Colin the Cauliflower was sulking early doors in Kimberworth on Thursday 10th November 2022, as I refused to take him in The Colin. "Eye on the prize!" I told him, "we've got an actual GBG tick to do". "Don't bloime me if it gets in the 2024 Guide, bab" Col replies in his dulcet Black Country tones.
Here was that actual tick, tucked away around the corner beside one of those precincts which often feature stuff like a funeral directors, pizza parlours, tanning salons and dog groomers.
Steptoe's Bar & Cafe, Kimberworth (2174 / 4078)
I'm not the only one surprised by the sheer volume of people in here on this unlikely grey Thursday lunchtime. "I don't know where they've all come from!" wails the overworked guv'nor, a sound chap, simultaneously making five coffees whilst heating up a selection of meaty snacks in the microwave. No self service coffee here, Wetherspoons style, more is the pity! A backlog is forming, and as two elderly ladies with thinning hair ask if their pork pie / sausage rolls can be heated, he sees my look of exasperation and says "if you're just after a pint, I can serve you quickly" It never ceases to amaze me how quickly staff have me pegged as a 'low maintenance, pint only' customer, but I'm relieved. Bus timings are tight. The Welbeck Abbey ale is of supreme quality. With most folk gravitating towards a plasma showing a roaring fire (!) to the left, I go right where Col has to keep his wits about him when he realises there is literally no body to drink with.
A bus to Rotherham, then a train to Barnsley follow, for my 4th last South Yorkshire tick of the 2023 GBG. It is a surprisingly long walk from the centre for one so Micro, but it is worth it.
Heaven & Ale, Barnsley (2175 / 4079)
I'll always have a soft spot for Barnsley, possibly because I lived here for two years, have friends here and my Great Uncle (not Bulgaria) captained the football team (not Bulgaria), but the people are always, as they say 'box office'. It might be mid afternoon but in this otherwise boxlike, seemingly bland micro, the locals are warm, drunk and fuzzy. The drunkest has headphones in. He takes them out briefly to stroke me on the shoulder and announce it is his birthday if anyone wants to buy him a(nother) pint. A postman has finished work and is propping up the bar with a one legged war veteran and a clucky mother hen. Our drunk friend serenades him with a slurry Postman Pat theme, the postman reveals he does have a cat called Jess but no one knows whether to believe him. On the way out, I give our drunk mate a birthday hug in keeping with the spirit of the place. Colin makes no impact here, they see weirder on an hourly basis. And as I'm half way down the street, I can still hear them discussing what a crazy concept BRAPA is. You've got to treasure Barnsley folk. The realest in the UK.
Hanging around for a 5pm debutant opener in Conisbrough doesn't appeal despite the rave reviews of other tickers, so I instead hop aboard a commuter train to North Notts. I keep talking about getting into 'newer' counties I've never previously cracked rather than chasing my tail, time to put my money where my mouth is.
One tick only required in Worksop despite six years away, seems a logical place to start.
Fuggle's Chapter One, Worksop (2176 / 4080)
This cool lady in a hat with a checked shirt, glint in her eye and beautifully rounded Notts accent greets me, these Fuggle Bunny ales all have their own little story on the pump clip. I opt for the Jammy Dodger, including the prose "Hi, I'm Fuggle .... that's a beautiful ruby red cape you are wearing." "Thank you, this is a very special cape" Scarlett replied. BRAPA cannot compete, I may as well cease blogging now. The ale could've been jammier, and I'm desperate to know why the cape is so special, I guess I'll never find out. It is a shabby chic kinda place, feels a bit like a 'work in progress', I imagine a twentysomething couple moving house from the Edinburgh 'burbs to Diss when their car breaks down in Worksop, in a snowstorm. They're stranded for days, so they unload the van, and this place unwittingly becomes their new home. They never do get to Diss. Jeez, these fuggle narratives were catching! My work colleague Ailsa came here a few days later having seen my Tweet, despite being from Aberdeenshire ... and hat lady remembered me n Col, which is nice, cos I didn't really make an impression.
In a rare GBG year where the omnipresent villages of Lound and Blyth have been binned, I could really green up my North Notts map something rotten by simply ticking one more on a bus route to Donny.
It felt outlandish on such a cold dark gloomy evening, but I'm glad it came off!
Grey Horses Inn, Carlton in Lindrick (2177 / 4081)
All faces turn, open mouthed, ready to greet one of their Carlton village faves. I was sorry to disappoint them with my strangerish ways! The bar is raised, to the extent where I felt like Oliver Twist peering up and asking for more gruel, the youthful jolly barman serves me an excellent Welbeck Abbey, this is how today started. Perfect symmetry. I later go back up for half a Hobgoblin to get me through to bus time, and this is glorious too. Glorious Hobgoblin is when you know you are in a pub that is on top of its game with its ale! Although the place would benefit from a carpet and some softer furnishings, the gentle local companionship and no nonsense pub attitude elevate this place to pub of the month standards. Any cosier, we may've been looking at pub of the year, with me sleeping overnight here on a bench.
The bus arrives, and despite the usual 59 minute wait in Donny station for the next York service, I'm still home at Reasonable O'clock.
36 hours later, I'm London/Kent bound on a rare non-strike / engineering weekend where I could get singles for under £30 each. A situation that is becoming increasingly rare and slowing down my Kent quest, which a year ago, I thought would be a relatively straightforward county to chip away at.
And I was in so early, I decided to get an early one done in that London first, to take the pressure off later in the day
Sir John Oldcastle, Farringdon (2178 / 4082)
9:30am when I walk in, that's my earliest start for a good couple of years, but £4.39 for a Tamar Best Bitter from Summerskills? In a 'Spoons? Wow, I knew I was Central London, but it still shocked me. A 50p off Mudgie voucher brought it down to £3.89 for some consolation. Had I gone Abbot's Ale, that was 30p more. Plus the staff were miserable robots with an impatient manner, and the carpet was only a 7. I read about Sir John Oldcastle, he sounded like a bit of loser too, so it was fitting. Shakespeare turned him into Falstaff, which is (or at least was) a brilliant pub in Derby. And not much sympathy on the old Twitter either. Brewery folk telling me I should get used to paying a bit more for 'Spoons ale so brewers get a better slice of the pie. Fair do's. Now get me to mid-Kent!
I decided to keep my recent strategy of getting to a really difficult pub first, and then gradually making my way back towards civilisation.
A walk from a funny station called Borough Green & Wrotham found me in the pretty village of Ightham, still well before 12 noon.
The 'pre-emptive' village Shepherd Neame pub, George & Dragon was open, so I popped in for a boring half once I found someone to serve me. Let's just say the character of the building from the outside didn't match what I found within.
The walk became increasingly rural and back of beyond, before the GBG pub finally came into view.
Old House, Ightham Common (2179 / 4083)
The richly drawn characters which have probably been propping up the bar here since the 17th century show me the blackboard on which the beers are listed, and I go up in their estimation when I choose Harvey's Old Ale, it having wowed me so much last time out in Chipstead. Beer from the barrel, chestnuts on the bar, one of the largest and most magnificent fireplaces I'd ever seen, this was undoubtedly a slightly knowing destination pub, but I was lucky to be able to appreciate it at a time when it was locals only. Col poses in front of the fire but is told that he might catch alight so I have to move him! With tales of a Pimms pint drinking competition leading seamlessly into a first encounter with a goth girl ("she had black make up on, and piercings, it was terrifying .... she walked straight through the village!") I suspect I'd unwittingly walked into a rural Kentish remake of Early Doors. Peter & Humph (not Mudgie & the guy off of Sam Smiths) arrive to swell our number to six, and I suddenly feel a bit crowded. Time I was off, not quite sure what I had just witnessed!
A walk back to the station doesn't seem as far this time around, and I need to get myself to Maidstone for the five billionth time in 2022.
I deserved a lucky break in Kent, I've not had much luck to date, so when Maidstone's favourite fruity resident Pauline Sharp (if you don't count Judge Dread, cos he's dead and from Snodland) mentioned cryptically that RetiredMartin was in town, I didn't really twig.
But Martin messages me, it is true, he's aiming for the same pub as me, AND he's with Mrs RM, Christine, AND he is happy to drive me to it, with a view to Aylesford, and .... well who knows, see how generous he's feeling eh?
Maidstone is doing Maidstone things (i.e. the traffic is at a farcical stand still) as I perch myself against that nobhead dinosaur outside the station, Martin pips his horn, waves and I hop in the back. Legends!
It takes us about 20 minutes to go one mile, but they both need to compose themselves, they've been at some crazy meal entertaining a billion children or something, so the sight of me and Colin is hopefully a welcome, calming relief!
The first thing I see when I step out of the car is a broken bag of Mini Cheddars, you can see them on Martin's blog, the perfect metaphor for Maidstone's cheesy broken dreams.
Walnut Tree, Maidstone (2180 / 4084)
A like for like GBG swap with the disgraceful Stag which made the 2022 GBG, Walnut Tree is a HUGE step up, like actually, a proper and very good pub with spongey undulating carpet, mid-pub beams dartboard and a wry smile on the face of everyone within. The poor barmaid has to witness a description of my bowel movement uncertainties following a pint of Harvey's Sussex Best, as I try to justify my decision to go Goacher's Fine Light. She takes it on the chin, to her credit. Martin is so kind isn't he? He buys Colin a Yorkie bar, because unlike me, he isn't a Keto Cauliflower. Christine meanwhile has sat on a low slung settee at the far end like the lounge lizard she is and some strange bloke tries talking to her. We soon join her, having exhausted our blogger indoor photography quotas, and chat happily, about what I don't know, but it has been a winning start to my impromptu RM session.
A couple o' miles out of town, we came to this little gem.
Little Gem, Aylesford (2181 / 4085)
I hit my head on the way in, and I'm a short arse, so that gives you an idea how low this ceiling is! You could be forgiven for expecting some modern micro that opened March 2020, I thought that, so did Martin, and when it comes to pubs, we have more genes than the rest of you, so forgive yourselves. No, as some chatty man (not Alan Carr) next to Martin was saying, this curious hobbit hole is Grade II listed 12th century, a pub since 1968 but closed for the last nine. Goacher's done good, cracking stout from barrel, oh what an atmosphere, couple listening in to our pub ticker chat cos they've run out of sexy talk maybe, sheet music to a tune called 'Stop yer tickling, Jock' hangs on the wall, which Maltmeister thought said 'ticking' and was aimed at Duncan, I hit my head once more on way out for luck, concussed but happy.
I didn't want to push my luck, but it was still light outside, Martin seemed happy to keep driving, and when the subject of Ryarsh (the Kent tick that has been living rent free in my head more than any apart from Staplehurst) came up, well I snapped his hand off.
"Ohhhh this one!" cries Martin, laughing mirthlessly, as the pub comes into view. It seems that he keeps accidentally coming back here, some pubs just refuse to go away, even when you've ticked them.
Duke of Wellington, Ryarsh (2182 / 4086)
I don't have too many memories of this one, it was that stage of the day, but it had atmosphere and some character, the kind of 'end of line' place where you feel the locals crawl out of a swampy bog each morning to reach. A beautiful small version of the fire from Ightham Common greets us, the locals are blurry, the Proper Job is absolutely excellent, the bar top is quite ornate, and hops hang from the ceiling because y'know, Kent. I wrote at the time "my soft custard cream isn't working". Let's not try and decipher that. Christine, who has links to the Tunbridge Wells area (in a non-Crimewatch way) suggests it would benefit me to be dropped off in Tonbridge for London convenience. She has studied the local topography and the route back WOULD mean popping in to another difficult to reach Kent pub en route. I think I can live with that! I bow down to her local knowledge, Martin as driver seems up for it, Colin remains stoic. All good in the hood.
Back in the RM-mobile, Colin is starting to feel a bit travel sick but he holds on .....
And the pub soon comes into view. Let's go in and have a look.
The Man of Kent, Little Mill (2183 / 4087)
If you thought the Little Gem was a low ceilinged head banger, well this was arguably lower. A decent sized pub but almost suffocating in how there is actually no let up whatsoever in ceiling height. It makes the pub feel busier than it is, creating a stupendous Saturday evening atmosphere. Drinkers pubs in remote areas like this must be cherished. A random carved owl on the way in looks a bit lonesome, where is Oscar when you need him? I've soon hopped aboard a Tonbridge Coppernob, a hearty brew, and the Scottish guv'nor swoops down on my GBG for the winning Stabilo moment. Someone is called Gary. It might be him. Or not. There is an envelope addressed to Gary anyway. Not enough babies are born called Gary these days. If you know a Gary, give him a hug. That is my main takeaway moment from another good pub. Kent CAMRA has really stuck some good 'uns in the '23 GBG. Feels like a step up on their (and everyone's) lethargic '22 efforts, even if it does mean greater churn.
Christine was spot on with her Tonbridge assessment, and I even have enough time back at King's Cross to give Parcel Yard another chance after recent poor form. Better, but still no ESB! Annoying. Still, the Red Fox was caramelly goodness in good condition so at least I could put a brave, if not too sober face on it.
Comments