BRAPA in ..... ACHEY BREAKY HERTS : FROM HIGH WYCH TO BISHOP'S STORTFORD

 'I just don't think you understand'.  I was quite confident about finishing Hertfordshire by the end of the wintertime, but these constant engineering works and Lincoln diversions are meaning 3.5 hour journeys to and from the south east, and that is IF you can even book a ticket on a train at a sensible time (i.e. 07:01 from York, 20:00 back home) which am generally finding unavailable. Boo!   

But at least the cross-ticking hadn't been too cruel, okay so I need a third trip to St Albans, a second trip to Hemel Hempstead, a Stevenage BRAPA debut, and stuff like Bridens Camp & Flaunden looks tricky, but on the whole, I can't complain ...... 

..... especially on days like today, where BRAPA illuminati Simon Dewhurst had kindly offered to drive me around some of those hard to reach eastern areas close to his Sawbridgeworth stomping ground.  Daddy Dewhurst was sadly unavailable, but I'm sure we'll see him again in the future.

I'd barely had chance to tuck into my Sausage n Cheese muffin and Arctic coffee breakfast before the first weirdness of the day occurred .....

We'd not even left York when an odd young lad with glazed over eyes just across from me, who has been staring weirdly for the last five minutes, suddenly says "oi mate, what time do we get into York?"  I reveal the good news that we are already here, but he ain't having it.  "Nah mate, this is Leeds" he slurs.  I tell him I am convinced this is York.  Eventually, his brain performs a full somersault, he says 'awww shit' and gets off just in time.

Cue much tutting and head shaking from the ladies behind, taking their kids on their first trip to London.  I agree with them that more decorum is required from the younger generation, fearing he has definitely exceeded the BRAPA allowance of six pints + an ESB.  He didn't look like an ESB man.

After much jiggery pokery at Tottenham Hale, where I end up in first class just because I think I'm entitled to luxury leather seats, I finally hit Sawbridgeworth where Simon is hoping the car behind him will be patient enough to wait until I've hopped in.

First stop, High Wych (pronounced Whych not Witch) according to SD.  Big car park opposite pub, but despite being well gone 12 noon, the pub looks dead as a dodo.  Noooooo!  

Shut pub alert?  Gah!  Simon looks through the window at the ales to see what I could've won.  Whilst he's doing this, I prod the wooden door with my finger end, more in hope than expectation and to my delight, it opens.  That's better!

Rising Sun, High Wych (1946 / 3510) is a great starter.  The garlic mushrooms or tempura veg of pubs.  I'm a little bit torn between whether to view this as a basic, rustic, rural style boozer of few frills, and whether it is a bit of a plain modern place that could do with a bit more pzazz.  I think looking back, I'm inclined to view it favourably.  Sure, the guv'nor was a nice deep breathing old school guy, the Tring Citra poured straight from the barrel, was of the utmost quality.  And it is quite the noble, caring, altruistic place too, requesting you open your crisp bags carefully and retain them, so they can make blankets for the homeless out of them!  Not seen that before.  And when I peer through some glass at what I think is the pub pantry, he tells me it is a food bank for those less fortunate.  A pub that cares. 

No Si, not your dinner!

Onwards and upwards, and Simon was a bit unsure what I'd think of this next one.  Daddy Dewhurst apparently describes it as a 'curate's egg' of a pub.  A bit of a 'love' or 'hate'?  Colour me intrigued!  

It was immediately apparent it was a 'love' from me, Queen's Head, Allens Green (1947 / 3511) (and I'm still not entirely confident apostrophe-wise) had a kind of 'I don't care what you think' attitude which I admired.  It was unconventional, there were no mock tudor beams, no flickering candles in settles, no throbbing gable enders, no nicotine stained ceilings nor dimly lit snugs.  This was a basic, comfortable rural drinkers pub, no fuss, no histrionics, come in, get drink, sit down / loiter, enjoy / don't.  A drinkers pub with more emphasis on cider than beer actually, though having said that, we'd missed the 'beer wall' to the right which I finally witnessed whilst predictably walking the wrong way to the gents and embarrassing myself in front of the bearded old locals.  With the Hophead drinking headily, the barman went round to grab himself a beer wall beer.  It was that kind of pub.  For some reason, I start telling Simon about my recent dental history involving root canals and tooth removals by Dundee Utd fans.  Poor SD, it was an unprovoked monologue, but again, I'll blame the pub for creating a dental non-judgemental transcendental atmosphere.  

Too early for Death or Glory, I said at the time, see I can be sensible

Absolutely loved this table, though Colin claimed it gave him a cold arse

Wall of beer, grrrraaarrrr!

Two great pubs, two great pints.  I was loving rural East Hertfordshire.  More of the same?  Or was that being optimistic?

On the edge of the Henry Moore estate (I think he's the bloke who sculpts things near Wakefield) we arrived at the largest pub car park in the whole of Christendom.  Only a panoramic photo would've done it justice, and I didn't have the patience.  Instead, you get Simon D outside the pub.

Is it possible to find a pub's inclusion in the GBG an absolute disgrace, but also leave with a smile on your face after a winning experience?  I'd have said no before today.  But then again, I hadn't been to the madcap Hoops, Perry Green (1948 / 3512), a restaurant not even thinly disguised as a pub.  "Oooh, I'm very clumsy" says the fabulously engaging barmaid/landlady.  And then proves the point by spilling my pint.  She's one part Nanny from Count Duckula, one part Frank Spencer.  Loved her.  Wish she hadn't topped it up.  The beer in question, Oddy from Hadham which I had a very nice pint of in the summer, is dreadful.  Vinegar, and no plant pot in sight.  Bill Oddie, Bill Oddie, this is one beer I wouldn't rub all over my body.  So much for the 'one ale on at a time to guarantee quality' argument.  I'm reassured to see a gaggle of old gents trying to treat this place as a pub.  "They're the most delicious samosas you'll ever have, duckyboos" the barmaid is cooing nearby.  I tell Simon I bet she'll spy Colin and make a comment.  But to my surprise, she swoops over, totally blanking Col, and says "wow, a book that well highlighted must be pretty special".  So I explain BRAPA.  And then a guy from the largest dinery table, (with two baby high chairs, and two hungry dogs underneath, occasionally trotting off to the kitchen in search for food only to be bollocked by the chef) comes over and says he follows me on Twitter!  Mark Higgins ladies and gentlemen.  Lovely chap.  He found me through Cooking Lager!  What a time to be alive.  Never felt more famous since I was recognised in an Ely micropub.  So there you have it, a winning experience, but kinda dreadful too.  Still, as my favourite songwriter says "it doesn't have to be pure, it doesn't have to be perfect, just sort of has to be worth it".  And this 'pub' certainly was.

Past the half way point, and with the bar nicely set low again (not literally like at the Tally Ho in Broughton), it was time for pub four, which resembled something vaguely ecclesiastical in a Hereford and Worcester backwater kind of way.  

If something's going to have me immediately viewing a pub through shit-tinted spectacles, it is bar blockers.  And not just any bar blockers.  BRAPA Belmesthorpe style Bar Blockers (BBsBB's).  By which I mean utterly selfish locals who not only sit down to bar block, with not one gap between their stools, but position them in a kind of crescent shape, curving away from the bar, to make it even harder to see what ales are on, make little pretence at moving for you, and grunt.  Yes, I know I'm the outsider here, you don't have to ram it down my throat!  Welcome to Prince of Wales. Green Tye (1949 / 3513) and perhaps I was unlucky, for on the two occasions Simon was at the bar and I was otherwise indisposed, he made me aware that they were actually quite friendly.  But as far as I'm concerned, especially for this narrative, they are all heartless monsters.  Shame, cos it's a nice old village pub, the most impressive ancient atmosphere found today.  There'd been some debate about whether our Abbeydale Moonshine (strange ale to see down here) was at the bottom of the barrel, as we had our awkward service wait.  Eventually, it was presented to us as 'fine', but tasted nothing like Moonshine.  It was actually quite a nice, drink but nothing like Moonshine!  A dog came over and wanted a stroke, nice doggie, nice to see something friendly in evil Green Tye.  And sad because the Facebook evidence suggested this should be a happy pub for people called Simon, but maybe only on a Sunday.

Our final two ticks of the day took us to Bishop's Stortford, one of the towns that when I was a twild growing up in Saffron Walden, my R.A. Butler school friends would say "Mummy took me shopping in Bishop's Stortford at the weekend" nonchalantly throw their heads back in the air, and they'd get a gold star off Mrs Dodman, Miss Creber, Mr Bye but definitely not Missus Prisk. 

Meanwhile, I was getting Hoylandswaine flashbacks as we approached the 'amusing' lager encyclopaedia whiteboard with railings across cricket pitch, funny little entrance etc. 

I talk a lot about GBG clubs, mainly the unpredictability of getting in, and the varied, quirky reception / reaction you receive from staff and locals alike.  And that was my main gripe about Bishop's Stortford Sports Trust (1950 / 3514) , it just lacked any of that usual 'mild peril' and dare I say it, discernible character in general.  It was low roofed, long and carpeted enough to feel clubby, but that was where similarities ceased.  Two dead eyed young droogs served us from behind perspex, a pint of totally unremarkable Buntingford Hurricane, an ale to sum up the ambience, but at least it tasted like it was intended, and was drinkable.  It was fairly busy too, the whole place just felt like a bag of magnolia painted random logs whistling the greatest hits of Coldplay.  Two happier happenings helped to raise it to an acceptable level.  Simon saw an old friend Ella, unexpectedly working here, so they had a nice chat, and as I hummed Rhianna in my head, Hull City took the lead with a highly contentious 'ball is out of play' goal against Birmingham, so I imagined how much of a good sport Lee Bowyer was going to be about it, and that cheered me up too.  The ale tasted nicer after this too, maybe I'd just got in a bit of a mental rut after the last two pubs!

In a more convenient B.S. location, today's sixth and final tick leered at us wonkily from a dusk laden street corner like old Uncle Kevin .......

And I'm delighted to report the Star, Bishop's Stortford (1951 / 3515) was a Christmas cracker of a pub on which to end, a veritable grotto of leafy stuff, twinkly lights, jolly red faced folk and a health restoring oatmeal stout, to lead me into ESB time a bit later.  I'm aware there'll be those Scrooges of you reading that line like "bah humbug, a bit early for Christmas, hate pubs like that" but I've not explained it thoroughly.  What I'm really trying to portray is a pub that would feel festive all year round, but definitely works better in the winter time.  It had spirit, vim and vigour, not unlike the excellent and nearby Rose & Crown at Stansted Mountfitchet.  This was a return to the kind of form we hadn't had since leaving Allens Green back at pub two, though I can't remember any of the finer details!  Thanks to Simon D for another great day, and we'll be back in early 2022 for something similar but a bit further north.  

I forced my six pint brain to remember that Tottenham Hale wasn't some kind of labyrinth matrix to befuddle me, and it worked, I got myself back to Kings Cross like a sober person would.  And that was good.  Because I'd hate to miss my ESB before the train to York, it wouldn't feel right.

Join me tomorrow, or Wednesday, depending on how well I do, for tales of Thirsty Thursday frolics in and around Middlesbro'.  Why am I typing this in bold?  Is it because Middlesbro' is special?  Find out soon.

Thanks for reading, Si 

  

 

BRAPA is ..... OUT OF YARM'S WAY

 

North Yorkshire must be one of the hardest counties to complete in the entire GBG, and I say that as someone who lives in it.

But buoyed by the fact that I'd somehow GAINED six pubs in the county during the cross-ticking of the new 2022 Good Beer Guide, in a year I'd been pretty neglectful of NY, I decided to pay it a bit of overdue attention in the new 2021/22 season.

After last Thursday's Harrogate duo, I was up to +8 and I spread my wings further and headed for that mysterious Teesside / Cleveland part of the world.  

I arrived at Yarm station, situated inconveniently well south of the town centre, almost eleven years to the day since my only other visit saw my tick off Nicholson's pub the Black Bull before a very snowy 2-2 draw at Middlesbrough featuring the tagline 'Vladivostock?  Bloody Bostock!'  

Back to the present day and the only other dude in my train carriage got off just in front of me, and proceeded to walk in exactly the same direction at me, at the kind of pace which was too slow to make me feel confident of making the bus connection, but too fast to overtake him easily. 

I finally took my chance crossing a petrol station forecourt.  Luckily the bus was a couple of minutes late, I could tell from the fed up tracksuited lad sat on the pavement.  Do people still wear Kappa in 2021?  I was surprised too.  

The evening bus wouldn't take me close to the pub, so I had to hop off at the closest point, and walk 13 minutes through Ingleby Barwick, a sprawling fairly desolate collection of seven estates, reminiscent of Newton Aycliffe, Stoke and Milton Keynes with none of the humour, soft edges or knowing self loathing.  

Named after the estate it was within, Beckfields, Ingleby Barwick (1943 / 3507) was the perfect example of a pub which didn't suit the locals who frequent it.  A ragged old bunch with swively eyes, and toothless smiles, the pub itself shiny, modern and a little bit bland.  I felt like the locals had to work especially hard to give it that 'lived in, proper boozer' type of feel.  It was quite a stretch.  A random pile of logs had been turned into a rather unsavoury reindeer, it was exactly the type of pub which will put the Christmas decorations up at the earliest opportunity just to offend your sensibilities further.  A bit of drama as I waited to be served, Donna had asked for a glass of wine, wandered off to find a seat, her husband convinced she'd said a bottle, barman swears blind she'd said glass when hubbie wasn't listening, and after more cross checking than a yearly GBG cross check, it was established her husband knew her best - bottle it was!  Bottoms up.  The staff were surprisingly quirky and good humoured for the type of surroundings, I was getting a less pubby Queen Edith on the outskirts of Cambridge vibe, the Hobgoblin Gold drank fairly well, the pub was warm and not lacking in comfort, and I should perhaps be a bit kinder to it.  I just found it difficult! 

Another 13 minute walk, but this time in a northerly direction, took me to an equidistantly placed bus stop, from where I went all the way up the line, through Yarm towards Egglescliffe, possibly even Eaglescliffe.

Rewind to August 2016, and with just enough time to squeeze in a sixth pub of the day, I hopped off at Eaglescliffe and walked very quickly in the direction of the Cleveland Bay and the Pot & Glass.  Being closer, I ticked off the Cleveland Bay, and then shot back to the station.  A day later, the new 2017 GBG arrived, Cleveland Bay was still in, Pot & Glass had been de-guided, I patted myself on the back for making 'the right choice', and I didn't think about the P&G ever again. Until now!

A meandering bladder shattering walk to the end of a very unlikely no-through-lane, opposite a beautiful church, this really was a perfect pub location.

And in every way, Pot & Glass, Egglescliffe (1944 / 3508) was the perfect pub to compliment the location.  A narrow corridor led me to a welcoming carpeted room, I stood at the bar, trying not to get in the eyeline of the couple on my left, talking to the couple on the right.  They are doing that slightly cringy 'village locals turn their hand to world affairs' thing you sometimes get it tin mining Cornish villages, and the most vocal man is settling nicely into his stride about terrorism, America, nuclear weapons and political correctness gone mad.  The fact that the jovial but understated guv'nor has to change the Old Peculiar barrel just extends my awkwardness.  I sit at the bench at the far end, I've never been more convinced at some point I'm going to get talking to strangers.  To my right, a young lad is quizzing a 93 year old gent on 'the past'.  Hazy memories, but the young lad keeps probing - obscure comedy reference here but it reminds me of the Armando Iannucci Show where he knocks on the door of an old guy called Hugh, asks about the war etc. and Hugh is always replying in disappointingly modern ways like 'my iPhone stopped working during the Blitz'.   As predicted, a lovely lady called Jill soon comes to sit near me, soon joined by a slightly older lady called Mary, a sort of Yoda of the local area.  Great chat with these two, the pub was conducive to it.  'You've been to Ingleby Barbaric?' they exclaim, shocked!  After chats on Hudswell, Saltburn, and Mary's memories of Yarm's cobbles made from old ships, they give me a churchyard inspired short cut to take me back into Yarm which even Google Maps didn't know about!  Local knowledge always key.  Great experience.

Jill & Mary didn't lie, the short cut really did take a lot of time off my walk back into Yarm for my final tick of the evening.

"Ayeawayaway!" says the smoking baldster outside, as I creep into the 'boom boom boom' atmosphere of the Ketton Ox, Yarm (1945 / 3509) , a pub which has obviously been here a lot of years, but has had what, in the trade, they call a particularly unsympathetic modern refurb.  Packed though, so you can't deny that this is what the locals like.  Not to my taste at all, it made Beckfields seem a heck of a lot more palatable.  The saving grace, and perhaps one nod to the pub of old, Bass is a regular beer and as I order it, I hear a group of blokes commentating "another person on the Bass, popular isn't it, I wonder how much it costs the pub to put it on" etc. like they've stepped straight off my Twitter feed!  I don't get a glass with a red triangle on it, and as such, it doesn't taste quite as nice.  I wonder if true #BassMen carry a collection of stick-on red triangles in the event of such disasters.  The old pub layout combines with terrible acoustics and modern re-fit to make the atmosphere quite stifling.  There is no obvious place to sit which allows you to observe the pub as a whole, so I have to make do with the back room with pool table.  Luckily, a young couple arrive for a game, involving me with the odd comment.  She is called Cher, he is more Scummy Boner than Sonny Bono (I'm being cruel, he seemed okay) and he's doing that thing where he's trying to appear he's in full control of the game, encouraging her to win, but when she eventually finds her form and pots an unlikely winning black, definitely a flicker of competitive disappointment crosses his previously unfazed face. 

So that was that!  Now +11 in North Yorkshire, with thoughts of a couple more trips over here during the coming month or two.

And I'll be back same time tomorrow for some tales of a very productive rural East Herts trip with my mate Simon D.  

Ta for reading, Si 

BRAPA ..... MONTH END REVIEW (NOVEMBER 2021)

Good evening.  It doesn't feel like a whole month since I was last sat here writing about October, and yet so much has happened in the world of BRAPA and my quest to one day, have a fully greened copy of the current Good Beer Guide.  When will that be?  2043 is still my estimate!    

I started the month on 2024 pubs, I end it on 1960 pubs.  So you could say I have visited minus 64 pubs during November.  Not my best effort!

I jest of course, the Good Beer Guide ticking process is always a case of 'two steps forwards, one step backwards' when it gets to the cross ticking stage of the year.  Traditionally late-August to Mid September, but nowadays late October to mid November due to the events of the last two years.

My true number of GBG pubs visited is actually a record-breaking 61, beating the 60 I achieved this July.  My liver is groaning, but I'm more than satisfied with both this, and the fact that I am already only 65 pubs from getting back into 'credit'.  A process which in the past three years has taken me 5-6 months!

I've picked out eight pubs which particularly impressed me, in order of date visited.  And these will go into the hat for the BRAPA Pub of the Year awards which I'll blog whilst drunk on New Year's Eve night with Jools Holland muted in the background.

1. Hyde Tavern, Winchester

2. George Inn, Vernham Dean

3. Wonston Arms, Wonston

4. Toll Gate, Hornsey

5. Anchored in Worthing, Worthing

6. Pot & Glass, Egglescliffe

7. Queen's Head, Allens Green

8. Duke William, Burslem

And if we are talking about particularly weak GBG entries, I think I can give you five:

1. Andover Tap, Andover (but also see below for more on this one):

2. Wyvern, Church Crookham

3. Andwell Brewery Taproom, Andwell

4. Corner House, Worthing

5. Hoops, Perry Green

Beer of the Month

For a 585th consecutive month, ESB (Parcel Yard, King's Cross)

Ticking the Tickers / #PubMen of the Month

I managed to tick two more of the 'big six' of pub tickers.  Jim Brunt, who I met briefly one Sunday in York's Market Cat for a pint.  And Alfie Noakes who is sometimes known as Ian S in real life popped into the Parcel Yard because he knew that 'on a law of averages, I'd probably be there'.  

That only leaves Martin Alsop of the 'big six' to meet, the West Wales micropub of tickers.

I acknowledge there are other GBG tickers out there too.  Like the man down near Brighton who has his wife act as his secretary, planning his trips and routes etc.  And the mystery man who with a one syllable name like Zog or Grub who I was told about, who moved from Halifax to Wilmslow because he wanted to be more miserable.

Am sure there is a fresh faced YTS ticker coming through the ranks too.

The #PubMan of the month award is actually split FOUR ways for November.  Mick Citra, Simon Dewhurst, Six Towns Mart and Andrew Mackean all putting themselves in the reckoning for the big year end awards ceremony.

GBG CROSS TICKING UPDATE

Two revelations on the weekend of 20th-21st November, good and bad.  We'll start with good.

A chance comment by the 'always good value' Martin Taylor helped me recognise the Salutation, Hulme as a 11th pre-emptive I'd done which nearly got away.  Because it wasn't listed under Manchester, I didn't recognise it as my 'local' during the weekend of April 2019's Manchester Punk Festival. 

I remember at the time thinking what a beautiful building, good staff, top quality ales, I just assumed it wasn't in the GBG cos Manchester has such a strong well established suit of regular entries.  I even ate a couple of vegan burgers just so my sister thought I was cool.  It didn't work.  It never works.

In more frustrating news, remember the Andover Tap which I visited and disliked for extreme boringness on 4th Nov.  Well, sometime after my visit but by 20th November, it had moved from 2 Winchester Street to 21 Andover Street where a Lamb Inn used to be, so now, if it gets in a future Guide, I'll have to re-tick it! 

I consulted an independent adjudicator, Tim Thomas of Ullage fame (the best CAMRA magazine I've ever seen), and he told me I was allowed to keep the tick this year because the one that appears in the 2022 GBG is the old address.  

RANT OF THE BLOG

Ain't ticking hard?  This is another downside of these flimsy micro brewery tap kitchen canteen places, they are often so temporary, they may move premises at the drop of a hat.  You wouldn't get the Square & Compass at Worth Matravers suddenly saying 'hey guyyys, we're just fucking off over the other side of the road lolz' would you?  I mean, they'd be in the sea if they did.  But you get my point don't you?  I got told the New Brew-m I did in Burnley as a pre-emptive on 16th Feb 2016 might not be the same New Brew-m I see in the GBG now.  How will I know?  Whitney Houston sang that in her ode to the difficulties of pub ticking.  No wonder she ended up dead in the bath on drugs.  And don't get me started on bloody Buxton.  Banter GBG town, as the toxic twitter football kids say.  

ARTY / DRUNK BASS PHOTO OF THE MONTH

Unicorn Inn, Hanley

DECEMBER PAIN

Not my favourite month of the pub ticking year, especially that period from approx 12th up to Christmas day, as all the once a year pubbers in their funny jumpers and non-understanding of pub etiquette are out in force making a life a misery for those of us who use pubs all year round.  Like you.  And me.  

I've got no holidays either, AND I've already had that similar thing to late July when people I only see once in a blue moon tell me they've got 2 weeks off and it would be nice to meet up.  And they never say exciting meeting places like Stornaway or Guernsey, it is always York or L**ds.

So whilst I'll crack on with Saturday's and Thirsty Thursday's as best I can, I might be limited.

But never mind, I've got some good news coming in January which I'll reveal on New Year's Eve which will eventually help in my pub ticking quest.

I tell you another pain, getting down to the South East from York for Herts & Hants ticking November-December.  Seems to be engineering works every Saturday, which either means no trains available, or 3 hrs or more each way, limiting what you can achieve unless you stay over night.  

North Yorkshire continues to be my Thursday focus, and that'll hopefully (weather permitting) be my first two ticks of the month.  So look out on Twitter tomorrow for that.

Thanks for reading, keep it pub.

Si