BRAPA in ..... THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GODSTONE GO I (Part 3/6)

The good thing about the current Travelodge regulations of 'not trying to clean your room until your stay is over' is that you can accidentally snooze your alarm for an hour (like I did on Saturday morning) and you don't get an embarrassing 9:30am knock on your door with someone trying to change your towels or top up your tea bags, coffee, milk n sugar.

And yet, I was still waiting for the pub at South Godstone to open for a good 20 minutes, so I must have seriously overestimated the time I thought it'd take to get there.

I firstly made my way to London Bridge .....

.... from where I took a train to Godstone for my one really remaining difficult Surrey 'tick', after a change at a place called 'Tonbridge'.  More on that later but I'll warn you now, it is in Kent and I vowed not to do Kent pubs til at least 2025.

You walk north along the A22 which has a pavement which is good because it is a scary old road, but then you turn left onto the peaceful Harts Lane and the pub is at the far end.  If you are a quick walker, you can do it in about 23 minutes.  

I lurked in a field with my cauliflower and a bunch of sheep, I ate a flapjack and hoped the neighbours in the cottage opposite weren't calling the police or informing the local neighbourhood watch …..

11:55am, time to do a bit of a recce.  First sign I saw wasn't particular encouraging for a great pub experience …

Doggy cask, and the words 'country' and 'dining' are all BRAPA red flags

But the pub itself looked nice.  I hid just out of view as a bloke wrestled with a hand santiser stand, which at least seemed to prove this pub was opening at noon as I'd hoped.

12:01pm, I'd waited long enough!  But the pub entrance door was closed again.  Barmaid sees me waiting, quickly apologises and opens up.  "It's okay, gave me chance to familiarise myself with the rules!" I lie through my teeth, and follow her in.  Welcome to Fox & Hounds, South Godstone (1828) The satisfaction of getting my most difficult remaining Surrey pub chalked off is cause enough for celebration, but I'm delighted to find myself balls-deep in plush, carpetted, beamed, low roofed pub since 1601, atmospheric joy.  True, it might not feel like this when the diners start piling in to the restaurant area (the phone is already ringing off the hook with requests) , but this is why doing pubs like this at opening time or midweeks is always the best idea.  A large number of staff are huddled behind the small bar, trying to get organised for the lunchtime rush.  If me asking for a pint of Landlord is inconvenient, the young lad doesn't show it, only embarrassed cos he's lost the card reader which is directly in front of him.  It reminds me so much of a cosier White Horse at Hedgerley in many respects,  but mainly because I'm picturing the staff as one family who live here, probably sat in their pyjamas eating toast and watching SpongeBobSquarePants at 11:30am when one of them says "shit, look at the time, we'd better get opening!"  Or that could be my imagination.  Above the sixties music, a new barmaid with a complicated name is getting an on the spot training session from the landlady, who asks her name again, shattering my 'imagined family' unless Mum's just got a bad memory.  I overhear that I could've got a TWAMRA discount, but failed sadly.  Finally, another customer.  Local with element of Ken Barlow.   They all know him.  Orders a bottle of red for himself, and looks at it more lovingly than I've ever looked at Colin.  He's in for a fun afternoon.  I say goodbye to him, cos he's nearer than the staff, and leave.  More enjoyable experience than I'd expected, good pub.

Despite getting my head down and trying to beat my 23 minute walk I took to get here, I fail but am back at Godstone station in plenty of time for the train.

One of the three stops between Godstone is called Penshurst, and when I look at the GBG, there is a pub only half a mile away.  Hurrah!  

So what a momentous errrm moment ..... my first Kent pub tick since BRAPA officially began.  True, I had a trip in 2013 when 'Q was for Queenborough' in my A-Z Aleway Adventure, but of the five pubs I did that day, only two are still in the Guide and they are in Rochester.  Both very good.

The sun finally came out too, this must be why they call it the Garden of England, though a family holiday a few years back to Hythe and Dymchurch had me wondering about that.  Can't remember exactly where we stayed, I just didn't like it on one walk when my Mum kept saying 'Lyminge' over and over again. 

It was an even shorter walk as I found a cut through a new housing estate, to a very rural backdrop where the pub was situated ......

But any 'Welcome to Kent' vibe had to be put on ice here at Greyhound, Charcott (1829) as I didn't even get through the entrance when some energetic, efficient staff intercepted me and asked if I wanted to sit in or out.  I managed to peer in just enough to see it wasn't too pubby, so I went to sit in the sunny garden (there was a tent, but nah) and a polite but timid ginger haired freckled lass said she'd be with me in a bit.  I'd already said I was only here for a pint of ale, so it was a bit annoying when she came to serve me, didn't know what ales were on, had to go back in, check, and come back out again, and then reeled them off with such a vengeance, that the only word I heard was 'stout' so went with that!  After all, I was against the clock, wanting to get the hourly train back to Tonbridge.  I'd not positioned myself well, 4 twilds and 4 adults on the table beyond me and what a pain in the arse they were.  Some sounded Scottish too.  One of the Mums lined them all up for a running race, which they did over and over again down the length of the garden!  Even when our ginger heroine was collecting a large amount of glasses, Twummy didn't stop them.   It was only when another group of Cauliflower-less adults turned up and looked vaguely annoyed, she said "people are trying to have a relaxing drink here".  It didn't stop one of the boy twilds coming up to my table, eyeballing Colin, slamming his fists on the bench, and running off.  Mum looks at me like "boys will be boys".  Useless parenting.  Kids n pubs, a losing combination.  Then a wasp drowns in my Muggy Porter and I have to use the Stabilo lid to fish it out.  Five second rule.   I'd already commandeered our ginger heroine to see if I could pay for my drink NOW (of course it was one of those 'pay at the end' places).   She says 'yes of course' but then returns to tell me the signal won't reach this far and they are card only so I'll have to go inside.  Luckily, there's a guy waiting for me.  More time lost.  I go to the loo while I'm there, they have annoying names - 'bulls' n 'cows' so I stand there working out my bovine anatomy til I remember I have bullocks.  More time lost.  The loos are annoying, weird urinals made of beer kegs and then, strange quirky taps impossible to start or stop.  Grrrrrr.  I go back out, nearly collide with one of the Dad's.  He doesn't even acknowledge my presence, ignorant twerp.  They are getting ready to leave, same as me, so I hurry myself up.  Clouds are gathering, other Dad sticks hand in the air. "I predict it will rain in the next hour" he says rather pompously to Ethan, the Twildiest Twild of them all.   I'm thinking 5 mins before rain.  I'm off anyway.  Fuck me, if this is what Kentish pub ticking is all about, can I get out now?? 

Despite getting drenched, I take some satisfaction in the fact the heaven's open shortly after I leave the pub.  I hope the tossers got drenched.  I make the train fairly comfortably, despite the Greyhound's best efforts to slow me down at every turn.  

Off to Tonbridge we go!  Four pubs here, which will take me nicely up to six for the day if I can see them all through.  Just like Bromley last night, nice when the maths works out.

They are pronouncing Tonbridge as 'Tunbridge', which seems confusing to me as Tunbridge Wells is only a few miles south, a good BRAPA destination for another day.  That means Tunbridge Wells will have to be constantly referred to as 'Tunbridge Wells' and not shortened, unless they call it 'Wells' but then you might think you are in Somerset.  Crazy stuff from the Kentonians.  

And this as I'm still reeling from their Leigh being pronounced 'Lye' instead of 'Lee'.  Insanity.  Come on Kent, sort it out!  

Anyway, no time to worry about such things as I'd not bought a train ticket so have to do a quick manoeuvre when I see the barriers closed, NOT that I was fare evading, it was just trying to get me to use a code for a non existent machine.  I mumble something in Yorkshire about an ailing whippet, so a guy lets me through.

No idea what pub to aim for, I just find myself walking down some backstreets til I come to first one on my map ..... here it is ......

No better pub location in my opinion than a backstreet local, blending in with terraced houses around it.  Lovely.  And this was true of Nelson Arms, Tonbridge (1830) which looking back, I think was my favourite of the 4 GBG entries I visited.  Now this might be because it was the one I was most observant in, but I just think it had a quality beyond the lovely location about it that made it unique, just felt a touch of class all round.  I walk in and the very impressive guv'nor is quick to impose his personality on the situation, bit o' test n tracing, tries to get me outdoors but I've seen some green tiling I like and ask if I can sit in corner.  A bloke behind me answers first .... "okay then, as long you don't sing!" he tells me rather randomly.  This proved a bit rich coming from a guy who didn't button it the entire time I was there, even when you suspect the convivial landlord and the very smiley lady both would have welcomed it.  He once had breakfast with the Welsh rugby team ..... which was nice.  He couldn't have been more Fast Show.  Meanwhile I'd been presented with two grand laminated beer menus, one cask, one keg, not quite what you'd expect from a backstreet boozer perhaps but no doubting the commitment to beer in here.  In some ways, I was relieved to get a drink to 'sit in' with as the two word Google Maps description was 'Curbside Pickup'.  Unless this had a more sinister meaning.  Maybe David Pleat was in the area?   I had my own problems.  I 'missed' the Gents (not in a Newark way) but ended up walking into the smoking area, where a group of blokes laughed at me and showed me how I'd walked directly past the door and missed it!  Always in pubs like this I do that!   Oh, and bad thing about these verbal test n trace things, I now know the mobile number of a girl called Lucy.  I didn't memorise it, honest.  Really good pub this, gives me renewed Kentish hope.

So, this was all very simple wasn't it?  Mosey along to the three other Tonbridge GBG ticks, and all is hunky dory.  Right?  No way it was going to be that straightforward, this is BRAPA after all.  And we had a special twitter guest calling our name.  Find out about that in part 4 tomorrow.

Si 

 

BRAPA ..... THINKS FONDLY OF COMELY BROMLEY (Aug Bank Hol Pt 2/6)

 "Cor ..... incredible, what a place chief!  Quite remarkable."  

Not my words, but those of short-suffering BRAPA mascot Colin the Cauliflower when I turned to him a few minutes ago and asked him about that magical night of Friday 28th August.

Even more remarkable when I think back to the broken empty husk of a man I was, standing on London Bridge platform 6 an hour or so before.  The weirdness of Woodmansterne had taken it out of me, and a cup of cocoa and an early night was looking more tempting than three more pubs at this stage.  

I stood like a zombie on the busy commuter-lined platform, watching trains and folk coming and going.  Places like Orpington & Petts Wood were on my radar, but in the end, I pulled myself together and opted for Bromley North, via Grove Park, which you might remember from a pretty disastrous Antic tick last summer.  After all, Bromley has three GBG pubs, so if I was successful here, it'll round it up to a perfect six.

The first sign that the stars were aligning to produce one of those special evenings was when a funny bloke introduced his six year old German Shepherd called John to myself and a poor unsuspecting young Asian businesswoman, with me basically throwing her under the proverbial bus by looking the other way and making her deal with 100% of the interaction.  John had never been on a train before, and the poor twoggy creature looked curiously as all these fast tubes of noise shot through the station.

Once in Bromley, I took a few gulps of the Kentish / South London air and aimed, as any experienced pub ticker would, for the more off centre pub first, short walk though it was into the backstreets. 

Bromley pubbing, here we come

Those toms need a bit more sun if they are gonna ripen

The busy outdoor drinking area was the first thing I noticed at Red Lion (1825) followed by a feeling of relief as I entered a beautiful carpeted traditional local with gleaming original green tiling and a big bookcase lining the right hand wall.  My joy was short lived.  Before I could even sniff the bar, I was told they were at full capacity and I'd have to wait outside where someone would come to serve me!  What a shame.  A more churlish version of myself may have argued that if social distancing was the aim here, it would still have been easier to do it inside than out, but good I guess to see a pub observing rules on pub capacity and being responsible.  I still moaned about it to two local blokes and had time to explain BRAPA before their taxi conveniently arrived to let them escape, but I also told them it looked like they'd been here all day (only since 6pm in truth).  "Ho ho, those days are long gone" said one.  "Do you know anyone in Bromley?" they asked me, and when I said not, they looked worried for me.  I was eventually served by a friendly lady with a garish, flammable looking shirt, and with the cold evening wind blowing about, I shivered my way through a quality pint of Proper Job.  "Don't worry, we've given you extra bin liners for comfort!" she says, and I wonder whether she expected me to wrap one around myself as they were just lining the benches.  A lady asks if she can stub out her ciggie in the upturned plant pot Colin is resting on, and I contemplate how a pub like this will cope in the deepening winter months, without having to turn many punters away.

My tantalising view "What I could've won!"

Colin, pre cig stubbing incident but I shouldn't judge, it might be his kink

Forbidden 'way back from the bogs' shot, take one

Forbidden 'way back from the bogs' shot, take two

Despite the difficult circumstances, you could tell the Red Lion was quality.  Though as I made my way back down the street, I look wistfully at cosy indoorsy White Horse and wondered why this couldn't have been in the GBG ......

Not allowed to go in, pub ticker rules! 

My next job was to get some snacks and soft drinks before I 'lost discipline' and although Sainsbury's was my original target, I saw one of those little Premier shops.  As I was getting served, she read my tee shirt and I spent the next five minutes explaining BRAPA.  Male colleague tries to join in with a "there's a very handy O'Neil's just up the street, you gonna go there?" to which she snapped "that's hardly likely to be in his book is it?"   Funny how some people get it quicker than others.

Also funny how the little things make you smile, make a difference, but this was just an example one of the many sums of the parts that make me think fondly of Bromley.  

Back down to earth with a bump as I hit the more rowdy part of town, dusk now closing in, and the queue for Wetherspoons (thankfully on this occasion, not in my GBG) was snaking right back onto the street, like a nightclub.  This gave me even less confidence about my next tick, on the same street, which I suspected would be small, limited and my 'online research' hadn't even suggested getting beer to 'drink in' would be an option.   Luckily, I was wrong on every count ......

Star & Garter (1826) is no micro beer shop, it is a 19th century Grade II listed real ale lovers paradise with all the keg n cask blackboards that your beer connoisseurs love.  Personally, gimme a cosy sesh in a Red Lion any day, but to say that at this moment in time would've been churlish, as a kind young chap helps direct me to the cask ales without any of the usual pontificating, and how bloody good are those prices for this kind of venue for this part of the world?  Yes, it had been quite stripped back and modernised (well, no idea what it looked like 100 years ago to be honest!) but it had a cracking youthful atmosphere, and upstairs towards the bogs was the remaining 'pubby' part of the place, see below Watney poster and similar bits to give a nod to older times.  The amount of empties on my table I got by the back door showed me plenty of people had already been having fun here these evening, unless Col had been on a sly sesh whilst I'd been for a piss.  I was content with my pint of 'Roadie'.  Whatever, you couldn't help but smile.  Well, I couldn't.  One more to go, we can do this!

Oh Colin, what have you done?

Okay, who's drunk all the 12% coconut stout?

Fewer rules than 90% of rural Surrey pubs to be honest

Tasty, and cheap

As I left, reflecting I wouldn't always enjoy such a place, I realised I'd obviously been seduced by the bright lights of Bromley.  Still, time to cross the road and give that 'Spoons a wide berth ..... but maybe the queue is subsiding by now .....

.... or maybe not!  (p.s. I've got that yellow jacket / chequered trousers combo)

My final pub was the Fuller's House, and I felt a bit more confident going into this one as, the ones which have reopened at least, seem a pretty well-drilled operation.

And such good service I received in Partridge, Bromley (1827), I felt like a VIP as I did the awkward 'hover between sign that says to wait here, and bar' and this genial chap who reminds me of a man of the cloth (which cloth, I'm not sure) swoops down on me, and puts me in this very conspicuous red leather armchair facing out into the whole of the pub.  It felt like I was at the head of the table, and if this was Christmas, I'd be carving the turkey for everyone.  No wonder a drunk blonde Susan Boyle and her hubbie shout across "you done well there, you look very at 'ome!"  Well, that's only the half of it Fake Subo, because on asking what ales are on offer, he tells me ESB is back.  First Turkey Twizzlers, now ESB.  What's next?  A new Dire Straits hit single?  Oh yes, perfect armchair to drink ESB in, perfect time of night to have it, and this must be amongst the first batches of it back considering what I was told down in Surrey.  After then declining her kind offer to buy everyone in the pub a drink, I lean back a bit further and observe the glorious glittering chandeliers and dizzyingly high ceiling from my strange vantage point, with muffled yet tinny background noise putting me into a Bromley induced reverie.  Oh hang on, actually, I'm probably just pissed.  Nice way to end a strangely great evening.

So there we go, I walked back to the station and couldn't feel a thing.  Just the way I like it.  Can't remember getting back to East India Quay but I managed it somehow, the snacks i'd bought earlier still in tact, for a nice nighttime 'fuddle' to keep me sustained so we could do it all again tomorrow! 

And let me add Bromley to my top places in the UK list, what glorious folk and some pretty decent boozers too.  Will be more than happy to go back if the need arises, which I'm sure it will before I tick my 4,500th GBG pub in year 2043.

Join me for part 3, unexpected Kent coming up.  

Si

BRAPA in ..... TAKE A CHANCERY ON ME (Aug Bank Hol Pt 1/6)

August Bank Holiday weekend started a day early in BRAPA-land, as I booked the Friday off work for three nights down in London for more South Eastern pub ticking, my new modus operandi, since 4th July.

As I struggled to squeeze everything into one giant rucksack, it looked like it might have to be a two-way toss-up between Good Beer Guide or Colin the Cauliflower.  Sophie's choice?  

Luckily, I managed to squash both in (of course I'd have sacrificed Colin, but we don't need to tell him) and I was down on the London Underground for 10am, too early to check in, but no worry because one of my three remaining Central London 'ticks' was open and looking rather majestic in the morning sunshine.

Just around the corner from the famous Seven Stars and its 'ruffed' cat, it might be a surprise to many to see Knights Templar, Chancery Lane (pub 1822) the preferred option in the 2020 Good Beer Guide.  Limited weekend opening hours are the reason I hadn't been here 'til now, and this plus the total lack of mention of it in the GBG meant I was surprised to realise it was actually a Wetherspoons.  It certainly is one of the prettier ones, very ornate with a painted ceiling, columns, spectacular curved toilets, chandeliers and who knows what else I failed to observe.  All overseen by a knight behind the bar.  The temporary coviddy perspex screens were easier to ignore here than most.  The Irish landlady had a friendly, dominant air about her, which made you feel you were in a traditional back street boozer, and she chased everyone around until they'd all test n traced, brandishing pencils and paper for those who looked like technology was beyond them.  The ale choice of Greene King IPA, Abbots or Doom was poor for a 'Spoons (Hobson's Choice had replaced Sophie's Choice!) but I must say, that most maligned real ale of Doom Bar was in better nick than I'd probably ever tasted, and I do attempt to give it a whirl when I go down to Cornwall, and dare I say better than the beer quality I've ever tried on my three trips to the Seven Stars.  Pretty much every customer had hi-vis on, ordered cooked breakfasts, and I felt lazy, like the only one who hadn't at least tried to tarmac a road that morning.

I got onto the DLR and was soon checking in to my super cheap Docklands Travelodge at East India Quay, not a great location in terms of the pubs I was looking to get completed, but decent links to Bank and London Bridge meant it wasn't too bad.

In a blatant attempt to get some good TripAdvisor feedback, the lass who checks me in asks me why I'm here and when I explain BRAPA, she stifles a yawn and hands me a card with her name and a smiley face on.  Had she asked me about the intricacies of getting to South Godstone, I might've left feedback, but alas not.

After a bit of a lunch and a quick spray of Lynx, I was back on the road (well, rail) to the first of five Surrey outliers I had earmarked for this weekend.  

I jumped off at a place called Oxted where the locals looked irritatingly smug in a way rarely seen since Stamford, and headed towards first Limpsfield, and then across a golf course with a busy road running through the middle to find Limpsfield Chart.  Some wonderful human being had carved out a country path through woodland, to stop any terrifying road walking.

Eventually it opens out into a gravel track with some impossibly beautiful cottages appearing on the left, and the pub was just around the bend.

All the drama came in the first five minutes at the Carpenters Arms, Limpsfield Chart (1823) and walking in through the exit and straight up to the bar was always likely to land me in hot water in rural posh Surrey, but the young fledglings simply blinked at me in the hospitable manner and allowed me to complete my well rehearsed 'I'm just looking for a pint of real ale and to get out of your way' routine.  This seemed to be a Westerham pub, which hit home to me just how perilously close to Kent I was (more on that in part 3 or 4) and when the Summer Perle needed an awful lot of pump waggling to get it into my glass, a bloke in the far corner eating egg n chips called one of the more senior fledglings over to his table, to worried glances from the junior fledglings, and asked what was wrong with the pump, not before theatrically popping three chips in his mouth, and chewing slowly, pausing to cause a dramatic tension.  The situation was diffused/swept under the carpet, and i scurried outside with my excellent quality pint, having glanced around to see a lack of pub furniture and a few too many diners.  There was a very welcoming bench outside, and the outlook was nice, not to mention the weather, though five minutes later, the heavens opened, leaving me to exchange amusingly predictable pleasantries with the wet Limpsfield lettuces who were running for shelter.  I found a very handily timed rickety bus back to Oxted station, the stop was just opposite, don't you like it when a plan comes together?

Drama at the bar .... a brown ale is out of shot but there were two ales on

Prettiest view from pub to bus stop since I was up in Rosthwaite

Col sups his hard fought Summer Perle minutes before the rains came

A satisfying chunk to 'green off' (technical BRAPA term)

At the bus stop, waving farewell to the pub

A bit of jiggery pokery on the rail network eventually had me at Woodmansterne for one of my remaining four 'desired' Surrey ticks of the weekend.  

NOT that the pub was handily placed for the railway station, and a uphill walk had me puffing and breathing before I entered yet more woodland.  A dog walker apologised as a canine jumps up at me with muddy paws and I laugh it off.

Now today really got interesting as I realised I was rapidly making ground on this distant figure with an umbrella.  Not wanting to scare the poor chap, I peered into his brolly and said hello.  He returned the meanest, scariest look, and had serial killer written all over him.  I scuttled off down the path, constantly looking over my shoulder.  He could do away with me here and no one would see or hear a thing.  Luckily, he disappears from view and I'd captured him distantly in this photo which might be a clue, if he didn't nick my phone, in the forthcoming murder investigation.

The track became thinner, slippier in the wet, and darker, and when it did come out on something called 'Manor Hill', it was such a breakneck pavementless danger zone at rush hour, I hesitated.  Luckily, a bloke about my age in his office gear, brandishing one of those 'Head' bags all the kids had for P.E. in 1991 overtook me and I tucked in behind him, walking along the road, this was obviously part of his daily commute.  However, who should appear out of the adjacent field but the Umbrella killer, just behind me, the three of us walking in single file into Woodmansterne proper!   Our commuter friend was a painfully slow walker too, but no way I was overtaking him even if I could feel the Umbrella Killer's breath on my neck.

When we reached civilisation with the pub a couple of minutes away, I strategically stopped to take a photo of this rather fetching carved sign, done by a woodman of Woodmansterne .....

But our Umbrella Killer also paused, stood in the same grassy area, and then continued on when I did.  Was he REALLY following me?  I walked on even quicker, soon catching up our slow walking Head bag commuter, and guess what, he was pub bound too, he went round the back.  I tried to get in the front.  An angry looking ginger bald smoking bloke glared at me, but didn't tell me it was back entrance only.  Oh, and of course the pub looked like a mini Gothic castle to add to this sense of horror, at least Umbrella Killer seemed to have disappeared, for now......

I snaked around the back, and followed the arrows into the main bar at Woodman, Woodmansterne (1824) hoping I could put the events of the last few minutes behind me.  I ordered a Harvey's from behind some perspex, the staff were a stylish bubbly bunch, especially the one in leather trousers wrestling with the noisiest coffee machine in the world.  Friendly bleached blonde dude with an element of the Goss brothers (not Jeremy) had just finished serving me when our Head Bagged commuter appeared next to me, and ordered a pint of Peroni.  How had I overtaken him, he must've gone for a slow piss to match his walking speed.  I sat down, and was astonished when the Umbrella Killer strides in and goes behind the bar.  He works here!  The bubbly staff say hi to him, he grunts in reply.  He looks at me quickly, then looks away.  Three incredibly fast talking and drinking Irish old guys are on the table next to me, one smiles but I'm traumatised and just want to finish my Harvey's and get outta here!  The angry smoker from outside is sat behind me now with a woman and a clipboard, so he works here too.  Jeez.  The pub itself wasn't particularly characterful, so now I reflect on this experience, I'm quite thankfully for the strange turn of events that defined my visit!

Umbrella killer, right, possibly planning his next move

Irish legends and okay Harveys

Outside when I arrived, but not any more

I didn't fancy that walk back so took a bus to Croydon South where I briefly entertained the idea of a long walk to a 'Spoons in a place called Selsdon, but decided with the rain still bouncing down, there must be a better option.

There certainly was, with bells on!  Find out about that tomorrow in Part Two.

Si