Saturday 21st March 2026
Misty 7am pint at York's premier Wetherspoons?
Tempting as it was, I kept my eyes on the prize and headed down to North Kent via London for a seven tick extravaganza to bring me down to 15 pubs required in the third 'pubbiest' GBG county (behind Greater Manchester and North Yorkshire).
I've said it before and I'll say it again, if Kent is the garden of England, Sittingbourne is the backyard at 25 Cromwell Street.
At least it wasn't the nearby 'Fountain of Ale', surely one of the worst GBG selections in the past five years. Apt that this is a former police station, there was a real sense of 'can I hand myself in for an historic murder I've committed?' about the rabble at the bar / front desk. Golden Hope, Sittingbourne (3331 / 6171), and you won't visit a pub with a less appropriate name all year. An original layout, featuring old holding cells for the crims of yesteryear. You'd think this'd offer a pleasing multi-roomed layout, but all it really achieved was cut-off anti-social suffocation. The carpet, if you can call it that in this threadbare state, must be one of the worst all year 2/10. Now the beer IS good. Child of Jago. Essex. Not Stow Maries quality, but a reminder of why I'd enjoyed that pint so much in 2021. Two goons join me, trading silver cards with unicorns on. Which wasn't really in-keeping with the 'pistols at dawn' demeanour of the majority of early morning customers. Bit sticky too.
Now it may seem inconceivable to the casual observer that I didn't hang around in Shittingbourne to do my other required tick (Park Tavern). But consider that it is barely 11am, my other pub doesn't open til noon. An hour of 'dead time' spent in this town would feel like an eternity.
No, better to use it more wisely and progress myself further towards the Thanet coastline.
Whitstable is next, not Shitstable, and still shy of noon and in need of a wee, time for a pre-emptive 'Spoons. And suddenly, emerging from the grey misty gloom, the sun is out. The sky a sudden flash of brilliant blue. Happy chubby families in flip flops and sunglasses who sound like they're chewing on a box of wasps. Suddenly I felt like I was in Kent.
Ignore our old mate S.Maugham trying to steal the limelight, this 'Spoons is all about Peter Cushing. Main character energy from the former Hammer favourite. Or am I thinking of Kevin Keen? A dazzling art deco jubilant ejaculate with a smatter of old-time horror for the purists. Shame the beer was shite, but I guess it explains its continued absence from the GBG. Carpet 8.75/10.
After kicking a few slow moving urchins to the kerb down the main drag, I swing a right and find the real reason I'm in Whitstable, strategically placed on a street corner half way down.
An airy, breezy bar (I can't quite bring myself to call it a pub), full of flora and local fauna. Fountain, Whitstable (3332 / 6172) just fell short in every category, forcing me to curb my initial enthusiasm I felt when taking the above photo. 'Tis as North London as it is Kent in style. The landlady is certainly very cheerful and welcoming, the same can't be said for the locals or sonny boy wielding a pool cue with menace outside the gents. My Tenterden beer is supped tentatively. One mouthful is glorious citrus hops, the next like licking a pile of sick outside Glasgow Queen St station which we've all done, don't deny it. A local Danny John-Jules type arrives, and soon all the talk is of a forthcoming Easter Festival, full of DJing, decks, spicy street food and boom boxes. Brrapp! Carter USM 'Sheriff Fatman' perks me up once more, only to be undone by immediate 'One' by U2. And that really summed up this pub - sorry, street corner bar.
I ran for the next train, I tell thee! Not had a stitch like that since school. My reward, Herne Bay.
In that leafy bit of park between station and centre, a teenage lass is panicking cos she's ran out of vape charge and I'm so old fashioned, I didn't even know these things needed plugging in!
I lowered my expectations for this one mainly due to the name, Pub, Herne Bay (3333 / 6173). The lack of imagination is stultifying. And imagine getting a smooth Coffee Porter so wrong? KNEW swerving the Goacher's was a mistake. It smelt the part, but was soon fizzy and by the end had descended into vinegar. Again, it made sense as it why such a seemingly pleasant micro hasn't troubled the Guide before, and it ain't a newbie. Turtleneck Duncan Mackay is a pleasant host, spying my GBG from afar leads to shouted BRAPA chat across the room. Which leads him onto Martyn Hillier and all things Kent micro. I make friends with a dog called Sarge (not former Hull City hero Justin Whittle), you can do a bit of snuff off the crook in your hand, or put a record on a snazzy old player. Yes, this was a classic Kent micro which put a bit of care and effort into its ambience and stylings. But impossible to get past that beer.
Tragic to think that at this stage, I was now yearning for Sittingbourne as it had been the last time I'd had a good quality beer.
But cheer up Peter Reid because next up is my favourite town around here. Ramsgate. Never lets me down pub-wise, though a trip to the opticians might be needed because when I glanced up at this, I thought it was a pint and therefore a pre-emptive shout .....
To my surprise, my actual intended pub isn't located right outside the station as I'm sure it was when I walked past it with Paul G last year. But I did end up asking the owners and no, they haven't relocated and looked at me like I was mad as a jumpin' box of frogs.
Just when I'd been losing faith in Kent, Conqueror Alehouse, Ramsgate (3334 / 6174) delivers on all fronts. The third ever micropub invented in the world, so I'm told by a reliable chap. A quality pint in the shape of Mad Cat Unsinkable Sam, 5.2% but you wouldn't know. Locals who say "'hallo" but keep themselves at a safe distance, staring straight ahead into some desolate abyss in their minds eye, or Margate as it is more commonly known. A pleasantly run family affair, the small boy brings his action figures inside, plonks them all over my table, but won't be drawn on that age long Spiderman v Chewbacca debate, keeping his cards close to his chest. The Daddy finally asks what book I'm highlighting so I proudly hold the GBG aloft like He-Man's sword, and it is a shame the chatter only commences five minutes before my elaborately expensive Uber to Dover, with the aim of ensuring today could become a SEVEN pub day.
A first time in the GBG since 2020 no less, but on this evidence, what's it been playin' at these last few years?
But now for today's key tick. A 1pm opener in Dover. With future Paul G. car days in mind, if I can sweep this one up myself, it'd make any future driving less onerous, and with that tricky opening time, its not like you could even do it first.
The shitness potential was higher than some today as I cross the busy road, narrowly avoiding a Somali pirate trawler man, probably. But I needn't worry because the Staggered Inn, Dover (3335 / 6175) was further evidence that no one does Micropubs better than Kent. Unpretentious in a glorious arse-about-town kinda way which only the Dover's of this world can achieve. What a personable landlord. Recommends their own ale, Angel Rangale or something that sounds suspiciously like a former Swansea full back, my next question is (of course) 'where's da loos, I'm desperate?' "I'll walk ya through" he replies. 'Hopefully not right up to the toilet bowl' I'm thinking. He points me through the back room, a group of lads are huddled around a tiny 1980's TV on one of those wheely stands they used to use at school to teach you about stranger danger and birds and the bees. I avoid a dart, wander through a plume of vape, and say 'don't mind me lads, just off for a pee'. On my return, I thank the landlord and tell him Norwich v Charlton is a rather random match selection and he says he's a fan so I ask which team and he looks kinda hurt and says "Charlton of cowse" so I say I'm a 'Ull City fan and he replies "whooooo? Ohhh, Hall!" and then I sit down and drink my excellent pint whilst an excitable dog eats people. At one point, he reappears at my table with a cloth and bottle of Astonish, and squirts it rather too enthusiastically, to give my ale and extra zesty kick late on.
My Folkestone double header is still on if I dash, not only to the station but between pubs and basically necking both pints. And Folkestone isn't a town where people show much urgency about their bodily movement so I did get a few funny looks, though by this stage I was too uninhibited to care.
Echoes of Peter Cushing earlier, Samuel Peto, Folkestone (3336 / 6176) is even more unique because let's face it, those fab art-deco former picture houses are ten-a-penny after a while. This was a whole new level of thrilling. Not unlike the Galleon Bar in Blackpool's Winter Gardens where I've enjoyed many a mid-punk pint of fizzy Murphy's over the years. Talking of fizzy, the beer here is the one let down. Rebellion Smugglers. Had it enough in Berks/Bucks to know it CAN be rather good. To speed me up, I treat the place as the museum / curiosity shop because I know vertical drinking will help get this swill down, so I roam the 8.5/10 carpet where a better book than me will tell you stained glass windows are 1874 originals, there's organ pipes, plaques of local dudes of yesteryear, clouds handpainted on the ceiling, and even two pulpits where (CAMRA's words, not mine) you can 'preach the gospel of cask ale!' God was obviously off sick today.
A bit more dashing leads me to today's final pub .......
Some pub ticks you really resent before you've even arrived, and Firkin Alehouse, Folkestone (3337 / 6177) was the perfect case in point. Rewind the clock to December 2022, and I was on a similar tight schedule with the aim of ticking SIX Folkestone pubs, before buying a bag of party food and arriving back in my London Premier Inn to watch an England World Cup game in Qatar. Was some achievement even if I fell asleep towards the end of the first half, I did wake up for a Harry Kane 'jump on my bed' penalty celebration, spilling a box of Pringles. One of the pubs ticked that day was the Firkin Alehouse, but firk me because a mere TEN days later they moved premises to a different building across the same street. FML! BRAPA rules mean a re-tick is required in those circs. I'd found the staff attitude very poor back then as I enquired about pies, eventually ordering a rabbit one but it was like trying to get blood out of a stone. Today was obviously a blur, but the new place seems more spacious, pubbier, staff helpful, though punters still looked like they wanna cry or punch a wall, but green shoots. On a difficult beer day, this Wiper n True 'Endless Love' ain't all that but time was back on my side so again, I leave Folkestone with a sense of a job well done.
I catch my train to London, get myself back to King's Cross and shock horror, purposefully shun the Parcel Yard in favour of a coffee & sandwich on an upstairs bench. Where's that Waitrose gone? Have they closed it or was I really that drunk?
I'm then hovering waiting for my platform announcement when a repeat of last Saturday's nightmare from Birmingham New St hits and all trains north start to become delayed, and cancelled.
My 20:03 ends up being the last one running, so at least I get sat down but it soon becomes chaos. It even decides not to stop at Newark Northgate which is never a bad thing from my perspective, as we go round the 'ouses. Or Lincs as it is known. Fellow pub ticker Eddie is somewhere on this train too and enjoying it as much as me. We even get a complimentary bottle of water. How I didn't need a wee all the way to York I'll never know.
Guy next to me meanwhile is the stroppiest man-child ever and eats a whole pack of TEN Cadbury's Mini Rolls and a giant bag of Percy Pig sweets, and still he has no energy, intermittently phoning his girlfriend and Mum to complain. "Waaaah, waaah".
Anyway, it proved the easiest delay repay to claim ever (DrossCountry could never), I slept in til 11:57am next day, so all good.
See you next time when we'll see what went down in Ledbury and Worcester.
Keep it pub, Si
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