BRAPA in .... CHITTLE CHITTLE WANG WANG / ILFY SIGURDSSON : NORTH DEVON PT 2
5 minutes ago
8 min read
Tuesday 1st September 2026
White rabbits (x3). September is here. SEE, I AM catching up!!
Nowhere in Devon has bigger rabbits than Ilfracombe, just look at the size of those warrens .....
I wouldn't say I slept well on the first night in my Air B&B (I never do), so I 'rest my eyes' on the long bus ride, rehydrate and soon I'm in fine fettle for my early morning pre-emptive 'Spoons ....
I won't write about the Admiral Collingwood, because it wasn't in the GBG then, and it still isn't now. But I'm confident for 2028+, because I was impressed. In fact, my favourite Devon 'Spoons of the week. Beer, carpets, staff. and especially the Crystal Maze roof garden all highlights.
From there, a quick hop to this striking frontage ......
I'm worried about potential coastal gimmickry, but fear not. Ship & Pilot, Ilfracombe (3601 / 6392) is a bona fide candidate for pub of the week. Not only tentacley, but a trinkety, tankardy old seadog. Our jolly host and his face tattoos spot my Angel Du$t tee shirt and he asks if I'm a fan of the drug PCP. He seems slightly disappointed when I admit it is a band. He likes his music too but despite his face, punk ain't his genre. A blues rock man. I nod respectfully and with the bar area full of locals with bums hanging out of pants (impressive for 11:20am on a Tuesday), I take one of the cleanest pints of Bass you'll taste this year to a far corner where a big rubber E.T. stares and points at me for the duration.
I dash across town for a tick that's somehow even scurvier ......
Because daily vitamin C intake and Craft Union houses don't go hand in hand. Wellington Arms, Ilfracombe (3602 / 6393) is about as scruffy boozer as CAMRA dare put in the GBG. A regular entry up until 2026, but dropped for '27 (of course, #LetsMakeSiSuffer , it's a conspiracy I tell you!) Being against the clock , this wasn't the time for a pint pulling training session but boss barmaid tells the young lad that I'm an 'ale man' and I will KNOW if I don't get a full pint measure, which forces me to adopt a more intelligent focussed facial expression. He does a good job so I offer him some encouraging words for his future in the industry. Craft Union arses hang out of joggers, and are watching live coverage of Transfer Deadline Day on Sky. Chris Kiwomya to Wimbledon for £400K (probably). The pissers are outdoors, the Bass is dirtier than in the last pub, but good enough. I've made good time, this bus is on .......
Blink and you'll miss my bus, well I nearly did. One of those care in the community taxi things like the one that took me to Porlock Weir in the summer. The 100 yr old driver confuses me by telling me how proud he is of his 'cash only' policy and then tells me I'll need to pay by card.
One of those buses so 'intimate' you are forced to make friends, and soon the big joke is 'have I rung ahead and got a pint waiting for me on the table?', so that when the bus goes back past the pub in 3 mins time, I'm ready cos I've necked it!
Sadly not! Ironically, it'd prove the most impossible to neck sour malt slop of my entire week. Yep, I can't be too surprised to find the Grampus Inn, Lee (3603 / 6394) also dropped from the 2027 GBG. Our enchanting brunette barmaid might not have been wet-nosed, but was captivating enough to convince me to go for a full pint of their homebrewed guff. The pub is a sunken delight (anyone over six ft. bangs their bonce). 'Tis' full of foodie promise and the entire pub population chose the sunny garden leaving me free to soak up the ghostly innards. And a Grampus is a dolphin and nothing to do with a Japanese Linaker, which is nice. 'Entertainment' comes late on when a dude rocks up to the bar and asks our heroine if he can play the piano. She's like 'S'pose so mate!' and I'm worried he's gonna be one of these secret Youtubers who belts out a classic Beethoven from nowhere. So it's amusing when he's actually turns out to be shit. A grizzly landlord tells our dry nosed brunette she's due for her lunch break and she puts two plates of roast beef, Yorkshire puds and veg on a table next to me. Turns out shit piano player (now brandising a dog) and ole' dry-nose are 'an item'. Must've tinkled her ivories. But when his back is turned, drama as dog jumps up and nabs half his roast beef. "Oh dear, that's harsh!" I say, trying to sound genuinely gutted for the lad. Dry-nose appears, find him in anguish, so he explains what's happened. "Little twat!" she says of dog, and they salvage what they can. Top scenes.
The next bus isn't due for a few days and with zero phone signal, I decide on a hilly but picturesque coastal walk back into Ilfy ......
A bottle of restorative Lucozade Sport (John Barnes tells me it is isotonic) for the bus ride back into Barny .....
And then a quick hop to the train station because I didn't want to settle for three ticks only ......
Right, I've stoopidly booked myself on a 6:40am train to Brum tomorrow so gonna have to break off now (8:10pm Wed evening) for a late tea and early night but I'll be back to write the rest on Fri .....
Welcome back! Knack'd after Worcs #ThirstyThursday and a day of Outlook problems at work today, but the blogging must go on.
So I board the train, and even this isn't straightforward because of 'request stops'. And where on earth is the guard because I need to get him to tell the driver to stop at Umberleigh? Up and down the length of the train I roam. A team like Exeter (Exeter City) is at home tonight, and their North Devon lager lads are like 'settle down mate!' as I rush past them. Easy for them to say, Exeter isn't a request stop.
Finally I track him down as we're bombing through leafy countryside. Here's what he says ... "Umberleigh? You should've said, I'll need to tell the driver to stop!"
I'm fuming at that.
"I KNOW, I'VE BEEN BLOODY LOOKING FOR YOU FOR 10 MINUTES!" I snap, and he looks suitably cowed. He radios through, the brakes screech, spilling some Grecian Carling, and I'm off. Phew.
Rising Sun, Umberleigh (3604 / 6395) is my 'easy' tick of all this rural request line stuff, just across the bridge from the station but even then, I have to wait for a ten tonne truck so I don't get squashed. Two outdoor ladies say 'aye' and I'm in. Stodgy yokels line the bar of this pleasant inn, wheezing with age and stale cigarette smoke of 2007, the floor undulating to create a sense of peril. My seat in the snug is so sunken, I feel like a Japanese geisha eating noodles. Locals peer at me sinisterly as I sup my excellentYellowhammer and try to be invisible. In a worrying turn of conversation, the ringleader addresses the others. "We may well know someone who comes in here regularly. He might make us laugh, he might be full of interesting conversation. And very popular. But if it comes to light that he's a paedophile rapist, then he shouldn't be made to feel welcome!" The locals assent. There's a few nods and 'arrrs'. My 25 minutes was done, and I'm happy to push on. For a variety of reasons. Nice pub though.
My walk is long and ambitious and doesn't get off to a very good start when the OS path I'm trying to follow says 'get orfff my land' which means walking on the road a short while. I should really buy some hi-vis. But the traffic is sensible and I soon find a dirt track to turn onto, few fields, the narrowest lane that goes on FOREVER, and then I arrive at the village in question ....
Shame this wasn't the world's cutest micropub but never mind, a couple of minutes further and I'm here ....
As you can probably tell from my entrance, Bell Inn, Chittlehampton (3605 / 6396) had all the weapons in its arsenal to be a pub of the week contender. Utter gem. Sadly, the people were generally weapons too and for that reason alone, it was hard to enjoy. Circs / time of day I suppose. The entire village is in for tea, kids run rampage, food flying out of the kitchen. It starts promisingly enough as I make friends with Oscar the dog who you can just see above. I gave his head a scratch at the bar. "Oooh you've done it now!" says Oscar's owner (the only nice man in here) "...he won't let you leave him alone!" and true, I'm being clawed and jumped on as I order my pint. I move out left, a big mistake, as I find myelf wedged between busy kitchen and an extended family that involves both a dog and baby on blanket further down the bench. Scornful steak sauce Sarah Hadland loses at pool to a Temu version of Sister BRAPA as a hot plate family banquet is dished up. I'd seen enough. I scoop up my pint and belongings and make a long straight bee-line for the opposite end. "Where ya going mate?" says one of the snootier young publicans. I feel like telling him it's none of his business! Did he think I was off into the ladies loo, which I guess was in this direction? Well, you can imagine after this I'm chuntering to myself through my pissy pint of Wiveliscombe Bear (am I ever gonna enjoy a pint by this brewery?) Carpet 9/10, leg ache 8/10, but must crack on. I'd made such effort to get here, feels like I deserved more kindness.
I refuse to look up the walking distance to my final pub of the evening, but surely one Chittle to another can't be that bad can it? CAN IT?
It can. Four miles of bleak country lanes later, legs dropping off, dusk setting as 8pm ticks around, I've finally made it!
More obviously 'restaurantised' than the Bell but still a goodie, Exeter Inn, Chittlehamholt (3606 / 6397) is most memorable for having a near 100 : 0 female to male staff/clientele, incredibly rare. The main lady has a bit of spunk about her (so to speak) and the remnants of a recent beer festival allow me a pint of something black, flat and super strength. Straight from the barrel. Good, I need it! Numbs the pain. I share with her my predicament re. being stranded, miles from Barnstaple, dusk rapidly descending. She does what she can to help me book a taxi, but dodgy WFi / phone signal makes it a challenge. But FINALLY, something is on the way, NOT that I could really hear the bloke at the other end. Sensing she's got shit to do and I've exhausted all BRAPA chat, I give her a break and sit lowdown which is peaceful until a chef brings out some sizzling hot plates (must be a thing in Chittle-world) for the staff to tuck into, so I linger outside The night is so black, even Dylan Thomas would be shocked. He'd like this beer though. I make my second bee-line of the night when a car appears, but it is a young Asian family wanting a late feed. I apologise. And they are swiftly turned away anyway. I sit on my bench in the dark and FINALLY a taxi arrives. 9:24pm, I feel quite sick as we bounce back to Barnstaple. And this would be only my third most stressful ending of the holidays. Good grief!
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