Back in Grantham after some ridiculous long walking, so when I finally hop off the (delayed) bus in town for the mad dash to two pubs before the train home, I can hardly move my legs and hips, and I'm shuffling down the street like a mad robot.
This was up first .....
I was expecting big things from the pretty, timber framed Blue Pig, Grantham (2516 / 4410), or at least I was expecting a bastard love child of the Thomas Tallis Alehouse in Canterbury's with Maidstone's Olde Thirsty Pig. But Lincolnshire isn't Kent, this pub hasn't been in the GBG for many years (2010), and we know that the 2023 edition seems to be the year of the wild card entrant, so perhaps the writing was on the wall before I even entered. And such graffiti would read 'pretty shit experience'. Surprised to see just the one ale on (though often a good thing quality wise), as I glance around it is maybe telling that everyone else is on the lager. A gloomy bunch of barflies if ever you saw them. "Ignore the fact it is cloudy, it is absolutely fine, it is fresh on!" implores the barmaid in a pre-empting flourish before I've even noticed. But this tastes like no Adnams Ghost Ship I've ever supped, and because she's stolen my thunder, I don't feel comfortable questioning it. The atmosphere is surprisingly lacking, despite what looks a historically sound, nicely carved out interior. I was happy to leave a bit more than the dregs (let's face it, it was all dregs), plonking it on the bar as I leave hoping she might Celine Dion it and think twice. I'm hoping in 2024 CAMRA play it a bit safer with their entries and stop trying to 'showcase the talent out there' cos it isn't necessarily in existence.
Luckily, Grantham's other long term absentee (according to the pub ticker Jim's spreadsheet, complete with its pivot tables and formulas, a real game changer for me this year) would provide a happier experience ......
We go even further back to 2006 to find the time that the Beehive, Grantham (2517 / 4411) last darkened the GBG. Well, I should say illuminated really because this was everything the Blue Pig wasn't. I dodge some rowdy pool players, before a chirpy landlord serves me a 5.2%er called Mighty Mo. Packs a punch, very dry, peculiar aftertaste so wasn't too convinced, but a darn sight better than that Ghost Shi*. Men who smell of hops growl angrily about the absolute state of Premier League football. I'm sure Grantham have a non league club lads. The carpet is easily an 8, despite the thin tread and lack of shag pile. I'm sure it is Shake n Vac'd (is that still a thing?) every morning. Bench seating stretches across the far side and although my neck is now starting to chafe due to sunburn, I'm as content as I've been all day, in what has been both a physically and mentally exhausting test of the BRAPA resolve. I wish I could linger but that train time is fast approaching, so the appealing looking Railway Club and station micro will have to wait for another day. Thankfully, I think I'll be seeing a lot more of Grantham in 2023.
Two days later, I'm in much more familiar territory. A Saturday 7am train down to the South East via London King's Cross with Daddy BRAPA and Colin. He's had has fruit loaf and coffee, have you?
Eastbourne was the chosen location, as East Sussex starts to push its way into the BRAPA stream of consciousness for the first time in our nine year history.
Hastings had been such a success, it'd be interesting to see how Eastbourne compares.
It was SCORCHIO, even hotter than Lincs on the Thursday, but this time I was prepared with my hooligan hat, bottled water, sun cream AND some pretty cheap shades.
We walk out to our furthest point first, and what a peculiar set up Eastbourne is. Station is slap bang in the middle of nothing, with pier and beach 20 minutes one way, the old town 20 minutes the other way, and it was in that direction we head, to a suburb called Ocklynge.
14 minutes shy of noon opening, Daddy B crosses the road to apply some gentle pressure ...... #PubMan
We'll pretend that the doors pinging open two minutes early at 11:58am is all his doing, after all who could argue with a look that in European fashion circles is widely regarded as the 'Bruge Chic aesthetic'? Welcome to Hurst Arms, Eastbourne (2518 / 4412). Regular readers will know I'm not the wildest fan of Harvey's, but when they get it right, they really get it right. And besides, a knowledgeable man from Kent called Richard explained to me that the reason this beer 'goes through me' is because they use a very specific centuries old strain of yeast that my simple northern bowel cannot comprehend, thus the reason for my own lack of strain. If you get my drift. This Harvey's pub is a beauty, and the barmaid is an absolute star, chatty, welcoming, and a bit quirky. Loves Colin, and tells us later on "I'll be in the shed if you need me". Before that, she recommends a 'pale ale' called Armada, but when we get it, there's nowt pale about it! Pale in Harvey's terms maybe. A grand drop though, mercifully cool, and it sinks well (sorry, too soon?) The pub gives of an all round aurora of wet-led, understated oozing class, which is rare in this day and age.
So there we go, another three pubs BRAP'd. I'm only 1 month and 2 days behind on my blogging, hurrah!
I might be back tomorrow. It all depends on whether my toe (that I don't like to talk about) passes its fitness test and I end up going to York pubs with friends, or staying in.
Si
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