BRAPA epic catch up part 6/14 - Saxilby to South Leverton via Lincoln
Thursday 17th November, 11:50am and today's first pub was already open. So why the 'eck was I stood outside in the pouring rain, loitering, hood up, tapping furiously at my phone, scaring the passing locals on their way from church service to chippy lunch?
The truth was dear reader, I'd just found out my favourite show Neighbours had been 'uncancelled' and I needed to get my Twitter reaction in early. 11:55am, all done, right let's get down to business.
Anglers, Saxilby (2186 / 4088)
My first foray into Lincs of the 2022/23 season, and if they are all this good and easy to get to, I'll have no trouble at all. But I think I'll find it a struggle, in many ways, from what I've heard from more experienced tickers. Will I dreaming sweet dreams of Bedfordshire when I'm done? The genial guv'nor spies my GBG and comes over for a chat. Nice bloke. The carpet is easily an 8/10, and is that a Kentish dartboard I spy on the floor? A stodgy bunch of locals are watching the chancellor's Autumn statement on TV out of the corner of their collective all seeing eye, complaining that nothing will change, unless everything changes, in which case change is overrated . I'm not enjoying the local brew much, ironically from somewhere called FAB, but the pub still makes an overall positive impression on me.
Saxilby is on a train route, making it crazily accessible for Lincs. And Lincoln, a town which hosts an ace cathedral, horrid hill and at least three high quality boozers, is next stop down the line, and I still have three gaps to fill in. This is the first .....
Birdcage, Lincoln (2187 / 4089)
A striking red interior, birdcages hanging from the ceiling, and yet it seems to be more gig venue than pub .... something which I can't quite visualise on a sleepy baltic Thursday lunchtime. My abiding memory is the landlady, a brilliant character, loved her. "The pub is falling to bits!" she exclaims, stood atop a chair perched precariously, trying to fix a faulty blind. I hesitate over the 5.7% ale, Decimate. "Is it too early?" I wonder out loud. "It'll certainly decimate ya!" she laughs. "Oh go on then, you only live once!" I reason, and before long, my head is swimming merrily as she gives me a running commentary on the ongoing blind fixing saga, gracefully floating down to serve any newly arrived punters, like a mad swan. Cosy place too, and that is what you need on a day like today. Winter is, or was, coming.
I wanted to push myself a bit harder before I got too settled in Lincoln, so I decide to take advantage of the plentiful bus routes and head the third furthest south I'd ever been in Lincs (not counting Bourne and Market Deeping, or even Grantham, which I've done 2/5 of! #BRAPAStats)
Lion & Royal, Navenby (2188 / 4090)
School is out for the day, and so is work in Navenby, the word that most sums up the atmosphere here is 'unwinding'. The bar area is particularly cluttered, the locals have formed one of those jealously guarded impenetrable semi-circles to keep out pub tickers, cauliflowers and anyone else who might've hopped off the bus and stumbled in for the jollies. Luckily, the bar extends through to the back, where I later make a fool of myself trying to locate the Gents. The fire isn't lit but no problem, enough hot air is being generated by local mouths. One young lady seems to be pinned to the wall drinking lager, but I later found out she works here. I don't like sitting miles away from the throng because I can't overhear any conversation, but it was the only alternative here, and the evil Thornbridge (let it go Si, it's been over a year!) Brother Rabbit drinks well as I look out onto another great sweeping swathe of carpet, sort of the pub equivalent of the A15.
I don't want to stray too far from Lincoln, so the good news is that there is another village tick on the way back up.
Three Horseshoes, Waddington (2189 / 4091)
There isn't an award for 'BRAPA Coldest Pub of the Year' but there should be, because this one would win hands down, this despite having a real fire lit which I basically sat on, AND the barman kept putting the logs on. Quite an achievement to be this cold in the circs. The pub was traditional enough, but not particularly pubby, it more resembles a club in truth. A few men and sporty looking lads hang around, looking at smartphones and grunting. For a trip to the loos, you had to snake around this curious modern bolt-on corridor, the wind whistling through, positively icy in here. Captain Oates would never make it back. Milestone aren't a brewery whose ales I particularly get along with, but the New World Pale was decent stuff. Not a bad place, just left me a bit cold.
Back at the bus stop, darkness descending, bus delayed, those waiting all rolling their eyes, then the heaven's opened and a deluge soaked us all. It seemed to have warmed the air temperature up, if that was any consolation, which at the time it wasn't!
Back in Lincoln, one of my two remaining ticks was close, and being a soggy mess who probably needed the loo by now too, I decide to try and gain entry ......
Tiny Tavern, Lincoln (2190 / 4092)
But despite the 'Open' sign and folk within, the door ain't budging. Then I see the sign like Ace of Base did back in the nineties, and it opened up my eyes. "Please ring the bell. We will be with you shortly. 😊" it said. I rang the bell, a friendly staff member lets me in and walks me through to the bar "What in fresh hell is this weird set up?" I ask in a more polite way. She tells me they've had it since lockdown, and it works for them because it allows them a degree of crowd control, and as a bloke said later, 'to keep the ne'er do wells out'. Hmmm, not sure how I feel about public houses acting like private members clubs, but everyone is so bloody lovely, I don't have time to cogitate because I'm thrown right into Tiny Tav life. The Wizard's Ruin Stout goes down nicely. A beer ticker with a giant notepad is ticking off a beer from every brewery in the UK and he's excited cos the Golden Eagle down the road has 'Play Brew' which he needed to tick off! He implores me to go later on. The other bloke chatting to me is a cool old metal dude, so I let him to the Stabilo'ing. Then I notice my train home is cancelled! Time to say my goodbyes and plan my next move.
I pop into the Golden Eagle, one of my favourite Lincoln pubs from memory, and yes I do try a half of this 'rare' beer but it is a Honeycomb and Marshmallow Knickerbocker Glory Ice Cream Stout so you can imagine how sickly that was. I'm the only customer sadly, but at least the down time helps me plan a new route home.
I get myself to Newark, where I have time to kill, which rarely ends well, so I revisit to the Prince Rupert which is a HUGE improvement on my breakfast time disaster back in 2012. Quiet, a knocked-off barmaid is having gammon n chips in the corner, and you can appreciate it is actually a very nice old pub, and the Settle Milk Stout is quality.
Now fast forward 36 hours to Saturday 19th November for more ticking fun, and it is a measure of the man that Daddy BRAPA is that after Carlton in Lindrick last time out in Notts, he saw my Notts progress ......
... and said "ey up, let me drive you around some of those awkward ones". I mean, I was going to ask him at some point over the next six months, but I didn't need to!
We arrived in the village of East Markham, perhaps the only pub remotely close to a bus route, shortly before noon. Colin's little sister Colette had come to visit, so we all chilled out and had breakfast to give the pub chance to open. One of my more legendary followers Axholme Rob, impressively guessed the correct part of the UK simply from the below photo!
Queen's Hotel, East Markham (2191 / 4093)
With the pub sign Queen played by Bette Davis, and the sight of Bass on the bar, it is a welcome start to the BRAPA day. The landlady confirms Bass is a regular (I have to ask, for TheWickingMan Bass Directory purposes - very well kept btw). Dad enthuses over the Everard's Tiger drip mat, if that's what they are called. The pub is kitted out for dining, but it is nicely heated and a pleasant place to sit and have a drink. The landlady looks relieved when someone she recognises arrives. On the way out, we return our glasses. Our coats are on and zipped up, man bag swinging over my shoulder. "You staying for another?" she asks, a bit too optimistically.
My Bass wasn't THAT chewy
Time to trundle along the A57, perilously close to Lincolnshire now, for pub two. The huge potholed car park with giant vintage bus parked outside puts me in mind of Bloomfield Road, circa 1995, when Neil 'Spanner' Allison grabbed us an unlikely equaliser.
White Swan, Dunham on Trent (2192 / 4094)
Daddy BRAPA looks the picture of hope for happy ticking times ahead, but in truth, this was the weakest of a strong suite of pubs today. Circumstances were at least 50% to blame, as we'd barely sat down when a mixed group of approx. twenty with London accents, descend on the smaller cosier bar room. With only room at the remaining table for six, some nick seats from other areas, some hover 'twixt bar and no man's land, and some even attempt a bit of conjugal knee sitting. It is too much for myself and Daddy BRAPA, and with the 'roaring' fire failing to generate much heat, we retire to the larger 'dining' room around to the right. There had been a semblance of local joy previous to this, as a blind local man was in danger of having his fish pie swiped from under his nose by an eager dog. My Pheasantry was 'pleasant', but as is often the case with this brewery, it didn't have much bite, and all in all, a slightly disappointing experience.
Col looks pensive (pre-move)
Crossing the border into Lincs to ensure I got my six quota done? It was yet another genius suggestion from Daddy BRAPA that I wasn't going to turn my nose up at.
We had to cross a toll bridge mind, 40p I'm telling ya! In this cost of living crisis too. "Cooo, I love the colour of yurrrr car" squeaks the young lady toll gate keeper. Oh yes, we were in Mummy BRAPA's new yellow Picanto again, trying to loosen, or was it tighten it up a bit?
In sight of the pub, a group of four dithering adults are heading in the same direction as us. "Quick, overtake them or we'll be here all day" murmurs Dad so we leap into the road, go around them, my photo has to be quick and personless, and I briefly consider doing the Dambusters gliding arm movement to signify my arrival but I'm not sure how P.C it is in 2022.
I do try to sing it, but can't quite nail it and end up doing a kind of hybrid Black Beauty and the Great Escape which has Daddy B. grimacing in pain.
Dambusters Inn, Scampton (2193 / 4095)
Now this pub did leave an impression on me. As per its aim, it evokes a lot of memories of a time which I can't remember, wartime or something. A crazy old woman was getting the VIP treatment as we entered, she was a surly old crow and I was sure she was about to prod me and say 'I don't like the cut of your jib'. The murals were exceptional, the gents had pot pourri in a loafer, and better still, all of those signatures of perished airmen, wow. It is almost like a museum, and okay so they recently got a one star rating for their food (probably some jealous German) but that didn't stop it being popular today, I even heard an Australian accent in amongst plenty of other ladies who sound like Lorraine Kelly. Fascinating stuff. And very atmospheric.
Back across the Notts border as the pubs seemed to get increasingly isolated.
Ferryboat Inn, Church Laneham (2194 / 4096)
"Are you a blogger then?" says one of the two friendly balloon blowing barmaids, who had temporarily removed a balloon from her lips to enable this exchange to take place. "Yes, how did you know?" I reply, perplexed, for no-one under the age of 37 reads BRAPA. "Oh, I saw you taking a photo of your cauliflower next to the pint, my friend does stuff like that with food and her mascot, and puts it on a blog" reasons our new hero of the day. Dad has missed all this, he's present but absent, sat there in bliss, supping his coffee, deaf as a post. But he soon comes to life .... "Do you know what will go really with this coffee, and your dark beer? Hang on ...." he says, disappearing back to the bar like some pubby David Copperfield. Five minutes later, Belgian waffles and chocolate ice cream appear. He really was making a late dash for BRAPA Person of the Year 2022, shame RetiredMartin bribed the judges.
Not Keto but I wasn't complaining!
The standard of pub had been strong all day, but there was a feeling that since the first two, we were gradually building up to a crescendo. And I loved this next one, NOTHING like what I expected.
Bees' Knees, Laneham (2195 / 4097)
Not the traditional brewery tap, or even a micropub (although it was located in a former shop, but it had three rooms), but why do I feel the need to categorise pubs anyway? 'Quirky pub' like it says on their Facebook, that will do fine. Very cosy, very friendly, Springhead brewery is around the back, and a real fave of ours from the pre-BRAPA real ale days of 2002-13, though surprisingly, I couldn't see any of their ales on handpull here. In fact it was a real Yorkshire love-in, Bradfield and Ossett (and Rat if you count it as separate from Ossett). A lady is wandering around giving out Cadbury's Heroes by the bucket load. Despite my recent waffle, I manage a careless Wispa or two. Loved this place.
One to go, and it was dark by now as we made our way to the most rural feeling, most unlikely, and therefore, not too surprisingly, best of the day.
Plough, South Leverton (2196 / 4098)
Silhouetted under a creaky old inn sign in a howling gale, the rain unrelenting, I push the even creakier door and a few blokes who look like rabbit trappers and poachers briefly glance up from their slumber and say the word 'duck' in our direction. The jolly landlady seems constantly on the verge of breaking into fits of laughter, and serves us an excellent World Cup themed ale called Teammates with a modern depiction of Bobby Moore holding the Jules Rimet trophy aloft. It is definitely coming home. Spoiler alert - it definitely didn't. Some of the proceeds go to Alzheimer's Society, leading to lots of local jokes about forgetting what you've just ordered. This felt more like a Cambridgeshire Fens pub. Who needs Chatteris when you can go to South Lev? As HMHB nearly sang. The carpet is easily a 9. Incredible to think that my local correspondent on the ground, Rob, reports this pub's quality varies so much, it sometimes doesn't make the GBG. Gobsmacked.
And there we have it. Next time out, we'll get stuck into Edinburgh. Betcha can't wait. See you on Thursday for Part 7.
