BRAPA Epic Catch Up Part 13/15 .... Newington Green to Bow via Rotherhithe

I'm in my hotel room, a bit hazy after my Folkestone epic, and England have just lost to France. I thought football was coming home but I was wrong, and so are you. Didn't seem there was much in the game though I did watch it on my side with my head on the pillow.

Boo, I need a late nightcap to cheer myself up. The nearest GBG tick to my Dalston Premier Inn was this .....

Pope dead? England out? ESB unavailable? The smoke must mean something

A more 'London' pub you could not hope to encounter, Lady Mildmay, Stoke Newington (2255 / 4159) seemed wholly unaffected by footballing events, providing a more vibrant atmosphere than was probably the case in 99% of English pubs at the same time! The lighting is 'mood', the bar top is sticky, the staff vaguely harassed, the American ladies don't care, neither does the Spanish gent looking for the loo. The Five Points bitter drinks surprisingly well as my candle melts away into the ether like a Harry Kane penalty into the night sky. A severely bearded Rio Ferdinand laughs at the Christmas tree. For no reason. It would be poetic if it wasn't so tragic. Bedtime.

You could at least feign sadness ladies!

Sunday 11th December, brrrr, little bit parky innit? I make my way to Euston to meet Daddy BRAPA for some pre-match fun before Watford away. Berkhamstead is the chosen location. Two new ticks despite having been twice in recent years.

After much slippin' & slidin' on frosty twee town ground, we find that most reliable of pub chains, Wetherspoons, ready, willing and gaping.

Braves faces, everyone

Sixteenth century building, called the Crown since 1743 when one of Timbo's ancestors stole it off the village peasants, possibly, Crown, Berkhamstead (2256 / 4160) had a historic atmosphere you don't always get in 'Spoons. Totally forgetting the fact I'd drank a Christmas Yule Log in Folkestone yesterday, and a Frozen Bauble in Carrington on Thursday, I confidently declare my 'Tringle Bells' as my first Christmas beer. Barman doesn't look impressed. 'Twas okay. We perch around a corner of moderate warmth, where a few mardy faced couple are eating breakfast. A trip upstairs to the loos helps me rate the carpet (7.75/10), and that is it.

Our other tick in town was five minutes down the road .....

George Inn, Berkhamstead (2257 / 4161) was a bit of a contradiction. Namby-pamby decor, but a collection of locals who were incredibly old school pub characters - fleecy, rugged, red cheeked and jolly. You could dress them all up as Santa, especially the Steve Bruce-a-like. I pick up two penguins, not chocolate bars or the real things, but a Christmas ornament which has fallen over on the bar. "Awww, they are luvvly ain't they?" chirps the barmaid. They are alright I suppose. Wadworth 6X can be a very variable beer I find, but I rate it here - actually more Christmassy tasting than the Tringle Bells. Not bad for a pub making a first GBG appearance since the 90's. We sit on an impossibly low leather settee, good job my 75 year old Dad goes to the gym and does Mr Motivator sessions!

Time to squash in what I hoped was a decent pre-emptive before the train to Watford ..... Mad Squirrel, Berkhamstead had one cask on, an ESB (extra squirrelly bitter), very drinkable, a bit TOO drinkable for an ESB and under 5%.

We didn't linger, Dad decides against sitting on one of those things, and it transpired if it was Berkhamstead pre-emptives we were after, the rejuvenated Crystal Palace would've been a better shout which almost certainly means a 4th trip to the town in the coming years. Bugger.

But then a farce to end all farces as EVERY train from Berk going to Watford was cancelled until 3pm. We end up making friends with two kind Watford men and hop in a taxi with them.

I can't remember anything about the game other than it being absolutely blinking freezing and ending 0-0, which was a better point for us than them and proof Rosenior has them more organised than Arveladze ever did.

Post-match, we allowed the 'traffic to clear' so I showed Dad the Wellington, Watford's best (and perhaps only) real ale pub since my first trip here in 2005. Lovely pint of 'Side Pocket for a Turd' (as we say in 'Ull).

Back at Euston, I walked Dad down to King's Cross so he didn't get lost looking for his train home (though I might've had an ulterior motive which rhymes with Pee Yes Brie). Snow started - I'd been thinking it was too cold to snow. Maybe that's an old wives tale?

Parcel Yard, King's Cross time? Oh, go on then.

Daddy B does the famous ESB signal, scaring Billy Whiteshoes in the process

Controversial new pump clip with no red in it ......

.... same great fuzzy taste

Goodbye Daddy BRAPA, who was blissfully unaware of the now heavy snow spreading from Kent into London as his train escaped to milder northern climes.

I might've stayed for another ESB ..... and I only realised how much the conditions had changed when I reached Highbury & Islington where I had to change for Dalston.

It was perhaps no surprise when Faversham pub hero Richard Pitcher text me to postpone tomorrow's rural Kent car adventure - a wise move.

Because the following morning, Monday 12th December, even getting around the local Tube network was a nightmare.

Look how happy he is!

Although my first leg of the journey, south of the river to Rotherhithe, wasn't too bad.

Mayflower, Rotherhithe (2258 / 4162) was a beauty. You could feel the history in every nook and cranny. Fish tank cloudier than an experimental Tiny Rebel, nautical paraphernalia galore, small, nostalgic & contained, I count myself very fortunate to have hit the place when quite empty, as I bet it is seldom quiet, and my table was reserved half an hour from now. A group of old ladies were meeting for their annual Christmas lunch, crackers, hats on, getting into the spirit and the spirits. An ale from Kent brewery, gosh they get everywhere, drank nicely. My peace was finally shattered when the posh lads, who had my table reserved, arrived but I did at least manage to get them to wait obediently on a adjoining table whilst I (very slowly) finished my pint.

Any thoughts that today would be straightforward were soon dashed as I return to the Tube station to find this .....

That time soon became 13:42 and I realised I'd have to make other arrangements.

But what a struggle it was trying to get north of the river! The nearest bridge was a 45 minute walk, not one bus I looked at went north, and I'm assuming Rotherhithe tunnel has no pedestrian access because I couldn't find a way into it!

I ended up trudging to Bermondsey Tube, changing at London Bridge, and going back round towards East London that way. What a fiasco! Was well in need of pint n pee when I reached pub two .....

One of those pub names I'd heard of but was surprised to find I'd never been to, I think I get it confused with the Barrowboy & Banker which let's face it, is almost identical .... Hung, Drawn & Quartered, Tower Hill (2259 / 4163) was a bright, square, twinkly Fullers house which meant I had a decision to make. To ESB or not to ESB? That was the question. And knowing this was only pint two of an already gruelling day , I made the difficult decision to swerve it. The Dark Star guest was off so I was landed with an apt Jack Frost at a 'bargain' £5.95. Nice as it was, it lacked bite / or a short sharp cold snap. Colin brought the pub into disrepute as City suits and tourists milled around and look worried for my sanity. I nearly spilled my pint, catching the glass just in time. It didn't get any more exciting than that.

I only really trusted myself on foot now after that earlier Tube trauma, although every walk took twice as long as I trudge along compact snow.

But a stones throw from the Jack the Ripper museum, pub #3 soon came into view ......

Okay, so it was no Ten Bells Whitechapel , but Sir Sydney Smith, Shadwell (2260 / 4164) was surrounded by so many characterless modern office blocks, the last thing I was expecting was a pub which had something approaching a community hub. Around the bar, a handful of locals gather, including a flamboyant Spanish chef with ponytail and voice of Tico from Willy Fog. He commends my Rockin' Rudolph ale choice (surprisingly enjoyable), I say I'm a sucker for a shiny LED reindeer nose pump clip. That gets the barmaid and obligatory Scotsman on side too. Never have I felt so 'included' in a pub so close to the central London since I sat at the bar in the Speaker at Westminster and told the pub about the exciting back-end results from drinking a glitterberry J20. The magic was lost once I sat alone by the draughty door, but just for a couple of minutes, I got to be a London local, and it felt great.

I continue my slow trudgy progress down into Wapping, never have I quite had to fight to get my London tick quota like this before! Two pubs here though, this was the first .......

Wrapped up like a Christmas prezzie, I had to roll my eyes at Town of Ramsgate, Wapping (2261 / 4165) and although the grottoesque (so close to grotesque) atmosphere continued through this long thin pub, I was soon revising my initial view. Warm, comfortable, carpeted, 'pubby', and a warm welcome off mine host, who I'm sure is a BRAPA paid actor and has served me everywhere from Staithes to Staines to Stithians in my 8.5 year pub ticking. The Portobello Market Porter is the perfect drop to enjoy in these surroundings, and I'm soon wrapping my arms around the radiator behind me like a happy Terry Waite. Another staff member appears on the scene, looking touched. It transpires that his dog Benson died recently, and some kind soul has had a Christmas decoration made in his honour - of Benson taking a shit. What a gesture. With tears in my eyes, it was off to our other Wapping pub.

A few yards further into the bowels of Wapping, another famous name which I really should've been to before now. Looked promising .......

Prospect of Whitby, Wapping (2262 / 4166), despite the delightful frontage didn't have warmth or plushness within. A disappointing gastropub in many ways, I was at least boosted by the sighting of another top quality Porter, this time from Southwark. It was the kind of night where anything pale just wasn't going to cut the mustard. The customers didn't help the atmosphere, a hapless army of wandering zombies acting out as though being in a pub was too much for their tiny minds to comprehend. How hard is it just to go to the bar, order drink, food if that's your proclivity, sit down and stay still? I don't get pubbers, especially in London. However, one couple who were very still, too still, were the duo closest to me. Not sure they even had drinks. They just blinked dolefully out onto that big freezing dark dirty river behind the pub. I hope they were inwardly happy, and not thinking murderous thoughts.

With rush hour surely now over, it was time to brave the Underground again and take myself further East for my final two ticks of the evening. This first one looked nice ......

Drama on arrival at the Boleyn Tavern, Upton Park (2263 / 4167), I have to duck to avoid a skirmish on the way in, as a naughty bloke is ejected. "Sorry for the commotion mate, gotta protect our pub" says the young smiley barman, like a cute Cockney Reject, returning to the bar to serve me a pint of "It's NOT Coming Home". I glance down. The beermats are raising awareness of testicular cancer, but the cartoon testicles are called 'The 'Ard Nuts' and are angry skinheads. Seriously, if BRAPA was a TV show, we'd have received complaints at this juncture for a lazy stereotypical portrayal of West Ham's past reputation. Finally, I can relax and explore, the pub is a beauty. But it only becomes truly breathtaking when I find the door through to the backroom, where I settle on an upholstered bench by the side a rug close to a fire - men in armchairs, a young couple on a date night, black labrador being well behaved, 30's jazz music playing softly, the contrast between this and my arrival here is incredible! What a stunner. Late contender for pub of the year.

One final stop to salvage a SEVEN tick day from a difficult situation, and the last 'official' BRAPA tick before my winter break.

With night falling, the temperature has dropped further and it is an ice-rink on the streets of Bow. So glad I left my Adidas Gazelles at home and put the walking boots on, I'm moving at 0.01 mile an hour as it is. But good pubs come to those who make the effort .....

Lord Tredegar, Bow (2264 / 4165) is another strong East End pub on which to end my adventure. A bustling atmosphere in an intimate setting, it feels more like Christmas Eve with so many happy rosy drunken faces dotted about the room. The Titanic Plum Porter pump clip might be in black and white, but it is still the only beer I was ever going to go for, Col and I raise a toast to poor ole' Pedro stuck back at home in York. A bold move next to prove I'm not messing about, as I take the seat directly in front of the roaring fire, and a couple give me a nod of approval. "You're lucky to get that seat, you should embrace it!" I'm told when I raise the question 'am I blocking the heat?' Next, I'm shocked to see a black cat (almost invisible) fast asleep on the bar behind me. I've never seen a cat so unfazed by so much human traffic. They call her Beyonce, a man sitting with her tells me, because she's a fabulous diva. I'd love to stay for another pint, but I'm in danger of falling asleep myself, so it is with great effort that I heave myself up and battle my way back to Dalston.

Soon to be my seat

There is a cat in this photo, honest!

So, there we have it, I can't tell you how great it is to be FINALLY catching up on my blogs!

Join me tomorrow for Part 14 at the slightly later time of 10pm where we'll see what is new in Hull and the Wigan area, what a pub tickers convention feels like, and discover that rural Lincolnshire can be pleasant.

See ya then, Si