Sunday 21st June 2026
The much anticipated evil heatwave ™ was finally upon us, and my knight in shining armour is TheFamilyRug, or Martyn as his loved ones know him.
Being a Gwent man (though a former Somersetonian), I'd initially assumed he wouldn't wanna be arsed with coming all the way down to Taunton .... but that's where his MiL lives, and today is her birthday bash. And he's allowed to escape for a few hours to drive me around.
That's what we call BRAPpenstance!
One thing that had been troubling me at my Air BnB is been a freezer full of mystery meat, packaged up into individual bags and bloody. What if I'd been vegan? This morning I decide take the plunge and chuck it out. Both FamillyRug and Mummy BRAPA suggest I just leave it alone, but IT WAS BRUSHING AGAINST MY ICE CUBES. And I mean who da fuck stayed here before me, Jeffrey Dahmer?
The trip to the bins also gives me a chance to assess this heatwave. Yup, scorchio at 10:30am.
Troubling me in the planning of this holiday were the pubs at Nether Stowey and Kilve. They looked impossible to reach even with my penchant for crazy OS routes. But unbeknownst to me, Martyn informs me there ARE regular buses. For EDF Energy staff, but anyone can hop on and off for zero cost. Problem is, the timetables/stops are a closely guarded secret outside of local Facebook pages!
Anyway, I didn't need to worry about that anymore. The roads get increasingly narrow and winding with grass in the middle but that doesn't stop Somerset's famously dickhead drivers from treating it like they're on the M62 between Middleton, Milnrow and Shaw.
Pub of the day comes early in the shape of the George, Nether Stowey (3506 / 6296). On seeing the two of us bound in like excitable Labradors, the landlady takes on a sort of hunted expression like a contestant on series three of The Interceptor with no Annabel Croft for security. Martyn had shown me the Samuel Coleridge plinth outside and whilst we saw no Ancient Mariner, there is a middle-aged Scottish Forest fan propping up the back bar. Not sure I've been to any BRAPA pub in 2026 without a Forest fan randomly appearing. With the Exmoor drinking fantastically (beer quality would be another issue as this heatwave takes hold), it is only when you explore around the back of the pub that you realise it's true majesty. Red lounge glory. Cool too. And soon, we're behind schedule cos I can't stop yapping on and Martyn is such an easy person to chat to. C'mon Si, let's neck that Exmoor and get moving!
With Martyn's car registering a temperature close to the planet Mercury, we arrive at the similarly impossible to reach pub two ......
I'm disappointed by the Hood Arms, Kilve (3507 / 6297). Little more than a restaurant nowadays, the picturesque location, weather and the fact that it is Father's Day means it's teeming with the kind of folk who really don't deserve to be alive. If that's not too harsh. Our bearded host does exceptionally well in the face of much bar pressure, although sadly my pint of Harding's Amber is the first hot weather casualty. Their generous beer garden is the only option re seating, I kick a football but it is flat - which sort of sums up the pub! Shame, I wanted to do some football roleplay where I'm Oli McBurnie and Martyn (QPR fan) is Lyndon Dykes. I'd win, but he'd get called up for Scotland. And there's nowt else to say.
Once again I'd jabbered on like a Hutt and we were well behind the curve now, so Martyn had a plan for pub three. He was going to sit this one out (village parking was an issue), and with no distractions and a the wind in my favour, I could sup up in my allotted 27.5 mins and start clawing back the deficit.
A pint of Q.P.A. (Quantock Pale Ale) seems the apt choice in Martyn's temporary absence and I'm pleased to report Good Beer F.C. retake the lead (2-1) against Warm Beer Wanderers. Service takes me a while, the small stripy lass greets me sweetly but explains I'll have to wait for Mum to return because she's too young to serve me. White Horse Inn, Stogumber (3508 / 6298) is, however a return to form, the thatched bar top even contains a rifle to ward off unreasonable pub tickers. 'Tis a family affair, and two quirky visiting ladies with the deportment of the late Penelope Keith tease mother and daughter for wearing the same stripy top, Daddy appears on the scene and apologises for not doing the same. Mummy explains daughter is a pint pulling expert, only her age getting in the way but her future is mapped out, she WILL be working here! Then I'm forced to join in a very awkward game of 'guess her age' made even more awkward when it is revealed she's 15. 'She doesn't look it does she?' says one of the Keith sisters spinning around to face me. If I speak, I get into trouble. To quote Mourinho. A dorky 7 ft. tall man wanders in, bumps his bonce on a beam, lets out a comical 'owww' and walks around rubbing his head to put the cherry on the top of a fun pub experience. And Martyn is just coming back around the corner and seems pleased to see me back at the car so soon.
Wiveliscombe had been mooted earlier in our planning as a potential bonus tick, but too far from today's little cluster I reckon, and besides, it is a 'gateway' for my tricky Exmoor quartet out west (although the heatwave would ultimately put paid to me attempting these on foot for fear of going the full Jay Slater).
I didn't mind a jot as I knew of a 3* CAMRA beer scoring post-emptive much closer to Stogumber Turn than Stogumber itself. And only a half pint is required, meaning we can continue to claw back the deficit.
A fascinating building both in and out, but mainly in, Carew Arms, Crowcombe cannot live up to the 3* billing today with a warm sloppy ESB style ale from Black Bear, ironically based in Wiveliscombe. Warm Beer Wanderers levelling it up at 2-2. That's a Desmond! The carpet is a luxurious 8, rising to a 9 on a winter's evening with a games room so multi-faceted, it has me trying to invent a new sport where you can pot a pool ball down a skittle alley whilst simultaneously throwing a dart. I often see skittle alley's when Martyn is present so this was a nice bit of pub serendipity. The general atmosphere was a strange concoction of posh aloofness with an undercurrent of jollity, I couldn't quite grasp it, but if the pub makes the 2027 GBG, all will be forgiven.
Our final tick, as we gradually wend our way back Taunton-wards, takes us this thatched idyll .....
Not unlike Kilve, there's a summer's Sunday / Fathers Day / destination pub convergence on the Farmers Arms, Combe Florey (3509 / 6299) although I found this a lot more palatable. Helped enormously by the fact the lunchtime crush was now over (what's the opposite of convergence?) as we enter that sleepy 'one more drink before we hit the road' atmosphere you only witness on a Sunday afternoon. Plenty of cool indoor seating at this 14th century pizza offering wazz basket, I'm surprised to see a 'Champions Club' sticker on the Tim Taylor Landlord this far south, but no surprise when I taste it. Thriker! 3-2 and Good Beer F.C. had regained their lead late on with a piledriver, wot drama here! The urinals are full of Keir Starmer stickers inviting you to wee on him which was a bit weird - they'll be Burnham ones soon, give it six months, and I've written 'idiot Mummy can't grasp public loos' but I can't remember what that meant because I'm over a month behind on my blogs.
We re-enter the Taunton atmosphere approx 4pm ,Martyn seems satisfied with the deficit clawing back and hopefully he doesn't get in trouble with his family, that may or may not treat him like a rug, for being late, cos he isn't.
He drops me at a pub that's rating 2* on the CAMRA beer scores and was in a GBG not that long ago ......
Snoozy backstreet shenanigans at the Star Inn, Taunton to end on. Pub's a blend of Wild West and blanded out gastro. Welcoming but doesn't really push the BRAPA buttons. The Exmoor White Tail would be lovely but bloody 'ell it is warm & sloppy meaning our beery football match ends 3-3. A scrambled injury time equaliser for Warm Beer Wanderers after a melee from a corner. Our host, the vibrant but fake Aaron Connelly laughs at a lost gypsy woman, and I sit in a boring room where nothing happens. GBG '27? You're havin' a laugh.
I'd forgotten the supermarkets close 4pm on a Sunday, stymied by Tesco AND Aldi, but I have just enough in my fridge to make myself a decent elaborate platter, whilst Spain bore me my being too good v the Saudis, but later on it is nice to see Iran get a draw with Belgium who have this horrible kit that looks like a Global Hypercolour shirt from 1993.
Thanks again to Martyn the FamilyRug for making some time available to take me around some tricky stuff in trying circumstances for him, I'll be staying in either Bristol or Bath in October so would be nice to meet up again but he drives trains so unless he can charter a special BRAPA one for me, it isn't bound to be easy.
And the bonus upshot about the whole thing is that I'll be really well rested up to go again in part two of Weston super Mare on the Monday morning.
Keep it pub, and I'll be back on Friday with the Month End Review.
Si
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