BRAPA in ..... HERE COMES A STOKE SAVER (PART 2/2 - BURSLEM TO HANLEY)

With the Port Vale and Hartlepool fans now presumably safely locked inside Vale Park for two hours, the coast was clear to tick off my two required Burslem pubs, having enjoyed the delights of the Bull's Head a couple of times way back in the 00's. 

Today's hero, Six Towns Mart, dropped me off, but said he'd be back later on ferry me on to Hanley.  What a gent.  My only worry now was had today peaked a little too soon?  After all, Etruria's Holy Inadequate and Kidsgrove's Blue Bell had been dyed in the wool classics.

The smiley face on the blackboard wasn't a sign of things to come at the Bursley Ale House, Burslem (1957 / 3521) , a large micropub style place where the staff and locals seemed so relieved to seen off their busiest time of the week, they had no energy left for pleasantries with the likes of me!  A Twild boy ran around, demanding fruit shoots and the like.  He was attached to a long suffering local Mum, and as such, all the attention was squarely on their antics.  Sometimes, having a weak bladder can be a blessing.  In here, being up the stairs, it allowed me to discover a much warmer area of the pub, free from any customers.  In most situations, I'd feel wrong taking myself away from the 'action', but I was so convinced I'd not get a conversation opportunity, or even a friendly smile, I felt a lot happier once I'd relocated up here.  Colin was happier too, sitting atop the dartboard and almost daring people to miss double top, which could have been painful to his poor florets.  At least the Burton Bridge Damson Porter was drinking well, in an unusual kind of way, I notice they also interestingly had a Vale Ale on brewed by Slater's of Stafford, who'd just been criticised by the assembled crowd in the Blue Bell. 'Interestingly' because points of interest here were at a premium.

Just across the square, looming out at me in quite an intimidating way was the mock tudory pub four:

A return to form on the pub front, you can't keep a good Potteries down, and Duke William, Burslem (1958 / 3522) was a peach of a boozer.  Dark to the point of looking half closed, a large semi circular bar was like a greatest hits of my favourite ales.  Titanic Plum Porter, Salopian Oracle, Bass, Thornbridge Jaipur, something by Dark Star I'd not seen before, I went for the Bass obvs because, you know, day out in Staffordshire, rules innit?  Hallways and staircases lead to multi rooms with bell pushes, you really could've been in Halifax, L**ds or Outer Brum.  Grand place.  I stay in the main bar though, in front of the one source of heat, a little fire being expertly managed / poked by our friendly hostess, who's John Motson style sheepskin suggests she knows the pub needs a bit more heating than this, though apparently the bar has a heated footrail I didn't notice.  A little TV screen above me  is showing the big match, Vale v Hartlepool and all going well for the home team.  I even get to admire Hull City illuminati like David Amoo, Nicky Featherstone and Mark Cullen.  Nostalgia.  Kind of.  Six Towns Mart has arrived, just in time to hear my favourable assessment.  Hanley time, the happiest time of all.  Said no one ever before.  But the beers today had been strong.

Hanley! And it felt like about 20 years since I'd taken that bus to Etruria at 1pm, really it was about four hours ago.  It had already been an epic.  But I wasn't done yet.  Again, Mart points me in the right direction and says he'll join me for a pint in the second one later on.

Despite being dark, sleet falling, chaotic post-match traffic, the fact scaffolding is propping up the pub on the right hand side, and a giant work man's hole just to the left for idiot pub tickers to fall into, I hope you can appreciate the fantastic, unique shape of the Woodman, Hanley (1959 / 3523).  It is a bright, tall kind of place, with four different areas though I didn't realise that until I went to the loo, a bit like the Bursley.  I order a porter, and I'm conscious (just about).....  I mean I'm conscious I've been ordering stronger percentage ales today and I've reached 'ESB mental state' a lot quicker than usual.  The arctic weather, my travel woes and just the fact that the Potteries are such a pubby part of the world, are all to blame.  Back in Kidsgrove, when I'd ordered my stout, she says 'do you want to upgrade to three pints for a tenner?'   Like the folk around here treat ale drinking with the same casual nothingness usually reserved for buying a Boots meal deal.  I take my pint to the quieter room to the right, have my back to the bar area, but I think I'm already beyond quality pub observation so it doesn't matter!  

A short walk took me to my final pub, Mart was asking if I was there yet, so I'd had sped up my porter drinking as I'd been nursing it by accident!

The above photo taken just before I left Unicorn Inn, Hanley (1960 / 3524)  on the way back from the loo is instructive, because it 'artistically' represents my memories of this bustling, thriving little former theatre pub, a series of blurry red Bass triangles.  It wasn't the only beer on as you can see below, but it felt like it, I could see it in at least triplicate.  In the absence of much seating, this kind duo Maria and Christian allow me to share their seat opposite the bar, and our hero Mart soon joins us, creating a nice sort of party atmosphere end to the night as I sell the BRAPA dream!   I preferred this pub to the Woodman, it just had a bit more spirit, though specific details are a bit lacking.  What is more, being my 61st pub of November, it was a record breaking BRAPA moment too.  It had been a fine day after a nightmare start, and I manage to drag myself back to a Stoke train, Manchester bound.

Well, I know I sound like a broken record but a rewarding pub ticking county Staffs is.  Especially as Derbyshire has become a bit of a parody county re new GBG entries, Staffs is keeping it real and I've STILL got six pubs to do in the Stoke area, a few rural outliers like Consall Forge, a few in the Burton area, and plenty in the south like Tamworth, Rugeley and Hednesford which I'll hope to get to in the next 12 months.  I'd love to get a fully green Staffs by next summer.

Back in Manchester, trying to check out at Sainsbury's, I bond with the woman next to me about being unable to locate the bagging area.  Turns out she's as drunk as me!  Luckily, the journey home is less painful than the one here, and back home, for some reason I decide to do exercises til 1am whilst watching one of those Channel 5 countdown's of the most badly behaved celebrity animals or something.  

Thanks for reading, and I'll be back to tell you about one of my most perfectly executed Thirsty Thursday's ever, either tomorrow or Tuesday, Covid Booster side-effects dependent! 

See you soon, Si 

 

BRAPA in ..... HERE COMES A STOKE SAVER (Part 1 of 2)

 

All aboard the 8:15 to Manchester (loved that show) and at this early stage of the day, I felt like everything was coming up roses. 

A quick glance up at the York departures board showed me the carnage resulting from Storm Arwen overnight.  And yet my train was the only one showing as on time.  I thanked my lucky stars that I hadn't booked myself down to Hertfordshire as per my usual Saturday agenda, the London trains looked particularly cream crackered.

Even better, the train was starting from York rather than the usual North Eastern venues.  With this year's perennial BRAPA stalkers, Hartlepool United, away at Port Vale, I'd feared a long noisy journey with them right through to Burslem.  As it turned out, I had an entire carriage to myself.  

The scene was still calm as we progressed on through L**ds, but it all went wrong when we reached Dewsbury.  As life so often does.  With wispy snow falling again, we were stuck for well over an hour, it could've been two.  A signalling blackout.  Tales of a trampoline having blown onto the line.  Apologetic announcements every ten minutes, but little progress.

As we finally crawled over the Pennines, I could've probably high-fived Quosh from here, I revised my plan from Cheadle, Staffs to a less ambitious, more central Stoke area, where amazingly, I still have TWELVE GBG ticks to do.

The final insult as we are told we'll be terminating at Manchester Victoria, and NOT the Piccadilly I needed.  The folk wanting the Airport looked apoplectic.  I trudged across Manchester, weaving my through a heaving Christmas market.  

You see what I was up against?  This is why I've decided to write this blog as a two parter with hardly any pubs in this first part!  This convoluted journey has to be remembered for posterity.  Plus, you'll have suffered enough.

At Piccadilly, I was glad to see a Stoke train in early.  Despite the empty carriages, I was warned sternly NOT to sit in any seat marked reserved and instead make my way down to one of four carriages without reservations.  Two of these were already full, not a seat in sight. 

The other two were First Class!  So I decided to assume they'd been downgraded to standard class.  A woman opposite told me she was thinking the same.  She was off to Vauxhall for a party, so I probably shouldn't complain about travelling to the relatively local Stoke.  

She tells me she's come from a place that no one has ever heard of before called Dukinfield, so I impress her by shouting "The Angel .... I've been to that pub!" and she did (possibly) looked thrilled.

The one genuine First Class customer, a man with a Rolex watch and designer puffer jacket, looks disgusted by the commoners invading HIS carriage, and storms off to the Classier First Class carriage doing an actually out loud literal huff!

Finally, I arrive.  No pint in bod for me today, just a bus straight up to Hanley, from where I manage to take the connecting bus to an unlikely nothingness area called Etruria. I'd never heard of it, so do a bit of on-bus googling and learn :

"Poverty is rampant, and the severity of the war, compounded by the effects of drought, forced the migration of about 1 million people (1998 est.) to neighbouring Sudan Hanley".

There, fixed that for you.

Finally, today's first pub comes into view, the time 13:32, a mere 92 minutes behind schedule.  I'm thirsty. 

Luckily, Holy Inadequate, Etruria (1955 / 3518) is the perfect tonic for a cold traumatic morning's travelling.  Will Staffordshire ever stop surprising me with the quality of it's boozers?  They do their own ales, and I'm given a brand new one, El Dorado Citra, possibly the first person to drink it from outside Stoke and I'm delighted to report it didn't poison me.  I'm drawn to the flickering flames of a bubbling wood burner at the far end of the room, and two gents and a talking skinny dog called Pongo tell me I look like a chap in need of a warming fire.  I don't bore them with the details of my morning, as you dear reader have had to suffer, but we agree it is a surprise that this the quietest area of the pub.  It is quite busy after all, a rumbustious collection of jocular bald men dominate the landscape and with the rarity of both Stoke and Port Vale at home on the same day (which made the timing of my visit even more dodgy), I suspect some of these may be football bound.  I refuse to relax too much though, I've got some catching up to do if I want to get my six pubs in, so I drink quickly to try and make the earlier bus back to Hanley.

Bald 80%, men with hair 20% ratio in here

Could be in Brighton

Guinea Pig beer, not literally, in the HI

I reach the bus stop, and soon see the bus change lane and with my arm out nice and early, I'm sure he's going to stop.  But he doesn't!  He finally sees me and does this 'turning around' gesture which, with hindsight, I think means he's going to stop around the next corner, so I can run and hop on.  But I don't realise quickly enough, stand still like a lemon, and he drives off.  

The wind is icier than ever, and with the next bus half an hour away, I decide to walk the 30 mins or so back to Hanley along the main road.  I remember looking up at the sky and actually saying out loud "I can't catch a break today can I?" and not caring if passing cars saw me.

Now I'm not religious, but what happened next was one of the most fabulous BRAPA happenstances in history.  I'm not too far from Hanley by now, and I see this very cold looking bloke coming towards me.  I smile sympathetically in a kindred spirits way, I'm one of those people who invariably smiles at strangers.

He's just passed me, when he turns and says "you're BRAPA aren't you?  I'm SixTownsMart and I follow you on Twitter!"   I know SixTownsMart, liked loads of his pubby posts in the past!  

I give him a potted history of what you've just read.  "My car's just over here, so if you just wait while I put my shopping in the boot, I can give you a lift to your next pub!"  he tells me, adding it is a good job I'm not afraid of doing the occasional selfie, otherwise he'd have never recognised me!  He did well as it was, I'm wearing my winter hat, coat n scarf right up to my chin too.

Well, this must be the break I'd been crying out for.  Thank goodness that bus didn't stop.  You see, everything happens for a reason.  Suddenly, the sun was smiling on me once more.

And you couldn't have wished for a better Stoke area pub tour guide, he soon identifies that I'd not enjoy doing Burslem until the football fans have cleared off for the match, so instead we carry on north for my furthest out pub of the day.  

Mart tells me he's 'got to buy something in Kidsgrove' so gives me a generous 27.5 mins, and I go in.

Blue Bell, Kidsgrove (1956 / 3519) is a second consecutive gem, the friendliness was the stand-out factor for me as I order an unwise 4.8% stout from Sheffield, but the weather demands it.    Unable to find a seat, I find myself wandering like a lost lamb.  "You alroite there?" chirps a very chirpy lady, and I explain I'm just having a bit of a wander and trying to casually loiter in the absence of any seat and she makes a sympathetic noise from the back of her nose like "norrrrrrww".  The customers seem an accomodating bunch too, so I ask a man and his young lad if I can perch on the edge of their table whilst they play cards, which is a nice wholesome scene to witness.  The two #Pubmen looking men opposite smile kindly for the BRAPA lens, and it isn't a great surprise when Mart walks in and knows these guys.  We all have a nice little chat, the card game has finished and the Dad says he'd follow me on Twitter here and now, if only he could get his phone off his son who is playing a less wholesome game than playing cards on it.  Lovely experience, and seeing it has gone 3pm, Mart agrees it is safe for me to return to Burslem!

#Pubmen

Colin can't get a look in as Graeme Gandalf the pub mascot dominates the scene

Pub Christmas tree looked a bit sorry for itself!

Because of that painful commute, I'll tell you about the other pubs in Part Two on Friday evening.  But until then, thanks for reading and see you on Twitter for a bit of Thirsty Thursday, Storm Barra / Full Lockdowns allowing! 

Si 

BRAPA .... WOMAN IN DIS-GUISBOROUGH : ANGELIC BRAP-STARTS TICKING

 

As I ventured deeper into the festive woodland forest, only a covering of snow stopped this from feeling 'exactly' like Narnia.  For the first time since April's 'Outdoor Only' Pub Reopening, the air was icy, the wind bitterer than a pint of John Smith's Armpit, and I'd upgraded to my thickest winter coat out of eighteen options.

But had I have encountered Aslan or Mr Tumnus up here, they'd have had that unmistakeable accent, half way between North Yorkshire and the North East.  Yes, I was in magical Middlesbrough.

A slight train delay at Darlo' left me no chance of making the connecting bus to Guisborough, even though I was jogging, no sprinting, down Albert Road.  My careful planning seemed in vain .....

Unless the bus was delayed of course.  Nothing passed me, and suddenly I was at the stop.  Hurrah!  Three other ladies were waiting, shivering.  "Not missed the 5A then?" I asked.  "Nahhh, it's an absolute disgrace, I tell ya, an absolute blinking disgrace!" chime the two old crones.  I turn and exchange smirks with the younger Asian lady, Easington bound,  "Well I'm not surprised, happens all the time, bet it doesn't show, and I don't even really care" she adds with life affirming despondency. 

She's not wrong either, twenty minutes later, shivering my arse off, my jubilation has turned to despair, but luckily, the number 5 is on the horizon.  "Disgrace, utter disgrace!" the crones tell the driver.  He yawns, and we set off.

It all means a very much more rushed pint in Guisborough then I'd wanted, if I were to do this comfortably.  GizzyB too, is trying to get into the festive swing, though to me, it looked like the tree had been cordoned off for being a naughty boy.

The arctic winds whips up again.  "I wish it was 'otter" says a voice from my bag.  Keane Lewis, back on the Thirsy Thursday trail with me, is trying the type of humour Maltmeister would approve of.

The pub isn't on a hill, but tonight isn't the night for taking care over your photography:

The BRAPA pub theme of the moment seems to be places that are 'done out' in a way that doesn't suit the locality.  Monk, Guisborough (1953 / 3517) is quite a plain, modern type of bar, rather than pub.  Not without some degree of comfort, but not particularly convincing.  An Ember in based in a Premier Inn reception area, if I was being particularly cruel.   All the warmth comes from the people, not literally of course, that could be unhygienic.  But the Dad, Mum and Daughter combo behind the bar are a lively trio with good 'inter-connecting-bantz' that you come to expect from that area south of Boldon, north of Thirsk, on the Eastern side of the country.  The two blokes are similarly welcoming.  "£2.50 for a pint of Cherry Dark, you've picked the right time to come in!" I'm told.  When I reply it is completely by chance, I'm told they'll even throw in a free dog biscuit if I so desire!  I'd not even got KLO out of my bag yet, and Colin, given a free dog biscuit in Layer-de-la-Haye this summer, is not even here.  I realise I've sat beside this 'viewing' window, down to some sinister ancient steps.  What a shame I can't get down there.  The GBG description is useful for a change, revealing this leads to a recently unearthed tunnel used by this 12th century black monk for his nefarious night time activities.  #PubMan.  Wonder if he got on the ESB 7th pint in?  A quick check on Google Maps 'live' bus times shows my return journey is running ahead of schedule!  Must dash to be on the safe side.  Decent experience this, people really do make the difference.

I've found a bus stop a tiny bit closer than the one I hopped off at, and I've barely had chance to position myself when the bus hurtles around the corner!  Way ahead of schedule.  I stick out a long left arm just in the nick of time!

When we get as far as five minutes ahead, the driver pulls into a layby in the middle of nowhere for five minutes and allows time to catch up!  

He then rattles on at a rate of knots through the mean streets of 'Boro, where my Dad's Dad and his Dad and his Dad, most of them called Gerald, lived in the South Bank area.  

The only place the micropub revolution ever made total sense to me was Middlesbrough.  All those early football days, disappointed or terrified in drinking holes like Doctor Brown's, The Star, Captain Cook and the like, or making do with decent 'Spoons experiences like sitting next to a pigeon fancier with a parmo in Isaac Wilson, or Swatter's Carr who told me away fans were welcome but looked like he was pressing an emergency button under the bar, the filth arriving before my Roaring Meg had even been topped up!

And despite not enjoying my micro debut in the flagship Dr Phil's, I later had a great afternoon ticking off tonnes of the things.  All good quality places and ale.  Homely.  I thought I'd struck pre-emptive gold.  Maddens me how few have never made the GBG.  And now you have this, which wasn't on my radar back then ..... 

Bottled Note, Middlesbrough (1954 / 3517) delighted me by being one of the best all-rounders of a micropub I've been to in a very long time.  Always best to arrive with minimal expectations, and allow yourself to be surprised.  The atmosphere is pretty bouncy for a freezing Thursday, the smell of takeaway pizza, I'd later be asked if I wished to partake in the pub quiz which may've had something to do with it all, and the little bowls of nibbles being filled up and placed on participating tables by this friendly lady who must run the show.  At the bar, it was one those scenarios where you are always in the way, no matter which direction you twist and turn, but the kind of place where people expect a bit of jostling and "ey up, sorry mate" as normal pub behaviour.  Which in my eyes, is how it should be.  A GBG is propped up on the bar, proud to be in, like all the best entries i.e the ones who care.  My White Rate drank arguably better than I have it in my favourite Ossett pub in York, and the place had proper depth too!  How many loos?  A nice old staircase led to some, and the remnants of some party bedecked with a collage of Hull City balloons.  What a shame Tom Irvin wasn't with me for a photo opportunity.  I'm starting to doubt whether you'd even call it a micropub.  It was all too much for one youthful pub otter.

Tonight had been an effort for the sake of two ticks early on, but Bottled Note had made it all feel very worthwhile.  A few more minor delays getting back to York, but not too bad, up to +13 in North Yorkshire.  Running out of NY ticks I can actually do after work on a Thursday, but it won't stop me trying,  and I can always 'push the boundaries' like some renegade artist.  Or I might be getting carried away.

Whatever, thanks for reading, and see you back here tomorrow night for a winter's tale from the Stoke area where we'll meet a new pub hero.  Finally catching up a bit with these blogs.

Si