BRAPA in ..... LINCS-IN-THE-COTSWOLDS : OXON PT III

Saturday 4th April 2026

Easter Saturday, or National Bass Day to those who celebrate (anyone else see the decisive question on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire?' the other night) began in sunny breezy Charlbury, waiting for a bus north to Chadlington as Storm Dave rattles the perspex. GBG super-regular, the surprisingly wet-led Rose & Crown sadly isn't open yet or I'd be whipping in a swift half.

I'd slept like a log on my second night in Bicester, which won't surprise those of you who suffered through Part 2's Good Friday disaster class.

My weirdly self-inflicted man-flu now felt more like a muffled warm pillow over the face than the jabbing spikiness of yesterday, an improvement of sorts.

I convince a Chinese couple of little English that yes, this is the right way to Jezza Clarkson's Farm, whilst two old yokels read newspapers and hog the seats. They have no intention of catching a bus, it is just nice to be out in the fresh air sneering at faces they don't recognise.

Opening early is the Tite Inn, Chadlington (3359 / 6159). Typically Cotswoldian, upturned nose-in-the-air dining with the pretence of 'village local'. Providing you're a known face. The dark curly haired barmaid serving me has even had some rhinoplasty to match her aloofness. "I'll go for the Cotswold snoot" she probably asked the surgeon. I ask if they sell Mini Cheddars so I can do a 'Cheddars in Chadders' gag on X/BlueSky, which would've amused you all. But no. Fear not, I still have the packet I bought for Dad in Aynho last night, only for him to tell me they don't pair well with coffee, so I have a defiant nibble out of view from the staff. My pub experience is elevated from desultory to joyful when two blokes with vaguely northern accents, Dave and Jamie, ask what Ivor Panda is all about. This leads me into BRAPA chat. They're delighted I know the Clickem Inn at Swinhope, we're soon sat together, taking photos, and I even have to do an impromptu five second Facebook video message for the Clickem Inn landlord about how much I like it! The nicer barmaid takes us a photo, but when the lads start trying to charge their electric bikes outside, they revert to type and start chuntering about them traipsing leads in and out of the pub. Dave is the garrulous one who can't sit still, he works in 'windows' and asks the pub how original theirs are. But their biggest BRAPA contribution is a passing remark that one of my five required Lincs ticks, Luda Brewery in Louth is now shut long term. I'd swerved ticking it so far because I thought 'on paper' it sounded flimsy and unlikely to last the pace! I do double check the facts though cos can you really trust a guy with a 'Making Grimsby Great Again' hoodie. I mean, did Grimsby ever stop being great? With two ticks for the price of one, I chat a bit more to Jamie cos he knows how to sit still, and then I get myself back to the bus stop.

At the bus stop I recognise the lad as someone else who works in the pub, and he's quite pleasant. He does a passable comedy routine about how 'Storm Dave' would sound if it could talk, and then laments how he no longer gets to eat pasta because his boyfriend is gluten-free!

Chipping Norton is the only means of escape to get me back on track for pub two, but with no ticks required here this year, I visit two pre-emptives whilst waiting for the connecting bus south.

Chequers is a former GBG entry, a fine ancient Fullers house with high quality International Women's Day guest ale. It'd be great on a snowy Tuesday night in Feb, but it is a shambolic mess of food, kids and dogs. Possibly the most despicable lady of the entire holiday lets her dirty little French bulldog called Twatface or something crawl all over me whilst I'm trying to check bus times on my phone!

By contrast, the Kings Arms is a sleepy jaded boozer, very Un-Chipping Norton. Beer a bit fizzy, folks watching TV, the young bar lad who sounds and looks very Cirencester has a rant to me about how difficult it was to get last orders called the previous night, and I try to nod sympathetically but struggle as he's only addressing me because everyone else has turned their backs, literally.

After a ridiculous sneezing fit which amuses my fellow bus-waiters, I'm delighted to be outta Chipping Norton and back on track.

But slightly perturbed when the bus fails to go through the village of Stonesfield like I'd expect, so I press the bell in Woodstock instead. It seems the bus alternates between two different routes.

Replacing last year's dining dullard the Punch Bowl, is this year's dining dullard King's Arms, Woodstock (3360 / 6200), I'd nearly missed it during the cross-ticking process last September because I didn't think Woodstock would be so cruel to mix it up so soon. Even Jim's all seeing spreadsheet didn't have it listed, and I had to contact the great man to get it added! The recent spate of 1* Google reviews centre around staff who don't know what they are doing, and the one-paced service today is suitably comical. A sweaty diddy Andy Hamilton moving at snails pace and breathing heavily. Not ideal when you can see a bus to Stonesfield due in a very swift 23 minutes. The punters inability to stand AT the bar (rather hovering five yards back) compounds my misery, and I rest in a nook, gurning! Firstly an old lady and her powderpuff padded granddaughter spend five minutes getting a bottle of water and two tiny lagers. I nod at the leathery blonde as if to say 'don't worry, I know you are before me', but five U.S. jock students who don't understand British pub protocol lurk behind wanting five more Neck Oils. HSB isn't the easiest pint to neck by any means but I'm not missing this next bus on principle after this shambles. 'Tis a superior pub to sit in than the Punch Bowl in all honesty, and the HSB is far superior to the local slop I endured there .... leather blonde's boyfriend's mind is blown when he learns that Eton is next to Windsor despite having been bragging about his trip to Guinea-Bissau and discovery of Alternate String Theory, good grief.

Gurning from my nook wondering if I'll ever get served

Ze bus is a couple of minutes late in any case, and the only other passenger is a bloke dressed as Wonder Woman with Easter bunny ears and a little bucket full of paper eggs. He looks miserable as sin which is hilarious in the circs, and it seems an apt time to text Daddy BRAPA, ask if he is home safe and remind him of the dysfunctionality of Oxfordshire.

Promising signs. Attractive peaceful village, fine old inn with an interesting almost triangular shape once you are inside, and rare for rural Oxon, all the shiny baldies turn to greet me with a smile and an 'alright matey!' and I doubt that EVERYONE is from the Market Rasen area this time around, so I'm taking the win. So, White Horse, Stonesfield (3361 / 6201) , where have you been all my Ox pub ticking life? How come I'm only hearing about you now? Well, it soon becomes clear. The Hufflepuff beer huffs and puffs. Probably my worst pint of the week. Not take backable, but had their been an M. Taylor-esque plant pot in my little cubby hole area, I'd have been tempted to give it a pour, I tell thee. Shame really, Hufflepuff was my favourite H.Potter house as I used to listen to a W-Rock (Wizard Rock) band called 'Tonks & the Aurors'. And if that's not a BRAPA deep-cut reference, I don't know what is. As I wield the green Stabilo, I realise that in all the rush of my Woodstock experience, I'd failed to notice that I am now 'in credit' for this year's Good Beer Guide. Yes, I've finally beaten the churn! So every tick from here til September is new uncharted territory.

Talking of unchartered territory, it is still a surprise when the bus actually arrives because Stonesfield doesn't seem like the sort of place that should have buses, ever.

Back through Woodstock (booo, please no THIRD pub in 2027), getting ever more south and closer to Oxford proper, I stumble across today's fourth.

Pub of the day is Red Lion, Yarnton (3362 / 6202) and it comes as no surprise. When Dave 'Komakino' Sladey drove me around his manor last October, I met this lovely landlady at the excellent Red Lion in Chinnor. In the throes of a dangerous pint of Rev. James Reserve, she tells me her two daughter's also work at GBG pubs. We later met one of them at the also excellent Cross Keys at Thame. So that just left Jess, and I remember her name because I made a 'is she like Postman Pat's cat?' joke back in Thame which impressed absolutely no one. I recognise her from some online stalking, so when she makes a joke about someone going on holiday to Norfolk, I make sure I laugh along to set the ground work. Later on, I swoop back up to the bar, show her a pic of her Mum highlighting the GBG (I didn't get other sister cos the Rev James had kicked in by then and I lost all discipline), and ask her to do the same, which she gladly does. A quirky couple pretend to read in front of the fire so they don't have to talk to each other, I have a second sneezing fit because this man-flu is trying to work its way out of my system, and the Trunk IPA by Twisted Tree is a zillion times better than it was in Fewcott last year. Oak Taverns, I've enjoyed every one of their pubs I've been to so far.

Not a black and white cat

Already running dry of Oxon ticks by this stage but still three to do in Oxford itself. I decide to focus on the tricky 5pm opener (EVEN ON A SATURDAY, TSK), and save my others for tomorrow when transport options are limited due to it being Easter Sunday. Gotta have a strategy!

In the northern suburbs, but easily walkable from the station I find the Harcourt Arms, Oxford (3363 / 6203) comfortable in its own skin, as you'd expect from a 5pm opener in a city. In fact, our non-pasta eating Storm Dave impersonator from the bus stop earlier reckoned the hours are a deliberate ploy to help them stand out from the opposition. A Fullers range with Titanic Plum Porter as a guest, it drinks brutally, guess I'm out of practice. Pleasing one roomer, deep green and red benches. A lad at the bar is just back from Denmark. Because I smile at that, he asks if I'm Danish. I tell him no but I'd love to visit Scandinavia. I also ask if he saw much in the way of lego, mermaids or Jan Molby, but he confesses he learnt absolutely nothing of the culture. An even more upsetting moment late on .... the pub dog has been roaming around looking naughty for a while when he spots Ivor Panda, rushes over, and takes a small bite out of the poor lad! I manage to wrestle Ivor to safety and back into my bag. Then a bloke walks past, tells me the dog is a 'good boy', so I tell him 'no he's bloody not, he took a bite out of my panda!' Bloke looks confused, which in the cold light of day, I can understand might've seemed a weird sentence, especially as Ivor was out of view at this point.

Having only ticked five today, I spot a post-emptive close by which I'm sure has been in several recent Good Beer Guide's, so decide that even if I pop in for just a half, I can still have a much needed early night back in Bicester.

Old Bookbinders, Oxford looked like a micro, pleasantly decorated with the ale drinker in mind, but acted more like a gastro today. I nearly went L**ds Pale cos I was feeling slightly 'out there', but at the last second, I changed my mind and went either 'Spring Break' by GK or 'Deer Stalker' by Ramsbury, can't remember which but think the former. After realising the dining claustrophobia isn't to my taste, I head outside and share a bench with a Bristol City fan. He's not an oik. Hard to believe I know. In fact, he has a handwritten notepad and a fountain pen, and putting my tatty GBG to shame, in the most fantastic calligraphic stylings, he makes notes on his various pub visits. I nearly asked if I could photograph a page, but chickened out. But it was a quality tome, and a fine way to end a pleasant and mostly uneventful day which was a relief after Good Friday.

I'll see you tomorrow (29th) , approx 8:30pm, for the BRAPA month end review.

A day early, but that's because I'll be ticking on 30th at the beginning of ANOTHER holiday.

See you then, and keep it pub, as I'm sure you will.

Si