Saturday 20th July 2024, 11:45am
A final Daddy BRAPA chauffeuring day of the season gave me a great opportunity to really grab my remaining East Midlands pubs by the short and curlies, although we had to scrap one before we'd even started - the Head of Steam at Lilbourne not opening until 4pm on a Saturday, how cruel is that?
But it was Northants where we begin and I must say that since my holiday to the county town last November, I've had a soft spot for the place. An great underdog. The child with learning difficulties finishing last place in the school sports day egg and spoon race of UK counties. Northants, you've got a friend in me!
We park up in the gravelly car park on this muggy, midgey July morning and admire the boats on the Grand Union Canal just behind us. This is one of those pubs where the back is the front if you catch my drift, something I've noticed increasingly post-lockdown in that Northants, Lincs, Rutland, Leics cluster.
We use all our experience to put our bodies between the goal (entrance) and last defender (other customers) and saunter in as first customer's of the day at the Wharf Inn. Welford (2916 / 5076) . Much to the surprise of canal urchin family with their hairy shoulders sticking out of dirty vests, brandishing hand-me-down toothbrushes, obviously desperate for a gargle and use of the pub facilities. The ladies behind the bar look focused, primed, braced, ready for the onslaught of summertime drinkers. Expressions are hard to read but I sense a touch of "Cannot wait until we ring the last orders bell". The pub is a happy sort of basic, but I'm not loving the shape, feels like it could get busy quickly and suffocating. The large garden made sense despite the threat of a thunderstorm. Nice 'condiment station' and the guest Oakham is drinking great. Easily today's pub of the day, which is no surprise as it featured in RetiredMartin's best seller 'Fantastic Northants Pubs and Where to Find Them'. But it is also an indictment of what a mediocre day we were in store for. I take our glasses back to the bar and as predicted, already a throbbing atmosphere.
Time to leave Welford, we drive through Husband's Bosworth which always makes me titter, and onwards through lower-mid Leics until we hit Wigston, where Sister BRAPA's boyfriend lived as a baby.
It felt like a suburb of Leicester, and after a cruel Pay & Display machine declines us, we park on some abandoned wasteland which felt very reminiscent of my trip to the Thomas Burke Wetherspoons in Leigh.
Reassured as we spy two lads incl. Genghis Khan (according to Daddy B.) stood outside the pub looking like 'men who know'.
But my smile is soon turned upside down when the lads are expressing confusion that the pub isn't open as expected! SHUT PUB ALERT Tap & Barrel, Wigston.
Dad disappears, later revealing he tried to 'Spiderman' it by scaling a wall around the back to find an alternative entrance or something. Good effort but was never gonna come off.
One of the lads finally notices a sign within the pub, through the window. 2pm Saturday! Look!
So I criticise this lack of up to date hours and they start defending it, proper pub Stockholm Syndrome - "oh you can't blame the pub if Google is saying noon". ERRR WHAT?? Yes I can! And not only that, their own Facebook says 12 noon Saturday. Plus Whatpub. Lads look like stunned mullets when I point this out and say they'll be back at 2pm. My initial thought is to return on opening time too as our next pub is just nine miles away. Only 1pm, no point hanging about in Wiggers.
But this nine miles is one of those nine miles which feels like 34 miles. Like driving from Starbotton to Masham via Middlesmoor in the snow, but muggy, too many roundabouts, traffic lights, speed bumps, and worst of all, grey Leicester cityscape. No, we soon decide Wigston escapes BRAPA clutches for now.
So instead we'll end this short first half of the blog (I want to watch Death in Paradise, eat some beef & aubergine pasta and drink a tot of red wine at 9:05pm) in the slightly more northerly Leics village of Barkby .....
Another 'closed from the front, all action to the back' entrance at the Malt Shovel, Barkby (2917 / 5077) and I had high pubby hopes for this GBG mainstay of Thwaitesies signage. The truth was an experience horribly reminiscent of our nightmare Stamford Arms, Groby visit back in September. Here, only the time of day, fewer shit kids and a less cheesy sick smell stops it being as bad. This was a namby pamby dining horror show. I'm nearly taken out on entrance by a woodland creature brandishing a clipboard food menu at a jaunty angle. 'You just want a DRINK? How irregular!' is the unsaid reaction. Staff are nice actually, the one highpoint. Dad and I are 90% sure there's no ale on, but barman says they've actually 'lost' the pump clips (I didn't believe this claim) and replaced them with tiny blackboards with tasting notes! No Thwaitesies, but two St Austell's! The Tribute is fruity but very clammy - let us just say it drank better in the Seven Red Roses at Lower Earley (that's one for the hardcore tickers). With every other customer outside and the decor offending my eyeballs, it was time to push on.
Join me in part 2 as we continue our progress north through Notts, which probably won't be until next week now cos I've got a busy exciting weekend coming up (which I'm sure you'll hear about on TwXtter).
Lots o love, Si
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