BRAPA Epic Catch Up Part 12/15 .... Carlton to Folkestone via Arnold
Good evening folks(tone), we're cooking on gas now. Only SIX weeks behind.
Thursday 8th December, the final #ThirstyThursday of 2022, and I was back on that familiar route to Nottingham via Newark. I hop off one stop early at this place called Carlton which isn't capable of having pavements on both sides of the busy road outside the station which is incredibly annoying.
Luckily, my first pub was far from annoying.
Old Volunteer, Carlton, Nottingham (2244 / 4148) was a vast stand alone bruiser of a boozer, loved it. I thought the place was deserted until I peer past the Christmas tree into the gloom at the far end of the room and saw a 'harrowing' (the collective term for Notts people all in one place) of elderly faces peering at me. I'd have been scared if the brilliant barmaid hadn't put me at ease. "Lively one this!" she says, Yoda style, about the beer I've ordered. Tonnes on, so many from Essex. 'Essex themed beer festival?' I muse. Don't be silly, even Essex doesn't have Essex themed beer festivals. My Billericay Zeppelin was a great drop. The radiator was warmer than a West Cumbrian fire. And a lady briefly sang Tiffany's 'I think we're alone now' a bit too close to my ear for comfort (we weren't, her husband was sat opposite).
After some brief confusion where I thought I had a 2.5 mile walk to my next pub .... how bloody big IS Carlton??, I soon realised I was looking at Carrington by mistake.
Ignore my silly thumb
Hopes were high, it certainly looked the part, but I was no fan of Brickyard, Carlton, Nottingham (2245 / 4149). This was almost entirely down to my treatment (or total lack of it) at the bar. A local pub for local people. I hear a bloke saying "oooh you know wot, I could live 'ere". "You just about do" replies the barmaid. I try to join in the 'bantz' but am ignored in full, in fact, no eye contact, not even when I say how appropriate having a beer called 'Brrrr' is. No, if you ain't a funny local man, whining twild, or yawning Mum with shopping bags strewn everywhere, they don't wanna know ya. Felt more flimsy bar than the pub it looks from the outside. I'm relegated to the 'down steps' bit, I exchange smiles with a bored bald man and a happy looking West Indian woman, charging multiple phones and have similarly been shunned by the looks of it. Outcasts are we!
A surprisingly lengthy bus journey follows for pub #3:
Robin Hood & Little John, Arnold (2246 / 4150) was a serious contender for pub of the day, I really reached my 'moment of contentment' (BRAPA™) here. A warm welcome from the guv'nor. The fact that my bladder had held up remarkably well to the long bus journey - those Kegel exercises (not to be confused with Keto) must be working. The fact that this the first pub listed alphabetically in Notts - thus satisfying my ABC OCD. Ten ales are on, I go for a Lincoln Green, always been a bit of a 'meh' brewery for me in the past, but this one was delicious. And most importantly, the pub was warm and I nestled in a large snug of sorts, enclosed by dark wood, screens and mirrors. A gentle post-work thrum pervaded. Some pubs you just catch perfectly.
10-15 minutes walk from here, you come to another GBG pub listed under Arnold, although some years it gets listed under 'Daybrook', but in a move more reminiscent of Chesterfield CAMRA, they like to mix it up from year to year just to make sure the pub tickers are concentrating.
Abdication, Daybrook, Arnold (2247 / 4151) is the kind of micropub you can really get behind, and this despite being served by a man who'd loaned Jimmy Bullard's hair for the night. A local ESB is on, yes please! If they really do become the trendy style of 2023, you won't see me complaining, as long as they keep them above 5%. This was 5.4% but I've witnessed a couple of 4.6-4.9% and to me, this is just a full bitter. I think they've done the same with IPA recently, but hey, I know nothing about beer, just pubs, so let's not get bogged down. Talking of bogs, it was impossible to fathom. A 'bi-fold' door, you had to pull a knob to acitvate a concertina style motion - almost as painful as it sounds. And with rolls on the bar (probably cobs or some nonsense down here), a juicy little fire I managed to get within warming distance of, and a well considered group of locals, none of whom had 58 dogs, I'd say this was about as good a micro experience as you could have.
Back on the bus, I hop off again about halfway back to Nottingham for my final tick in the 'burb called Carrington I mentioned earlier.
Doctor's Orders, Carrington, Nottingham (2248 / 4152) took me by surprise by being a micropub, and a distinctly less enjoyable one than the Abdication. More like one you find in South East London, full of bearded bobbled hatted pseuds. It is a rubbish shape, thanks mainly to a pointless division running straight through the centre. There is bar, so you have to hover awkwardly by the staff zone, read from a blackboard which is something I'm always terrible at! More Essex beers on here, from Brentwood, and my Frosty Baubles is what everyone is going for because the name is proper LOLZ so I join in. Two random old blokes appear as I'm ordering and tell me they're glad I've gone for that one or they'd 'whack me with a stick'. Random, violent, but a nice throw back to a more olden days Notts - oh and what a lovely and well kept drop A posh man (not a Peterborough fan, I don't think) asks if I can move Colin so he can read the Independent, and now, I'm getting slight Stockbridge Tap Edinburgh vibes without the euphoria of a completed county.
I even had time for a swift half at the excellent Beerheadz on Nottingham station (the only Beerheadz worth visiting in my opinion, though I'm yet to do the Lincoln vehicle so I'm hoping it is similarly basic jewel, then it was back to York.
Fast forward 36 hours, 'twas now Saturday 10th December, and I was ending the GBG year with a flourish, a three day stay in London/Kent. Partly because I had a couple of late days holiday to use up at work, and partly because Hull City were away to Watford on the Sunday.
Despite staying in Hackney (Dalston to be precise), I still felt like I was 'playing it overly safe' to do my Saturday ticks in Folkestone ..... proper tickers mentality that!
You see, England were playing France in the World Cup this evening and I wanted to be checked in at my Premier Inn with a big bag of food and watery drinks, having achieved all SIX ticks in the town. So a train delay at St Pancakes didn't help, but I was still in for before noon.
I dodged a fake snowstorm as I headed towards the my first pub (careful what you wish for Kents!) , the town getting all characterful, cobbled, and coastal - not unlike Hull's Old Town, and I was rapidly realising Folkestone was going to be one of my favourite Kentish towns to date.
After a brief 'hello' to the rucksack grapplers above, I enter Mariner, Folkestone (2249 / 4153) and it might only be 12:01pm but it feels like everyone has been here for hours, and they probably have. A deliciously rugged bunch, in the kind of cheap n' cheerful Sky Sports boozer which you often find on British seafronts. I've grown to enjoy such places like a friendly fungus because (a) they are few and far between in the Good Beer Guide, and (b) they are ALIVE. Fake Paddington waving a Union Jack is advertising Kronenbourg 1664, Proper Job is £3 and well kept, the red decor and carpet will you to get settled and stay for another, and Colin is too scared to leave his bag. Oh, and OF COURSE I get trapped in the doorway on the way out, but I only get mild piss-taking off the seven fleecey gloved blokes and one woman. I shudder to think what this place was like by 10pm, bet it was brilliant!
I was on a strict 25 minute per pub schedule today, and decided to get the slightly more off-centre, off-beat pubs done first.
Uh oh, this one looks dead as a doornail, sitting in darkness. Is there any point even trying the door handle? Oh go on then!
To my shock, the door opens at the East Cliff Tavern, Folkestone (2250 / 4154) and wow, what a way to bring up the 50% of the GBG again. I peer through the chilly gloom and two blokes are chatting over pints. The oldest one, who I later hear has been landlord here since 1967 (thanks Jack Goodhew!), heaves himself up with a creak and click of his hip, adjusts his flat cap (beret?) and says "I hope you want the Kent Brewery ale, cos it is all we have" "Perfect with me" I pip, like a northern mouse in a maze. Brilliant drop as Kent Brewery beers so often are. The place is dark and cold, but I love it, and I guess in these 'energy crisis times of uncertainty', this is one way to combat it! The other customer wants to talk 'renewable energy' with me, though I'd rather drink in the ale and unique atmosphere, but a canny chap all the same. There is an old gas heater here allegedly, but the landlord has removed the knob so you can't turn it to more than one the three settings! (thanks again Jack). I'll not forget this tick in a hurry.
My next tick was always going to be a come down after this, but looking back, it was the weakest of the day anyway .....
Being on a busy street corner in the heart of Christmas shoppersville with huge windows offering absolutely no privacy from the shopper droogs peering in at you, we have Kipps' Alehouse, Folkestone (2251 / 4155). People are forming an impenetrable queue to the bar (puke!) , probably confused into thinking it is a café. Two beer bores behind me in the queue: "I don't go for the cask in here anymore because it is always Pride or Directors" says one to the other, who replies "yuh, yuh, yuh". Errrm, one look at the blackboard tells you quite clearly it is two Gadd's, Dark Star or Mad Cat (which I go for, direct from the barrel) so dunno what they are on about! Weirdos. I sit high up in a window, taking solace in a bloke behind me trying to get a sly photo of Col, but I keep obscuring the view. I finally go to the loo so he can fill his boots. Then, a crazy lady who must work at a nearby crystal / witchy shop comes in, the incense is strong! "I never stop, I'm a Duracell bunny!" she announces to anyone who cares. Only poor pint today, just can't get on with it, not sure why.
A few yards away, pub 4/6 and I'm making good progress .. still not 2pm yet.
My café confusion continues here at Chambers, Folkestone (2252 / 4156) as I reluctanctly join another queue in what feels even more like a coffee shop than Kipps'. When two old blouses in front of me ask for brownies and hot chocolate, it suddenly dawns on me there really might be a separate bar, and I find it, in the basement! Cosy, I'm a sucker for an underground bar, eclectic clientele, and see photo, the guy who serves me is lovely, and we have a few brief words about something I've forgotten now - probably either wolves (not the football team), punk rock n roll, male hair products or the fact that back in the day Geoffrey Chaucer released a BBC Christmas special to capitalise on the market which caused Caxton to burn his final printing press in disgust (a BRAPA fact). It was here I decided that Folkestone was my new favourite place in Kent, apologies to any Maidstone lovers out there.
C'mon, we've got this. Two pubs to go. I could EVEN get a train back earlier than my previous 'best case scenario' if I kept up this pace, which I can't lie, was getting tougher.
Of all the central modern ticks, Firkin Alehouse, Folkestone (2253 / 4157) was my favourite. And I saw it with a certain clarity considering it was my fifth pub! A friendlier, sporting crowd than you often find in a SE Micro, the nice ginger jumper man sets the tone, and might have been the reason I go for a Kent Chocolate Orange ale, which is simply terrific. And the sum of these wonderful parts encourages me to return to the bar five minutes laterand get myself a rabbit & bacon pie, because, eff Keto, it just feels the right thing to do, and is!
Sorry Col, you're not having a bite
Despite the food interlude, I still spent only 31 minutes in the pub, which meant with one pub to go, I was still on course for the train back to London about 15:55.
'Move yer arses, I'm on a mission you slow moving Folkestonians!' I chunter under my breath nipping between glove twild and smoking Grant McCann .....
Bouverie Tap, Folkestone (2254 / 4158) was something of a return to the London-esque café culture which had gladly been missing from the Firkin. Not a bad place, just very bright, shiny, full of twentysomethings doing Tic Tocs on flavoured gins and re-enacting scenes from Stranger Things, probably. My plan had been to get a sessionable 3.8% pale ale I could neck, to take the pressure off the train and my increasingly wobbly state. But when I saw Kent's Christmas Yule Log Chocolate Cream Stout, I caved in. Funny how the drunker you get, the more Blackpool Jane one becomes isn't it? Well, it wasn't quite pure Chocolate log, nice enough, and unsurprisingly difficult to down. But luckily the place was a bit boring so I didn't get distracted by snob screens, 60's gas heaters, Jesus eating olives, TDK cassettes, stuffed tigers, colourfully dressed old men walking backwards, or the other exciting stuff that distracts me in great pubs.
My train to London was running to time, c'mon, I should now be back in time to buy plenty of food and soft watery drinks and settle down for England v France.
In my current hazy state, I fully believed THIS WAS THE YEAR THAT FOOTBALL WOULD FINALLY COME HOME. Would it? Find out tomorrow in part 13 which definitely isn't unlucky or anything.
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