A liver shattering 67 pubs were visited on my recent epic Gloucs holiday, also taking in odd bits of Worcestershire, Wiltshire, Gwent, Warwickshire, Oxfordshire & Herefordshire.
I've ranked them in order of enjoyment, based on a combination of beer quality, staff, my fellow customers and the general 'pubbub'.
Although it was an above average set of pub experiences across the week (all the more impressive considering the heat) there was some dross, and these are the ones we'll look at first .....
Optimism abounds on the approach. Thatched roof, neighbouring village church, sun happily beating down, birds twittering in the hedgerows. But this pub contrives to finish bottom of my league table by failing on every aspect of what makes a good pub. Two miserable couples are munching in the main bar, but no staff are to be seen. I must be stood there a good five minutes. No bell to ring. Gives me plenty of time to select one of the three Donnington beers. My debut Donnington pub this, beers which I've had described to me as 'challenging', 'a struggle' and 'ultra traditional (pained face emoji)'. I go SBA, sounds a bit like ESB, that was my logic. Tastes of warm snot. Being gastro hell indoors, I go in search of a beer garden, but it is mostly concrete, you could bury Trevor Jordache under here. A scowling Dom Jolly sits his child's grubby arse on a table. I find a secluded / rustic hidden table around the corner, I'm not sure anyone has sat here or cleaned it for 100 years and soon my hair is full of creepy crawlies! At least 'plant-potting' the final quarter of my pint is easy. And to put the icing on this shitty cake, though not the pub's fault, the bus goes AWOL meaning an expensive Uber to Evesham which I get sunburnt waiting for! Not a holiday highlight even if it might look 'lovely'.
What the doctor has 4 me is a rather warm, flat and vaguely vinegar Rev James Gold, and it came as no surprise because this was a lager drinkers pub through and through. So much so, that when the nervy twitchy bloke at the bar hears me ordering a 'real ale', his eyes light up and he tries to flog his case of Shipyard Session Pale. I sort of respect the 'rough as a badger's arse' local that this pub was. The 2025 Good Beer Guide loves a wildcard entrant, and this was this holiday's most 'how the hell did it get in the Guide?' boozer. I hid in the side room, as I was worried nervy twitchy dude wouldn't leave me alone, but at least the pub had a traditional grannies parlour aspect. I close my eyes, gulp the last of my drossy beer, put on a fake smile, return my glass with a strangled 'thank you', and leave, happy to never return in my lifetime. I'll be fuming if I get reincarnated as a pub ticker.
Why are pubs called Dog House so consistently shite? That's at least my fourth in the last year. I've been to a disgraceful number of Micropubs since the inception of BRAPA in 2014, but this was a first .... totally empty on arrival. Not just a total lack of customers, but staff are nowhere to be seen either. Hard to hide in such small spaces, so I respect the the achievement. The one 'beer' pub of an otherwise great day around the Forest of Dean with mi new mate Martyn The Family Rug (not a mascot), and it was the worst at 'beer'. The Hop Kettle Element was the only pump I could see, it was horrid furry warm muck. I might've returned it but what else is on? A Vault City raspberry sour and shitloads of scary ciders ... on a day I was determined to stick to low percentages so I could squeeze in seven ticks! Using the women's loo twice 'by accident' was the highlight, oh and suggesting they plant a tree outside to give their suntrap beer garden a bit of shade! But an empty micro on a warm June Sunday afternoon suggests the good folk of Coleford are about as impressed by this place as I was.
I'll twist the knife into Hop Kettle whilst we're on the subject, sad really because they promise much, have pubs bloody everywhere in this Swindonny part of the world, and most of my X & BlueSky followers tell me how good their ales are. I must be bloody unlucky cos I always dislike them. Even here on their own premises, I choose the green pump clip cos I like the colour green, but it (Tumble) is below par. They've recently tweaked their opening hours and are now open from noon instead of 3pm on Wednesday's. "I could've got here sooner if I'd known!" I complain to the barmaid. "Awwww" she replies, though the response I was looking for was "sorry for not updating our hours online, we'll get on it right away". It is a dire interior, more atmosphere on the moon. Uncomfy. Seating a mess. My giant table goes around the corner at right angles, perhaps designed to create a sociable vibe between strangers but no way that was happening today. Cirencester folk don't really do 'friendly' outside of the excellent Drillman's which doesn't count as it is too far north. I can't even smuggle my scotch egg cos a sinister bloke who looks like he's halfway through a half marathon or park run is sat right behind me. Grrrr.
The previous evening, Olivia Rodrigo had wowed the Glastonbury crowds whilst declaring her love of British pub culture, commenting on the joy of "a guilt free 12 noon pint". #PubWoman I hope this extends to 11am on a Monday, for that is when I arrived, my first of 13 ticks with Paul G. the Kentest Man of Kent in history staying at his sister's posh pile in the Cotswolds. This pub hadn't been on our agenda, but as we're passing, and it opens early on a Monday, it would be rude not to. The highlight is the carved Charles II up a tree, which has an owl too. "Are you open?" Paul asks the main man outside. "Only just!" he harrumphs, I think he meant to say "OF COURSE GENTS, WELCOME TO OUR PUB, NICE TO HAVE YOU HERE xx". The barmaid is as charming as him. The HPA tastes of farts, shame because I love a good HPA. Winner of blandest interior of the holiday, it is all light wood, plus a bolt on conservatory because of the 'lovely views'. Steam railway nearby. Pub can't take the credit. Later on, we're given a candle for our table, but even that is presented to us with an air of menace. We get it. Drinkers are a waste of your time. We're leaving.
Ebrington Arms, Ebrington
Oi, Paul mate, it's behind you! The most uneventful of our litany of Cotswold dining 'pubs'. I'm partly to blame because my poor Woodforde Wherry decision cost me here - again, I was looking for the lowest percentage ale, but you could almost guarantee Cheltenham Gold or North Cotswold Shagweaver would've been fresher. Still, all beers on should be well kept. The two staff members were meeting for the first time, the interior offered frustrating glimpses of a pubbier past with handsome curved settles, but it was a restaurant in truth. Monkfish scampi, rarebit crumpet, crispy pork belly - all sounds lovely, though I wouldn't be ordering 'Mark's whipped salted butter'. Not asking how he makes that. Paul stops me falling asleep & drowning in my murky Wherry with a brief history lesson on the Iceni tribe. He's probably related to Boudica knowing him. Then a 7 foot tall American bangs his bonce on a low beam, satisfying because he seemed a bit of a smarmy guy - rare for Americans who are normally so humble - probably.
Nowhere suffered more from the 30+ degree temperatures than this basic craft bar. Stinky, sticky Strand, it was an alliterative experience. I breathe in against the B.O. and make my way to the bar, where a daunting board listing approx. 1 gajillion beers (mostly keg) greets me. The dude serving is really nice, nicest staff member we've met in part one. Although I'm cogitating over a keg order myself in the current climate, he assures me Bristol's 'Joy of the Sesh' has been receiving rave reviews all day. It doesn't live up to the hype, wilting in the heat, and has me wishing I'd taken up his offer on "a taster of anything you want" (a pint's worth of keg tasters, does that count in BRAPA rules?) I consider sitting outside with the continental tourist yoof masses, but (a) it is even warmer out there and (b) my elbows are stuck to my table so I couldn't move anyway. I finally prise them off leaving some skin behind, and head to two nearby ticks which should both make my top 20.
I will leave it there for tonight, but I'm aiming to be back for part two on Wednesday with 7 or 8 more and looking at what we've got coming up, it looks like they are 'minor irritants' rather than outright stinkers.
See you then. Keep it pub - but perhaps not these pubs.
Si
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