Apologies for the unsociable release time on tonight's blog, my body clock is all out of kilter after my Norfolk/Suffolk adventure, I've slept most of the afternoon, been on the hash (corned beef variety) and several cups of strong tea, and only now at 21:30 am I ready to start writing.
Where were we? Oh yes, Margate. Or Cliftonville to be exact, and Micropub Morris Dancers over at Banks Ale House were a sign that today was going to be one of those baffling BRAPA classics that defy all logic.
Back in Margate proper, today's 4th pub could be found in prime seafront location:
When Kent gets micropubs right, like here at the Two Halves, Margate (2504 / 4398) , there is no better part of the UK to witness the format. Makes sense I suppose, they did originate down here thanks to that nice Mr Hillier. I breathe in sharply, and fight my way through the tourist posers, and settle by the bar where a kind lady asks whether I'd like a polycarbonate 'glass' to take out, or a proper one and stay in. Well, a prime raised seat by the bar comes free just at this moment so I tell her I best take advantage of it, which seems to win me brownie points with the small gaggle of locals in close proximity, who start looking at me with the sort of kind eyes normally only reserved for three legged puppies, Olivia Colman or David Attenborough. All life is here. Locals necking the 6.2% stuff squint out onto the coastal horizon and criticise surfers and body boarders for 'doing it wrong' with an authority that doesn't match their physiques. A Californian dude with the hair of Dave Grohl comments wistfully to no one in particular that he misses a good sunset. Everyone backs away from him slightly, no mean feat in this tight space. Meanwhile, an overly sensitive dog which has spent a lifetime being mollycoddled by a lady in shades, struggles with lad culture when a bunch of boisterous twentysomethings power on in. The annoying single toilet system has a speckled shoulder ginger lady warning me that she is in the queue before me. I reckon I could be stood here for quite some time, but she emerges surprisingly quickly. I congratulate her, and she replies that yes, she is well known in life for the speed & execution of her toilet visits. This was pure pub theatre, my Margate debut had lived up to all expectations.
Next I take a train to Herne Bay with the intention of taking the Canterbury bus to Broad Oak where I have a tick that's been evading me for far too long.
Well, I wait, and wait, and wait some more. Buses going in every other direction appear regularly, not one going towards Canterbury. I ask one driver if I'm in the right place. He tells me vaguely about a blockage, and that I should hold tight. Little did I know the impact this delay would have on my day as afternoon merges into evening .....
To make the wait even more excruciating, a mad bloke stood next to me decides to compliment every woman who walks past with the words 'you are looking beautiful today!' regardless of appearance. Nice of him I suppose. Most take it in the spirit it is intended. But after 45 mins, it did get wearing.
And when I DO finally reach Broad Oak, the closest bus stop isn't in use as some god awful housing estate is being built, so I have a slightly longer walk to the pub ......
I CRINGE at my behaviour when I think back to my arrival at the Golden Lion, Broad Oak (2505 / 4399) , as I peer in and see a large group gathered around the bar. I stride in, noticing the pub sign turned to 'closed' so I flip it to 'open' thinking it is a mistake! Never occurs for ONE second that being 6pm on a Sunday in rural Kent, they might actually have called last orders already. Even when the landlord bounds across to me, saying "why you turnin' my sign around, we're closed?" I follow him back to the bar chuckling "good one mate, great bantz, top joke" before realising he's deadly seriously and the locals are eyeing me with a mixture of bewilderment and mirth! Well, I explain my circs, my struggle to get here, and to my relief, the couple in charge relent and serve me. Master Brew or Whitstable Bay, my Hobson's choice of Kentish beer but I tell you what, I go for the latter and knowing how fortunate I am to get served , it tastes like nectar. The poor guv'nor is getting all sorts of (light hearted) grief from the locals for bending the rules for me, refusing to serve them any more ale, and I'm in the centre of everyone, being quizzed on BRAPA. I have to walk a tightrope between being super respectful and grateful, but also join in and give the locals a little bit back, cos you know, they are a rowdy bunch of piss takers. Friendly on the whole, apart from one chap who has obviously taken against me, but it sounds like his mates know he's deliberately being a dick. Some gentler ones are playing cards below. When one asks what my next pub is, my heart suddenly sinks when I remember Thomas Tallis in Canterbury closes 7pm on a Sunday, a fact confirmed by a previously silent studious lady just below my chin level, keying it into her phone! Tis now 6:10pm. Foiled again! But hang on a second. 'Hold that thought!' says the friendly 'train expert' to my right, disappearing. "He's got a plan for you, best drink up!" says the landlord. And train guy returns a few mins later, and says follow me ......
.... and the next thing I know, I'm in a car with him and two previously unseen blokes saying "Thomas Tallis is it, I think we can get you there in time!" before putting foot to the floor, dropping me at the end of the street, from which I jog .... taking the below photo at 18:25 .....
I'm still paranoid, after all, this was the one Canterbury pub that let me down on Queen's Funeral day last September and after the efforts of the Broad Oak massive, I don't want to be denied at this late stage! Even when I make it inside, I'm still nervous. The place is dead, no staff member in sight. I find one customer lurking around the corner, and he assures me that last orders hasn't been called and a staff bloke should be hovering somewhere. A nice warped creaky sort of place, ancient characterful micro style, a bit like Thirsty Pig in Maidstone or Pivni / House of Trembling Madness in York, but perhaps without quite as much quirk of character. Finally, a staff lad appears, looking incredibly surprised to have a customer (this was no Broad Oak!) and a zingy pint of Skylarking is mine, one of two on. Thomas Tallis Alehouse, Canterbury (2506 / 4400) at last, against all the odds! I sit with the other customer, a nice crafty young man with a cap and beard who seems keen to impress on me his need to get out of the house and have a break from the people he knows! I suspect he really wants a hug, and I wasn't going to do that, and he didn't look like a Cauli man either, so I did the next best thing and handed him the GBG and Stabilo. He leaves soon after, wishing me luck for the journey back to Dover, and leaves me in a silent creaky pub to contemplate what a fun, bonkers hobby pub ticking can be!
And little did I know, despite thinking six ticks today was fantastic result, there'd been an even later twist!
Join me next time for that one, well not next time because it is Month End Blog day tomorrow, but hopefully some time before I go away again. Ticking is high octane at the moment!
Thanks for reading, Si
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