BRAPA in .... I BEG YOUR PARDON, I NEVER PROMISED YOU A ROSE GARDEN (OF ENGLAND) : Rural Kent 1/2

There have been times during my quest to fully complete the Kent GBG entries when I've questioned whether the famous 'Garden of England' that people refer to has been more 25 Cromwell Street than Blenheim or Royal Botanic.

But today, courtesy of our main man of Kent, Richard Pitcher, I was about to witness Kent at its most beautiful. And Daddy BRAPA in the backseat of a car. A BRAPA first? What scenes.

It started like all great days do, outside Maidstone East station. That was sarcasm, obviously.

Up first, a pub that had been living rent-free in my mind for ten months. Staplehurst might have a train stop, but that doesn't mean the pub is anywhere near it, no that'd be far too simple. Down a country lane we went, arriving shortly before 12 noon opening to discover this idyllic country gem .....

Shortly after the above photo was taken, having admired the beautiful overgrown 'secret' garden, a trio of squashed woodland creatures emerge from a convertible hatchback, similarly waiting for the pub to open. Always reassuring. Especially when the man reveals it is his 'local'. 'Not a bad local to have' says Richard, but the man appears a bit gloomy about the fact "hmph, gotta be someone's local I s'pose". He then tells me about a cracking York pub called The John Bull that closed years ago! Useful info(!) Shortly after 12, we are in. Lord Raglan, Staplehurst (2485 / 4379), finally. Relief as it is one of those ancient unassuming ancient inns which look like they've been shut for the past 300 years until the door creaks open. Landlady looks a bit suspiciously at the prospect of three faces she doesn't recognise, but her demeanour softens when I offer to pay in cash. Like she now realises that I too am part squashy woodland creature, and not a pashmina loving yuppie from Ashford. Double Vision cider (with worryingly little information on the pump clip!) would've been the 'fun' option (I could hear Colin calling from my bag "DO IT DO IT DO IT" but Goachers Fine Light was the sensible choice, and kept to perfection. We sat amongst the creaky old furniture, heavily hopped interior, as more gnarly oak-faced local dudes arrive, drinking in the Goachers and the cracking hubbub. Superb pub.

Next up, another place with a train, Marden. Rather posh, Richard tells me. Kids come here to play lacrosse and eat caviar in Marden after school, or something like that. We were slightly on edge, I tell ya, because we were entering CLUB territory, the scariest type of all GBG ticks cos you just have no idea what'll happen.

Deep breath boys, we can do this!

The door is steadfastly shut at the Village Club, Marden (2486 / 4380), a sign that suggested to me that riff-raff and outsiders will not be tolerated! I press an intercom buzzer, wondering if the door will be 'released'. Then a street dwelling local appears at my shoulder and appears to try and swipe us in, but all at once in something of a flourish, the barmaid opens the door and invites us in. And what a lovely lady! We'd been expecting quite the opposite but she's so personable and chatty, and the locals (and the place is quite busy) don't even bat an eyelid at our presence, and we are sat dead centre of the room. No guestbooks need signing, no charity donations needed for a biscuit tin, no GBGs had to be displayed, I didn't even have to show the BRAPA tattoo on the inside of my left thigh. Easy as you like. Richard even feels emboldened enough to mildly slag off Master Brew, but she fights back with 'our best seller, no one keeps it better than us' guilting Richard into a half of it! 'How was it?' I ask later. 'Tasted like Master Brew' he quips. Wasn't too keen on my Gun milk stout, felt more like being stabbed in a bramble hedge! Was it supposed to taste like this? Daddy B's pale ale was perfect. Typical! Not the most 'exciting' tick of the day, but such a welcome and homeliness in a club cannot be underestimated. Would recommend.

We continue to wind our way into deepest, darkest, leafiest Kent for our third pub of the day, courtesy of the ever reliable Pitcher-mobile.

All life was present at Chequers, Laddingford (2487 / 4381), in fact we lament the ridiculous amount of cars on the doorstep stopping us from fully appreciating the frontage .... 'a sea of flowers in the summer' according to the GBG. Well, I saw a toy frog with a watering can in a hedge. And inside, a fluffy otter admiring the money raised for charidee. #JusticeForKLO Now if only I could see the bar? Joking of course, it is lit like a Christmas tree! And Tim Taylor's Light Mild (Golden Best) is not a beer I was expecting to see. Barely see it ooop north these days. Never mind down here in the filthy sarf. I start a rambling monologue about my Golden Best experiences down the years which is (a) very boring and (b) isn't really going anywhere (I might even be talking to myself) but then I realise the bar staff are so engaging, they are listening intently, keen to offer their input, which was a bit embarrassing cos even I don't have a clue what I'm saying. What impresses me most about the place is that despite a posho wedding do going on, sandwich platters and colourful macaroons are being wheeled into a side room with unerring regularity, the generous staff and general warmth of the place meant it still felt like the hub of the village. And down to earth. Very impressed. Imagine if I'd been here on a quiet weekday, I might've been talking about this in pub of the year terms!

Strategically placed bar stool for the blockers. Deuchers on too. This really was 2007 pubbing.

So there we have it, halfway there, which is funny cos that's the name of one of the pubs in Part Two, which will either be out tomorrow or Wednesday depending on how energy sapping this heat is.

Ta for reading, Si