BRAPA and .... Sea Shanties and Drunk Insanity : Epic Falmouth (Part 10)

Exhausted by my Porthleven/Gunwalloe adventure earlier on, I realised I just had TWO pubs to do in the 'central-west' part of Cornwall to complete it.

It really had to be a case of 'get to the pubs first, worry about the consequences later' otherwise I reckon I'd have talked myself out of doing both of them as we moved rapidly towards Saturday evening.

From Penzance, I changed at Truro for the branch line down to Falmouth Town for the easier of the two.  It was a hive of activity, and I feel a bit silly for admitting this, but I didn't realise a Sea Shanty Festival was on until I was told on the train out of here!

I swear down, I just thought this level of singing, drunkenness, people spilling onto platforms and mile long queues outside chippies were just standard Saturday night behaviour in Falmouth!  Well how was I to know?

Falmouth in fact, is the only place I ticked pubs in both 2017 and 2018, so it was nice to see a new pub in the '19 edition to keep that 100% record in tact.  I wonder if 2020 will offer another newbie?

The pub was on a hilly side street, up some steps and a drunk bloke outside said "ayeeeeee" as I took the photo and made my way towards the entrance.  It'd be a sign of things to come.

Yes, Oddfellows Arms (1657 / 2629) lived up to its 'Odd' name with a crazy but very happy scene, the other extremity to the one I'd witnessed earlier in the Halzephron in turns of hubbub and good ole' fashioned pub atmosphere.  Verging on the intimidating, I must admit, I hovered around the bar praying that I wasn't getting in the way, as it was wall-to-wall with drunk folk.  A group of ladies started singing a sea shanty.  People joined in.  I still didn't twig.  At this point, someone could've walked in and threatened me with a Fisherman's Friend, and I'd still have been oblivious.  Though admittedly, nasally clearer.   I just thought this was normal Falmouth behaviour and this was perhaps more of a locals rough boozer than yer Beerwolf Books and Boathouses of this world. Despite the barman taking time to pull through my Sharps Atlantic, commendable under the circumstances, it was still dreadful.  I thought I'd found 'half a small table' to perch my glass on, but saw a bloke had his smoking paraphernalia on it, so quickly apologised.  "Don't worry mate, I'm going now" he said.  So I hovered some more, and 5 mins later, he's still there, meticulously rolling about his 50th cig for the road.  I lost patience and went to the 'quiet' back room, where a Mum and Dad were playing pool.  Watching on was their over enthusiastic dog, Olly, who slobbered all over my jeans and made me feel sick, but I tried to look 'dog friendly' as it felt like I was invading a family gathering.  "He's REALLY nosy!" squealed Mummy Pool with delight.  In the corner, their bored teenage daughter tapped on an iPad and looked embarrassed by her parents.  I kept murmuring 'move me if I'm in your way' and I STILL had no table to rest my dreadful beer.  Mummy Pool won 2-0, Daddy Pool pretended he didn't care but was internally furious, and Doggy Drool drooled some more.  Happy to leave, after a VERY good wash of my hands and wipe down of my jeans.  Puke.

Action shot of my beer being pulled through, to no avail

Frogs on 'ciggie roll up' table

They might not look scary to you but believe me.....

Doggy drool

On the predictably packed little platform at Falmouth Town, I thought I'd done absolutely amazing to be one of the first ones on.  But then I was joined by the loudest twild group ever.  Their parents even said "I bet you were expecting a quiet journey back to Truro, we're really sorry!"

And then three rosy cheeked revellers, full of humour, got on and started chatting to me.  "You been down for the sea shanty festival then?" they asked, and roared with laughter as they saw the dawning realisation on my face that that's why Falmouth had been so errrm, crazy!

"You sit beside 'im" said one of the ladies to the bloke in a drunken Cornish accent.  He thought she said "sit by Simon".  They laughed.  "You're not called Simon are you by any chance?" they asked.  I admitted I was.  They roared with laughter again, but didn't believe me.

They had ale flagons but had run out so had nipped to the local supermarket and topped them up with cans of McEwans.  Quality!  I really bonded with the guy, and when we got to Truro, it was like saying goodbye to old friends!  Of course, I'd bored them with BRAPA talk. 

The dog is like "errm, I'm not really here"

The night was drawing in rapidly now, but I had to not think about getting stranded, and instead think about this last pub.

Annoyingly, Truro Railway Station and Bus Station are a good hike from each other, so I instead got a taxi using my 'emergency fund', it wasn't far but time was certainly of the essence.  Having said that, a couple in the queue behind me were so pie-eyed, I took pity on them and let them take the first one (also I didn't wanna be murdered).  

Taxi driver was a good guy but told me he thought I was mad doing what I was doing which is always a reassuring vote of confidence.  Did he want my fare or what?  

My next pub was making its third GBG appearance,  previous entries were in 1981 and 1993, so you can't say its pedigree was exactly second to none .... and I ain't talking Marstons. Ho ho!

Still, a relief to be in the solitude of a small village down a country lane just south of Truro, and although the inn sign was a bit foreboding, the pub at least looked cottagey. 

Punchbowl & Ladle, Penelewey (1658 / 2630) was, by all accounts, very much a dining pub tonight.  Not a characterless one, the building felt nice and old, sloping floors, low beams and carpets, warm, a few nooks and crannies into areas where diners fear to tread.  I thought a bloke was eyeballing me on arrival, but it was just a stone statue, possibly of that guy from Dad's Army, the posh one with the French surname, not Arthur L'Owe.  He wasn't, but the dining couple behind him were!  I walked the wrong way to the bar into a dining area, looked a bit silly, so OF COURSE I should turn round to see that the barmaid smiling/thinking 'what a wanker' is an attractive brunette.  I told her I was an idiot, she nodded empathetically, said lots of people did what I'd just done and served me an excellent pint of Proper Job.  Amazingly, and almost like retribution for the chaos in the Oddfellows, I found this cavernous snug, low leather settees, probably could seat about 8, but despite being here for an hour, not a single soul bothered me.  And this was despite a constant influx of potential diners occasionally sticking their collective head around the corner.  In the neighbouring room, spoilt American twilds were learning the joys of 'moules' from an old local lady.  Well, by this point, reality had kicked in and I got out all my BRAPA gear, making the room into a makeshift 'BRAPA nerve centre' plotting my route back to Quintrell.  It looked a dire situation, but with the statue of the bloke from Dad's Army willing me on, I found a bus back from Playing Place to Truro, a train to St Austell, and a connecting 'last bus of the night' through to Newquay, stopping in Quintrell.  Connections had to be met, I could afford no delay, but by god, I could do this without killing myself on taxi fares.  UP THE BRAP!  I left in a much more triumphant manner than I arrived in, think our brunette friend wondered quite what I'd been up to in the snug.

Cracking pint when kept well, and this was

Alright you two, stop staring, I'm bonding with the dude from Dad's Army

Rylan doubting my ability to make these transport connections

Nice forbidden doorway to my snug

A local CAMRA mag, can't remember what it said

Nob gag in the gents from the St Austell gang offends me #WokeSi2019

A 20 minute walk took me to this dodgy roundabout, or 'Playing Place' as the locals call it, where there's a quite unlikely bus stop, so I was delighted to see a seedy couple waiting for it too.

It was NINE mins delayed (surprise surprise!) but I managed to get off a bit closer to the railway station and strode up the hill to make the final train connection of the night.  The staff were out in force, tannoy announcements epic, the last of the Falmouth regulars arrived, even more pissed than the last lot (understandably) and a only a smattering got on for St Austell.  Fewer got off.

A few drunk lads on a night out gave each other Cornish piggy backs and grunted, but the bus mercifully turned up only 2 mins behind schedule for the long, dark, bumpy ride to Newquay.  All was quiet til we came to a pub on the outskirts and a group of screeching young ladies bound for Newquay got on with lots of fake tan and not much else!  It was chaos upstairs, so glad I sat on the lower level with the old buggers.  A bloke who thought he was a Cornish Bob Dylan got on with his guitar and chatted to me about amplified bus noises which was 'fun', til we finally came into Quintrell Downs, just behind time approx 23:20.  

Phew!  Job done, and worth it.  Two days left, exciting tales of a mystery pub ticker tomorrow.  

Speak soon, Si

   

BRAPA and ..... Porthleven is a Place on Earth (Cornwall Part 9)

When one time punk rocker and State Brewery Bitter lover Belinda Carlisle sang the above hit, I'd never been to the coastal little resort situated 'twixt Penzance and Helston, but I can now report it was one of the most beautiful places I visited in Year Three of my Cornish Adventure.

Hard to do it justice, even in a rare BRAPA panoramic attempt.  The locals were distracted from my gawping tourist attempts by the sight of a fire engine driving around the harbour.  You should've seen their gawping fish like faces. "I wunderz what thaat's all about then?" they kept saying, as though a fire engine in Porthleven was the highest level of drama ever seen here.  Perhaps it was.

But I had no time to stop and stare, I was of course on a pubby mission.  And this was one of the two pubs which eluded me in 2018, this one had remained in the Guide despite previously having only featured in 3 previous editions, including the 1974 one.

I sped past Rick Stein's plaice, and saw some beer barrels so knew I must be close, it was actually peering out at me like a perv in the park ....

It was high atop some perilous looking steps right on the ocean's edge, an ancient quite wonderful looking inn .....

And I'd have to add Ship Inn (1655 / 2627)  to the ever expanding list of pubs that have made me go 'wow' on this holiday, along with the likes of Admiral Benbow, Dock Inn, Blisland Inn, St Mabyn Inn and Hole in the Wall, Bodmin.  Problem was though, 'beer quality', quite a hard thing to overlook I guess.  Driftwood Spas tee shirt or not, the ginger wiry barman was top class, and I ordered this thing called 'Surf Bum' and was enjoying muchly it til he jogged over, and whipped it away from me, telling me it was cloudy and he didn't want to serve me that!  Top staffing, I thought.  I'd just assumed it was unfined or some shit.  For a replacement, I went for the Porthleven ale you can see on the board outside the pub which I'd had before in Newquay and seemed nice.  But on this occasion, it had that 'farty' taste like it had something a bit wrong with it, but stupidly, I suffered in silence! The pub's interior was stunning, it had that salty seadog centuries old atmosphere that the Blue Anchor in Helston does, great decor, very much a 100% pub!  Spoiled only slightly by a couple from West Sussex (always attention seekers, West Sussex folk) who were Skyping her ailing mother.  The gist was they were setting up a new life down here in Cornwall, and breathing difficulties or not, mother would just have to get herself a doctor's appointment, take her meds and behave, or she'd end up in a home!  A local called Roger who may have been the alien from American Dad in disguise chatted amiably with barmaids in short shorts, he sure didn't mind being a 'space invader' (this pub's term for a bar blocker).  I'm of the view that if they get this beer sorted out, this could be a contender for best pub in Cornwall - and yes, I'd love to come on a stormy Tuesday afternoon in November when the waves are crashing round the pub walls!

I wasn't to have this beer for long!

Look at the lovely bar

Discouraging bar blockers (apart from Roger)

Ceiling decor

The sun was out and it was actually warm for about the only time this week, and just as well because I had the most epic walk of the holiday next, and this bit was to prove to be my most abiding memory of the week.

I climbed out of Porthleven, joining the SW Cornish Coastal Path in search of another GBG tick just over three miles away.

This really was the best spell of weather, perfect timing, as I managed to take FOUR wrong turnings and had to overtake the same old couple three times which was quite embarrassing, and had a real hare versus tortoise feel to it.

Coastal erosion meant two diversions had to be taken, and at one stage I was actually down on the beach.  I nodded to a hermit who was observing probably Osprey above, I stopped too, I love a good bird of prey and the power and majesty of them was quite something.

Ever wondered what a South African fan of my blog would call BRAPA?  Well, the next village I came to revealed the truth ........

And I knew I was finally in the right place just a few yards further down as someone had drawn a village mural in a bus shelter even though no buses stop here ..........

Finally, the pub appeared and I was excited, for there was a high sense of anticipation here, as this centuries old GBG regular (til recent years at least) was named after the Cornish for 'cliffs of hell' and is made out of timbers of old shipwrecks .......

So what a crashing anti-climax the Halzephron Inn, Gunwalloe (1656 / 2628) was then!  Everyone was just so miserable, also reported by my friend from York who'd been here with his Mum just a day earlier.  Stunning location, slow pace of life, what was not to love about working or visiting here?  Yes tourists, staff and locals alike all hated it.  The slightly sterile dining feel of the pub didn't help, and so little was there to see indoors that I was soon outside trying to cool off under an umbrella, realising just how sunburnt I was.  The other people in the garden, who soon left at the sight of my BRAPA motif, were all shivering in hoodies and seemed surprised by my rosy, panting state!  Before this however, a brief glimmer of joy as a Dad told his precocious twild that he wasn't allowed to sit at the bar because he wasn't 18.  "But Daddy, I'm 21" was his quick witted reply, and two old codgers almost broke out into a smile, but a barmaid with a face like a gala pie scowled at me for just ordering a drink so I was glad to get out.  Luckily, the landlord and his two red setters brightened the mood.  He, like so many good rural Cornwall landlords, resembled a farmer and had a happy-go-lucky air.  The dogs, certainly NOT twogs, took it in turns to try and eat my Good Beer Guide, before hurdling the low back stone wall and getting lost in fields behind the pub and barking for help!  My ale was decent but not stunning, and much of my focus was 'could I REALLY get back to Porthleven in time for the next bus back to Penzance?', sad when you've made such a huge effort to get to a much anticipated pub but that's life, for me!  On the plus side, the Porthleven ale (and pump clip!) was much better, unrecognisable from the same ale I'd had earlier.

Incredibly, I'd actually learnt my lessons from the walk to Gunwalloe, and managed to take no more wrong turnings, striding out, overtaking anyone in my path, and yet in the baking heat, it was still touch and go whether I'd make the bus.

I dropped into Porthleven with sand in my shoes, needing a piss, and totally dehydrated.  Hopefully this bus would be 9 minutes late like every other bus this holiday?  Well no, sod's law this one was bang on time!  I'd found a public loo, and was just buying a bottle of water from an ice cream stall when the bus shot around the harbour.  I ran and just made it, and smiled all the way back to Penzance, pouring half the water on my burning face as a couple of Lancastrians looked at me like I was the weird one!  A low key holiday highlight?  You bet!

And in Part 10, I'll tell you how the rest of this eventful day unfurled.

Si

BRAPA in ..... 'There's Gonna be an Austell Breakout!' (Cornwall Part 8)

Say what you like Doom Bar but you could certainly tell that Sharp's Brewery were making an effort to impress with their craft ales on my Cornish holiday two weeks ago ......

I drank one of these two at my next venue, as I tried to improvise after a tiring but highly enjoyable first half of the day had seen me find joy at both Blisland and St Mabyn.

But it was only late afternoon, and I didn't want to go back to my Quintrell Downs lodgings too soon so I took a bus from Bodmin to the town of St Austell, which yet again, had zero pub ticks but I'd heard pre-emptive whispers, and it was on the main train line back to Par which made it appeal.

I ascended some depressingly 60's grey concrete steps into a little shopping precinct, a far cry from the St Austell I'd done a tourism leaflet on as part of my GCSE English coursework, though I might have mentioned the brewery.

Micropubs are scarce in Cornwall still, I went to the O.G. at St Ives last year, and it proved a fruitful pre-emptive.  I've since heard about a second and third opening, here and in Bude so I went to explore, knowing CAMRA are suckers for a debut micro.

I saw some young lads outside as I approached, thought they were college kids but little did I know they'd prove to be legends and the backbone of St Austell's ale scene pub staff ......

Yes, Mr Small's Cornish Taphouse may not have been a name that screamed 'classic pub visit' but as at St Ives Pilchard Press, you just get the feeling Cornwall is the type of place where Micropubs actually work, due to the openness and relaxed down to earth nature of clientele and staff - a bit like East Yorkshire and East Lancs, and why they sometimes seem like futile wastes of time in places like Surrey and Posh Outer Manchester.   With no staff member immediately present, a local bloke took it upon himself to talk me through the ales, and encouraged the lady who appeared to give me various tasters.  You know I don't really come to these places for beer alone, but it was a nice sentiment and it set the scene for a positive experience.  I'd barely had chance to plonk my GBG on a nearby table (no need really as this isn't in the GBG ..... yet!) when the young man in grey pictured above came to sit with me and introduced himself as the owner, which must make him one of the youngest pub owners I've met.  I BRAP-splained, and he told me I could buy this £6 brewery book, which I politely declined but made some mental notes about future venues, and he gave me a taster of this crazy keg thing he was excited about, I immediately said "ooh coffee" and he seemed really impressed, saying no one has said that before, and looked at me as though I was some master sommelier.  I asked him the burning question, is his name 'Mr Small' but he said not, shame!  'Where you off to next?' the pub asked, and I said I might give 'Spoons a try because Martin Taylor had made a cryptic comment about it on Twitter and lots of people had done the Twitter equivalent of nods and winks, so I wondered if it was a really good shout.  Fake Mr Small told me his mate (possibly the one in red) worked there, but he wasn't listening to us so couldn't sell me the 'Spoons dream.  With a hearty handshake, I said farewell, what an unexpectedly good experience, oh and the ale was top quality.

With the sun now out, St Austell started to look quite pretty ......

But then I reached the 'Spoons didn't I?

Only kidding really, so nice to see that the Rann Wartha looked so much more like a traditional pub than your average shiny fronted Wetherspoons house, though once inside it had that familiar smell and sense of 'why is there one person trying to serve about 500 people, 499 of whom are ordering grub?' feel about it.  Still, staff were lively and I got a pint of Burton Ale cos it felt like the kind of thing men over the age of 40 should do after a Mango Wheat experiment which turned out to be a bit too sweet!  Time to reign in Hipster Si, and unleash Curmudgeonly Si.  I felt a tiny bit drunk, though the blurred photography is more a case of observing a soft focus anonymity to show how respectful and ethical I can be when drunk in Cornwall.  A couple in one booth held onto each other, more like they were aliens exchanging protein strands rather than any deep seated love.  And alone in a deeper seat behind them, Cornish Bobby Ball checked the racing results and made noises from the depths of his throat.  I don't feel this is as pre-emptive as Mr Small's, though it probably should be.  Bang them both in 2020 edition is what I say.  I mean, the Hain Line 'Spoons in St Ives got in and that is shite!

And that was that for day four.  Back to Quintrell Downs for snacks from Spar and Women's World Cup cos I had the longest day of my hols planned on the Saturday, as I headed back down to the west of the county.  I'll tell you all about that one in Part 9.

Thanks for your patience,

Si

BRAPA - June Review / July Preview (2019)

Ey up!  We're getting towards the 'business' end of the pub ticking season, my GBG now a battered, dirty, sorry, sticky mess of a book  ..... though what I do in my private life is my own business, so stop judging me.

Conceivably, July COULD be the last full month of 2019 GBG ticking if there are no printing or delivery mishaps which have blighted the Good Beer Guide Privilege Scheme in recent years.  We could roll back to the halcyon days of 2015 when the GBG arrived on the Friday before August Bank Holiday weekend.  I can dream.

June was a productive month, not quite so much as 2018 but that perhaps shows I'm learning to pace myself a bit.  Still, my main two week holiday from work saw me manage of 42 GBG ticks and 9 pre (and post) emptives, the majority of which were in Cornwall but I continued to make good progress in Derbyshire too.

It all started in style, negotiating opening hours on the 1st at the marvellous Three Stags' Heads, Wardlow Mires.  Despite 41 ticks after it, I think I'd still put it up there as a pub of the month contender!

The first, and one of the best!

A week later, an epic day on the East Lancashire Railway (for the third time) threw up six more mainly above average pubs, and then it was to Cornwall for my third year.  Fewer GBG 'gaps' meant it was harder to have productive days without lots of travel expense, but I feel I appreciated the county, scenery, locals and even the beer, more than I had done before.

Appreciating Cornwall - oh dear!

Some pubs were stunners.  Hole in the Wall in Bodmin, King's Arms in Luxulyan, Blisland Inn, St Mabyn Inn, Admiral Benbow in Penzance, Ship Inn Porthleven and Union Inn in Saltash should be on any pub lovers list.  Plenty of others I enjoyed a lot too. 

As good inside as it looks out

Then came Ilkeston, a town like no other!  The pubs, the warmth of the people, the quality of the ale.  Afraid to say it was all a bit of a haze by the end, I had a 24 hour hangover, but it was worth it.  The Burnt Pig and the Marlpool Ale House were too of the finest micropubs I've EVER visited and I'm not always a fan of the 'genre', and even more stunning was the final pub of the day, the Dewdrop, a classic even by Derbys high standards.

Beware the Bevil!  (Dewdrop, Ilkeston)

It'd almost seem churlish to pick three poor pubs for the month, but I know that's why you read this, let's be honest, you don't want me to say nice stuff, we'll leave that to other nicer people!  I'd have to throw Church Inn at Prestwich into the mix, dreadful beer and a peculiar attitude despite having the hallmarks of a good old pub.  I probably can't really include the Crystal Palace at Thurlstone as it has been technically 'deleted' but bugger me, what a interesting strategy to go from an ale friendly rival to the Hunstman to a zero customers down and out John Smith Smooth, Carling or Guinness pub.  The Ferry House Inn in Plymouth was perhaps the most unfriendly, painful, boring pub of the month - NOT a fan at all.

Must do better

My final pub ticking of the month came full circle,  back in Derbyshire, in some style in 30 degree sweltering heat.  The Boat Inn at Cromford was my pick, but a couple more really eye opening micros in Wirksworth and Duffield again made me realise Derbyshire folk are so lucky, even their micros are brilliant!

Keeping cool with the A-listers in Birchover

Though June ended on a really sad note with the shock news that beer and pub lover, blogger, photographer, enthusiast Richard Coldwell had died.  I really enjoyed the trip to Sheffield with Richard, Roger Protz and Martin Taylor a couple of years back.  Without even getting a single 'BRAPA' pub done, it was one of the Brappiest trips I can remember!  How Martin fell UP some stairs, I'll never know.  And then, he met me and Martin in L**ds after work to take us round some of his faves, including a new one to me, the Brunswick, where he showed us this incredible photo he'd taken at the bar of these folk dressed up to the nines, and made me realise you could actually ask people's permission before photographing them in pubs!  Wish I was that brave, open and honest.  Yes, very sad news indeed.

July Review

And it all leads me into July pub-ticking with a new steely resolve to be 'the best ticker I can be' (as us proper lit bevvie kids say) even though it looks a tricky month on paper to get too many numbers out of.  Frankly, if i can achieve a tally of 27 , thus beating January's yearly low of 26 and last years July total, I'll be happy.

We kick off in some Lincolnshire hovel called 'Gainsborough' (whatever THAT means) which marks the return of Tom Irvin who's been in pre-season training and is raring to go, before a 'chiller' in North Yorkshire with Dad as chauffeur.  The 20th FINALLY sees me get back to Derbyshire, before the month ends with work friends in some non-descript Nottinghamshire town which I cannot recall. 

It all leaves me a bit anxious.  Just where will these 27 ticks come from?  I'm going to have to be 'on it' on Friday evenings too, and will really need to push myself to get to that Alfreton area IF I am to finish Derbyshire before the new GBG comes out.  Only 14 to do, but they are getting a bit spread out and rural, and some twin better with Staffs or Notts just to slow me down further.

Sorry, waffling on BRAPA strategy again!  Zzzz.  Anyway, I'll just have to 'squeeze' in a bonus Sunday or Tuesday if things are getting really bluddy desperate. 

Blog-wise, still catching up on Cornwall.  Then I'll tell you about Ilkeston and my most recent trip.  I'll release one tomorrow a bit earlier cos I wanna watch those England wimmin winning.

Si