BRAPA in .... HOW FAR TO SNARGATE? (Kent & East Sussex Day 2/4)

A bracing walk along the B2080 was the perfect tonic to clear any morning-after-the-night-before cobwebs.

With the train to Appledore (which is as close to Snargate as it is to Appledore itself) cancelled out of Rye, the replacement bus driver makes me feel guilty by telling me he didn't want to have to go this way, but he 'supposes he'll have to despite the low hanging tree branches, harrumph!'

But I'm thankful for small mercies, the weather is dry and fine, my hoodie is a gleaming aquamarine, and the juggernaut drivers are a thoughtful smiley accommodating bunch of vest wearing Ginster eaters, swerving into the centre of the road and giving me a cheerful wave / middle finger. No squashed BRAPA today.

What followed was the fulfilment of all our pub ticking fantasies ....

Red Lion, Snargate (2568 / 4463) lived up to all expectations and then some, which surprised me considering how many of the UK's top classic destination heritage pubs have me feeling like I'm in some sort of charade or museum piece. But no, this was a living breathing pub - a hospitable landlady who looks you in the eye, a jovial bunch of locals bringing the banter, genuinely happy to welcome the pub tourist into their lair (how often we get glared at in rural pubs like this!), and in the backroom where I take my pint and half, a solitary solitaire player and his eventual bald mate, fascinated by my BRAPA quest. Goachers Mild and Fine Light are both excellent ales, and ones which compliment this pub in their seemingly effortless brilliance. I perhaps shouldn't be too surprised by all this, the pub has been in the same family for yonks, run by the famous Doris for centuries before passing it on to her daughter. There's a piano playing ghostly Arthur Askey to my left, a beaming picture of Doris to my right, and I'm reading about ancient pubs in Romney Marsh. This was pub heaven. No weaknesses, and it isn't often I can say that!

There was a classic BRAPA air of inevitability about what followed. A massive high followed by a crushing low. It hadn't been a long walk to Brenzett where the nearest bus stop is .... problem is it isn't where Google pinpoints it, then a deluge of rain, I try to hide in a hedge, but soon I'm soaked to the skin and stranded!

A lady tries to help by pointing at an invisible bus stop, and just as I'm contemplating a walk back to Appledore via Snargate, the next bus appears going straight across the roundabout, and I manage to flag it down from inside another wet hedge, phew! Driver scowls, but at least he stops.

Next stop New Romney .....

In Kentish terms particularly, I find Smugglers' Alehouse, New Romney (2569 / 4464) one of the drabber micros I've visited. Very plain. The guv'nor, whose accent fluctuated between his native Scottish and Kent accents, depending whom and what he was talking about, tells the other customer a very demonstrative irrigation anecdote which involved a lot of hand gestures, and plucking up courage to get go to the loo took me a while as I didn't want to interrupt! Eventually, they spy me GBG (and Brekkie the Sheep, making less impact this holiday than Colin normally would!) and the local, deaf in one ear, proudly proclaims "I've never read a book in my life!" Is that really something to brag about? A cheerful group of locals appear just as I'm leaving to finally 'bring the party', advising me to double check Dymchurch hours if that's where I'm heading next, which it was.

And they aren't wrong. Dymchurch's GBG micro has updated its hours in the last week, and no longer opens today! As luck would have it, the bus driver has stopped for a fag break at St Mary's which buys me more time to make a decision, so I ask if I can stay on to Hythe and he doesn't charge me any more. Top bloke.

Hythe has two ticks, and good, because today was proving a struggle to get them in .....

I had a soft spot for the Three Mariners, Hythe (2570 / 4465), it had a gentle easy humour to it, an aesthetically a pleasing shape and was bare boarded simplicity. My Romney Marsh Best Bitter is a lively pint, a bubble has formed on top of it. This excites a local bonkers bloke with mustard cords who leaps across to my table to point at it and chuckle. But then it pops. He looks sad. And has to go outside for a smoke to cheer himself up, and when his female companion arrives later, he tells her he's had better days!

In Virgin Money parlance, I found Potting Shed, Hythe (2571 / 4466) 'delightfully surprising'. Blink and you'll miss it, and I did first time round. Hardly inspirational looking, but once inside, it isn't the micro I'm expecting. The walls are Stabilo green, the Wantsum 1381 is my pint of the day, and the relaxed companionable chatter of the blokes, dotted around the room, is heart warming. Pig farming seems to be the main topic, they keep smiling over at me as if to say "if you have any pig farming views, please share" but I don't, and besides, Brekkie the Sheep wouldn't forgive me, irrational pig hatred. Conversation then moves onto the great sense of humour of Robin Cook, and then Michael Howard, before I leave with one of those stupid contented smiles on my face.

Via Folkestone West, I make my way back towards my Rye digs, but only four ticks would feel like a failure so I head down to Hastings where I still have one remaining pub to visit (it was closed on Bank Holiday when I visited earlier this year).

And the recent run of surprisingly good boozers continues at this excellent micro, Jolly Fisherman, Hastings (2572 / 4467). It had no right to impress me! Full of yuppies and tourists in a tight space, I think the pub layout and in particular, the booths, are the real game changer here. Too frequently in southern micros, you feel over-exposed, like they have your pants down and are (metaphorically) slapping your arse pink in the middle of a bar-less room whilst being expected to make a telling contribution to the bonhomie, so to have this degree of privacy is most welcome. When a bearded bloke sniffs a cork to convince us of his craft credentials, I feel no malice. When the Spanish Italian family get overwhelmed by the plethora of blackboards and go to pieces ordering, with stereotypical gesticulations and an 'ayaya mamma mia', I smile sweetly. And when Mr Jaunty Hat appears at my shoulder in the gents and says "no one treats me right in here!", I make a genuinely sympathetic noise. I must also mention a pint of top quality murk and the prospect of famous snacks contribute to my well being. I even stuck a tin of Heinz Beans & Sausages on the table, because I felt I could be me in here.

So there we have it! Day 3 coming up tomorrow / Sunday, my steam train was booked, all set to get into more rural climes.

Thanks for reading, Si