Saturday 14th March 2026
West Brom away. I had no intention of going to the game so a Warwickshire NFFD (non-football football day) was on the cards.
Nothing against West Brom, probably my favourite West Midlands set of fans, but it is an impossible area for pub ticking when you're a (fairly) experienced WM ticker. Weird you might think, with its proximity to both Brum and the Black Country, but it somehow never works. Plus they always gub us no matter our respective league positions.
Daddy BRAPA had decided to attend the game, but I still dragged him to sunny leafy Henley-in-Arden, which could be in Shropshire with its timbered framed buildings, scented air, worker bees and good pubs. Second biggest winter coat + 'functional' gilet meant I was overheating by the time we arrived.
Pub of the day hits early in 16th century single-roomed splendour at the Three Tuns, Henley-in-Arden (3326 / 6166) where a cordial landlady exudes positivity early doors with her ".... you've brought the nice weather with yow", seems vaguely offended when I try to decline a taster of the Goat's Milk (a beer, not a milk) on the basis that I've had it before and we're against the clock, before cottoning on to the fact we're father and son. "Oh a pint with your Dad, how lovely ..... I wish I could have a pint with mine. He has Alzheimer's. The cruellest disease. Wish he'd have died to be quite honest". Anyway, happy Saturday lads! A wet led boozer, the king of cob spotting Daddy BRAPA plays a blinder by swooping back up to the bar for a couple o' hidden cheese & onions. Hard to know where your next meal is coming from when you are Hawthorns bound, and there's an apt playlist featuring hits like "We Didn't Start the (pub) Fire (in Alcester)" and "You saw York's Crescent Club, I Saw the Whole of the Doom". No time to loiter, but if pub ticking ever did allow for loitering, you'd rarely find a better loiteree than here. Surely one of the 2,000 pubs in RetiredMartin's 'Top 100 Pubs' feature, but you'd have to ask him.
Henley has snuck another pub into the Good Beer Guide this year to join the Three Tuns mainstay, making my failure to tick it sooner seem like a genius 'tactical leave'.
It is right on the station, which is good because Dad is keen to hop aboard the Hawthorns train (thankfully direct), and I only have 27 mins if I'm to make my next hourly connection t'other way. So we say goodbye 'til' Brum, and I venture inside alone.
There must something in the air in H-in-A, because again we are greeted by a sparky in yer face landlady of top friendliness at Station, Henley-in-Arden (3327 / 6167). Keen to know what I'm up to, and gets bonus points for calling me 'young' twice, once when I shock her by opting for the North Cotswold Mild. "Thought you'd have gone for a less old man drink than that!" so I assure her that Mild will be the 'Euphoria binge watch / watermelon vape / Raye Where is my Husband?' / We've all got the ick' of the 2030's. Not sure she's convinced but she nods. She tells me our Three Tuns landlady's family were in this pub last night due to the lack of room in their own joint. Then, she instigates the low-down locals in a sing-a-long to a 70's disco classic I've never heard in my life, which shocks them all but reinforces my youth I guess. Her outgoing quirkiness is subject of mirth by all so when she asks if Ivor Panda wants a photo with her, I try to join in by saying no, he's a bit scared .... I probably need to stop accidentally offending H-in-A barstaff. Anyway, as the GBG A.I. bot would probably say ".... a welcome addition to the Henley real ale scene" and I have a train to catch.
With Dad safely tucked up in La Hawthorns with a fizzy cider whilst ejecting idiots from his seat, I am changing trains at a very peaceful place full of twittery songbirds called Wilmcote but I kept calling it Wilnecote which might be a real place, or a BRAPA invention.
I skip over a couple of potential tricker ticks because my limited time today would be better served pushing for three on a bus route close to Leamington Spa.
A quick wee in the Brooke Satchwell Wetherspoons opposite, and I remember that when I ticked this at Christmas time, it was the same day we beat WBA 1-0 at home. An omen perhaps?
Well, this bus just ain't turning up! When we reach the 20 minute mark, I book an Uber, but when the driver says he's three minutes away, the bus suddenly appears on the horizon. So I have to quickly cancel the taxi, whilst simultaneously hopping aboard the bus ... a feat made harder when the driver only opens half of the door, with walkway blocked by the Mummy of a giant two baby buggy, and he grunts at me when I pay. Why are so many non-Exeter based bus drivers pricks?
Then we go around the 'ouses (well, countryside) due to road closures. In the village I require, the bus driver opens the whole of the door to let me off this time, I thank him, he grunts again. Hate the man.
A gang of Coventry lads are drying their tears in the warm afternoon sun overlooking the duck pond, sinking lagers. "I can't believe it, we don't lose!" says one, about their lunchtime home defeat by So'ton, a result that's done Hull City no favours either, so no sympathy from me. Especially as I'm battling a disabled elderly lady to the bar who's told her daughter she won't be on anything stronger than a decaf coffee. The beers aren't really tickling my cherry at the Buck & Bell, Long Itchington (3328 / 6168) but this was a timely remember that a well kept Proper Job is a thing of beauty. As is the pub.. Shapely. A 36-24-36 of a pub. Vaulted ceiling, tiled floor, the fire isn't necessary heat-wise, but it adds a lot to the ambience. The Wifi password refers to a dog called Barney, but I never see the mutt. I've just finished a joke about Ivor Panda eating the beermat because it is made of bamboo, when I hear his namesake's error means we are 1-0 down. Oh look, that bloke that goes by the name of Charlie Hughes (Charlie Hughes) has been sent off too. Ugh, let's get to our other Itchy tick and ignore Hull City.
No outdoor photo for the Harvester, Long Itchington (3329 / 6169) because it was so inconsequential, I've given you two indoor ones below instead. A 6pm opener in the week, so a good tick to get done. I'm suspecting a family run independent affair, the front door was like something you'd find on a modern Barrett home, and a gaggle of older females are instructing family dog and family daughter to 'get away from the window' - both had barked at me in unison on arrival. When you hear the pub phrase "....it is like entering someone's front room" it evokes a sort of old fashioned properness, but this experience was more akin to what doing that would actually entail! And it gets worse before better. The ale from the Somerset Levels is 'challenging' verging on vinegar. A giant Lurch comes in, bangs his bonce on the beams despite it not even being a low ceiling, and his sulky babe-in-arms demands a packet of mini cheddars. Things improve late on when Daddy Harvester appears on the horizon. A CAMRA dude if ever I saw one. He's spied my GBG from afar, cups his hands to his mouth comedically, and shouts "Reminder, Coventry Beer festival is only two weeks away", and after a widdle, I return to find a half pint on my table. "Where's this come from?" I call. And he brings a pump clip over. Mighty Oak, Essex. Needless to say, it is heaven compared with the pint I've been drinking, and a late glimpse into why this pub is the GBG regular in the village.
Hull City were 2-0 down by now, and I'd failed to notice that the final Long Itchington-Cubbington bus departed an hour ago, despite the relatively early hour. Uber time. PROMISE I won't cancel at the last minute this time.
Ignoring the pissed dude who we're calling Leo for the sake of giving him a name, King's Head, Cubbington (3330 / 6170) was a solid pub to bring up my 74% Good Beer Guide completion, and a reminder that outside Warwickshire's larger towns (Rugby excluded because it is great), the pubs are of the quality to rival the Black Country. Leo asks if I'm Kyle's blind date. Kyle seems incredibly sober in comparison to his friend. Proper Job or HPA, so I go for the latter this time. Whilst my pint is being pulled, Leo wildly celebrates a Stoke City goal. "You ain't a Stoke fan!" complains Kyle, but Leo 'proves' it by inventing a little song & dance on the spot straight out of the Robbie Williams (yes I know he's a Vale fan) 'Star Stories episode'. Lyrics went something like "I come from Stoke, I'm a decent bloke, there's no need to joke, I'm cheering on the Potters, and down with any Otters". The dance was David Brent meets Gangnam style. After that, I 'hide' around the left where Hull City have just conceded a late third, and remain thankfully undisturbed to sup my high quality HPA. And more buses to Leamington from here too. On the way out, I wish Kyle good luck with his 'blind date' and Leo is nearly on the floor laughing. Good lord.
Buzzin' for five more Warwickshire ticks, in a year that I'm determined to 100% complete this county, it was back to reality to meet Dad in Brum.
We're both back sooner to New St. than expected, so decide to meet at the best pub in Brum just edging out the Bull (though I'll admit the Woodman needs a revisit since its reopening), the Craven Arms.
A chap called Hamish F. is taking a photo of his mate outside the pub at same time as me, so he takes one of me, then takes my WhatsApp so he can send it to me. Sadly, it has since gone missing, but it was the thought that counts!
Service is slow, finding Dad is harder, but we have a nice little 25 mins .....
It'd be the last time we'd be happy all evening! In the most DrossCountry move imaginable, the 19:03 is cancelled, and with Sheff Utd on their way back from the Blues, well you can imagine the chaos that ensued.
Dad and I actually get off one train, to get on a later slightly more breathable one, but even then I had to wait for a Derby bag lady to move and hope First Class had become de-first-classified.
Tortuous, at least I'd got five ticks in. Felt for Dad with his one tick and a 3-0 defeat. AND we had to change at L**ds. AND before that, DrossCountry gaslighted us by saying this .....
But there was no ill passenger. Just a slow crawling train that lost a few minutes at each station due to sheer volume of folk. Dire. Oh well, at least I could sleep until lunchtime on the Sunday and update my BRAPA spreadsheet over a slice of toast n cuppa about 1pm!
See you next time, with more late night transport anguish in a difficult day around coastal Kent.
Keep it pub, but also rest your liver.
Si
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