Thursday 6th November 2025
This is big Les Wade. He's got nothing to do with Biggleswade, but his cardigan is giving 'disappointing 'Spoons carpet' and his book could be a 1940's CAMRA Good Beer Guide.
I'm sick of opening my GBG on the first pub page and seeing Biggleswade's Wetherspoons unticked. Not a difficult tick to get done by any means, but when you've got a quirky ole' dude from Hitchin called John saying "Si, make sure you don't do it without me!" it requires more careful planning.
I arrive about 2pm, but John has been sinking pints and playing dominoes with Nigel from St Neots ('Snots') since 11am, who leaves just as I arrive. John actually runs down to the station to greet me off the train, but then goes missing when it is time to enter the Crown Hotel, Biggleswade (3116 / 5957). Great coggy carpet (9/10), an old coaching in feel, but the handpumps have been obscured by menus advertising cheap craft cans, tsk. John arrives for the highlighting (like most smokers, he presses down far too hard) and tells me why he prefers Darlington to Bedford. I sneak into the disabled loos and don't get into trouble, which gives me just enough time to sink my Peerless Jack Frost and catch an unexpectedly early bus towards pub two. John's seen enough, and goes off to buy a £10 TV. It had been a fleeting catch up, but now I could crack on to wilder Beds.
In a lucky twist, a delayed 74 Grant Palmer turns up which is more direct for Cople, and gets me there 10-20 mins earlier than expected.
Good job because it had been a late start for me today, Former Si obviously booking the cheapest train possible with no thought for the pressure that'd put on Current / Future Si.
I remember the Five Bells, Cople (3117 / 5958) from my debut BRAPA year 2014, but it disappeared from the next cople of Guides so I never needed the tick when I FINALLY fully greened Beds in 2016. And yes, in my formative years it did take me over two years to complete any county south of Yorkshire. Their locked front door has me panicking, something I tell the bar dude when I find my way in through the car park entrance but he's way too chill to react with any visceral human emotion. Look, it is a Bedfordshire thing, their publicans struggle with charisma. It's the topography and beer range. The pub is gently rambling, a mixture of old and new, the odd groaning beam and horse brass indicates a pub clinging desperately to a time long past, jostling with baby highchairs and tourist information leaflets. Its emptiness this afternoon actually helps me to enjoy it more. I can feel its age. The Greene King IPA doesn't even have a pumpclip, written on by hand. I'm not having that. Tim Taylor Landlord, drinking with a real depth and oomph, my 97th go on it. Where will be my 100th I wonder? (I'm actually up to 99 now as I write this, having had two more since in Hendon and St Albans).
My Uber cancels on me at the last minute, which serves me right for being lazy. I'm reluctant to catch the bus because I've twice been told of a road closure somewhere near pub three diverting the route. This bus driver becomes the third person today who is unable to tell me whether my pub is affected, so I wave him on and ring a local taxi.
I explore the neighbouring village church whilst I wait. Cute, eerie. I think about climbing it to pass some time but I'd only slide off .....
I'm not convinced, anti-climb paint sounds like when people joke about tartan or striped paint! And it begs the question, is there pro-climb paint?
The taxi's SatNav takes him down a flooded country lane for seemingly no reason, until I realise it must be road closure related. Still, my pub is slightly north of the village and seems unaffected. Not a bollard, cone or temporary traffic light in sight,
I'd probably vote Plough, Langford (3118 / 5959) as pub of the day, though the margins are very tight. Nothing was even slightly shite. But nothing made me go 'wow' either. This stood out for having an old fashioned community feel. Made up entirely of old boys with long hairy ears in baggy cardigans. The Wadworth 6X really tickles my tastebuds. One of those beers which either bores me to tears or I think 'I can see why you're an old classic which endures'. I guess that's the cask gamble. I ask a guy who looks 800 years old if I can join him on the bench at the far end facing the bar. He has lived in Beds all his life so knows every pub I need to do, apart from the Bottle House in Leighton Buzzard which doesn't surprise me. Reckons this pub ticking lark sounds a bit much! He doesn't last long. No, I don't mean he dies on me, he just gets up to leave. Beyond the wooden beams, I can hear the clink of pool balls as a bald man's head reflects off the bar lighting. Yes, a good pub.
I allow extra time for the bus due to this phantom road closure which definitely probably exists, but the bus chugs along unscathed, and I work my way back to Biggleswade station to take the train to Peterborough.
I'm pleased that Former Si booked such a late train to York, because it means I can mop a few rare Cambs ticks. First off, St Neots.
There's been a recent awful stabbing incident on the trains around here, and I notice all day that everyone is that little bit more nervous every time a carriage door opens! Then they see me clutching my pub panda and ..... well, <insert joke here>,
Not only do I have a 'Snots' Wetherspoons to tick, but just yards over the river from the town centre, a place called Eaton Ford. I hadn't been expecting to tick this one when I woke up this morning. Fair old yomp from the station though, I'm glad I'm wearing my 'winter' shoes.
Steak night at Barley Mow, Eaton Ford (3119 / 5960). 'Eatin' I cannot af(ford)'. Being a cosy one roomed traditionalist in every other way, steak was unsurprisingly very 'in your face'. Otherwise, I think it would've beaten the Plough for 'pub of the day' honours. The carpet is a delicious 8.33. The Sikh guy munching peanuts opposite, which I'm allergic to, is very much a 3/10. I try not to breathe in. Every table is reserved and full of cutlery. So I decide a seat reserved for James, Becky and Lewis warm as they aren't due for 45 mins, beside a throbbing fireplace, whilst the staff throw nervous glances in the direction of Ivor Panda. 'He dives to the left, he dives to the right, Ivor Panda, ticks six pubs a night'. The St Austell Tribute is surprisingly drinkable, a beer I've had in drab condition far too often in BRAPA history but it is performing to Luton Great Northern levels here.
Back over the bridge into Snots proper for the first of two 'Spoons on which to end (gotta catch 'em all) .....
You'd think it was an uncompromising 1930's roadhouse in an unlikely Red Light District if you didn't know, but the Weeping Ash, St Neots (3120 / 5961), nicknamed the 'Weeping Gash' by diabolical locals (worst 'Spoons nickname since Mold's Cold Gape?) has a surprise vaulted ceiling and neo-gothic edge which you won't be prepared for. A daughter having tea with her parents has a Kevin the Teenager strop and flounces off to sit on her own, whilst a lady on the next table has a vicious Claudia Winkleman fringe in readiness for the finale of Celebrity Traitors later this week. The carpet an impressively regal lime & blueberry bubblegum 8.5/10, whilst the Sea Fury is real chonky boi of a Cornish ESB. Works well on a dark stormy night on the jagged rocks of St Neots, but Harry mate, you forgot to apply my 50p off Mudgie voucher. An insult to the great #PubMan's memory, even though he was alive at the time.
The long walk back to the station doesn't feel so long after that Sea Fury has me floating along, and I've calculated I still have time to squeeze in Huntingdon 'Spoons before close of play (I really WAS on the latest train home).
Looked more like the Ecuadorian Embassy in London than a gosh damn 'Spoons, but in we go Senoritas, welcome to the Sandford House, Huntingdon (3121 / 5962). Despite a sensational but at times blurry 9.25/10 twin carpet affair, and an equally impressive Jaipur (work was gonna be fun in the morning), I couldn't get along with this 'Spoons. It felt like an aircraft hanger with too many fruit machines. A bloke behind me is taking advantage of a lady's chatty nature by chatting her up even though he's about 50 years older than her, then a Mum gives her misbehaving twild Clea a final written warning regarding her poor pub conduct, which is promptly ignored, so she is scooped up and carried off kicking and screaming. Nice to see a bit of proper pub parenting!
I need a snooze. But the train terminates at Newcastle. 'Must wake up before York'. Somehow I did.
One day to work and recover, and re-pack my bag before I set off to Scotland for some rare ticks in the Stirling area.
I'll try and be back tomorrow or Tuesday for that.
Have a good week, Si
Comments