Thursday 18th June 2026
Minehead. Sounds a shithole on paper, but as you can see, it isn't. Well not out on the coast anyway.
I'd taken the early bus up from Taunton, which had taken an age but never mind. Asked the driver for a ticket to 'Maidenhead' (FFS!) so he thinks I'm a dork.
Was hoping to find a little breakfast café, even if it is just for a coffee. But nothing is open, so I have a paddle. Might be good for my blisters.
You can see Cardiff from here if you squint. But no one comes to North (sorry, West) Somerset for that.
Then I go for a gander at the West Somerset Railway, which runs from here to Bishop's Lydeard where yesterday finished, a nice bit of symmetry. I thought a trip on the WSR might be useful at some point, but it never transpired.
But suddenly I'm dashing when I realise the big chunky taxi full of gimmers sat in my bus stop is actually the 'bus' I need to Porlock Weir where today's pub adventures begin, five minutes ahead of schedule, cripes!
The nice driver asks if I mind shutting the door. Nothing automatic about this contraption. He even tells me I'll need to go up one step, or else I'll trap my leg in the door! Off we set. Intimate.
I'm not liking the look of the Porlock-Porlock Weir road which I was planning to walk along later. No bus back for two hours you see. Must try and come up with an OS route instead. Must be something scenic?
Porlock Weir is the end of the line. The coffin dodgers are already lining the patio outside a dreadful looking hotel sipping flat whites and prosecco pretending that views out to Wales are superior to ancient inner stone walls.
My poor pub is looking such a lonely planet boy, I'm doubting whether it is even open ......
... but the deferential boy with tin of beans haircut (well, black haired so Stalybridge Buffet Bar version) beckons me in through the glass. What a delight the Ship Inn, Porlock Weir (3490 / 6280) (or 'Bottom Ship' to avoid any confusion with our second tick) is. Retrospectively cursing myself that I'm so anxious / pre-occupied with working out a safe navigable route back to Porlock, that I don't chat like I normally would. And I barely appreciate the salty Scooby Doo atmosphere of this naughty nautical low beamed 400 yr old land lubber. Slightly too dining if I'm being brutal. An Otter World Cup special (Wotter Shot!) hadn't inspired much confidence, yet it's surprisingly great and almost makes me sad I sacked off my otter mascot to Brentford British Heart Foundation. A perky barmaid arrives to keep the poor boy company, telling a fascinating anecdote about nearly burning her house down by falling asleep cooking a steak at 3am. I couldn't quite figure out how you could fall asleep cooking steak, because in my experience it is quite the immersive energetic event, but I had more important things to worry about, like getting to Porlock proper without death!
By jove, I THINK I've found a rural path up through the trees. Even my OS App was a bit vague, but I'd necked my Otter to ensure that if there were any mis-steps or fuck ups, I still had chance to recover myself and risk the road. I could NOT afford to miss the two hourly bus back from Porlock.
The first section is hilly, the weather humid and sticky once again. But good news lads, I'd finally learnt my lesson and left my red fleece / security blanket in my Air BnB today.
A stern German couple say guten morgen. I briefly take the wrong path upwards. Some loose rocks fall down, so I realise this ain't right. And finally, sweating buckets, I make it down into Porlock with time to spare to enjoy pub two.
Our first genuine contender for pub of the holiday is the Ship Inn, Porlock (3491 / 6281), or 'Top Ship' to save it getting confused with its counterpart. If you've ever been to Polperro, I'd pitch it halfway between the rambling Crumplehorn Inn and the electric atmosphere of the superior Blue Peter. Despite a tepid blonde welcome, I pull up a corner pew in a dark alcove of the main bar and exchange a few words with erstwhile guv'nor Royston (not Vasey) and the local lad in braces with sleeping dog - he's a fan of Colin Jnr, loves cauliflowers in general. He looks the type who would. Unfortunately, our recently arrived buzzing brunette hasn't seen me in the shadows, thinks Mr Braces is talking to her, so she jumps out of her skin when I reply! Confirming I'm no ghost Peter Sutcliffe (who did hammers long before Joshua Kerry - bit o cheeky current affairs there), I tell her about my walk here and she tells me she doesn't understand the World Cup or football in general but thinks Hull City Tigers sound amazing which is a tell tale sign. And she must be called Skye/Sky cos she gets confused and looks haunted when anyone says 'Sky Sports' or 'live on Sky'. The ale is fine but too sweet like a pale Doom Bar / Butty Bach, so not my kinda thing. To tide me over til bus. I go for half of zero alcohol Goram but I'm not sure the former goalkeeper of the same name would approve of such a concept.
The bus (big taxi) turns up and this time I remember to move my leg and shut the door without being asked, to avoid any Heather Millsness, Pretty packed so I get talking to this jolly crone, and soon we are back in Minehead, which is good because my pub (if open at all), closes mid afternoon anyway.
So here's the thing. Google says 'shut pub alert'. But everything else online (CAMRA, their own website) suggests it is business as usual so I had to go and explore at the very least, even if it is a bit 'inland' .... and I'm glad I did.
Not only is Kildare Lodge, Minehead (3492 / 6282) is open, but a fair dinkun beaut. As hotel bars go, I've rarely seen better. Even better since the elderly couple running it have scaled back, stopped doing food and accommodation, now simply using it as their home but keeping the bar open. The vast rooms, ceilings, wooden curves are a delight. She tells me not to pay any attention to Google. They wanted money off her for having the place listed, she said no, so they've sulked and marked the place as shut. It was a lesson I should've heeded for later in the day in Watchet but we'll get to that! The Colmers by Palmers is delicious. There's a couple of cheeky ancients, one who looks like he should be in hospice care and an elderly dog who wheezes. Then she rings the last orders bell. A mid afternoon novelty for me, even in pubs that says they close mid-aft, I rarely hear or see any evidence of punters buggering off. Here, I had to rush to finish my pint and have one last widdle so I didn't incur her wrath!
I manage to sneak in a pre-emptive 'Spoons called the Duke of Wellington whilst I wait for the next bus outta Minehead. Highlights include a return of summer 'Spoons Jaipur, a painstaking wait at the bar, topless blokes with their tits oot outside and a quirky couple from Leicester who like me enough to make a joke about his hat and her glasses condensation issues.
I purposefully swerve a tick in a place called Dunster because (a) it sounds like Dumpster (b) three ticks in Watchet would help me reach my daily six anyway (c) there's also a pre-emptive 3* beer Dunster pub that doesn't open til 4pm, and (d) I had to get back up here in any case for Washford and Roadwater.
So you can see it was a justifiable decision, for now.
Watchet to keep it simple then, although I can't find my first tick very easily and start roaming the backstreets at one point even trying to break into a fusty shut bookshop, when it was on the seafront with folk sitting outside it all along .....
That's because the bigger sign says 'Harbour Bar' and in smaller letters 'at the famous Esplanade Club', Watchet (3493 / 6283). The latter was the name I was looking for. Didn't feel clubby in the slightest as I breeze in, no questions asked, stunning interior. I recall one of my Lincs favourites, the Admiral Benbow at Chapel St Leonards. This is larger and arguably even more impressive. I guess Skeggy's Vine Hotel ain't so different from Kildare Lodge. A lady with Zippy from Rainbow's mouth (zipped up) bops her head to the Proclaimers, chosen by an 80's Grange Hill legend on one of those random music channels. The occasional blast of the original Grange Hill theme solidifies my joy. The stodgy barkeep had recommended me an excellent 'real red' (a rare Glasto beer win), shame he serves me in polycarbonate wrongly assuming I'll sit outside with the unsilent majority. But for once, it barely detracts from another winning experience. Wasn't today going well?
Just when I'm feeling an enormous sense of well being (PARK LIFE!) and getting far too comfortable and pleased with myself .... well, we all know what follows by now? The BRAPA gods ready to kick me in the knackers ......
SHUT PUB ALERT!
Mid afternoon closure like the Kildare L., not back open til 6pm (5 and I may've considered hanging on).
I'd only looked at the Google hours (tsk, the problem of having 90 pubs to research pre-hols), which as we know from earlier, can't be 100% trusted. I'd failed to spot Facebook and CAMRA have it right, so this is going down as a 'Si Fail' which is easier to stomach.
Shame though because it is a GBG regular, red dotter and a few of my followers had said nice things about it.
Oh well, like I said earlier, I need to be back up here for plenty others pubs so I'll just add this to the list and make a day of it when I stay in Bath/Bristol next Guide (although it'll probably involve getting to Taunton just so I can get the same bus so a very early start, but we'll cross that bridge in 2027!)
And I still had a micropub to tick here so all was not lost. Long distance photo due to moody smokers (I'm still spotted).
The tide was really turning against me now. Pebbles Tavern, Watchet (3494 / 6284) has a well crafted interior suggesting they give a damn (not shy on carpets & rugs), but beer quality and human quality fell short of what I'd expect from an award-winning micropub. An elderly Bam-Bam off of the Flintstones doesn't know how to broach conversation with me, so jabs me in the ribs and says 'oi!' when he sees me peering at the stillage behind the bar to see if anything's written on the barrels. Tells me to stick to handpumps, the staff hesitate and I wonder if they know I've gone for the ale that's warmer than toast. Yuck! I vent to the eponymous Pebbles (if that's her real name) about my Star Inn shut pub experience and she tells me they're an unreliable pub at the best of times. Even though I'm blaming myself! Love local pub rivalry more than when they all support each other which is too boring and nicey nice for my liking! But overall, I'm kinda non-plussed and regretting my deliberate Dunster miss by now but never mind, I'll suck it up and take the five ticks back to Taunton.
I have half a mind on the bus journey back to jump off at the remote 'Stogumber Turn' stop and walk to the post-emptive Carew Arms at Crowcombe (still 3* beer on the CAMRA website). But I fell asleep. Never mind, it'd make a useful late stop on Sunday.
I wake up on the outskirts of Taunton, obviously dying for a piss, so hop off near the station and spy a pub across the road that Dave 'TeamsLikeExeter' Green tells me he's 'astonished' isn't in the GBG.
But the Plough, Taunton is very much a cider pub - I'd only been inside two seconds when I realise this from all those boxes. The two lads behind the bar are proper sound, we have a reet good chat as I get them to recommend me a dry cider cos I hate these days you get a medium dry and it tastes like a medium, and I'm no expert. The pub does have beer handpumps, but when in Rome .... . And I'd always planned on a pint of cider at some point this week, it'd be rude not to. I explore down some wooden stairs, and to my amazement (considering how bouncing this pub is with the after-work crowd) I find myself inside this totally empty deliciously ice cold basement. I'm down here for a good 35-40 mins and am not disturbed once, it is total bliss. My faith restored in Somerset after a tricky Watchet ending, I was ready for day four.
Join me next time for day four, which would prove to be my toughest, most memorable and most rewarding day of the lot. But it'll be a knackering read/write!
Keep it pub, Si
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