Friday 10th November 12:35pm
Ribbit! All aboard the Village Hopper on the penultimate day of my time in Northamptonshire, a county that does beer and people very well, and pubs quite decently!
"Return to Cog-en-hoe please" I say. Cue much guffawing from our driver and assembled local crones. "Love it when non locals get on and pronounce our villages wrong!" she chuckles, telling me it is actually 'Cuck-noe'. Cuck noes how I'd have been expected to know that!
I'm given a further lesson in 'Bozeat' and off we go, everyone is dropped off at their front doors in various out of the way villages.
In Cogenhoe, last customer on, with my return journey in mind, she instructs me exactly which gate to stand in front of, and exactly how to position myself because "you'll see me before I see you!"
She says it'll be about 13:50 which gives me 33 mins.
Royal Oak, Cogenhoe (2525 / 4683)
33 minutes is more than enough. It isn't bad, especially if it'd been in Lincs, which it wasn't. Just a touch too plain, overly formal foodie, and with the seats by fire and leafy bits already taken, I relegate myself to a posing stool to the left. Timmy Taylor Golden Best (a Light Mild, no less) is a relatively interesting beer choice, the other notable feature being this odd couple in the death throes of their desserts, now all over each other in a strange contorted Pepe le Pew type of way. Made me itch.
Mrs Hopper is as good as her word, in front of the gate at 13:50 to take me back to Northampton.
We pick up one of the old men from earlier, he spots me, gives me a devillish smile and says "did you enjoy Cog-en-hoe then? Hohohohoho". Just mean!
From Northampton, I take a bus to Wellingborough, another of those grey Kettering type towns though I see a few softer edges here. I'd been to the Coach & Horses last time I was here, a real lesson in 'quantity over quality', but let's see if today's two similarly named pubs could deliver happier outcomes.
Little Ale House, Wellingborough (2526 / 4684)
I spent the majority of my half hour stay in this tiny box micro feeling awkward but faintly amused. A bit of a skin crawler. Guv'nor is a natilly dressed character, and a selection of locals provide quirky chatter. Despite the intimacy, none of it is in my direction. I feel both a bit too visible but also very invisible! I'm reminded Delapre (a beautiful dark beer from Great Oakley) is pronounced 'Della Prey' in our latest Northants pronounciation lesson (unless you are REALLY posh, Tom had told me last night). Someone is in Belize. A couple appear late on which emboldens me and I'm able to get a few words out, but only in 'guest character paid by the word' form!
An annoying 20 minute walk away from the centre in the direction of the trains (which don't connect to Northampton, one of my biggest bugbears this week) takes me to a similarly named second micro.
And if the two are linked / owned by the same folk, they certainly don't feel it .....
Little R'Ale House, Wellingborough (2527 / 4685)
Stepping over a huge sleeping dog just behind the door, passing a collective of one time visiting blokes who'll laugh at anything, and behind a humourless young woman who has a three hour commute back to Lutterworth, or is it Market Harborough, I'm propelled head first into this intimate pub experience. Reminds me of an off-season Santa's Grotto. I'm happier here due to the transient clientele, as I don't feel so conspicuous. My GBG is spotted by the lovely owner dude, I get a free taster of Roman Way thrust my way, the jovial dog gang (just dog sitting it turns out) ask me about Essex ticks, then a young chap from other corner pipes up "I think I follow you on Twitter." Big up to Tom Shaw everyone, woop woop! I left with a smile on my face, and that's never happened in Wellingborough before.
Only one tick left today but by gum, I have to work for it. Back into the town centre, sly wee behind some bins , a very delayed bus, a very frustrated bunch of Friday evening commuters and then a driver who gets cross when my card doesn't scan first time! "Give it to me or we'll be here all night!" he barks. Alright mate, chill ya beans. But I make it in one piece.
Rushden Historical Transport Society, Rushden (2528 / 4686)
Up on the platforms at one of those 'not an actual station but let's coo at how useful it once was' throwbacks, there's plenty of hardy drinkers on the outdoor benches, or smoking and leaning on old railway carriages, because it is packed out inside this former ladies waiting room which hosts the bar. Gas lighting, festooned with old beer and train photos and posters, this reminds me of last night's Albion in Northampton. Especially when I get on the Phipps. As I go in to stroke #PubCat Thomas, I'm referred to a sign which says he's very grumpy and hates being touched. At one point, when I return from the loo, he's sat on a side cabinet trying to swipe me round the chops (I later see him being dangled upside down by a drunk local, no wonder he hates people!) Anyway, the local couple who told me this let me sit with them and are great company - they have a hipster daughter who works from home, and bladder sympathy as I tell them I need a bus back to Northampton. Cracking club this, worth the painful bus to and from Rushden.
To break the journey, although I'm on the outskirts of Northampton by now, I decide to pop in to a pub which had been recommended to me by Ayesha of 'Road to Morocco' fame.
Bold Dragoon, Weston Favell, Northampton (Post-emptive)
Northampton, Friday night, sidestreet boozer, I shouldn't be too surprised that it feels like a winding down from battle of the Somme. I peer across a sticky bar top to order the sweetest Proper Job I've drank in my life. A couple of pissed Prosecco mummies ask if I'd like their broken hand mirror, but then tell me off for accepting it because it'll bring me seven years bad luck. Meanwhile, a large group of 18 year olds split into two tables - boys & girls - the girls soon get bored and go outside to smoke, the boys sup Old Mout Cider, and discuss gaming strategies and Chelsea FC. Far too many Chelsea fans in Northampton I find. Perhaps they enjoy the misery? A better pub man than me, his name is Eddie, told me this pub made the GBG quite recently, but on this showing, I'd be surprised if it usurped any of the current crop. Someone squints at Colin and shouts "Where's Patch?", I don't know what this means so leave before it gets weirder.
So that was that. A tough day, but I was at the point now where Northants ticks were harder to come by.
I had a decent plan though for my final hurrah, so join me tomorrow night for tales of that one.
Thanks for reading, Si
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