BRAPA in .... CWM-BRAN FLAKES : PUB ROUGHAGE IN GWENT (Pt 8/14)

If my Gwentish holiday had been trouble-free so far in terms of buses, trains and pub opening hours all behaving themselves (unlike bloody Cornwall this summer where I had a daily disaster!), it all changed as I reached Chepstow.

Despite having three ticks to do in this Anglo-Welsh border town, I decided to be clever - too clever for my own good, and take a bus out to a place called Caerwent, where I had a village tick.

It all looked fairly straightforward as the clock ticked past 4pm, the 73 bus filling up steadily with commuters heading back to Newport, where the bus terminates. So imagine my horror when the bus bypasses Caerwent village, and just bombs along the A48. I stare around at my fellow passengers, but no one bats a scandalised eyelid.

A road closure? A different timetable at this time of day? I tried researching it, but could not see any reason, and I didn't attempt it again this holiday. And now the Caerwent pub in question has been de-guided anyway, so for now it'll have to remain one of BRAPA's little transport mysteries.

Before I could blink, Newport was upon us like a sweaty octopus, who'd turned up to a deep sea ocean floor party without being invited. Time to salvage something from the wreckage, and I notice that the Newpy 'Spoons is over two miles from the centre of town in an area called Maindee, but this bus passes the front door, hurrah, so I ring the bell. Too much commutery carnage to stop and quiz the driver on the 'Caerwent Aberration', but at least my fourth pub was finally on the horizon.

And what a slightly above average Wetherspoons Godfrey Morgan, Newport (2434 / 3998) was. £1.49 for a Titanic Iceberg, which perhaps the pub had taken a bit too literally, there may as well have been a block of ice floating in the pint it was that freezing. I nearly asked the barmaid and her sculptured eyebrows if she wanted to keep change - but that would've been the tip of the iceberg. Thanks, I'm here all night, but not in the Godfrey Morgan. The tracksuit lads bullying the fruit machines looked kinda mean in the most South Welsh way possible. Tiling and carpet though, definitely a solid 8.5/10.

Icy pint, but at least Brekkie has found half a crisp

'Spoons life

The barman told me he was a "glass half empty kinda guy" but I can't remember the context!

But now I had a conundrum. I was halfway back to 'gavenny, I'd only done four pubs, Chepstow was now out of reach as evening approached, but I was desperate for my six ticks, and didn't have much left to do in Newport.

There was however, one obvious solution, Cwmbran.

It has a direct train link between Newport and Abergavenny, it has three ticks, okay so two of them were in 'Upper' Cwmbran and one in 'Lower' or 'Nether' or 'Arse End' Cwmbran or whatever they call it. And on a sunnier day, I may've been happy to walk, but this rain was unrelenting now, so it was off to Cwmbran bus station, one of the saddest places on earth.

A slimline lady jumps out of nowhere, points at my Hull City badge on my jacket, gives me an elaborate thumbs up, does a bit of signing (I think she may've been deaf), and leaps off again into the pavement crack she'd appeared from.

Bus is easy. In Upper Cwmbran, an elderly gent asks what my game is, and tries to decide which order he'd do the two pubs if he were me. But then he changes his mind, ponders a bit more, and I tell him in the nicest possible way that I've got better things to do than stand in the pouring rain whilst a random old bugger tries to make a decision which is of little consequence to me.

I choose the one up the surprise steep hill first, this was now Upper Upper Cwmbran.

Perhaps the giveaway was the word 'PUB' painted on the side of the building in fancy lettering, but I wasn't a fan of the Bush Inn, Cwmbran (2435 / 3999) despite plenty of locals purring about what a classic it was throughout my Gwent holiday. At least the barmaid is friendly. "It might be wet, but at least it is warm!" she declares, seeing my sodden presence. I'm all for putting a positive spin on things but this was stretching it. Warm it wasn't! Two things did for the Bush really. Firstly, the beer. Goff's Jouster should've been called Guff's Bowlster - it tasted like a fart in a glass. And secondly, it was Pizza Night. And everyone had their faces in the Italian nosebag. And the result was an atmosphere resembling a dimly lit 'Pizza Express', a slightly cleaner 'Bella Italia', a slightly less ornate 'Ask'. The two couples closest to me could've reached over and effortlessly popped a slice of Quattro Stagioni in my gob at close range. But they elected not to, and the Bush never recovered.

"Locals, give us a slice, locals locals, give us a slice'

Could perhaps be pubbier in different circumstances?

Well, that was a bit lame. But could my 4,000th ever GBG pub (probably not an entirely accurate figure but let us pretend it is significant for the narrative) deliver?

It was nearly pitch black now, the rain unrelenting as I push the door at the Queen Inn, Cwmbran (2436 / 4000). Ah, this was more like it. Softer furnishings, warmth, a sleepy dull pubby atmosphere. And what was this? Surprise Bass! Time to consult the GBG and Wickingman directory. Nope, this pub is certainly not known for selling the stuff. But I am made to sweat, it appears to be running out, noooo! But fret not, the barrel just needs tilting. I have a responsibility to do some digging. 'So is Bass a regular beer on?' I ask a likely looking landlady, suspecting all the young Ben Mitchells off Eastenders might not know. "It is the only beer we do!" she enthuses. I settle down on a low flung settee beside a sleeping dog, a random pile of logs jostle for position, hoping for a woodburner outcome, and three former hooligans turned angels discuss Saints or Pompey. Second best Bass this week, automatic promotion to the Championship, but never likely to win any silverware. The Ipswich Town of Bass, perhaps.

Six ticks in then, and job done, but no way I could leave Cwmbran before attempting to pick up my third and final tick in the town. Even if it was south. Even if the rain still came down hard. Back at the bus station, it didn't look a terrible walk, but it was.

I'm not sure what kind of horrific 60's town planning Cwmbran underwent, but what a messy nightmare to navigate as a pedestrian. Google Maps didn't have a Scooby. I ended up lost in a multi storey carpark at one point, before realising I'd have to fathom the route myself.

And ignominy of all ignominies, I couldn't get in when I arrived! There was lights on, there was obviously someone inside, but try as I might, I couldn't find a way in! My photography obviously wasn't a primary concern at this stage! Mount Pleasant was the name.

Being situated in the ecclesiastical heart of Cwmbran due to the many religious establishments round and about (so says Whatpub), I was hoping for a touch of divine intervention, but it never came.

I knock on the window and a surprised looking man strides over. "You open?" I bark hopefully. "No mate, we're having a refurbishment - closed at the moment!" he shouts through the thick glass. It could be paranoia, but having not seen him in paint stained overalls carrying a sander, I'm imagining him and a few locals were having an impromptu lock-in and a game of doms.

Consolation, it isn't in the 2023 GBG. A club in Sebastopol is the natural successor. But unlikely I'll tackle Gwent again in the 2023 season.

I trudge back to the station, wetter than ever, and it could be worse if I'm not careful, I'm dying for a pee so I go behind a grassy bank near Morrisons and then pop in for some late night snacks. And with time to kill until the next Abergavenny bound train, I decide to give the 'Spoons a whirl.

It was all very promising until I tried the beer at the John Fielding, Cwmbran. And who doesn't love a flat roofer? The type of 'Spoons you want to succeed. "Is that a Hull City badge, you poor sod, what did you do to deserve that!" chuckles the young barman as I arrive, probably a Cwmbran Town fan. The barmaid joins in with a squeaky wheezing chuckle, like a kind Andean Condor with a less flabby head. Lovely duo. Soon I'm explaining BRAPA, they think it is a mad thing to do. And the Tigers Haters then tell me they are passionate about their ale and would love to get this pub to the level that is a competing for a GBG place but realises it won't be easy. I love hearing stuff like this. And with ales like Kirkstall Dissolution on, an absolute cracker, what can go wrong? Well, one taste and I'm ... errrm, disillusioned! What a shame. It is an okay sort of 'Spoons, carpet probably only a 7 in retrospect, and a Liverpool fan does a Basil Fawlty walk straight past me.

And then my train just said 'delayed'. No time. Just 'delayed'. Ominous. It is 10pm. So I taxi it back to the 'gavenny in time for some much needed snacks, a hot shower and a long sleep.

Join me on Friday (unless the World Cup quarter finals distract me) for tales of the scariest road walk since Bransgore as we head to Clytha, Raglan and Monmouth.

Thanks for reading, Wix behaved itself quite well on its debut, Si