BRAPA in .... BERK THE PERILED ANGELS SWIG : RETURN TO EAST BERKSHIRE

Thursday 12th Feb 2026

Eating mini chicken kievs (sorry, kyivs #WokeSi2026) under a drippy awning in Winnersh station, today is the first trip to Berkshire of the 2025/26 pub ticking season. And our 5,346,782nd consecutive day of rain this winter.

I was willing Mrs Hot Pink to get a wriggle on into pub one, she has one of those annoyingly paced walks - not slow enough to overtake, but not quick enough to prevent me from getting stuck behind her backside .......

It wasn't just the rain causing my impatience. Today's first and second pubs both shut mid-afternoon and my late arrival in London due to the January rail sale only covering later morning trains meant the pressure was on early. Royal Oak, Ruscombe (3259 / 6100) was palatable mostly on account of its 1993 era 8/10 all-encompassing carpet, which screamed Haddaway 'What is Love'. Without it, we could've descended into posh dining boredom. They'd painted most of the old beams white which annoyed me. The punters were exclusively a miserable elderly lunching lot. The guv'nor with surprise European accent despite not being called Stefano or having a ponytail managed to keep it real, doing food, drinks and washing the pots. And still having time for a chinwag with the two well-fed chaps next to me. The good quality ale is 'Roasted Nuts' by Rebellion - the one nutty beer I'm confident won't give me an allergic reaction as I was once assured no nuts were harmed in the making of it. A pub that has been boing boinging in and out of the GBG since my 2016 Berks debut, I knew I'd not be able to avoid it forever. And now, I never have to think about it again.

The next bus would've had me approaching pub two at 2:40pm, with closing time at 3pm that seemed far too tight, so it didn't take long for my first Ubes of the week. Mark Andrew (not his real surname or I'd have been forced to ask if he had links to Barton-on-Humber) was a jolly character but tried to drop me at the Green Man by mistake on account of his friendship with the landlord. Thankfully I realised. "Corrr, don't mark me dahhn for that will ya!" he bellows and I promise him I'll certainly be fair and balanced in my feedback.

At the correct pub, Castle Inn, Hurst (3260 / 6101) impresses me beyond expectations with a multi roomed layout and creaky inner feel. The main bar room is packed with folk enjoying a final post-lunch pint before pushing off home to do flower arranging, a much happier livelier crowd than in Ruscombe although a few of the glances in my direction were a bit nervous. Our un-European man behind the bar commends my beer choice (Rebellion Smugglers), the Pecan Maple stout a nutty experiment too far! There's no obvious free seats in the main bar, and although the landlord encourages me to 'pull a stool up next to a table', the earlier nervy glances and unwillingness of anyone to react to my helpless 'where shall I sit?' looks mean I retire to the empty chilly side room by the door I'd come in from. It limited my enjoyment of the pub, but them's the breaks. The toilets were strange too. 'Powder room'. One downstairs, which felt very 'ladies', one upstairs which felt more 'gents', the neither are marked as such. I think the unwritten rule amongst the locals is the blokes go upstairs, but I couldn't be sure, so had a widdle in both!

Time for the bus to Winnersh where I wait for a train to Martin's Heron - hence the photo at the beginning, I wasn't having kyivs for breakfast, I'm not a monster!

Martin's Heron sounds like the name of a pub ticker's oversized mascot, but in fact it is 'outer Bracknell', the town I got my first ever Berks tick in (the Old Manor Wetherspoons, still in the Guide now .... unless you count pre-BRAPA Reading trips to the Hobgoblin and Nag's Head). The other four* ticks I did that day have all since been dropped many moons ago.

It had been a meandering route through housing estates, so I shouldn't be too surprised to find a giant flat-roofed estate pub looming out of the afternoon gloom. Yes, it was still raining. Newtown Pippin, Bracknell (3261 / 6102) is a disarmingly enjoyable gaff, #PubMen of a certain ilk all turn at my arrival, like a bunch of spinning tops, but unlike Hurst, the greetings are warm and genuine. Again my beer choice is praised. Woodforde's Albion Cream Stout. "It's been receiving roive reviews dis wan!" I'm told, a reminder just how far saaarf I've travelled. Billy Joel's 'River of Dreams' seemed a particularly apt song choice, as amongst the bald heads and winter Olympic flags, there was an ethereal nature about this place, somehow, but don't ask me how. A happy underdog. A former Bracknell resident Tomasz summed it up best when he told me 'it's like something out of another age .... but I can't tell if it is future or past!'

A train to Wokingham is next on my agenda, a town I never quite connect to with the exception of a woozy warm Sunday afternoon visit to a wonderful Fullers pub called the Ship Inn. The other four ticks I've done were all weird for whatever reason or just plain rubbish:

Crispin - juicy carpet, late night, felt grimy but felt like it had potential to be great

Oakingham Belle - just pure shite, want my Crispin back

White Horse - Wild West weirdness, howwwwlllll, yap yap yap.

Queen's Head - terrifying paint stained overalls man ruins an otherwise promising pub

I think their Costa coffee would be my second favourite Wokingham experience, so with today's pub not due to open til 16:30, I decide to give Starbucks a go. Well, talk about how to make yourself look like a total coffee novice. The two main women thought I was quite simple, even warning my that an Espresso double might be a 'a bit much for me!' which was borne out of my pathetic hesitancy / line of questioning. Like I say, aside from the pubs, I never feel like I 'connect' with Wokingham folk.

And my experience of the town didn't get any brighter once I was inside Outhouse Brewery, Wokingham (3262 / 6103). A grim chilly shop of a place with zero comfort and a total dearth of decent seating options considering I'm first (and only) customer in, which I remain for the duration of this dour 25 minutes. The beers are confusing. I see no cask but then I notice a key keg sign and realise that's how it has got in the GBG. I try a bit of chat with the 1850's hairstyled barmaid, but it is awkward and stilted - of course it is, it is BRAPA in Wokingham. Never mind, the seating arrangement means your back is turned to 'pub', facing out into the boring street outside. Hardly conducive to creating atmosphere. The one saving grace is the Safari Juice, which looked like spiky intimidating murk but had a surprise smoothness. Even so, not something I'd have put in the GBG and we can only regret that Daddy BRAPA didn't beat them to the punch by opening his own 'Outhouse' brewery which was vaguely mooted for five second back in 2013. Of course, if he'd got it into the GBG, I'd ensure he makes the hours so obscure that none of the other pub tickers would ever be able to tick it off!

At this point, I considered Staines and Egham which was dangerous Surrey talk so late in the day. However, I didn't have time for both, so settled on Maidenhead where I just had one to do.

Problem is, it involved a (delayed) change of train at Reading and I'd totally underestimated the walk from station to pub which in real time felt like it took about an hour even going at a crazy pace .....

Finally at the North Star, Maidenhead (3263 / 6104), I calculate I will need an Uber to make the connection for my King's Cross-York train. Time slips so badly when you're a pub ticker. Back in Hurst 2:45pm, I'd convinced myself that I had all the time in the world! But it is a cracking little backstreet boozer to end on, two roomed I think and I'm delighted I choose the right door because it is just myself, a kind bald customer and his dog, Eric, who behaves impeccably throughout and thankfully stays still when I need to step over him. Sounds very rowdy around the other side, and sure enough a barmaid more frazzled than an 80's bacon crisp appears, hair stuck up in all directions like she's stuck her finger in a plug socket, informing us a football team have just come in (possibly Chelsea about to set of to Hull?). "They're drinking quickka than I can bladdy pour them!" she groans in southern. I inform her I'm a quick, easy one-pinter, and get on my third Rebellion of the day, something to do with a Witch. The carpet is a mental anguish inducing 7.5, and Eric's owner thinks BRAPA sounds ridiculous but fun. The Uber is wayyyy too quick, so I have to take large bitter gulps, but better that than sweating over London connections.

Eric

Daddy Eric, fraught barmaid, blurry Rebellion

...although it is hard to think of North Star without remembering this weirdly poor 2018 breakfast box

So there we go. Seven* left in Berks. An elusive brewery tap with shit hours, and six out west, five of which look tricky, are you reading Tim Thomas?

It had been a stressy beginning and ending, a calm middle bit, and back in the Parcel Yard I am upset to learn that not only is the ESB off but the Pride too. Tsk. Sort it out!

But dry your eyes, the barman is sympathetic, the Sambrook's chocolate stout is good (especially for Sambo's who nearly always hit me with prime slop), and as we edge closer to Valentine's day, a bloke gets prepped with an elaborate bunch of roses. The Eurostar staff selfishly book out my favourite room, but in the corridor, I find Parcel Yard beermats for the first time, so ..... yoink!

And that leads us nicely into Saturday's trip to North Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire. Which county is the most romantic? Find out next time.

Keep it pub, Si

*11th hour revelation when looking at my 2016 GBG to see how close I was to doing Hurst and Ruscombe back in the day ..... the Duke of Edinburgh at Winkfield was listed under Ascot and I did it 20.2.16, my debut Berks BRAPA day. So I can add an extra one to my tally, hurrah!

2016 Good Beer Guide Berkshire - from my yellow era