BRAPA in ...... MY HERTS WILL GO ON (..... but not for much longer Celine)

21st May 2022 was BRAPA judgement day in Hertfordshire.  And as long as nothing silly happened (by which I mean pubs being unexpectedly closed, or barring me for swearing or using electronic devices), I'd have a fully green Herts by teatime.  

Our old BRAPA illuminati Simon Dewhurst was at the wheel.   It was important that Simon was here to share the possible glory.  He'd been so instrumental in helping me complete Essex, but had missed the final Bures climax.  

He'd already helped me with the likes of Allen's Green and Green Tye, and may I just say it is purely coincidental that he normally appears when the pubs have a limited public transport service!

I wasn't meeting him until 12:30 so time to squeeze in an early London opener, get the day off to a good start.  The Sunderland fans (en route to Wembley for the play off final) had been extremely well behaved on the way down, but I couldn't shake them off.  Every Tube stop, every street corner, even at Lambeth North!  Poor Wycombe were gonna be seriously outnumbered.  

Pub one was a very London-esque looking Fullers house ......

The door was wide open as you can see, at Hercules, Lambeth North (2215 / 3777) but being only 9:55am, I respectfully hang around for five minutes looking at wedding dresses in a nearby window in a non-committal way.  Big Ben bonged 10, and I stroll in all casual like alongside a lady with a laptop and a takeaway coffee.  "Hiiiiiiiiii" she says to the barmaid.  "Hiiiiii you!" says the barmaid, "it is my last day working here!"   "Wooohooo, well done youuuuuuu, I'm late for work but I don't care because I'm the one who opens up anyway lolz" says laptop lady trying to sound like a business owner.  A barman joins in.  "Youuuu guyyyyss" he says, channelling his inner Goonie.  He's the most London looking twentysomething ever.  Poor BRAPA (that's me) is merely a bit part character in this jolly morning scene.  I order a Hophead (£5.80, should I even be surprised?) and trudge off, bowed head, to a far away table.  The beer is good for London.  I often notice beer quality in London GBG pubs is one of the most variable (which is a polite word for shit).  I'm not alone for long.  A bloke sits on the table adjacent to mine.  Maybe he wants company, or my radiated body warmth?  He's ordered three thirds.  One black, two murky.  I bet he's an Untappd filth merchant!  My curiosity gets the better of me and we get chatting.  I was right.  Nice guy, his son has a music lesson across the road, so this is his Saturday morning routine, and he gets new beers to try each time in here.  I detect an accent.  European?  I'm thinking Dutch.  I ask.  "Ah, zat eez difficult!" he says.  "Go on, I won't judge" I assure him.  "Russia!"  I assure him I won't 'boo' him, though I do finish my drink before I go to the loo in case it gets Novichocked.  Joking of course.  Looked more of an Polonium man.  Time for Herts?  I think so.

I make my way to Hertford North via Finsbury Park.  Quick check on the latest football scores.....

Come on youuuuu Spiders!

After a short wait, Simon D appears.  Sadly no Daddy Dewhurst day today but he is here in spirit.

We start at the pub that shuts at mid afternoon, even on a Saturday, so you can probably already guess it is remote, independent, run by people who are getting a bit long in the tooth, and has had the same regulars for the last 50 years.  i.e. My kinda pub!

And I wasn't disappointed, Chequers, Wareside (2216 / 3778) was a cracker, if a bit weird.  But we like weird. Wareside already had their bunting up for the forthcoming jubilee because "nothing else happens here."   There are low beams, the old classic 'newspaper rack' (when Simon last came here, they had to fish the newspaper out of the bin so a demanding customer could read the obituary of someone I can't remember, Simon will know).  The best room of the lot is a sort of 'library', huge book shelf, sadly a couple waiting for cheesy chips are stopping us from getting a closer look.  The bar is low, and there is much snackage behind including the new weirdly branded Pringles, a bit like a village shop set up.  The landlady pulls me a pint of the house ale 'Treacle Mine IPA'.  Can anyone enlighten me as to why it is called that?  Great drop, in a Bass glass too.  She is both very engaged, and very absent, at the same time.  Singing to herself, eyes glazing over, at various moments, proper chatty in others!  The pub phone is ringing off the hook.  What a popular place.  She generally ignores it, until one moment she rushes towards it.  "Hello Roger!"  she squawks.   A local starts chatting radish and lettuce. Simon says I should keep Colin well hidden.  I apply a bit of aftershave in the gents, I don't think the top has been off it since the 70's.  It makes me smell like a Persian prince. Time to go.  Quite a whirlwind pub experience!

THREE TO GO!  

Next for the awkward journey north, but for once Google Maps SatNav lady is being very detailed and vocal in her instructions.  We are impressed.  She totally ignored Daddy BRAPA when he asked her about Appleton Wiske the following day.  Typical southerner.  Think nothing north of the Watford Gap exists.

Pub two looked a little bit like this, a font almost as spectacular as Chequers A-Team tribute .....

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The most northerly and remote of the day, Blind Fiddler, Anstey (2217 / 3779) was a new one for Simon too, so we had no idea what to expect.  We're faced by a smiling couple behind the bar, and two local barflies acting as bookends, for once, they seem genuinely pleased to see some new faces they don't recognise.  It is the friendliest pub today, and I can tell the locals approve of Simon's interest in the Eagle IPA a lot more than my 61 Deep choice.  I foolishly show an interest in the two draught Martini cocktails - passionfruit and espresso.  To my surprise / horror, the landlord pulls me one of each.  If these were tasters, they were extremely generous measures!  I get stuck into them, but everyone is laughing.  Seems they didn't expect me to down both!  Phew!  Bit wasteful though.   The pub interior is quite bland considering the colourful characters, but no bother, the garden is a delight, the far end backing onto fields, no fence or partition, a farmer could just jump off his combine harvester straight into the pub.  Superb views.  After an awkward piss in the West Ham sponsored gents alongside our friendly guv, I can finally sit down and enjoy my pint.  Rural Herts at its most obscure!

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Speaking of rural and obscure, my second favourite moment of the day happened next.

"I've got a very, very pre-emptive for you" announces Simon, by which he meant it was a total long shot for future GBG inclusion, rather than a nailed on 2023 cert.

It was down the thinnest of country lanes in the middle of nowhere, probably nearest Great Hornmead which has a shut former GBG entry.  The type of road where grass grows in the middle and if you meet a vehicle head on, someone's gonna have to back up for a mile to find a passing point.  Reminds me of the Belchamps in Essex or Mummy and Daddy BRAPA's recent trip to Upper Llanover's Goose n Cuckoo.

Simon is doing some brewery liaison officer style work for them, and wants to pop in and buy some cans.  I joke we could do with 'drinking in' for the tick to count.

Simon makes a bold proclamation.  "I tip these guys to be as a big as Verdant".  I nod sagely like I understand what this means.  He steps out of the car, the building looks deserted and locked, he tries ringing a number whilst I pose and offer no help whatsoever.

Turns out that Mr Baron is on a stag do in Brighton, but have no fear because the lovely tousle haired Miss Baron, formerly of Cheltenham and Edinburgh, appears.  Welcome to Baron Brewing Co.  Not only does she let us in and force me to buy three cans when I only want two #PubWoman, but gives us a can of this 8% stuff called Hen's Tooth not fit for public consumption.  Tasted amazing to me, no way this can be 8%, and with Simon driving, I have to drink the majority.  After those Martini cocktails too!  Hic!  Maybe missing my ESB later wouldn't be such a bad thing?  We have a lovely chat, I make myself unpopular by suggesting Glasgow is twice the city of Edinburgh (which it obviously is).  I ask if they have a loo, more in hope than expectation, and I'm let into the house!  She apologises for the bric-a-brac chaotic state of flux scene that greets us, but I only want an empty bladder and to admire the full size snooker table in the corner.  Apparently, the pockets aren't big enough for it to be used at the Crucible.  We all stand chatting a bit more, yes the outdoors does currently have a 'gypsy commune' style feel, but I bet they're planning on building a taproom.  I say I just hope they don't build it in another part of the yard, or rules state I have to come back!  After more wise nodding from me (this time something about a collab with a secret London brewer), it is time for us to thank her and get back to the Si-mobile.  

Ready to wheel my three cans back to York

Everything had been so quirky so far today, it was probably time that we had something of a lull, which is what happened as we arrived in Buntingford (which unlike Wareside, didn't have any bunting up, which just ain't right is it?)  

It's not that there was anything wrong with the Crown, Buntingford (2218 / 3780) , it was a decent all rounder, a bit of a Steady Eddie.  The kinda pub where if it was a footballer, it would make 400 career appearances for a League Two club in defence, scoring 2 goals, one a fluke, get a nice testimonial and a ripple of applause from the fans who'd never really noticed him on the pitch or the past 12 years.  Being a Simon D day, I HAD to go for Woodforde's Wherry even though the St Austell Trelawny looked tempting and reminds me of that pub near Par which serves Bass forever, but hides it so you end up on the Trelawny by mistake.  The Wherry is a tiny bit warm and clarty like a liquified lung.  Luckily, the pub came to life in the latter stages when an old lady in a wheelchair tried to lift her zimmer up and into the pub.  "Wahey, don't worry I know how it get it up!" she cackles with a wink.  Everyone cackles back.  A man with one tooth says something I suspect might be rude.   I realise everyone in Buntingford is a bit other wordly.  Simon had already pointed out that every car in the village has its hazard lights on.  It reminds me a bit of Garstang and Royston Vasey in an unholy matrimony.  Remote but big enough to make an impact.

ONE PUB TO GO!! C'MON!!

My Herts adventure for a good few years (that's what I said when I completed Essex, but me and Simon are already devising a summer mop-up operation!) ends in the sleepy little village of Braughing, mainly because the pub doesn't open til 3pm on a Saturday THE ABSOLUTE MONSTERS. 

The sun is shining as we pull into the side of the main street.  A bright pink (think RetiredMartin Stabilo) pub is glimmering at us, plenty of people drinking outside the front of the pub.

But hang on, I glance at the name and this isn't the pub I need, this is something non GBG! 

We glance in the direction of the GBG pub, hidden behind some cars, no signs of life.  "Uh oh, it doesn't look very open!" says Simon.  "Please don't say that, can't be beaten at the final hurdle!" I squeal like a pregnant otter.

We cross the road ..... and thankfully, there is a different door from the one Simon was looking at, and this one is slightly ajar.  Phew!

The door creaks open at the Brown Bear, Braughing (2219 / 3781).  A beautiful looking pub inside, the tiles, fireplace, decor all chime with the sound of a rural Herts bygone age, not unlike the Wareside Chequers.  One problem.  Well, two problems.  It is quite dark.  And it is totally deserted.  And I don't just mean zero customers, who are all next door at the Pink Stabilo Arms and obviously don't own a GBG, but no one behind the bar either.  We stand and wait.  I've come this far, I'll lean over and 'do a Duncan', as it is known in the trade, if needs be.  A few seconds later, a landlord appears.  Puffing and blowing, but with the kindliest face in the business.  I bet when he was a baby, people said "he'll be perfect for a customer facing role when he grows up".  Such a nice man.  Takes me too long to decide between Boltmaker and Harveys, I go the former cos having a northern constitution, Harvey's sometimes upsets my gut, even if I've had my morning Actimel.  The pint is great, but I've savoured it too long, time has really gotten away from me, think I've been in an olde worlde pub trance!  Simon's looking at me like 'you planning on finishing that any time today?'   'Quick, back to Hertford North!'  I think, suddenly feeling guilty as I promised to buy my Sunderland friend a celebratory Parcel Yard ESB before his train home.

HERTS COMPLETE!  And it is all the more satisfying that there aren't any I've had to cross out due to long term closure or other GBG deletion reasons, so it really is fully green.

Oooh, 'interesting' stat ..... it was exactly a year to the day since I fully greened Surrey.

Back in London, my Sunderland marra has decided to dash off anyway so I promise I'll buy him a pint in Maltings when we're back in York in midweek.  "At Parcel Yard ESB prices, you might have to buy me two!" he says.  Nice try!

I realise I'm on the Grand Central, which goes direct to Sunderland!  Uh oh, this is gonna be fun(!)

But it is a strangely chilled out journey!  A dry train, boo, as I was gonna drink my Baron cans to make up for the lack of ESB.  I fully expect the Mackems to not care about the dry train rule and go mental, but they observe all the rules, ordering Tangos and Coffees galore.

I'm on a table of four, and three lads stick some Sunderland Fried Chicken on the table and invite me to dig in.  When they finish it quickly, they announce "well that was short lived!" and I'm thinking they mean the chicken, but they actually mean their time sat with me, as they then leap up out of their seats and sit with their mate a few tables down.  End result, a table of 4 to myself all the way to York!

What's more, when one bloke cries "WE'VE ONLY BLOODY GONE AND DONE IT LADS, CHAMPIONSHIP HERE WE COME!" the other Sunderland fans in the carriage hush him up, one even shouts across "can we please wait until we get back to Sun'lan before the party starts?"  

I could never have envisaged a journey back quite so uneventful and calm.

I've decided in the absence of Parcel Yard ESB and cans on the train, I'll pop into York Tap for last orders.  But the station is crawling with racegoing pissheads, so I go straight home, planning to have a can of Baron with a bit of Keto supper, but when it comes to it, I decide I'd prefer a glass of lemon barley!

Thanks for reading and see you all on Sunday for more county completion joy.

Si

BRAPA in ..... A PAIN IN THE GARS-TANG : OUTER PRESTON PT 2

Spicy Scotch egg if you were wondering what's in the foil (you weren't)

Garstang.  I had been warned.  Boxing Day 2018 to be precise. I was trying to escape from the Plungington part of Preston on foot.  There'd been a stabbing, and I'd had to take my pint back (those two events weren't related), and my regular tour guide / BRAPee in this parts, Matthew 'SeetheLizards' Lawrenson, said "just wait until you have to do Garstang!"

Well, 3.5 years later, that day had finally come.

But it wasn't too bad when I stepped off the bus into the #ThirstyThursday sunshine, if you ignore the old lady in dressing gown and sunglasses crossing the road towards me.

It is the location of Garstang which is the weirdest thing for me.  A thirty minute bus ride north of Preston, thirty minutes further north to Lancaster.  Morecambe and Fleetwood look just as far west.  And to the east, well nothing apart from swathes of Bowland Forest.  Considering all that, you could forgive any local for being slightly, for want of a better phrase, six fingered.  Not their fault.

Mr Lawrenson would be joining me shortly, he'd been asleep so missed the bus I was on, so for now, I braved this tick alone, amongst the sharks and the treasure ......

Nothing to be fearful of at Th' Owd Tithe Barn, Garstang (2211 / 3774), a pub/restaurant since the 1970's, and perhaps its relative history is what made it amongst the most palatable of this GBG sub-genre that I had ever witnessed.   The ancient farming implements were displayed on the walls with such gay abandon, they actually screamed 'instruments of torture', a warning for the casual day tripper (if casual day trippers are a thing in Garstang?) to STAY AWAY.  Of course, it could've all just been in my head, but when a seed has been planted there for 3.5 years, it is hard to shift.  A weird semi-circular style queue has formed around the bar.  One young lady is holding everyone else up.  She has forgotten she has already paid.  When she realises, she rolls her eyes at herself, silently bollocks herself, and sheepishly disappears.  One bloke wants a Tim Taylor Landlord, so being next in line, I get the same.  The quality on it is A*, the pub truly worthy of its place in the GBG.  A cyclist, bulging disgustingly in his fluorescent lycra, wants to see food menus.  The staff are funny.  Jordan hasn't realised Emma has finished pulling the first pint, and is juggling glasses in a daydream state.  "What ya doin', I finished mine ages ago?!" she tells him.  But Jordan retaliates with "you've locked me out of my til".  Check mate.  Sorry Emma, but Jordan wins this round.  Matthew arrives, and good, because a bloke on high stool swirling a set of keys who might be a maintenance man or a stalker is glaring at me and Colin.  Staff keep asking if he wants something.  He never does.  Matthew doesn't want to be a 'BRAPA Crapper' so just gets himself a half so we don't miss the next bus.  Surprisingly easy place to enjoy a drink, think Brunning & Price but less formulaic and a bit more heart.  

The bus chugged on in a Lancasterly direction, Matthew showing me all these abandoned buildings and Indian restaurants which were once pubs, including one containing a pool table he puked on when he was a mere stripling twild.  Where is the blue plaque?  

We arrived into Lancaster at school chucking out time, so it was a bit of a crawl towards the bus terminus.  

I've been here on two previous BRAPA outings, yet I managed to still have three 'new' ticks to do.  

Part of the reason might be the decision to put in new wildcard GBG entries with very little longevity, like this first one  ......

Cornerhouse, Lancaster (2212 / 3775) or Corner Ouse due to the missing 'H' on the sign indoors, thankfully had enough oddities to stop it being from as bland as it looked on face value. Matthew recalled that our old pub ticker mate RetiredMartin had a woeful time here at the height of pub restrictions, told off for not observing one way systems etc.  A peculiarly jolly customer who can't be more than 21 seems to be having a ladz party for one, propping up the bar, loving life.  Matthew makes a comment at one point, mildly amusing but forgettable now, the lad is wetting himself with glee.  He has the rosiest cheeks I've seen in BRAPA 2022 to date.  When I ask if the sweets on the bar (Haribo the most prominent) are complimentary, I'm talking more to the barman and Matthew, he interjects and chucks over a cocktail menu and tells me I should get on 'em. Sure enough, there's a Haribo one, and I realise these sweet treats are cocktail 'add-ons' and not the modern day equivalent of nuts, crisps, scratchings and bread & dripping!  I order a Bowland ale off the friendly bar dude, it starts off great but is vinegary by the end.  There was also a tiny (quite mummified) dead fly stuck to the edge of my pint glass!   "Good protein for your Keto diet" says Matthew.  He has a point.  Ever visited a pub and wondered what on earth decision making went into putting the place in the GBG?  Well that was here.

IF Col looked regal above in the most giant pub seat in memory, my spirits are lifted when I notice that Lancaster has knighted me and given me my own arcade ......

Our next pub looks to have more promise ......

I'm declaring John o' Gaunt, Lancaster (2213 / 3775) my favourite of all Lancaster pubs, dating way back to July 2016 when I made my debut in Merchants.  And yes, I know what you purists are thinking. 'Why not the Three Mariners?' but for all the lovely historical feel, I found the lack of space a bit impossible and uncomfortable.  And the White Cross?  Nice but a little bit odd, quite unusual too, though I hear some people say they adore it more than Wizadora. JoG was special though, proper down to earth pubbing, the likes of which I've not experienced in Lancaster before.  Landlady is great, and can see my bewildered look as I note the bar blockers lined up along the bar, but a mini blackboard in the centre saying "table service only".  She quickly removes the blackboard and says "we don't do that unless it is really busy".  Shame, it would've made a cracking photo.  Matthew's got a smile on his face too, but that's cos he's spied Titanic Plum Porter.  Shame it is a Colin day, and not a Pedro one.  And what with Old Peculiar, some cracking Oakham's, and Unicorn for the purist codger, I'd say this is some good beer range.  And more importantly (cos 'beer range' is never the sign of a good pub alone), plenty of folk in here to shift it.  AND she offers us a CAMRA discount!  Identified as CAMRA members?  Never feels like the compliment it probably did in 1975.  We sat by the beautifully curved semi circular stained glass window seat, only Barclays can spoil the view.  Old blokes chat, place could do with a pub cat, and that is that.

One pub to go, and Matthew has to contort his entire body into positions no human should have to, unless they are a yoga instructor or trained limbo dancer (he might be both, I never asked) but that is how dedicated he is to get the best and most artistic BRAPA shot possible ....... #PubMan

Jailor's Barrel, Lancaster (2214 / 3776) is the pub in which I can fully green the town, or is it city, for another year.  The weird 16:30 opening time, even on a Thursday, was the reason we saved it for last.  A Hydes pub, and on my shiny Hydes wall chart, I'm pinning it closer to the James Watts in Cheadle than the Robin Hood at Helmshore.  Not as bright, shiny and tinny as the JW, but it isn't through want of trying, just that we are the only customers so far.  Saturday afternoons might be different.   Having enjoyed my 'Ralf & Alf' so much in Cheadle, I go with their 'Bone Grubber' this time cos I like the name.  I cannot locate the so called hints of orange, it just tastes like decent real ale to me.  'Lancasters Friendliest Pub' says the blackboard - another thing which is hard to test with so few folk about. A couple of Gandlafian CAMRA men follow us in from the John o' Gaunt, one grunts at me in the loo which I'm taking as a friendly gesture.  And there we have it, four more pubs towards my quest of getting a fully green Lancs by the end of the summer.

We train it back to Preston (I don't fancy an hour long bus ride after 4 pints with THIS bladder).

Although it would've been nice to squeeze in my Leyland or Bamber Bridge ticks today, again I put them on the back burner for 'outer Preston Pt 3' which is coming up this week (my last Thirsty Thursday til late June so I'm determined to make the most of it!)  

By the time I reach York, and remembering work want me to do 9-5 instead of the usual 8-4, I decide to pop into the always decent York Tap for a couple .... and enjoyable it is too.

Early Green Day if you wondered!

Join me either tomorrow or Wednesday for some heart warming tales of #CountyCompletionWeekend

Thanks for listening, Si