Wetherspoons Dover, there is no better way to light the blue touch paper on a late May Bank Holiday weekend of pub ticking, I'm sure you agree. Eight Bells (2495 / 4389) is the name, which I could just about confirm, squinting through the scaffolding. I then had to barge past a rather mean looking collective of gnarly bulbous nosed smokers, doing their best to hold the pub upright, clutching at the poles. Did I mention Poles? Yes, there were a few of them too dotted about vaping out of carrier bags. Dover was my last decent sized Kentish town with plenty of ticks to go at, and although my overriding feeling at the end of my two days here was 'not quite the shithole everyone reckons', this was a rude awakening! Once inside, the scene is more serene. Red walls, low, deep, a gentle thrum, a smiley older couple seem to appreciate that I'm going around the walls reading about Dover in the olden days / admiring the seaside ladies of yore! A 7.5/10 carpet helps, and £2.07 is a very specific but also very pleasing price of a pint. It didn't look a nice pint (Wantsum 1381 if you care), but it tastes and smells decent, and that's the main thing. A good start, onto pub two!
Unbeknownst to me at the time, pub two is my local. A stones throw away from my 'apartment' which ended up being a one bedroom set up, having to share a bathroom with a refugee family with about 10 naughty twilds who all woke up at 5am, not to mention a tattooed man in a vest who looked a bit like Sting and Gazza, who I kept bumping into in the night.
I couldn't bring myself to give it a poor review because it was clean enough, bed comfy, I obviously just didn't read the small print properly and was expecting my own private house! Oh well.
Pub two is this, just after noon.
There was such a throbbing Harvey's vibe about White Horse, Dover (2496 / 4390) , it could almost be in Lewes. I'm in at the right time, because this is a nailed on tourist hot spot and the place is kitted out for an imminent feeding of the masses. Whilst I love the perfectly formed green and wooden interior and tight beamed corners - a pub of much personality, I'm not a fan of the graffiti on the walls - which someone tells me is a ritual when someone has swam the Channel, they come in here with a black marker pen and start bragging about it by defacing the pub. Not sure that makes it right in my book, reading about how Chad, Bud, Brad and the Arizona 7 Relay Team have beaten their 1992 record doesn't seem in keeping with a traditional old English boozer but maybe I'm just turning into an old curmudgeon. But fear not, the Harvey's is behaving itself, and I find this beautiful suntrap garden reaching up towards Dover Castle - and although I scare a barmaid by twice colliding with her, I soon realise, in terms of my overall pub happiness, it's better out than in (which is what I normally say about Sussex Best Bitter too).
I'd had no idea just how far out of town my third tick was, but it is kinda good news because I have far too much time to kill before I can check into my demonic accommodation at 3pm.
Along this little river, ducks splashing around, teenagers on bikes with cannabis, the sun really beating down now, you could almost be in France (!) I find my third pub loitering in the shadows like yer dodgy Uncle Clive.
Built from scratch using local raw materials by a couple who moved across the road and thought "coo, wouldn't it be swell to build a brewery tap/pizzeria place just over yonder!", I'm quite impressed by Breakwater Brewery Tap, Dover (2497 / 4391) because the lady who greets me is fab, starts plying me with the kinda tasters that proper #Pubmen don't ask for but accept out of kindness / because they hate socially awkward situations, and telling me history and facts like what I've written above! She's leaving soon, for good, anxious to get the right person in to replace her because you know, places like this only work if the folk are amazing. It's quite funny when she's telling me how much great progress they've made in terms of 'spreading the word' locally about Breakwater, when right on cue, this lively local trio bound in like Labradors in heat, exclaiming that despite living just around the corner for years, they've never noticed this place until today! She tells me there's a beer festival on nearby if I'm interested. I'm not, obviously, but glad she said. The Cow Juice (a chilly milk stout with icy udders) drinks pretty good, and the place feels like a less moist colourful sauna. I don't want to be a doom (bar) merchant, but I have a few concerns for its long term future without someone like her at the helm, but we will see! Read this in five years and let me know if its still going strong!
I don't really want to do a 4th tick before I check into my accommodation at 3pm because I have evening 'plans' extending beyond Dover. I do walk straight past Louis Armstrong though, a pub not the man, due to open at 3pm, it is now 15:01, looks incredibly cobwebby, hmmm, plenty more on that in parts 2 and 4.
Still with a bit of time to kill, I pop into a non GBG pub called the Red Lion for a pre-emptive half. It feels a bit tired, the only other customer is a dangerous neck tattoo bloke, 'we built this city on sausage rolls' rings out from the jukebox , landlady looks bored out of her tree, the Wadworth 6X is in surprisingly good condition and the carpet is excellent.
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