Saturday 11th July 2026
A Simon Dewhurst Essex car day is always one of the highlights of the BRAPA calendar, and being part of our 'Summer-of-fun', (no football to spoil the pubbing) Daddy BRAPA came along for the ride, his first time meeting Simon.
A breakfast slice of fruit cake was the only deviation from the usual morning routine of air fryer croissant as we made our way down to London using the train tickets originally destined for our Wembley date in May, but revised due to Southampton's spying shenanigans 'forcing' us to go by car.
As is usually the case on a Si D day, last minute train disruptions halt our progress. The cause today is a fire beside the track near Stratford. Random fires and the Great British Summer? They go together like Rod Hull & Emu.
We limp through Farringdon and up towards Witham just as the flames have been doused and services are resuming. We pick the wrong station exit, but finally find Si parked up trying to avoid evil traffic wardens. Let the day commence. Gagging for a pint after all that!
West Mersea is our starting point. End of the line peculiarity and difficult to reach. You'd have to CHOOSE to come here as it isn't the kind of place you just pass through. Northern readers should imagine a Hornsea / Withernsea, mixed with a bit of Ipswich - St Tropez but with more shellac and whiter turkey teeth.
West Mersea suddenly has two GBG ticks from nowhere, RetiredMartin tells me that in 30 years of Essex ticking, he only had to visit once - for a vineyard/brewery cafe. Ain't it always the way?
En route, Si teaches us a pub cricket game where you look at inn signs and work out the number of legs to see who wins. It made sense at the time. Daddy B. seems happy and well in the back of the car, but is he? Hold that thought.
Up first is the more inland, less fashionable Fox Inn, West Mersea (3536 / 6326), a greasy 8.5/10 carpet clad boozehound open early. A startled couple are eating despite it feeling like the wettest led pub in Christendom. The lack of cask is a cause for concern so Greene King Level Head it is (I guess the local CAMRA only inspect once every 30 yrs). It comes in an abysmal glass that demands the hand span of Robert Wadlow to hold effectively. The young bar lad is a chatty cheeky Essex wide boy, regaling us on the subject of eggs, which the pub is selling like all good boozers do - £1.70 for six. Then we sit down and the egg chat continues as Dad tells us a story which he accidentally frames as a joke about how white eggs are more environmentally sound than brown eggs. It'd prove the most animated he'd be all day. I change the subject to pub mascots, slim pickings going into the Premier League season but perhaps Oscar the Owl could make a return if we re-sign his namesake Zambrano, having served a year long drugs ban like all good Columbians? Hold that thought too. A limited pub, but it had a certain charm.
Simon tells us that tide times are another factor you must consider when coming to West Mersea, just like Holy Island where I'm still hoping Dad will drive me to as I can't connect them up with the rare bus times, but that's another story.
Our second tick is right down on the shoreline and some farcical parking ensues in the tightest and busiest of pub car parks opposite the pub. Si has to sit patiently and wait for someone to leave before expertly reversing in. Ticking shouldn't be this hard, I feel a vague pang of guilt! We're either in danger of being blocked in, or blocking someone in, I can't remember.
As Daddy B. emerges from the backseat, he looks a bit peaky, grabs the side of the car and takes a few deep gulps of sea air. "You okay?" I ask. "Yes, I'm just going to stay out here for while, carry on and I'll join you later" he breaths, like a seaside Captain Oates.
Populist beach-bum dining hole, Coast Inn, West Mersea (3537 / 6327) doesn't really butter my parsnips being an airy wooden conservatory 'n all, not a pub style I'd take around the country with me given the choice. The cask ales are partially obscured by a sign reminding you to enter your car registration number to avoid an £100 fine. Why was I getting the impression cask wasn't at the forefront of West Mersea's mind? I get aboard the local slop 'Yo Boy' Malty, meaty, warm. I'll have colder cups of tea in 2026. Tasted vaguely like the stuff I brewed under my desk in my younger days whilst watching Keith Chegwin get his willy out on Naked Jungle. A dude sidles up, a sort of well meaning stalker. He's worked out which car is Simon's and has a virtuous rant designed to illustrate what a top guy he is. I don't remember the details. We take our drinks upstairs to the balcony, which involves a path through an area resembling your posh auntie's boudoir - like she's given you free reign to drink whilst she goes for a lie down with her Mills & Boon. Daddy B. reappears looking a bit fragile and admits there's been a sicking. Strewth, I thought he just needed a bit of fresh air!
Next stop is Maldon. Just the one tick instead of the two I'd originally thought because 'Yard' closed for good on 1st June.
My memories of Maldon from that 2020/21 era are not too fond. Granted, all pubs were restrictive in that Covid era but nowhere made it more unpleasant than this small pocket of Essex. Combined with nearby Danbury and Woodham Mortimer, Maldon ticks (in particular the Queen Victoria) were dreadful. My highlight was reading a Buffy the Vampire Slayer novel in Heybridge, just for context.
But today, beautifully coloured houses shimmer in the hot sun, the Tiptree jam factory oozes blackcurrant, even the estuary mud doesn't stink. Everything seems better ..... almost everything. As soon as we get out of the car, Dad's off to a corner of the carpark for 'Sicking : The Revenge'. Poor lad. He'd sat in the front this time, is convinced it is a motion sickness thing rather than a bug - recalling a Kent car day with Paul G a year or two back where he also felt queasy, but nothing to this extent.
So a man down, the Si dream team duo carry on and my Maldon redemption arc is total as Carpenters Arms (3538 / 6328) delivers a compelling argument for pub the day. You can always rely on a 'Gray & Sons' gaff to do the business when you're down in mid Essex, and this backstreet boy is certainly less problematic than a Nick Carter lawsuit. Full of beer bellies turning to say 'Wotcheor boys' , 'tis enough to inspire me to consider a move back to Saffron Walden when I complete this damn book. It's a stuffy day so Si makes the wise decision to sit outside, a fine little courtyard with leafy snug. England v Norway kicks off at 10pm, and a bloke with a fat arse reckons Dan Burn will quell Haaland. Oscar Wilde Mild is a cracking drink, and this pint is almost up there with the 5* I had in Harwich 2021. Don't worry, I've not abandoned Daddy BRAPA and make regular trips outside to peer through the fencing to make sure he's ok. Occasionally, he's puking by a parking meter, occasionally he's vanished, but he eventually returns looking remarkably happy and chipper having used the facilities at the Blue Boar opposite to sort himself out. Trooper! And not a Robinson's one.
With renewed vigour and fortitude, Dad's back in the front passenger seat and our penultimate destination is just south of here in Purleigh .....
Another largely unspoilt old inn, Bell, Purleigh (3539 / 6329) is as enjoyable as the Carpenters, but with a scatty leftfield element which made it unintentionally strange/hilarious. The route to the bar is a real rabbit warren of narrow rooms and corridors, so when Daddy BRAPA goes missing early doors, I'm assuming 'The Puking III' is taking place but the Gents are empty, and he's back at the bar looking right as rain revealing 'I just got lost!' 'Tis a higgledy-piggledy wait for ale as sweaty jolly barmaids pull through a fresh barrel of Crouch Vale Yakima Gold for what feels like an eternity. A beer I'd seen in the last two pubs, it had finally worn me down - like so many Crouch Vale's, 'tis worth the wait. The 'artwork' is 2024 recreations of masterpieces, enough to make anyone feel nauseous but Dad is surely over the worst because he's even eyeing up the elaborate Specials board .... swordfish or something. There's a 'Rosé Festival' on today, like a beer festival for posh people, I notice a tray of fruit salad / meringue/mozzarella outside the bogs. We stop briefly on our way out to 'enjoy' a lady singing, full of Essex talkie bits mid song like "You are the wind beneath my wings (yes, the wind, you really are you know)" which tops off the fun.
One stop to go, a longer drive this one, Dad still in the front but I was feeling optimist for him after his chipper Purleigh display.
But the drive takes its toll. Thankfully, this rural idyll has a expansive gravelly car park and is nestled in the woods so it was easy for Dad to perform 'Pukening : The Trilogy' which was perhaps the most explosive yet.
Again, me & Si went it alone ......
Viper, Mill Green (3540 / 6330) relates to an ancient colony in the neighbouring woods, let's hope Dad wasn't sick on one. Thanks to GoldSim on BlueSky for looking up what's a unique pub name. I was more concerned about an evil wasp which wouldn't leave me alone. Si tells me I'll live to regret it if I twat it to death with a heavy slate beermat, and it is true, as we'll see in a future blog I'd get punished in Northants two weeks from now. For all this pub's heritage charms, I didn't find it an unequivocal success, attractive as it was. Staff self satisfied yokel, especially the pimply ginger lass. And it had been Essex 'foodied' to some extent, clientele a bit 'look at me'. There's a gingerbread man complaining about the shape of his red wine glass for heaven's sake! The ale was top notch, Oakham Citra, you can't go wrong when that's on form. Nice to see Dad on a bench recovering .... I go out to see how he's doing / does he want any water. "You won't believe this, but we've re-signed Oscar Zambrano!" weren't the words I was expecting, but rejoice, Oscar the Owl will be mascotting again in 2026/27. This pub also had the second dirtiest draught excluder on a Simon D. Essex day after Steeple Bumpstead.
Ingatestone station was at least a short drive from here, but poor Dad was grey like a zombie all the way back to Liverpool Street, from where I shielded him from oikish Londoners across the Tube network. Thankfully, 'The Chundering : IV' never transpires.
We sit on a bench in King's Cross station, I even swerve my ESB in the Parcel Yard to look after him #BrilliantSonAlert and after about half an hour, he's feeling strong enough to sip some water, and by jove the colour returns to his face, he's even reaching for a slice of Gala pie ten mins later! It really had been as simple as travel sickness, with West Mersea weakening him to a point from which he never recovered.
Thanks to Simon as always, forgot to give him some 'taxi' money in all the craziness, AND the subject of his forthcoming nuptials (he's currently honeymooning in Sri Lanka and feeding elephants) barely came up, so #BadFriendAlert on my part!
Dad said he enjoyed the day which is a mark of the man. I'm down to 11 ticks in Essex, which is almost very respectable. But my South Essex day will have to wait until the new Guide now .... I won't be Fobbing it off.
I'll be back sometime next week to tell you what went down in rural Worcestershire/Herefordshire the following Thursday, but I now have to start prioritising the planning of my final BRAPA holiday of the 2026 GBG. I'll never catch up on my blogs will I?
Stay well and keep it pub, Si
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