BRAPA ... GLOUCESTERSHIRE COUNTDOWN : PT 10/10 (SHOUT IT OUT STROUD - PUBS 5-1)

Here we go, final part just in time for month end. Month end review with you Friday if I survive my trip out tomorrow.

5. Pelican, Gloucester

Gloucester had been the slowest burner. I confess I was declaring it a shithole of Rochdalian proportions in my train & bus station / south town early era. But it grew, grew and grew some more into a throbbing hive. The Fountain and Drunken Duck helped it build to a climax after a Linden Tree tickle, from where I circumnavigate the awe inspiring Gloucester Cathedral standing proud and erect. My day ultimately exploding in a crescendo of Wye Valley frothy head at this spunky back street boozer. 'Tis a tranquil Sunday afternoon, the pub bulging with old boys whom are mostly silent except for the occasional rustle of a newspaper, swish of a voluminous 70's hairstyle or the occasional clearing of a throat, performed with south western accent. No bells or whistles, actually I tell a lie, the odd dong of the Cathedral bells, but certainly no whistles, just an understated pub which understood the increasingly rare value of how to simply 'be'.

4. Bell Inn, Moreton-in-Marsh

Understated in its (accidental) bid to defy those lazily trotted out 'what makes a pub great' conventions , the Bell at times operates on a different level to most - like when you see a footballing great close at hand - Messi, Ronaldo, Steve Lynex. No wonder J.R. Tolkein drank here before he was tragically shot in Dallas. The pub has a map of Middle Earth on the wall, I was staring at it for ages before I realised it wasn't Lincolnshire. What impressed me so greatly about this pub was how, and consider it is a balmy Saturday evening, they separate the foodies from the drinkers. 'Twas almost like 'never the twain shall meet', I'm not sure how deliberate it was but to be able to enjoy a 9/10 pint in solitude on a 9/10 carpet (I was sat at a table, but you know what I mean) seemed incredible in the circs. I'd been accosted by two absolute 'ladz' on arrival. They're pleased I'm on the cask, as they claim their mate the barman has WON AWARDS for his pint pulling technique. How true this was, I never found out despite my gentle probing but it was no surprise that on the way back to the station, I find the same two lads staggering down the main street slurring at me that they hope I enjoyed my drink. Special pub.

3. Drillman's Arms, Circencester

I was grateful for a dim bus driver taking the wrong road from Cheltenham to Cirencester, and to the oldies complaining because he'd denied them their day out in Colesbourne and Cockleford. Especially the lady who 'kicks off' to such an extent, he's forced to stop the bus just shy of my pub with some soothing words like "calm down dear, seen one Cotswold village, you've seen them all" allowing me the chance to run downstairs and say 'let me off here!' 11:50am but the pub door is already wide open - success, mainly cos I need a wee, I'd had a second Arctic coffee on the bus. They WILL sponsor me one day. The locals have already piled in, and first impressions are of a jealously guarded secret of a pub, BRAPA persona non grata. But first impressions can be deceptive. They're simply warming up. It only took me to ask if I could trust the quality of the Mosaic ale and take the micky out of their 300 year old carpet before they're asking me my name and where I come from chuck, like six fingered Cilla's. I'm then called 'Simon' a record 20 times in the next 25 minutes. I love the landlady, no surprise to read the pub has been in the family for over 30 years. A dog is castigated for cadging too many treats, a gothic teenage girl wanders in wearing a Lostprophets hoodie which was my first indication that Cirencester is built different from other Glos towns, but maybe she was a confused Steps fan eh? I leave to ringing endorsements of the Hop Kettle and the Marlborough, which thankfully are my other two GBG entries, but neither are a patch on this consummate lived-in pro. Shout it from the 'rooftops'.

2. Cross House Tavern, Tewkesbury

Astonishing work! Only in a town as brimmed to the gills with history as Tewkesbury could 'the towns first micropub' be the beating of most Heritage pubs. No exaggeration. Two early 16th century houses knocked together and extended in 1865, it didn't need our Scouse accented guv'nor doing his best Derek Acorah, telling the locals a ghost keeps nicking then returning his keys, for me to feel I was balls deep in a special atmosphere. I suppose the Micropub indicators were there, the beer range was 'too perfect' and the loos had limitations - though I was allowed to pass solids, unlike in Shitley Bay #NeverForget . But it was only when I glance down at my GBG and read the description that I finally realised, I'd been here 15 mins already! Key factor for me is that you can escape the main bar if you aren't feel quite so sociable, a distinct second and third room exist further back. It is delightfully dank and dark. Was quite peed off when he put a lamp on for me. Felt like Igor in Count Duckula. My 3% (4.5%?) Tewks Mild, served in chunky tankard (another micropub 'tell') tastes like a 7% damson cider, an astonishing drink. The only grating factor was all the 'local celeb fawning' that locals and a recently arrived visitor from Pershore did in the second half. You're grown men dudes, they are only human beings, get a grip! Maddy Pryor, Toyah Wilcox, Dom Jolly, Ed Byrne and Liz Hurley are all name checked (wot, no Fred n Rose?), then a 70's rock drummer who came in last week but died decades ago (thanks Google, does he nick keys?) so that sounded like a fib. It culminated in Mr Pershore telling a story which sounded like a long-winded joke but he told it so deadpan, it presents as a true story. It obviously wasn't. I'll try and recount it below these photos so you can suffer like I did at the time .....

Mr Pershore and his two boys were taking part in a charity football match which sounded like the Worcestershire version of SoccerAid. The 90's one hit wonder band Dodgy were there with their sons, and they all got put on the same team. The ball was on the far touchline, about to go out for a throw in, when Mr Pershore wrapped his wand of a left foot around it, whips in the perfect cross, straight onto the head of one of the 'Dodgy kids' who nods it in. Dodgy turn and applaud Mr Pershore's top assist, "that was a brilliant cross mate" and without missing a beat, Mr Pershore replies "if it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me" which earns further adulation from all around him.

I'd heard enough and hurriedly return my glass with a mumbled 'thanks' and leave. I'd been meaning to ask Mr Pershore if it is true their GBG entry the Millers Arms is long term closed, but I couldn't even look at him. Dreadful, and he's cost possibly the best micropub I've ever visited the #1 spot.

1. Crown & Sceptre, Stroud

Stroud love a big 'ill, and whilst this one didn't destroy me like the Prince Albert 'ill did, I had to lie down on some slopey grass, catch my breath, drink some Lucozade and wait for a distant church bell to bong 3pm - opening time. The pub is handily situated half way between the hospital and cemetery, the perfect location. And far enough from Stroud centre to see off the threat of meningitis, and feel genuinely leafy and backstreet. No time for the staff to ease themselves in, within five minutes of opening it is humming with activity - that's when you know you're in a good pub. Main bap lady doesn't even have chance to finish her bap, every bite she takes she's hassled. Non stop, one of those situations where you realise how hard pub people work. I've never been this knackered watching a publican since I visited Patrick's in Bangor and Rye's Ypres Castle. Rhiannon I think they called her, takes no prisoners and bosses a young stripling lad around who defers to her experience at every turn, but I suspect has a poster of her on his bedroom wall even if is secretly a bit terrified of cleaning a glass wrongly. My fave pub Rhiannon since the one at Weyhill Fair who gave me good Hophead before taking me upstairs to see her mural. I drink a brilliant Obscure beer called 'Solution', the carpet is pushing 8.5, the Test Match is turned down low. A pub so reassuring, it is like a hug from a blousy aunt who visits once a year from Streatham but always brings you a bag of Thornton's Viennese Truffles. The most content I felt all holiday .... hence our winner.

So there we have it, just in time for my month end review on Friday (I'm on Thirsty Thursday patrol tomorrow).

Hope you enjoyed the countdown. We'll return to some normal blogging on Sunday with a trio in my North Yorkshire homeland.

Keep on keeping it pub, Si