BRAPA is ...... SKARED IN THE SKIRRID (Gwenty is Plenty Pt 2/12)

Looking back now, the long walk back from Llangattock Lingoed to the main road and Skirrid Inn was actually not so bad.

Despite the multitude of aches and pains I don't like to talk about, it was mainly downhill which helped.  I could be proud of my epic three pub achievement.  And I found it quite fun to try and memorise my way along Offa's Dyke path, passing through each field from memory, trying not to 'cheat' and look at my phone! 

The big question mark that remained was the bus back to Abergavenny.  The landlady in Cwmyoy had been so adamant that this 18:57 last bus of the day didn't exist, it made me nervous.  Google Maps and Bustimes.org listed it.  Why would they lie?  I was reassured by a bus timetable stuck to the stop, indicating a bus time of 19:07.  Different time, but it suggested a late bus existed.

Time to try and relax and get myself a pint in this 'Most Haunted' pre/post-emptive ......

I'd never have believed what an epic experience Skirrid Inn, Llanvihangel Crucorney would become when I first entered.  First impressions were ones of disappointment.  A dining led pub, obviously ancient, but with so many families and kids with their faces in the trough, any hopes of picking up an 'atmosphere' or getting a glimpse of the ghostly Judge Jim Jeffries (loved him at Falkirk) seemed unlikely.  In fact, it reminded me of the Jamaica Inn at Bolventor, though less sprawling, less like a museum.  London Pride is the exciting guest ale I hadn't witnessed so far, so I order a pint of that and then do my best 'Columbo' to the barmaid ..... "Oh, and one more thing, does a bus run from here around 7pm?"  Her reply isn't exactly satisfactory. "Buses, from here?  Cooo, I never notice them, wouldn't have a clue sorry!"  Useless.  I sit in the smaller right hand room with less food and more locals.  Problem is they a foul mouthed overly physical bunch of hyped up weirdos who make my skin crawl.  I suspect cocaine may have been snorted off a haunted sink.  The eldest one in suit and pink tie comes over to clear empty glasses off my table.  "I don't work here, and I find myself doing this!" he grumbles, but no one asked him.  A certificate on the wall beside me indicates that the South Gloucestershire Paranormal Society have 'successfully investigated the pub' .... but does that mean they found ghosts or not?  My experience becomes more surreal when a sweaty cyclist man comes in and puts a tupperware box on the bench opposite.  He sees me peering at it.  "Mushrooms, freshly foraged today" he proudly explains, taking the lid off for me to have a look!  I return to the bar for a half, but not liking the atmosphere, I take it through the back, past the ghostly figure on the stairs and the 'hanging beam' and sit in the garden.  This is pleasant for about ten minutes, until my bladder fills up and an evening chill descends.  Right, bus time, cross your fingers, and yer legs ......

Made it into the GBG?  No, and I'm not too surprised, though the Pride drank well, and knowing Cwmyoy wasn't gonna make the cut this year, I thought it had an outside chance.

Jim Jeffries

Freshly foraged

At the bus stop, I wait.  And I wait a bit more.  18:57 and 19:07 come and go,  darkness descends.  Eventually, a local couple park their car in the bus stop and start unloading a load of stuff from the boot.  "Does this mean there's no late bus service?" I ask them, but like the barmaid, they seem bewildered by the concept of a bus (even though they run two hourly through here during the day).  Bustimes.org has a live tracker, but no buses on this route. Time to give up the ghost, so to speak.

Back in the pub, time for another drink and try and get a taxi, or spend the night here?  That'd be interesting.

Before I've even got to the bar, one of the white shirted cocaine lads from earlier asks if I'm okay, where I've been, what my predicament is.  Phew!  Seems quite nice really, for a total chancer.  "My mate does unofficial taxi'ing, he'll get you back to Abergavenny no problem, I'll ring him now matey!" he tells me before I can speak.  Well he's on the phone, and he tells his mate he's met this desperate guy (i.e. me) who is willing to pay ANYTHING (errrm, no) and then breaks off to tell me £23 and I'm standing there open mouthed working out just how ripped off I'm being, when a couple within earshot look up from their surf n turf, horrified, and tell me they'll take me back for free if I give them half an hour to finish their meal.  Result!

I tell our shirted wide-boy thanks but no thanks, he says no worries mush, and starts quizzing me on BRAPA (and the highly pre-emptive Llanthony Priory bar where he works, which I mentioned in Part One) so I tell him that whilst I'm at the bar buying myself an HPA, I'll get him a drink too.  Of course he wants Madri.  So I'm just reaching for the GBG to show him what I need to do in Gwent seeing as he seemed fascinated, but when I look up, and he's been distracted by a girl who's just arrived who he obviously fancies, and he's just follows her into the other room, the last words I hear from him are ".... and some random guy has just bought me a pint!"  

Oh well.  My HPA goes down well and I try not to stare too intently at our surf n turf heroes in case they leave without me!  

But they keep their promise, and after a weird moment in the Gents with another white shirted crazy man who can't get his zipper to fasten so doesn't want me to hold the door open, we drive off to Abergavenny.

They reveal they are off to the Bridge Inn at Llanfoist.  "Ooh that is on my list too, and next to where I'm staying!" I tell them.  "But, you are doing the two in Abergavenny aren't you?" they say, terrified I might try and join them and ruin their 'together time'. 

They drop me at Morrisons, and then I do a massive Tesco shop (it made sense at the time) and head to the first of my two pubs in town ......

It was perhaps my physical and mental state of exhaustion, but the Grofield, Abergavenny (2419 / 3983) passed me by to a large extent.  I always feel like I'm blending in with the locals when I'm lugging a large shopping bag around a pub, especially on a busy Saturday evening.  The pub was bright, very bright, too bright, that is my abiding memory.  Friendly too (quite why the barman found the word 'Glamorgan' so funny, I'll never know), and it had a decent house beer which I was glad about because I was already feeling that HPA and Butty Bach's dominance was a bit overwhelming, even on day one!  Welsh mascot Brekkie the Sheep (bought for me by Mummy BRAPA on her trip to Brecon) guards my shopping whilst I find the outdoor loos.  A group of yoofs lurking in the courtyard tell their mate he smells of school changing rooms after over spraying the Lynx Africa.  AND, I didn't realise this at the time but their is a song called Abergavenny which sadly wasn't played here but I must listen to one day.

Well, due to that epic Skirrid Inn experience, I'll leave it here for now, and tell you about four pubs in part three in two days time!  Hope that makes sense.

Good night, Si 

BRAPA in ..... THE LLONGEST WALK : LLANTHONY TO LLANGATTOCK LINGOED (Gwenty Is Plenty Pt 1/12)

 

Ouch!  I was barely able to move by the end of my first day in Gwent (or through much of my second day), and I ended up dreaming I needed a double hip replacement operation, though it was to be performed by Martell Maxwell so there is that.  

I cannot recall walking further than 28K steps on any previous trips.  I doubt I'll break this record, and I don't even want to. 

Train strikes once more scuppered the first day of a BRAPA holiday.  Due for a leisurely trip down on the morning of Saturday 1st October, I suddenly had to rush out of work at 4pm on Friday 30th September, leg it to York station, and hop aboard a Manchester bound train, changing for Abergavenny.

By Shropshire, it was time to crack open my train beer, a powerful little number I'd picked up in Hesket Newmarket a few weeks back, perfect with a couple of Bourbons . 20p a pack from Sainsbury's, but for how much longer?  Okay, so a few crumbs got into the margin somewhere near Church Stretton, but my '22 GBG was beyond repair by now anyway.

So why Gwent?  Well, each year I like to tackle a 'county' where I've previously had zero ticks.  I'd left it late this year, but after Mummy and Daddy BRAPA had enjoyed a fabulous week in Blaenavon in the summer, I took it as a sign and booked myself a week of intense ticking, knowing the 2023 GBG was only 2-3 weeks away.

My walking woes actually began as soon as I stepped off the train.  The Premier Inn wasn't in Abergavenny itself, but actually Llanfoist, just south of town.  'But you must've know that before you set out Si?' I hear you say, and I did, but I somehow thought I'd be able to take a short cut around the bypass.

But it was unwalkable, so it needed a 30 minute trek, in the pitch black, across Castle Meadows, alongside the River Usk, was terrifying.  I was a stressed, sweaty mess when I arrived at nearly 10pm, but the receptionist and two ladies checking in behind me were very sympathetic.  

After a shower and a late tea, I felt human again and fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow!

Saturday 1st October

With not one single train running out of Abergavenny, today needed to be a bus day.  So why not do the 'hard trio to the north' whilst I was still relatively fresh?  That way, I was setting down a marker - and that marker said 'Gwent ya bugger, I'm coming for ya!' 

After a quick instant coffee from the pathetic kettle and an damp flapjack, I hopped on the early bus north in a Herefordly direction, hopping off at Llanvihangel Crucorney, but I asked for the 'Skirrid Inn' because (a) I could pronounce it and (b) I remembered it from 'Most Haunted' back in the Derek Acorah golden age.  I'd hope to pop in later today, but for now, I had 3 GBG ticks to tackle.

Llanthony was the furthest tick, a six mile walk, so I set off and was a little bit annoyed to see a few more cars on these narrow lanes than I'd anticipated.  Never dangerous, but with six miles in front of me, I didn't want to be stopping and waving every two seconds.  I guess they were all off to read books in Hay on Wye or sit on the top of Lord Hereford's knob.  

The scenery became increasingly breathtaking, my phone signal disappeared, the air seemed fresher and silence descended as I stretch away from the main road.  It was glorious weather, for that I was grateful.  

About three miles in, I swung a right and extended by walk further by descending into the village of Cwmyoy and seeking out the Church of St Martin, which I'd read was the most crooked church in the UK due to a landslide, like that pub near Dudley I've never been to.  

Besides, it was time for a breakfast stop so after a quick explore, I sat on a churchyard bench and took in the scenery and listened to mooing cows whilst nibbling on a few snacks.

I wanted to be knocking on the pub door for noon opening, so thought I'd best not dally, so when two ladies appeared at the church door, I thought "ugh, not actual human beings!" and took that as my cue to leave. 

There were times when it felt like Llanthony wasn't getting closer, perhaps it didn't exist and is a GBG ploy set to see how gullible pub tickers are.  So it was with much relief when a sign for the village finally came into view.  A trio of hippie ladies who smelt of burning incense sticks appeared from the road to the Priory, said 'hello', again I thought 'ugh, more humans, shoo!' and I scurried off like the hermit I was rapidly becoming.

And then, I see the pub on the horizon, hurrah!

'Please open on time!' I'm secretly willing, as those familiar feelings of paranoia resurface like they always do pre-difficult pub tick.  So I take the black cat crossing the road outside the pub as a lucky omen. 

And what an affectionate cutie, with a weird zip collar thing - which must be her rucksack containing a dead mouse, a pawful of dreamies and a bit of catnip.   It is 11:50am, so we sit together on a bench in the sun.

11:55am, I'm relieved to see the landlady unlock the door and bring a couple of blackboards out to the front of the pub.  One makes it sound as though a visit to this pub is akin to a prostate exam.  

She isn't exactly the sunniest character, considering what a beautiful peaceful pub she runs, but I do manage to ascertain that our feline friend is called Senna, though whether it is a reference to Ayrton or some other spelling, I'm not sure.  She hates her collar, but it is to stop her biting the fur off her back.

I wait reverentially for the clock to tick around to exactly 12 noon before wandering in, I do not want to upset the applecart at this stage!  Half Moon, Llanthony (2416 / 3980) is as you might expect, a bare-boarded farmhouse style boozer, with a few modern concessions for the tourist crowd - leaflets, choccy bars, a bit of simple scran, I liked it.  I opt for Butty Bach by Wye Valley, too sweet tasting for me, a bit like Doom Bar in that respect, but that is probably sacrilege to say in these parts.  As I'd discover as my week went on, it is often THE beer that the locals go for.  It is also the first of MANY sightings of the same Wye Valley glass I see in nearly every pub.  I've barely settled and done the triumphant green highlighting, when a waft of incense breezes through, the door bell tinkles.  It is the three hippie ladies!  "We meet again" one calls over to me.  I grunt in what I hope is a semi-polite way.  Their order tests the patience of our grumpy landlady to the limit.  Beer, crisps, toasties, cider, a Wifi code .... these three want it all!  One hastily tags a coffee on the end of the order.  "Oh, and a Crunchie!" she adds even later. "We don't do Crunchies!" snarls our hostess with satisfaction.  "Oh, I saw the glimmer of yellow and thought you did, it is a Cadbury's Flake isn't it?  I'll have one of them".  One nearly steps on Senna's more elusive brother, Whisky.   And just when you think they are done, one nips out to their car and returns with a Lemsip sachet.  "Could you boil a kettle for this?" she asks.  "No, I can do you hot water but not boiling!" says the landlady.  Awkward silence.  I both want to laugh and disappear.   The landlord finally appears and chats to me, he is more jovial.  Southern too.  Turns out they are from Kent.  I'd later be told he isn't allowed behind the bar because he likes beer a little too much.  He reveals how the local CAMRA bloke came in to decide the 2023 GBG pubs, grumbling he was driving so couldn't drink much.  "You're in next year!" he tells the landlord. "Don't you need to try our beer first?" asks landlord.  "Nahhh, we know you keep your beer well!" is the reply.  Scientific.  Well, if this was a sign of the Gwent to come, I was going to have quite an eventful holiday.

Still in GBG '23?  Yes, and with some relief as I would be told Llanthony has a better GBG candidate!

It was an arduous walk to pub two, which I'd passed much earlier on.  Despite being listed under Cwmyoy, where our crooked church was, it was actually closer to the main road and the Skirrid Inn, so a good 5 miles approx from Llanthony.

I pass a funeral procession on the main road, and all I could think was 'don't you dare book the pub out for a wake!'  Altarnun still haunts me to this day.  Thankfully, I didn't have to worry.

An early contender for pub of the week, Queen's Head, Cwmyoy (2417 / 3981) was a bona fide gem, so old fashioned and basic that it made our last pub look positively gastro.  I'm greeted warmly by the landlady and the one customer, some local bloke.  Both seem surprised to see me, whereas in Llanthony, tourists just make them yawn.  Pretty much everything our hostess says / predicts turns out to be true.  She is shocked the Llanthony's Priory bar doesn't get in the GBG ahead of the Half Moon and says I missed a trick not going, pulls out a newspaper feature on said bar, which hosted the UK's first ever beer festival in the late 50's/early 60's apparently.   Both exchange glances which say 'he must be mad' when I tell them of my intention to walk to Llangattock Lingoed next.  'That'll be worse than your Llanthony walk!' she tells me.  I doubted it, but she wasn't wrong.  Also accurate was her claims of no evening bus service from the Skirrid Inn, despite Google Maps and Bustimes.org both saying there was one.  And she also KNEW they'd not make the '23 GBG.  The long serving landlord died earlier this year after 40 years service, I think, and despite her telling me she's run the cellar/beer side of things for ages, CAMRA are funny when it comes to official changes in ownership.  Only one ale was on, Kingstone Classic.  She tells me back in the day, it was Ruddles.  They'd drive over to Rutland to pick it up and bring it back.  And before that, it was Bass.  "Oooh I love a Bass" I tell her.  "Problem is, all our Bass drinking regulars are now dead" she replies with brutal and slightly comical matter-of-factness.  The loos are outside, back onto the main road, hairpin bend, then back in through what looks like a stable door, one of the hardest to find pub toilets I've witnessed all year!  A great pub.

Still in the GBG?  No, but merely a technicality.

 

If I was knackered from the 12 miles plus out to Llanthony and back, it was about to reach crazy strenuous levels.

I walk the mile back to the main road, walk north from the Skirrid Inn / bus stop , cross the A465 and before long, turn right.  I stop on a grass verge for a sandwich and a drink, and I'm startled by a local tractor driver turning down the same lane, so I slide down into a pile of thistles at the bottom, onto my bottom.  Prickly.  Tractor driver stops, asks if I am okay and drives off before I get chance to ask if he's heading towards my next pub.  

This first bit of the walk is uphill too, I didn't realise how uphill until I was coming back down it later, my mind had sort of switched off to pain by now as roads are replaced by a section of the Offa's Dyke path, crossing fields, hurdling stiles, avoiding bulls, crossing streams on slippy stones.  It was undulating, and doing nothing for my knees and hips!  Adidas Gazelles weren't exactly appropriate footwear. 

At the end of a small patch of woodland, I drop down into the village, an ancient crone appraises me from the doorway of a cute ivy-clad cottage, and the pub soon comes into view.

I enter the Hunter's Moon Inn, Llangattock Lingoed (2418 / 3982), a sweaty mess, puffing and blowing, so it is a bit of a shame the landlord doesn't make at least some sort of comment!  I'm absolutely ruined.  Same beer choice as in Llanthony, so this time I opt for an HPA, and I find it preferable to the Butty Bach although generally, I favour traditional bitters.  I'd only heard good things about this pub from those I'd spoke to today, but it fails to impress.  It feels very much like a walkers/bikers destination pub.  The raised area, which must take up over 50% of the pub, appears to be a restaurant.  It has the same ancient, basic feel as my previous two pubs, but this one is more knowing.  'Banter' is present between the woollen guv'nor and his youthful chargers, but it doesn't extend across the other side of the bar to faces they don't recognise.  All the more frustrating when I've made such an effort to get here, but they don't know that.  In my Tim Taylor's sweatshirt sat by the front door to get some much needed air, I'm the unwitting first point of contact for the two couples arriving to check in for the night.  I feel like a meeter and greeter brewer rep.  "Hello!" I say to the older couple, summoning up the 1% of positivity left in me.  "We're just off to move the car, but we'll be back in for a drink" the wife tells me, obviously confused. 'Didn't ask hun' I want to say.  But at least it makes me smile, in a wincing kind of way, for I know the walk that lies ahead of me!

Still in the GBG?  It is, and will have to be until 2040 for this walk to be worth it.

And I will tell you about that walk back, and my attempts to get back to the 'Gavenny in part two, hopefully tomorrow.  

Luckily, the ever reliable Twitter was on hand for a timely morale booster .....

Have a good night all,

Si 

BRAPA in .... THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVERSHAM THINGS (Kenty was Plenty Part 11/11)

We were on the home stretch.  Three pubs left of the holiday, although at this stage, I had vague hopes of pushing myself for 8 or 9 pubs out in Hernia Bay, but that'd prove a step too far. 

Today's chauffeur extraordinaire, Richard Pitcher had one more rural pub up his sleeve before he drove up to Derbyshire for some joyful East Mids pub fun.  Derbyshire?  Completed it mate.  But I'll have to again.  Several times.

You have to feel sorry for Chequers, Doddington (2413 / 3977).  Any pub following the Shipwrights out in Hollowshore was going to feel anti-climactic.  Imagine seeing ABBA at some big Euro music festival in Sweden 1976, and then in some strange running order mishap, Bachman Turner Overdrive follow them, and their first song isn't even You Ain't Seen Nothin' Yet but Blue Moanin'.  It was a sturdy village pub with plenty of history, 14th century or something crazy old, it had a Kentish dartboard (no double or trebles cos Kent people are notoriously bad at sums).  It had a pleasingly deep pub garden.  It had multi-levels.  I was served a pint of that Shepherd's Neame Summer Storm IPA, the same beer I had in Boughton Monchelsea yesterday.  It was better on this occasion, but like that pub, this wouldn't make the '23 GBG either.  And the two woolly blokes next to us who admitted to be jealous of the BRAPA concept, starting chatting to us about places as varied as Brecon & Sheffield.  Like I said, a much better pub than my brain was willing to give it credit for at the time. 

In current GBG?  I've just told you, cloth ears!  The curse of the Summer Storm IPA!

Time to say farewell to Richard as he drops me back in Faversham.  I'd have to go solo in my final two pubs.  

He says I've inspired him to try and get a fully green Kent this year.  Oooh, it is a slippery slope.  That's how pub ticking starts.  Firstly, it is 'where you live'.  Then it is 'whole county'.  Next thing you know, you are hopping on a ferry to Rousay with your silly mascot and a full bladder, weary of the world.   And we will meet again.  He is going to help me with some more rural mid/south Kent is the coming weeks / months.

Anyway, pub six of this epic day .....

Not only is it a particularly handsome pub from the outside, Elephant, Faversham (2414 / 3978) is a pearler within.  I'd never have believed Shipwrights would be trumped today, but I think the Ele has the edge - reason being it is more of a living, breathing boozer, whereas Shipwrights was more a curio, a historic relic of a bygone age.  Quality is apparent the second I walk through the door, and so enthused am I by my first impressions and bubbly hostess, I start telling her my history with Elgood's Black Dog.  She looks at me half amused, like '... but Si, I didn't ask'.  If you want to know my history with Elgood's Black Dog, ask me in person.  Or I'll set up a patreon and you can pay for the privilege and then curse me for wasting your time and money.   I plonk myself down on the flimsy but fabulous narrow purple benches and sup my mild.  I'm drawn to the sight of a ginger cat next to a moody looking old bloke with a handle bar moustache.  A man with no socks plonks himself between us and starts reading his Bob Mortimer book.  We exchange nods, but the cat knows a 'cat person' and trots over and eventually falls asleep next to me.  Handle bar man looks slightly put out, and not just because his favourite Southampton micro has closed down.   A truly brilliant pub, I think it had outdoor loos and a nice little courtyard too. 

In current GBG?  Hell to the yeah!

I'd heard plenty of good things about today's final pub too, a Shepherd Neamer.  Time to revive my old joke?  What do you call a pint of Spitfire floating in the toilet bowl?  Finding Shepherd Neamo.  

Errrm yeah, time to go and explore....

But it was not to be a positive end to my six days in Kent at Bear Inn, Faverhsam (2415 / 3979) as I make the mistake of swinging an immediate right into the quiet front bar.  I cannot tell exactly what ales are on, so I ask, and by gum, the barmaid is so RUDE.  Which follows right through into paying for my drink.  Sadly, I can't remember the exact exchange as this is pint seven but I remember the one lady customer sat at the bar clocking my 'cheek blowing out, raised eyebrows' expression of disgust, and throwing me an amused glance!  'Not staying in here' I whisper, and take my (pretty damn poor) pint of Shitstable Bay down this gorgeous creaking long thin wooden corridor, where a series of entrances also to the right take you into a large backroom.  This is where the action is, a busy vibrant youthful scene greets me and I plonk myself and my dishwatery pint down on one of the few free tables.  Not bad for 5pm on a Thursday, work chucking out time maybe.  Pubs ain't dead yet.  As I glance barwards, the staff in here are all young, attractive, fresh faced, smiley and plenty of warm exchanges with the customers are taking place.  I bet the Spitfire was drinking well too.  A real case of 'what might have been' but if there is one thing I can't condone, even above poor beer, it is rude staff, even if it just one bad apple.

In current GBG? It is, and I wasn't even surprised.

So, as you can see, 'difficult Kent' was greening up nicely as I took the train back to Sittingbourne for a relaxing final night.

Of course, the new 2023 GBG has kept absolutely every pub I hadn't greened in this section, whilst removing plenty I'd visited this holiday - but decent progress, and my aim is a fully green Kent by September 2023.  Just booked next year's holidays with work, and I'm pleased to say, they are once again plentiful.  

See you on Sunday where I'm going to tell you about the day I walked 50K steps in north Gwent in ONE DAY and absolutely ruined myself!

Si