they could broaden their horizons and indulge in real ale and scotch eggs. 

In recent BRAPA history, I've visited the wild windy moors to tick off pubs in Stanbury and Haworth in the depths of winter, and on a similar night, I found myself this way out again, looking for a pub in Oxenhope.

But when I say IN Oxenhope, I actually mean 30 minutes walk out of the village on a pavementless lane in the middle of nowhere, as close to Denholme, which is practically Bradford.

So I wrapped up warm, and started my journey where all the best journeys begin, Keighley bus station.

Rather than take a bus to Oxenhope, it was actually quicker (and potentially less dangerous traffic wise) to take the 67 bus, causing the driver great consternation by jumping off at the Trough Lane stop 'twixt Cullingworth and Denholme.  I don't think it gets used a lot. 

Luckily, I'd packed my trusty torch, as I walked along the pitch black lane, wind and icy rain whipping in my face.  You don't have to be mad to be a pub ticker, but it helps.  Gloves, hat and scarf were soon on.

No wonder the Brontes looked old before their time

I think I only saw six cars (three each way) during the course of this 23 minute walk.  Each time, I stepped up onto sodden grass verges, once I stuck my foot in a stream.  Every building I passed was a barn or some farmers lodgings.  You can imagine my relief when I reached the end of the lane, and the pub loomed out of the gloom, my final act being to wade through a large puddle or was it a flooded road, it was hard to tell even with my torch on.

I salute a waiting taxi driver (no idea why, maybe just relieved to be here) and walk in ....

Everyone turns to look at me, I pull my hat off and say 'hiiii' and it might just be me, but it felt like all the locals assembled and the bar, plus landlord and landlady had this sort of trying desperately not to laugh countenance about them!  It soon settles down as I order a very welcome pint of Knowle Spring.  Phew, welcome to the  Dog & Gun, 'Oxenhope' (1970 / 3533).  It is a bit of a curious fish.  I'd say about 40% posh dining pub (the 'reserved' tables, impressive food dominating their Facebook page and strange L.E.D. twiggy things hanging off the ceiling were a bit of a turn off).  But don't be fooled.  It does, as you'd expect from this part of the world, containing a loyal drinkers throng.  I'm told to ignore a 'reserved' sign and plonk myself down.  It has a roaring fire and one end, and the bench seating is red and plush.  A warm and cosy place.  The perfect example of the pub treading a perilous tightrope between pub and restaurant and somehow succeeding is when the landlady puts four wine glasses on the reserved table next to me.  ''Ere we go' I groan to myself, about to start drinking quicker expecting a foodie invasion.  But then, she brings over a dominos board, makes sure it is nice and level, then a set of dominoes follow.  "They've been doing this every week for years, same day, same time" she tells me.  Her hubbie then comes over and asks what brings me here, where I'm headed etc.  It was this final five minutes that won the place over for me.  A rare example of a GBG entry being able to cater for all and making a success out of it.

 

A 25-30 minute walk back into Oxenhope along more pavementless roads (more of a main road, but mercifully quiet at this time of the evening) takes me up to the bus stop next to the Bay Horse pub which I did in 2017.

The bus driver is furious throughout, effin' and jeffin' at all the traffic, he's rattling on a reet pace, no way we are sticking to the schedule.  The one other passenger, a 'please somebody think of the children' style lady, keeps turning around to look at me like "he's a maniac" but she's getting nothing back from me.  And that is because we reach Keighley eleven minutes earlier than expected, meaning I can get an earlier train I had no right to get!  #BusLegend

I feel like it is justice for my earlier efforts.

What is more, one of my three remaining West Yorkshire ticks happens to be in the City of Sin, where I have to change to get back home to York anyway.  Don't you like it when a plan comes together?

L**ds station is looking a lot better these days since I commuted on a daily basis, they've finally finished it, the 'regeneration' works started well before Covid existed and were a pain in the arse.  Despite walking the wrong way up through town initially, I soon remember Boar Lane is right at the bottom.  Ooops!  Told you it had been a while.  It is looking majestic (not like the nearby nightclub of the same name) in the cold Thursday night ....... 

'By gum, Thornbridge have spent a fair amount on this!' is my first thought as I enter Bankers Cat (1971 / 3534) , a nice name, for I am a banker and a big fan of cats.  Well apart from that scratchy thing that lives above a wardrobe in Silkstone Common.  What a fabulous place, large booths, pillars, high ceilings, almost but not quite reminiscent of the Old Bank of England in London I went to last Saturday.  I'd not been expecting anything on this scale, I've been to the York equivalent (Market Cat) twice, and whilst the staff and beer are spot on, and you can sit upstairs and overlook the market, it is pretty 'yawn' compared with the Leeds counterpart.  Thursday has been the new Friday in L**ds for many a year, and it is a young, lively crowd, few CJW's (Christmas Jumper Wankers) and one sullen barmaid who looks like she hates her job is trying to serve a circular bar of many.  I give her a 'winning' smile, order a 'Merrie' (it seems right) and try to get a smile off her.  Her cheek muscles edge up a fraction, but not quite!  I realise I'm quite on edge actually, thinking about my old working life in L**ds, and everyone looks like a sort of 'prototype' of my old colleagues.  There's Knackered Pete D, Housewife Abbie L, Liposuction Jo T, Goblin Alistair B.  A dude who manages to look like both Peter Sutcliffe AND Harry Maguire has positioned his arms in such a way that he's blocking a massive chunk of the bar like Mr Tickle would.  Then the ultimate insult as Shiny Caroline W asks if she can nick my one remaining stool.  Keane Lewis Otter needlessly to say, is terrified.  The beer is Christmas in a glass, and I finally relax, do the satisfying greening of the GBG.  Would've been a shame if I'd not been able to enjoy a pub this beautiful. 

West Yorkshire 2022 ticking .... almost done!

So there we have it!  Two to go!  Actually, I may well have finished WY ticking when I press the 'Publish' button on this blog.

Have a lovely night, or day if you are one of these monsters who doesn't read my blog the second I press the button.

Take care for now, if you're on my Twitter see you tomorrow for the BRAPA Christmas Special.  Otherwise, I'll try and blog again before Crimbo though I'm running out of free evenings!

Si 

BRAPA in .... LONDON CAULIN' (NOT to faraway towns)

 

When Daddy BRAPA revealed that more engineering works on that York-London line meant we wouldn't arrive in Kings Cross until 11:30am, I decided remaining in London for a days ticking made most sense.  Especially as we were back out on the 19:00.  Yes, I had to make the 'painful' decision to turn my back on the current brapple of my eye, Hertfordshire, and keep it simpler.

More happily (brappily?), of my EIGHT required Central London ticks, six actual opened on a Saturday.  A surprising stat for the City, from past experience.  Only the Deveraux at Temple and the Jackalope at Marylebone were letting me down on this score.

We hopped straight on a Tube, and were still a way off noon when we hit Old Street.  Tempted by a pre-emptive?

Like that thing in Birkenhead?

Sadly, it was all hair and no ale.  Not even a pint of Trim Taylor's.  Thanks, I'm here all week.

Daddy BRAPA had just finished reading the 800+ page epic that is My Mutual Friend, had loved it, and I could tell he was still immersed in a Dickensian world (he'd been quoting it on the journey down etc.), so a day like this had added fascination for him.  Particularly opposite our first pub, where we had a quick totter around Bunhill (formerly Bonehill) Fields burial ground.

Although it ceased to be a burial ground ten years before Our Mutual Friend was written, it still felt atmospheric.  Oh look at the time! 11:59am, time to put a bit of pressure on the pub.  An old man stopped to eat his sandwiches on the window sill (I thought he was looking in through the window), and a couple with pushchairs loitered, got in the way, apologised, and wheeled off to somewhere more rubbish.

Artillery Arms, Old Street (1964 / 3527) was, as it turned out, pub of the day, despite my protestations to Dad at the time that it might just be a 'sign of things to come'.  True, every pub today was strong.  But this was the best.  And as is so often the case in 12 noon Central London boozers, benefitting greatly from the lack of hustle and bustle, you could appreciate the perfectly formed interior, from the stained glass windows, to the wonky wooden bar top, to the old hooks under the bar to hang your Dickensian garments on, it was a fabulous place.  Our barmaid had a distinctive Yorkshire accent (she didn't utter enough vowels to predict exactly where, I'd guess 'West'), and a Happy Eater badge, which Dad admired on the way out, but she looked confused, as though she'd always wondered what that orange faced lunatic with his finger in his mouth was all about.  She also enthused over our ale choice, a Fullers winter ale called Jack Frost.  A nice ale I've had before down at their Chiswick Brewery Tap, but in true Central London tradition, it lacked condition and was approaching tired.  This can be the only reason this gem of a boozer hasn't been in a previous GBG in BRAPA memory.  But it wasn't enough to stop me recommending this pub to you now in the most enthusiastic way possible.

Dad knocking over the Christmas decoration when removing his coat was a 'moment of drama'

Onto pub two, a short stop back to Farringdon where I'd recently hopped off to visit the Hand & Shears, another famous pub I'd only just seen in the GBG.  

Dropped this year in favour of our next pub, any pub ticker will tell you the Central London 'churn' is particularly high, yet it isn't due to the usual emergence of brewhouses, taps and canteens, they generally manage to magic street corner boozers out of thin air that have been there for centuries.  Rewarding for the poor souls who've done 90%+ of the GBG who must feel starved when it comes to traditional entries.  Pub two was a great example of this .....

Dad's monstrous expression (caused by weird bench man) would set scene for many future outdoor poses today

Sutton Arms, Farringdon (1965 / 3528) was another strong pub, hanging nonchalantly off a street corner with a fag in its mouth uttering 'what of it' like Central London pubs love to do.  A surprisingly long carpetted interior took us on to the bar, where I start telling the friendly barman it is too early for me to be having a 6% Victorian Mild (plus ESB is always in the back of my mind).  But with his current Dickensian mindset, Daddy BRAPA only goes and bloody orders it.  #PubMan   Okay, so I end up helping him finish it, and by gum, nowt much mild about this mild, blow your socks off mild!  The atmosphere is fairly boisterous, a little bit 'oi oi mi' cockney sparra' as West Ham are playing Chelsea on a big screen above our heads.  The pub as one seems to be on the side of the Hammers, and isn't it nice to see how Hull City's training methods didn't manage to ruin Jarod Bowen as a player whilst he was with us.  Good boozer this one, it lacked something that the Artillery Arms had which has hard to define, but in its own right, very solid. 

BRAG can absolutely bugger off.  They'll be hearing from my lawyers. 

Back at Farringdon underground, time for the bladder wrenching Circle line train round to Temple.  

Fear not though, the cogs were whirring in Daddy BRAPA's mind - I could feel a joke coming on.

He waits until we are at the relevant station to unleash his humour.  "Why can't Ken dance at the disco?" he asks.  "Why can't Ken dance at the disco, Dad?" I reply, suddenly feeling as tired as my pint in the Artillery.  

"I dunno, but Barbi-can".

Even I was temporarily lost for words.

A short walk took us to the Strand, which is on the Monopoly board so it must be popular.  As Dad predicts, our peace and calm is over, even if the next pub is next door to Twinings Tea.  Everything stops for tea?  Not around here it bloody doesn't.  It is also opposite the Royal Courts of Justice they are always stood outside on the BBC news.  To the left, a group of protestors have placards.  

We nearly miss the pub in all the kerfuffle, with its black and white timbered frontage, Dad does well to get a decent photo with no one walking in front of me.

George, Temple (1966 / 3529) is an absolute heaving throng of tourists n over indulged Londoners.  But let's not forget the witch like crone hiding behind the entrance door who winked at us on arrival, she was like something from a film!  A paid extra?  Dad goes to the back of the pub in the hope of finding some kind of seat, whilst I use my elbows Shearer style to muscle in at the bar.  The embattled barmaid landlady sets her jaw square and tells me "you'll need to speak up, dear!" as I get two 4.8% porters in, not wise strength but not many of the other beers grab me.  I can tell she's quite a character, she makes a joke about the name 'Powerhouse Porter' but it is my turn to want her to 'speak up dear' but I chicken out!  After waiting for a procession of poxy, ruddy faced well fed tossers to eff off, I carry our jugs of ale through to a side perching area, where Dad has done miraculously to get anything in the way of seating.  Behind him, a young lady watches a film on her tablet, headphones in, totally motionless.  A bit too motionless for Dad, who has to edge her back so we have enough room.  A trip to the gravity defying drop which is the loos (always a feature of central London ticking), a staff member asks a placard lady what it's all about.  "Stop the tyranny in Australia!" she cries, and if it is about Channel 5 not letting the UK catch up with Australia on Neighbours, I'd heartily concur, but it is EVEN heavier than that, something about genocide against Aborigine tribes.  "Ooo 'eck" I contribute, Penfold style, before dashing off to the loo, leaving the staff guy stood there looking like a stunned mullet.

This next pub, a short walk away, stirred some vague memories in the recesses of the BRAPA brain.

A dark, rainy winter's midweek evening many years ago, I remember feeling drunk, and a procession of commuter brollies close to stabbing me in the eye, I'd decided to try and get two late 'ticks' in despite my state, before a train back to York.

A grand interior, full of pillars and a very impressive ceiling, no seats so I had to perch on a ledge in the centre with my pint.  Was it this next place?  Thing is, I've scoured the BRAPA spreadsheets, and the blogs, and there is absolutely no mention of this moment! How odd. 

He must be a Clydesdale man

As a banker, who no longer has even an office to visit, I always like coming to fabulous former banks, and they don't get any more jaw dropping than this.  From an age where if you said you were a banker, you'd be afforded a bit of respect.  Not have some snotty wheezing sweaty Notts taxi driver at 5am say "oh!" and then press a button so the fare is going up in increments of 20p instead of the previous 10p.  Old Bank of England, Temple (1967 / 3530) ladies and gentlemen, lighter, brighter, but not shiter than the George.  McMullens of Hertford knew what they were doing when they bagged this place.  It is an absolute farce at the bar, that puts me in mind of my Dec '19 trip to Manchester's Pilcrow.  A poor ginger guy in a woollen sweater is feeling the heat, as the woman before me keeps adding to her order.  "Oh, and a jug of water".  "Oh, and another lager".  "Oh, and some nuts".  "I'm really sorry about this" whispers ginger guy.  "Not your fault mate!" I say, just relieved he's clocked me and he's serving me next out of about ten thirsty people.  £48 her round finally comes to!   Dad's again played a blinder re grabbing us a seat, to the rear, lovely old coins built into the table, and gives us a different perspective of a very grand place.  The bogs are the piece de resistance, green tiling immaculate, better than 90% of actual pubs you'll go to.  I later find our ginger hero (not Tom) in there, shaking at a urinal (not like that, actual stressed shaking!) Poor chap.  Who'd work in a bar?  Not me.  

Just when you thought our London day was all out of surprises, a short trip to Charing Cross / Embankment found us another famous gem, not on the BRAPA radar til the 2022 Guide. 

Funnily enough, back in September when I visited Stoke's bod and commented on the split bar, someone on my Twitter mentioned this 'similar' experience.  It meant nothing to me at the time as this pub wasn't in the Guide, but now at is, whilst bod has been (rightly IMO) dropped for the Glebe.  Funny old game ain't it Saint? 

So this'll blow your minds and I'm sorry I couldn't get a wider angled shot to do it justice, but Ship & Shovell, Charing Cross (1968 / 3531) is a pub on both sides of the road, connected by an underground tunnel!  A BRAPA first.  I think.  Not sure if the tunnel is for public use, my mind was too addled to be curious by pub five.  We went in the larger side which we suspected was the Shovell (or is it the Ship?  OR are both sides both?  Who knows).  Not often you get Badger ales on cask either, Dad and I both opted for a strong delicious Tanglefoot, exorcising the ghosts of a past dreadful pint of it pre-Tottenham 2008 just outside Gospel Oak station.  One bloke was well excited by the Badger range, he dialled his Untappd up to 11, and asked for a bottle of everything, including bottles they didn't have.  He looked like he was going to cry.  Not often you see Untappd experts drinking outside their homes.  I needed a wee and worked out it was quicker to go across the street, a snugger, probably better but even more packed space in here, but at least I got to witness it.  Was standing room only too, even in the large side, hence our bar observation.  Unique, and I must say, quality stuff.  One pub to go!

The one piece of evidence I went to the smaller 'pub'

A few stops on the Bakerloo line followed.  Baker Street / Marylebone, we hopped off at one of the two.  Don't ask me, now wasn't the time for intricate details. 

Considering the posh location, Barley Mow, Marylebone (1969 / 3532) was probably the most community feeling belts n' braces pub of the day.  A perfect pint of Tim Taylor Landlord was served to us by a perky chap who looked like every Irish player who played for Hull City between 2005-2015.  I asked if we could sit on some stools near the Christmas tree, and share these blokes table, but all I got was a lot of dissenting cockney noise, so we had to stand around the corner, near the pub darts league / tribute to some bloke who died young.  I notice a star in the GBG signifies it is a heritage pub too, not always the sign of a good pub, always the sign of a good building, luckily this was both.  In some ways, it was a return to the kind of atmosphere we'd started with at the Artillery, and I like it when BRAPA achieves a certain perfect symmetry.   Eventually, a couple buggered off so we got sat down for the final third of our pints.  Top end to a top day.

And always nice to finish your drinking session just when the rest of the world are starting theirs.  This group of Santa's seemed fairly well behaved I thought, but I bet they weren't by 10pm, and where was Rudolph to get them over the ticket barrier for free anyway?

Of course, there was one final cherry to apply to the icing atop the cake of London pub goodness before we got the train home.  

It rhymes with BSE and makes me mad as a cow .....

Moo!

Col high fiving a pint of ESB - #PubCaul

I really enjoyed writing that one.  London truly is great if you do it right.

I'm Thirsty Thursdaying tomorrow, but as things are hotting up in the run up to Christmas, I'm still going to aim to release last week's Thirsty Thursday blog when I get back like 10-11pm!

Take care, Si