We've reached the halfway point in this 67 pub review of Glos and surrounding counties.
If you've read every word so far, keep going and a free pint of Wye Valley HPA is yours next time I see you.
Today's seven I'd all class as 'decent'.
Mousetrap, Bourton-on-the-Water
With the thermometer rocketing up to a BRAPA shattering 33 degrees, I land in my seventh and final Cotswold tick of the day feeling the pace. The Mousetrap has done well to finish as high as 38th considering TWO Hook Norton beers both went off before she could pull 'em. I pass Paul (Kentish BRAPA chauffeur and relative of Matty Godden, King Harold and possible inspiration for the Darling Buds of May boy) my Credit Card and nip off to the loo, I can't hold it in any longer! When I return he's got me a Shagweaver, that carpetty tough drinker from North Cotswold. Shame, I was tempted by a Jezza Clarkson Hawkstone product. But he wasn't to know. The staff elevate this pub above the Cotswold avg, Paul has a nice chat with the landlady about his previous experiences here, and you could tell the barmaid was genuinely pissed off with the Hook Norton double failure. We somehow end up outside, something we avoided for the most part in this heatwave, and I can feel my neck burning and have to rotate like a rotisserie chicken in a Marston's dining pub on the main road into Bridlington.
Marlborough Arms, Cirencester
Some pubs really suffer from their emptiness, and it is that combined with Cirencester being the weirdest most aloof town of the holiday that put paid to its chances of a top half BRAPA finish - missing the cut in a 'Kilmarnock Won't Be Playing in Europe Next Season Kinda Way' (look, that sentence made sense when I started it, okay?) The barman couldn't raise a smile, so zero chance of striking up conversation, which is depressing when you're the only customer. 'Wicked Games' by Chris Isaak plays on a manic loop to accentuate the post apocalyptic Western tumbleweed. The pint of Goff's Jouster is great, and if I squint hard enough, I can garner a semblance of the 'good pub' that folk on X/Bluesky promised me it was 'deep down'. Finally, a customer! Oh hang on, he strides straight through to the loo for a poo. Not challenged, didn't ask permission. At least he stays for half a stout. 'Twas a depressing half hour, and don't defend it too much because as I found in Seahouses Olde Ship recently, the true greats are equally good when empty. And down in Central London, they're often better for it.
A micropub gone rogue and 'piratey', Turk's Head has a nicely manicured interior, like someone's given a shit on inception, but it is hilariously angsty. Three "cash only" signs before I'd even reached the bar, then I'm told again ... so I couldn't resist but replying "Are you sure? No cash? Really?" The charmless elderly barmaid who clocked off shortly after didn't get 'it', and snaps at me, waaaaah! No phones either, it was like Humphrey Smith had grown a ginger beard and got sleeve tattoos. In happier news, twats, Morris dancers, office wallahs, people who hate Johnny Cash and Facebook are also banned! I have to go back to Durham's Angel Inn circa 1999 for a pub with such a long list! The bar blockers are great value, the human equivalent of a pint of 6.9% rough farmhouse cider, and one jokingly (I think) tries to recommend me the shittest beer that no one is drinking. "Don't, I've BEEN to Newent!" I reply. He keeps popping over with a running commentary of ailments after that which I appreciate. The skinny topless man outside wanders in and announces he's hoping for cooler weather starting tomorrow - good luck with that mate, I'd keep your top off for now (topless people are one of the few things not banned here. A memorable micropub, give it some skin.
Lack of Scarf Wearing Tibetan Mastiff Dog Sighting, Massive Letdown (as Half Man Half Biscuit nearly sang). The GBG shouldn't promise us these things. But to compensate, the genial barman has puppy dog energy. His Dad (or someone's Dad) has just been released from a Category A prison near Honeybourne so he's feeling chipper. And for every barrel of the beer I'm drinking, Otter brewery plant a tree. So pint drinking helps the environment. I was here with my Gwent/Glos borders mate, Martyn the Family Rug. Carpetted green throughout (the pub, not Martyn), with a low oaky beamed ceiling and saucy postcards in the gents helping this to remain a pub, no matter how much 'fine cuisine' was occurring. Forest of Dean > The Cotswolds. Certainly in pub terms. A rare tick on the tricky page 153 of the GBG, the hardest GBG page in all of England?
Considering Stroud was the only place comparable to Cirencester for overall weirdness, the prospect of a micropub filled me with fear. Enough to make sure I was suitably tiddly when I arrived (opens 5pm so that worked well). But this wasn't your common or garden micro, more a scaffold clad humongous mansion. A breezy artsy feel, but a fine building. You might know that alongside pubs and Hull City, my main passion is 'Neighbours' and my fave film genre is Westerns. I get excited when I see that the two prominent 'lifeless pieces of local art' are Bouncer the dog and a still from 'The Good, The Bad & The Ugly'. I coo drunkenly and the poor terrified barmaid is lovely enough to humour me. I go for a closer look and a group of dudes say "if you're looking for the loos, you are in the wrong place" so it was nice for once in my life to say toilets aren't the top priority of my pub wanderings. The loos are actually up a Wetherspoons-esque steep staircase, and the pub is mad due to hand soap issues (see below). All in all good place, though my Bristol Beer Factory was flowery nonsense.
Eight Bells, Chipping Campden
Like Margot Robbie holding a pillow over your face, there's a suffocating beauty about the Cotswolds. If you've been to seven villages in a day, you'll know what I mean. It is the uniform Cotswold stone. Rutland tries something similar on a more breathable scale. Chipping Campden is the granddaddy of all. Stunning. But too much. As Paul and I park up and wander around the corner (good luck getting a bus out here), I can feel a trickle of water down my leg. 'Uh oh'. It had been a long pub holiday, but had incontinence really struck? Of course not! My water bottle had sprung a leak. We reach the bar and I plonk everything on it and explain to the barman what's happened. He's an Aussie, a good Aussie. "Ohhh mate, absolute noooiighhhtmare!" he empathises. He then makes further encouraging vowel movements. Colin and the GBG will dry, my highlighter pen and notepad are moved to a different compartment, all good. Pretty gastro, but it is pleasantly cool within, thickest inner stone walls of the holiday. The beer is top notch, Cotswold Best by North Cotswold, one of my faves down here. Frustrating that the loo door handle is actually on the wall, and it fooled me twice, but a minor gripe.
White Hart, Ashton Keynes
Milton's prettier sister Ashton is located close to the start of the River Thames - it is a shallow stream here which you could have a little paddle in. I was buzzing when Paul suggested driving me to Wiltshire's first pub due to it's Glos proximity - one bus a day, surrounded by all sorts of water inlets, it is a tough tick. But a darn good pub .... would be easy to stray into namby-pamby territory but it holds on. In fact, it has a guest ESB on. Howling Hops. I just HAD to, even if it was first pub of a long day. There's unnecessary amounts of Swindon Town in places. Paul, veteran of the Thames Path walk, identifies two likely women about to get stuck into it and gives them a motivational pep talk.
So there we go lads & lasses.
Part six might take me a while cos I've got a lot on, but should be with you early next week. I'm looking at our next seven pubs and can report they are all actually quite good - what a shame!
Keep keeping it pub, Si
I hope you pissed in the hand soap container. Water is unhygienic you know (WHAT !).
Stroud is weird. and you can tell them I said that.