I thought I'd finally cracked the DrossCountry morning train trauma, I really did!
A 6:40am service starting at York (not the evil north east) is two trains stuck together meaning I could spread myself across an almost empty carriage. BLISS. I even texted Daddy BRAPA "this train is the future for Saturday trips to Brum!"
It was calmness and relaxation all the way to Derby, when the guards start rushing up and down like maniacs. One eventually abruptly declares that this back half of the train won't be continuing south.
End result? Squashed into vestibules on a four carriage train at peak commuting time on a hot day. Cheers Drosscounty ya dickheads!
My shoes win
After a second coffee and a much needed sit down at suffocating New Street, I continue my journey south to Worcester Foregate for my most ambitious #ThirstyThursday to date.
There had been logic behind my super early train down (and 8pm train home), it was the only way I could tick a much anticipated heritage pub AND my late opening Worcester spare on the same day without staying overnight.
Dudley Duck and Black Country Ales passport - had to be a West Mids day!
I rush across town (city) for my Worcester bus station debut, a surprisingly Doncaster Frenchgate affair, and board a rare bus to Upton-upon-Severn.
I have history here. Embarrassing history. Drunkest I've been in my life history.
My mate Jigalo lived here in 1999. I went to stay for a week. He worked in a pub. I hung around at the bar watching 'Only Fools ...' with a stoner fireman whilst he finished his shift. He plied me with these free bottles of Pina Colada. I drank them like Yop drinks / Alcopops, not realising they were mixers. When we hit the pubs for Grolsch and Stella later, I wasn't in a great state.
Ended up being carried back to their house by Jigalo and his father Trevor, physically being unable to put one leg in front of the other. I remember trying, it was so frustrating! Locked myself in the bathroom to puke in loo. Fell asleep on the bathroom floor. His mother June, always an anxious soul, panicked and got a screwdriver to unpick the lock. I staggered through into the bedroom, falling over his drumkit and ripping his Eddie Vedder poster vertically. I had a cymbal stand groove/bruise in my chest for months afterwards.
The following morning, we sobered up with the walk on top of the Malverns and this plane came overhead, yards from top of our heads. I lay flat on my stomach on the top of the hill and laughed that this wasn't a great hangover cure. Then we probably got back on the lager.
So there's every chance I've been in Ye Olde Anchor Inn, Upton-upon-Severn (3541 / 6331) without realising. I always thought Upton was the chavviest of Worcestershire's pretty towns, indeed Daddy & Mummy BRAPA found it the grotty lowlight of their recent holiday down here. But today, there's a Blues Festival and if Upton is a turd, proof that can be polished. Even better, it wasn't supposed to be open pre-noon. Great news, I now didn't need to retrace my steps back here later on. Less great news, the local council deem that in the circs, all beer must be served in polycarbonate. I guess that's why they call it the Blues. The trio of friendly female bar nymphs are fighting over serving me and when one who didn't tries to put my ale through the till under her name, she gets admonished. I ask them why they are being weird and they explain they've got a competition on to see who can get most orders through during this Blues weekend. Good vibes, better pub. 1601, it had delicious windows, ancient beams. Yup, 1999 Grolsch Oik 19-20 yr old Si wouldn't have appreciated the beauty. Then a few weird random locals come in and the same complaints/apologies about plastic glasses are rolled out, but Butty Bach (a beer I ain't fond of) drinks better than usual.
It ain't a massively long walk to my relatively isolated second pub, but the OS path doesn't fully exist so I had to improvise a longer route around a field, but still child's play compared with recent Somerset.
Past the condiments etc. I go .....
Much like the Peyton at Stoke Lyne, I got the impression the pub was pissed off that the national press had discovered it, though surely they weren't FORCED to stick a banner up, maybe it's vintage too ....
Into a narrow central corridor, where a distant rural voice shouts "sloide the door" (gotta love a good slidey door) and I'm in the delightfully freezing fusty front bar confronted by a wizened moustachioed old lady who deserves her own ACV slapping across her forehead. Welcome to Three Kings, Hanley Castle (3541 / 6331), my most highly anticipated remaining Worcs tick and I'm determined to get all these similar endearing old stagers done over the next 12 months. Some evidence of hoarding, I randomly open a wardrobe and an avalanche of papers nearly suffocates me. My fault for over exploring. But the peaceful main bar is a joy. Only a never ending stream of posh school kids walking through the village constitute any noise until CRASH, a gaggle of West Yorkshire bandicoots arrive. How do know they're West Yorkshire? Because like vegans, they have to tell everyone. Thankfully they fuck off outside so I go up for a dilemma chat with our landlady. I know they won't have WiFi (just like I knew I'd have to pay cash) but I am a bit stranded (without going back to Upton which would feel like an admission of defeat from here, I've got my eyes turned west towards Herefordshire). She tells me there's one specific part of the village church I can lean on which might give me a signal. The Smoked Porter wasn't too smoky, just like she said. Time to see if I could reach civilsation, though I tell her "I might be back!"
No signal luck even leaning flat against the warm church wall like a gecko. But I have a memory of a dining-looking pub on my bus route to Upton just a village away from here. And the road has a pavement! And dining-looking pubs often have WiFi, I can feel a plan forming.
The scariest section was actually walking along the back of the school field where a bloke with a loudspeaker is giving out 'Sports Day' announcements and I'm just praying it is all egg & spoon and sack races and NOT javelins and discus lobbing.
The pub finally looms, by gum it was a hot walk but made it .....
Swan, Hanley Swan even has a healthy selection of ales. I grew nicely into my St Austell Liquid Sunshine after fresh arse-disinfectant beginnings. Bar lad is good value too, accidentally applying staff discount - 20% off for me after he presses the wrong button on the till. I tell him I deserve it after recent travails. He nods in deference. I sit in a leather armchair. Interior quite bland, but anything would feel so after the Three Kings In a weaker pub region, I could see this making the GBG. In Fife, local CAMRA POTY 40 years running. I can see Herefordshire from here, and my Uber cheat comes good. I was feelin' pretty happy about life. Let the day resume.
I picked the wrong pub to be dropped off at but we'll come back to that. I was still getting a fairly obscure Herefs. tick in.
One I in fact had walked straight past on a 2017 walk with D&M BRAPA - sadly the 'breathtaking' views our walking guide alluded to were totally fogged off!
Not in the Guide that year, but I'm still kicking myself for missing it, although I'd have probably had to pretend to Mum that I was popping in to use the loo and necked a half at the bar. Malvern Hills Hotel, British Camp (3543 / 6333) oozes class and high standards. I feel like a sweaty scruff as the gentlemanly staff set the tone in their pressed white shirts and dickie bows. Meanwhile, two Dickie Bird's (older men from West Yorkshire, how did I know? Yes they started telling everyone) spoil the ambience by talking very loudly about qualified electricians in the Mirfield-Dewsbury corridor of uncertainty. 'Owzat?! The bar has splendid oak curvature, the carpet is relentless, and the Ledbury guest is a 5* vibrant dream. I'm planning a long walk through the woods to reach the Chase Inn at Upper Colwell when I notice I've written in my GBG 'mid afternoon closure'. So yep, I should've gone there first, dang!
So I traipse back to the nearest station where all the trains are on a 'go slow' due to hot tracks. I have a spot of lunch whilst a bloke who looks like Sting in shades drinks tantric water hides in the bushes.
Hereford next, and I hope I'm not overstretching myself because this train journey + walk to pub has seriously eaten into my time.
But my one remaining Hereford tick is also a Black Country Ales tick, which I'm determined to get 'full house' on in the next twelve months so Orange Tree (3544 / 6334) felt a very worthy pub to get done. I wince at the sight of the handpumps. Not because BCA put loads on even in hot weather (they generally keep them very well, and Mudgie is dead so I can now say this openly without fear of reprisals) but because there's one called 'Brewed Bellingham'. And I'm still feeling the pain from last night's defeat to those cheating Argie bastards. 'Too soon!' I wail to the barman but he assures me it's a beauty receiving rave reviews, and THRIKER, superb pint. I sit on some classically BCA benching, scan the small array of books behind me. One's on the Falklands. Fate having a little giggle there. A curious Canadian couple sit down. Very twitchy. Whispering 'Do we go to the bar? Gee whizz, what happens now?' Then an Aussie lady says 'hoiiii!' coming back from the loos. Hereford loves a tourist. It ain't even that pretty. The carpet holds it's own, 7.5/10, but I can't afford to miss the next Worcester bound train.
Back in Worcester in timely fashion for my 5pm opener. A fair old trek once more, this time over the river to a part of the city I've not really needed to venture into before. Blink and you'll miss it, I did!
Surely 'micropub' does a disservice to the timber-framed antiquated joy that is Bull Baiters, Worcester (3545 / 6335). We'll go with Ale & Cider House as it says on the sign. Delicious coolness. I'm wincing in England anguish once more as I spot the guest 'Let's Get Kane'd'. I just fear these beers will have turned sour overnight. Our unintentionally hilarious host reassures me of its quality (she ain't wrong) and we fall into chat about the game. "Don't you know? They're replaying it tomorrow night. Too much Argentina cheating!" she tells me like it is fact. I have my doubts and glancing at her phone, suspect she's got sucked in to some YouTube conspiracies. Expanding on her theme, she tells me with an amazing degree of fake confidence "....Take the winning goal .... Messi wasn't only offside when he received the ball BUT when he crossed it in as well!" I stifle a smirk and as she goes to look in a distant bookcase, possibly for a football rule book, I can finally sit, sup, cool down and admire the fine innards. A tricky tick to get done, and I reckon I'll need a couple of overnighters if I'm to achive 100% Worcs glory cos these Kempsey Green Street's won't go away, but I'd made good strides today.
I was strict with my 25 mins here because if I was willing to risk a slightly tighter train back to Brum, I could whip in my 14th last BCA tick nearer the station .....
The poor Worcester relation to GBG regular BCA pub the Imperial Tavern, I'm very impressed with the Saracen's Head, Worcester. Despite having to keep one eye on the clock and trains throughout, I'm still able to enjoy it. A canny Geordie sits down near me with the nearest cask he can find to Newcy Broon and asks me why so many people in here are wearing red? I peer around the corner and he ain't wrong, I'm the only other non red wearer. I'm tempted to tell him it is the Sunderland AFC Secret Worcs Old Boys Society (SASWOBS) but he looks a fragile soul. The Oakham/Thornbridge 'collab' is hazier than it should be, but still great. Possibly related to the red gang, the guv'nor sticks his head around the corner and tells us both we're welcome to help ourselves to the #WineWesternsWotsits style buffet, ready at 7pm. That's my latest leaving time! Why is life so cruel? I manage to grab a couple of bits for the road, but only like the odd slice of salami and stray olive. Grrr.
What I could've won
Worcs and Brum journey legs both go fine despite the odd minor delay. Back in York and defintely sober, I treat myself to a last orders York Tap pint where my fave Miss Wet Nose is working. Reward for a big effort today.
So that was an intense but rather great #ThirstyThursday. More cups of this ambition will be required in the coming year as I creep towards 80% completion.
I'll try and be back tomorrow for a bit of last minute Cambridgeshire, but if not, Month End Review on Sunday before my final holiday of the 2026 GBG.
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