Saturday 1st November 2025
Uncanny isn't it? And that's not a pun based on the spooky Danny Robbins show of the same name. But it can be, if you know what I'm on about.
With no appetite for our yearly lunchtime kick off at Carrow Road on the part of either Daddy BRAPA or myself (just one new Norwich tick required this year), a 'gentle' car day of Very North Yorkshire was decided upon. After all, six ticks are better than one.
Naughty Little Cousin Pumpy made his annual mascot outing, and whilst his presence got lost in the noise of pub's increasingly ambitious 'Weenie decor, he is loved and I can report he's safely back in the Poundland carrier bag with Steve the Skeleton et al ready for 2026's late Oct / early Nov pub trip.
First stop Whitby. Accidentally clashing with the twice yearly Goth Weekend you won't be surprised to learn. I use Google Maps to devise a 'back route' into the town and he decides to wait in the car, at a safe distance, let me walk up, whip in the tick, and rush back down the hill to meet him.
I'd worn my flowing black 'cape', black jeans and 'Night of the Vampurr' terrifying cat t-shirt to blend in, but I had nothing on the ageing Steampunks as I enter a bustling but not uncomfortable Endeavour, Whitby (3110 / 5951), reassuringly unfussy boozer had not been what I'd been expecting, though I must perch on a posing table beside a rubber vampire bat who is chained to a wooden beam so I can't nick it. We had the exact same one in the Everitt dressing up box when I lived in Saffron Walden. The beer is Laine, or is that Lame? Both. 'Ale of the Dead' really did lack life. I doubt it was intentional. The impressive Captain Cook murals, much like NLC Pumpy, got lost in the noise of the current festivities, and all that remained was to sup up my dross and relocate Daddy BRAPA.
Dad's just pulling into the side of Green Lane as I arrive, perfect timing. We cross the River Esk, and leave Whitters the way we'd come in, minimal fuss, a textbook lesson in how to whip in a quick tick in difficult circumstances.
We trundle up past Sandsend where Dad points out both good and bad pubs/hotels he's stayed in previously, wave at a former BRAPA favourite the Brown Cow in Hinderwell, and onto Staithes, where I'm surprised to learn that you cannot drive down the steep hill to reach our pub, having only approached it by bus previously when I did Cod & Lobster and the wonderful Captain Cook all those years ago.
This must've been a record BRAPA step count on a Daddy BRAPA car day ever. Of course, when RetiredMartin drove me around rural Cambs, he'd delight in parking miles from each pub just for the giggles (NOT that I'm being ungrateful) , but Dad is pretty good at parking within 50 yards of the pub entrance. Royal George, Staithes (3111 / 5952) isn't unlike the Endeavour in being very down to earth in a touristy part of the world where idiots, twogs, twilds and food COULD ruin any pub experience. Chatty barstaff are happy to take my remaining Scottish bank notes. "Ooh look, I didn't even get any Scottish coins in my change!" I chirrup because I'm extremely witty, but both barmaid and Dad just roll their eyes. Cruel! The beer is very Theakston's, but the Old Peculiar and Lightfoot are on stunning form. I didn't nick a sweet from the bloke at the top of this blog (too scared), then a weird teenage Asian family sit next to the loos despite having the whole pub to aim at, flap that they've lost a purse/wallet/jacket, and disappear in a further flap. Decent pub, but a big hill climb in a cape on a sunny windy day isn't easy after a strong pint of OP.
Starting a month which would become Daddy B's 'Monthus Horriblus' where several unlucky (but relatively minor) incidents befell the poor chap, he's fined by Staithes carpark police, even though he'd paid. Seems he may've mistakenly keyed in his own registration number when we were in Mum's iconic yellow peril (if I can say that in 2025), but at the time of writing, it looks like his second appeal has been successful.
We continue to wend our way west, next is the village of Easington for pub three, and with neither of having checked Hull City's score, we realise the game is finishing about now. We weren't expecting much despite Norwich having lost every home game this season because (a) #TypicalCity and (b) unlucky ground for us. I'm still scarred by the 4-0 thumping last season.
So we are astonished to see we're 2-0 up, first minute of injury time. 'Tis apt because the pub is called the Tiger ....
The main man is real stand up guy, as we say in America, exactly the type of hospitality you get in North North Yorkshire, I'd rate them some of the friendliest in the UK. Tiger, Easington (3112 / 5953) is a strong contender for pub of the day, I'm amazed it is making its GBG debut. Can't have always been this good. The 'unfussy' pub theme continues, highly carpetted (but looked a bit juicy!), cosy partitioned booths, distant dartboard, woodburner. The White Rat immediately goes south when he tries pulling a pint, but I'm so buzzin', quite frankly who cares, and where are the Germans? The replacement is 'Puppet Master' by Wensleydale, hang on, Dad looks more like a spooky puppet than a mauling tiger. Tis on cracking form. Not saying our good mood didn't help the pub experience, but I'd recommend this if you haven't been.
West we continue, not far this time, to Loftus where my only attempted pub tick to date (the Station Hotel) was closed at 2pm on a Saturday, but looked nice when I peered in through the window, tsk. A real Loftus-cheek!
We make a meal of finding the pub, and parking, but I'll blame myself not Dad cos I'm feeling charitable.
The goodwill to all BRAP continues here at Ibo's Bunker, Loftus (3113 / 5954), an impressive micro outperforming its pub style xG. Ibo himself, a sort of fluffier Danny Mills who won't go in two-footed on you, with his Japanese wife smiling from afar, reassures me that the Chilli Stout ain't too hot and I'm relieved to find it is very mild, because once in York at a Swan / Slip Inn beer festival, I had to plantpot one because it was absolute fire. The couple opposite find out what my game is, and are actually open mouthed. "That sounds like the BEST hobby in the world!" they coo. Correct. Ibo deservedly gets to wield the Stabilo, then everyone recommends we pre-emptively tick Mad Alice's next door, including my local TwXtter correspondent Andrew Berry, so watch it make the 2027 GBG to piss me off. If you have any wiggle room, make sure you don't make my mistake and pop in for a swift half!
One more movement west takes us to Guisborough for today's only tick that also featured in the 2025 Guide but I left alone because I had nothing else remotely close to tick off near it. Also its hours are incredibly limited.
In fact, everything about Guisborough Brewery Tap, Guisborough (3114 / 5955) is just that, incredibly limited. The main guy is such a gent, and makes us as welcome as is humanely possible given the circs, so I want to say nice things about it, but I'm struggling, the set up was all out of kilter. Only a tiny portion of the brewery space is available as the 'tap room' (it's kind to even call it that), the few folk in are squashed like sardines in chilly, metally surrounds, so the decision to have live music on, in here, on a Saturday afternoon, seems baffling. A skiffly Trevor & Simon - 'does your duvet lose its flavour on the bedpost overnight?' probably. Look, they are excellent, but it ain't right. The forced banter with the awkward looking family in the corner is pretty excruciating, I can tell they want no part of it. Thankfully I'm four pints in so slightly numbed, but no surprise sober Daddy BRAPA is suffering more than me, so after buying a couple of bottles of their toasty roasty Rock Steady stout for tomorrow's Everitt Bonfire Night (which I'm drinking here, a delicious drop) he decides to go and sit in the car to wait for me, which doesn't escape without a few 'comments' which was disappointing I thought. I tap my foot a bit, clap and woop a tiny bit, and try not to leave the great man waiting too long.
Time to start heading sarf back towards home, and in keeping with the season, there's a bad moon rising somewhere close to Malton.
Dad drops me at a petrol station forecourt, where pub six is visible from, and says he'll come and join me once he's parked up.
Cripes, you don't much more un-Malton than the Derwent Arms, Norton (3115 / 5956), a catch-all noisy arsehole sports pub of a place. Huge, that's the highlight. Easy to get away from the trackie clad pissed-up darts n pool players, this was peak Saturday night and I wasn't mentally prepared. But again, my 'beered up' numbness allows me to feel more at home than would be the case for Sober Si. Plasma's galore, I count four different sporting disciplines being shown. The Mad Goose Purity is drinking well, like it would in a good Ember Inn but no way this was an Ember, far too happy. Our gapped tooth barmaid instructs a lad with the worst bum fluff moustache I've seen since I looked in the mirror in 1995 to make himself useful and clean some surfaces. Dad makes a grand entrance through the back of the pub. Despite enjoying not one, but two 8/10 coffees, he's since told me how despicable he found this place!
Time for a quick visit to the Fox, as is tradition? Go on then, it'd be rude not to! Not sure why I've brightened it up with a ridiculous filter to kill the atmosphere it actually had but never mind, you get the gist of a good pub ......
And although it was on great form, as was the unknown stout I annoyingly forgot to record on my Untwappd, I've been reaching 'Fox Fatigue' of late and am going to try and limit my visits here over the next year, and focus on the Volly (Volunteer Arms). Which really proves that you CAN have too much of a good thing!
The following evening, we enjoyed our Everitt Family Bonfire with the Guisborough slipping down very nicely indeed. Wilde Child Hot Fuzz and Wheel of Fortune were the other ales I had, if you care.
So that was all very lovely, join me next time when I'll tell you about the time I met a bloke called Big Les Wade.
Keep keeping it pub ya buggers, Si
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