BRAPA epic catch up - Part 3/14 : Bradford to Chislehurst via Oakworth & Sevenoaks
26th October 2022 10pm, see I'm only 9 weeks behind on my blogging! New Year's Resolution is to catch up. Plus I want to do my 'annual strategy meeting' blog soon, I really don't have time to work as well!
Where were we? Oh yeah, deepest West Yorkshire. Here's the new GBG entry, Boar & Fable, Bradford.
Standard West Yorkshire debutant fayre (like the other three tonight), it is named after the fable that Bradford was once a forest, populated by boar, who did boary things, like snuffling for truffles. A feeling of contentment swept over me as I forced down a furry Turning Point brew (dank as a dungeon master's arsehole), served by an extended member of the Malfoy family. After all that taxi rushing around earlier, I could now relax, safe in the knowledge I'd done four bonus ticks and could get a train back to York without too much hassle. 'Neath the twinkly fairy lights, the smattering of other customers were so relaxed, they may've been asleep. Nice enough, but if a fellow pub ticker called Jim posts a link in the Whatsapp chat in 12 months time saying this place has ceased to be, I doubt we'll be raising too many eyebrows or batting too many eyelids.
Thursday 27th October 2022 and the shackles were off, yes official Good Beer Guide release date is today and I could reveal just how punishing that 'churn' had been in the most upsetting cross-ticking exercise since 2016.
But dry your eyes pals, my oldest friend (since 1990/91) Lee 'Jigalo (Gigalo)' (Jig) Johnstone joined me for a rare BRAPA outing as I continued in my West Yorkshire quest. A morale boosting way to up my numbers immediately. Jig is more of a beer than pub fan, more a 'stay in one pub and take your time' kinda guy than a 'rush around the pubs' one. He isn't very 'BRAPA compatible' but he promised to embrace it and started well by booking a series of complex train tickets to save money.
And I receive a timely boost because the Bingley and Saltaire ticks I thought I needed weren't actually required, they were simply name changes. Hurrah!
We got ourselves to L**ds, then Keighley, and up to Oakworth. It wouldn't be a GBG year without a new Bronte boozer!
Snooty Fox, Oakworth (2154 / 4058)
I'd been expecting a Micropub so the fact that this felt even more like a WMC than the actual Oakworth Club I ticked a couple of years back was quite surprising. A cracking pint of Goose Eye, a friendly barmaid, and an even friendlier dog. "Don't throw him a beermat, he'll just eat it, he thinks he can fool first time visitors" she shouts over. I instead have to throw his (very soggy) toy (again and again, yuck, doggy drool makes me gip). He looks forlorn. Then Jig says this feels like the type of place where Jerry St Clair will get up on stage and do Ghost Town by The Specials in the club style. They were kitted up for Hallowe'en after all. And Terry Hall was alive.
Jig's first tick since Lytham 2017
Unlike last night, today was really tough, slow progress and I had to apologise to Jig for how long it was taking to get around the pubs. "I can now see that BRAPA isn't all about getting pissed" he observed. Well, not 100% of the time.....
Next stop, only a second ever BRAPA visit to Batley. Gone 4pm when we reached pub two, we'd started at lunchtime!
Cellar Bar, Batley (2155 / 4059)
I must've triple-checked I'd not been here before, a classic underground bar with a warm rugged Batley welcome, it felt like a GBG regular, yet in truth, its last entry was back in 2012, 2 years before the advent of BRAPA. What a great way to secrete yourself away from the world, if Karen Matthews is all out of divan beds in 2022 and wants to have another go. That's a local reference. The Saltaire drank very well, but again we had dog issues, and we are both cat people so why the mutts were loving us so much today was unclear. This one was small white n fluffy, so I thought he'd spied Oscar the Owl and thought he'd found a relative. But no, Oscar was hidden in my bag. And that just led to the owners eyeing us with suspicion, like we had a secret dog whistle or summat that we use for kidnapping purposes. Having said that, Jig had dressed as a skate punk burglar.
Back to L**ds and an 'emotional' walk for Jig down Wellington Place towards Kirkstall Road. In 2008, he was runover by a Nissan Micra here on his 30th birthday night out, ended up in a coma, nearly carked it, oh gosh it was awful! But despite a few metal replacement body bits, he's sort of normal again.
This was my favourite tick today, when we approached and I witnessed the giant shiny exterior, I feared another Tiny Rebel Rogerstone vapid unatmopheric party venue full of gin drinkers and simpletons drawing scary Welsh clowns with crayons. But if you ignore the horrid 'ceiling' (cheers Quinno) they've spent a lot of money and put much time into giving this place a taste of the olde pube, what with some impressive wooden carved features and brewerinanarama. The crowd is unsurprisingly young and bearded, but that Dexter Milk Stout, pow! Really hits the spot. Kirkstall do great beers, and everyone seemed to be on the cask, the way it should be. Jig thought the presence of Oscar the Owl was ruining his chances with the 'ladies', typical Gigalo talk, but time had ticked on and he was worried he was going to miss the Man Utd game so decided to call it a day and head back to York.
With dusk rapidly falling, I asked Jig if he was okay getting himself back to L**ds train station without getting run over, he said 'probably', good enough for me but I made him text me like a concerned parent, and I caught a bus the other way to Horsforth for my final tick of the night.
A hard dislike from me, I'm afraid, has Horsforth always been snootier than errrm, a snooty fox? Has Harrogate spread its tentacles in this direction? Back on my previous visit in 2013, it felt more L**dsy, but I guess even good ole' L**ds has witnessed a fair amount of gentrification in the past ten/twenty years. 'Errrm, where's the handpumps?' I ask, but this mean, moody, mute barman just points at a blackboard behind me, don't think he says a word, even during the card transaction process. Rude! Customers early on are no better as I step gingerly around a dog to find a table. Dog owner bloke is glaring at me for good 5 mins. Either he's heard about my dog-napping reputation or is a BRAPA fan too shy to say anything. He makes me uncomfortable. I wish he'd desist. The loos are down a steep vertical drop, central London style, and you really could be in a Central London bar. And I'd chosen badly beer wise. I'd gone with another experimental Tiny Rebel - Pink Lemonade this time. Tastes exactly like sour pink lemonade. Ugh. Only got myself to blame for that. In my final 3 minutes here, all the dross leave to be replaced with some chirpy proper West Yorks types. A lady even smiles at Oscar. Like the best managerial football sub move ever. But it is like an injury time consolation when you're already 6-0 down.
That was a tough day but fast forward 36 hours and it is Saturday 29th October. No train strike? Bloody 'ell, let's get mi' sen dahn to Kent, quick sticks!
You may have noticed that my Kentish strategy to date has been to attempt to pick off the trickier ones in the middle and west of the county, plus a couple of SE London's on the way back in to get my numbers up, leaving the more voluminous but easier Deal's, Dover's, Margate's for either a holiday or when I've made more progress. I decided to continue that strategy, and a rickety bus from 1974 took me to an obscure village first.
Kentish Rifleman, Dunk's Green (2158 / 4062)
11:30am opener, I'm ten minutes early as I sat on this crazy carved bench opposite the pub waiting patiently. An old bugger with long hairy ears arrives in a BMW, hobbles towards the front door, eyeing me as if to say "I get served first, it is law, always been this way since 1762". A local yuppie and a Lycra Twyclist are soon on the scene too! The pub opens on time, and some Tonbridge brew that tastes like rusty copper coins goes down nicely. It is a fine old place, but it is watchful and cliquey. Dunk's Greeners are treated more kindly than those passing through. I hate that, though I guess you could argue it is inevitable from time to time. Poor Twyclist asks politely if they have an orange J20 and he can pay by Amex. He gets a growl, shake of the head and something local called an Apple Owlet which sounds more like an iPhone. He hangs his head and goes to sit outside, sensing he's not wanted. First time I've ever empathised with a man in Lycra. I pick up an old book called 'Britain's Quietest Pubs', featuring those which have no piped music, but someone has nicked the Kent pages. I'd tick it, tempted to nick it.
Naughty Little Cousin Pumpy gets the local side-eye
After a bit of bus jiggery-pokery around Tonbridge where sadly, I was all out of ticks, I found myself in Sevenoaks. And I was intrigued because of all the Kent towns I mention to Kent folk, this is the one which gets the sneeriest reaction. "Ugh, barely even Kent", "no good pubs there" "don't bother mate" "lolz, proper banter town " they crow as one.
Anchor, Sevenoaks (2159 / 4063)
So I find it quite satisfying to note that not only is Sevenoaks seem a decent bustling town, but this is my pub of the day too. The barmaid eyes me with brilliant sparkling bluey green eyes as though she's really pleased to see a new face in the pub, the contrast between here and Dunk's Green (and Horsforth!) couldn't have been starker. I was told the guv'nor 'effervescent Barry' has been here forever and 'I'd have known about it if he'd been around today!' , sounds quite the character. An honest pub, curvy, bench seating, innocent men dotted evenly about, drinking, eating and reading newspapers. I initially find it a bit moody, but soon, the bloke closest to me mistakes my phone charger for some WiFi hub portal to another dimension (not sure what he was on about, but we got into a nice chat). Then a couple on the other side say 'nice pumpkin'. Rewarding pub tick this one.
Time to put a few yards in and get the step count up. On a map, Chipstead doesn't look a remote place with no discernible bus route, what with the M25 in spitting distance, but it is by a huge lake too. Peculiar, but it was no Llanthony.
Bricklayers Arms, Chipstead (2160 / 4064)
Perhaps the location (plus baby buggy and £20 Prosecco night blackboard) should've prepared me. I was entering dining hell. The smell of fried fish, clompy bare boards, kids running amok and tanned middle aged men with pink jumpers tied around their shoulders partying like it is 1985. Apart from the saucy postcards in the gents, Harvey's Old Ale was my saving grace, what a beer that is, strong dark and pain numbing. And I needed it when a huge walking group descended on the pub and formed a snaking queue right back to my table, in the far corner! Arse in face for a brief moment was something I wasn't expecting. "This is only my second walk, is it easy to make friends?" asks the timid Alice, tapping the ladies in front of her on the shoulder. It would've been more BRAPA worthy if they'd turned around, said 'NO!' and headbutted her, but they are as nice as they can be in that distant SE/Kent way, which I guess is nice, Alice looks reassured, and it is time I left.
Sort of back in the direction I'd come from, but not quite, a new GBG entry had appeared to make that Chipstead walk a bit more palatable. A stepping stone back to civilisation if you will.
Miners Arms, Dunton Green (2161 / 4065)
Mobility scooter? Miners? Have I gone through a portal into Barnsley?
Whilst I let my Twitter followers debate the mining history of Kent, I was more interested in the giant orange bar spider and the barmaid's Hallowe'en makeup, or had she just been rushed without a mirror? I think that photo is on the front of my blog. She was nice, so was Mr Mobility (who obviously didn't look that mobile himself). After some brief chatter about dance moves, he boasts that he can do 'The Worm'. When asked to give a demonstration, he reveals he is too shy. A shame. The Old Dairy Uber drank tolerably, but was no Old Ale. The pub was quiet, unfussy, unremarkable (a bit like those in north Essex last week, I imagine it must be very plain without the Hallowe'en decor), and there was never any chance queues snaking (or worming?) back to my table.
Now, I either bussed/walked back to Sevenoaks / Tonbridge / somewhere in South London, then got a train (I think) to Chislehurst. I'd forgotten Chislehurst station was miles from the centre up a steep leafy hill, so I had to stop for a secret piddle, but soon their exciting new GBG micropub was in sight.
Cockpit, Chislehurst (2162 / 4066)
Well, all you can do is smile sweetly, shoulders back, chest out, say hello, do the well rehearsed 'just photographing the pub for my blog' (at which point I should probably pass a BRAPA calling card like a pro!) Gosh, this place was like 'Day of the Triffids', plants trying to attack you from the minute you enter. I think someone told me it doubles as a florist. Should've surely just called it 'Flowers n Booze' or some great pun I can't be arsed to think of at this late stage of the blog. Cockpit makes no sense unless I'm missing something. I've got the added mild peril of my favourite Twitter Chislehurst follower, Charles Clark, threatening to join me for a drink, so I'm peering at every bloke to see if they look Charles Clarky enough but none of them do. Ron Bailey, Tim Mason-Jones, Steve Kentucky yes, but no Charles Clarks. I've not chosen well with the beer again, flippin' Tiny Rebel this time piquing my curiosity with a full-on Battenberg style murkster. A marzipan cracker, BUT a third would've done nicely, I struggle to finish it. Not got a massive sweet tooth when it comes to my beer. I borrow a couple of mini pumpkins to make friends with Naughty Little Cousin Pumpy, and if the locals hadn't got me pinned as a Northern weirdo on the way in, they sure did now!
So, back to Parcel Yard and hope the ESB is back on, or really go for it and crack on to Bexleyheath?
What a cliff-hanger. Find out in part 4 tomorrow, not like I've got a Thirsty Thursday on #TrainStrikes
Comments