Thursday 9th July 2026
The squashy nature of the above photo suggests I definitely wasn't able to stretch across a two-seater on the 8:18 York to King's Cross Grand Central service. What my neighbour made of Colin Jnr. I cannot recall.
With 19 ticks remaining, Surrey was in a unique BRAPA position of being a county that requires serious attention, but is also easily achievable without the need for an overnight stop.
I decide to attack it from the eastern corner today, where pubs/beer are generally better than that NW Stainesy pocket which must be one the weakest English real ale regions.
Having said that, 'Heatwave : the Revenge' hits the south east today and I wasn't relishing ale in 35 degree heat so soon after my Somerset holiday ended in a sweaty chokehold.
'Tis about time they start naming these heatwaves. You know, like they do with storms. So we can say things like "That bloody Simon's just destroyed an area the size of Rutland".
London Bridge. Oxted. Bus to Tatsfield. Ordnance Survey walk across fields. A shiny dome is soon leering at me from behind a hedge like Gregg Wallace. Titsey Brewing Co Taproom, Tatsfield (3531 / 6321) to give it the full depressing corporate nametag. And I'm sure our Gregg would make a 'Titsey' joke. Nonsensical out of town spaceship like a new build League Two football stadium, on the plus side it couldn't be more open bang on noon. The cavernous industrial shed is gaping, fans blow much needed cold air. The staff are present in body only, not mind. For all brewery tap's limitations, and there are many, a bit of try-hard sycophantic bar work is usually enough to raise your spirits briefly. Not here. I have to wait until the staff coffee's have been made, lemon slices chopped and menus shuffled before they so much as look at me. I pick the keg IPA, today ain't the weather for beer heroics, even in a Tap. Colin Jnr is eyed with a disdain you only find in rural Surrey/Norfolk. Elder coffee lady suddenly winks at me. Bit of a turnaround! An annoying gang of elderlies insist on sitting at the table directly behind me, despite the place being HUGE and EMPTY. I move outside when they start diddling my arse, but the hooray Henry's have arrived by now and are all like 'oi oi, let's get the lagers in lads'. I ring for an Uber back to Oxted, then a beer lorry blocks the entrance meaning I have to go and stand on the main road to find him, just to put the cherry atop a difficult experience. As Taps go, only Guisborough and Cheddar have pissed me off more in 2025/26.
When Uber-man Mohammed asks if I was waiting long for them to pick up, I confess "once I stopped being a tight-arse and paid the £1 extra for 'priority', you picked up pretty much straight away!"
Well, I didn't think my comment was THAT funny but he's laughing so hard, he has to briefly pull onto the hard shoulder whilst he wheezes "tight-arse! hahahahaha". He's still repeating it when we reach Oxted. Well, I'm glad I brightened his day.
Maybe the crummy brewery tap had lowered my expectations, but I'm surprisingly impressed with Oxted Inn, Oxted (3532 / 6322) as Surrey 'Spoons go. The highlight is a freezing cold Titanic Plum Porter. It could've been a disastrous choice, and in winter I probably be chuntering about the need for room temperature dark beers, but not today. Deep cellars you see. Service with a smile , and a friendly witch who refuses to cross me on the stairs "...We'll both be cursed!" she cackles, almost as much as Uber Muhammed. It wasn't even a proper staircase, this is a rare low level 'Spoons. 8/10 carpet, and some plush booths bedecked in random railway memorabilia. Yep, this pub definitely passed it's 'Oxted inspection' (thanks!)
So that was my two eastern outliers sorted, time to head into mid-Surrey and by gum that heat was oppressive.
Return to Redhill. Is 'shithole' unkind? I remember it well from those Coviddy times, when Sir Quinno enquired as to whether I'd be visiting this next pub (non GBG at the time) so I took a photo from a distance and sent it him. Probably should've gone in.
Inevitable it make the GBG at some point but I like to think my pre/post-emptive game has improved over these past few years.
Time to exercise that sphincter, because the Garland, Redhill (3533 / 6323) is Harvey's only tied Surrey house. A beautiful pub, and seven is the most extensive range of their beers I've ever seen. I'm far too long in the tooth to get gooey about beer range, but it was nice to see a couple of fruity light ones too. Not that they're ever gonna go the full Deya / Cloudwater. And I somehow knew their ale would be kept perfectly, which this Pells Pale is. Cold and very wet! A jocular sort of dude is propping up the bar, telling anyone who'll listen (so me and the landlord) his entire drinking history. I eventually go to hide behind a pillar when he reaches a pint of Watney's in Northampton, NYD 1967 cos quite frankly, this monologue was out of control. And the landlord had dropped me in it by going to get his haircut, mid session! A likely excuse I thought, but he returns a few mins later with a sharp trim, so fair play. I enquire as to the WiFi code but when I query the second and third last character/digit, he gets a bit arsey with me but in my mind, no guarantee in my mind it was '01' based on past pub WiFi code experience. Impressive pub.
I continue to work my way west, next stop Dorking - not sure which one of their stations I arrive at because there's about 500, but at at least I remember Dorks being a decent pub town back in 2021/22.
I had a new tick here but I wanted to push myself for five, so take a bus up to Mickleham where I ticked a funny ethereal outdoor fairy shrub hole called King William IV six years ago. Didn't feel a big enough place to have two pubs, but here we are .....
Such a shame the Shere Drop was utter bab, because I loved the Running Horses, Mickleham (3534 / 6324). Not many Surrey pubs pull off the 16th century schtick (not many pull off a 'pub schtick' to be honest), but this had genuine age, fireplace and proper seating. The locals too, with their West Yorkshire bellies and smirks are remarkably un-Surrey, expressions like they've just farted and are incredibly happy about it. I hadn't meant to choose cask with no questions asked, but the Danni Minogue spearmint blue eyes and lilting Aussie laughter of our barmaid had been so disarming, I temporarily forgot myself. I nearly even asked her if Julian McMahon really was a bastard and why the second half of Home & Away's 1989 season dropped off so badly.
At the bus stop opposite, I'm admiring the village church when a giant group of young French ladies run over the hill. Their leader asks me if the bus goes to Dorkeeeeeng, which I can confirm, and it reminds of the time I took a bus to Churt and a group of French tourists pronounced Haslemere as "Haz-le-Merreh" to much amusement.
Back in Dorkeeeeeng, I tell the French leader 'good luck' as there's something very sheep dog / flock of sheep about the way she's trying to shepherd her flock, and I power my way into the backstreets for a much needed fifth and final tick.
Surprise pub of the day late on comes in the form of Falkland Arms, Dorking (3535 / 6325), there's a #PubCat with a long tongue, a growly band of regulars making the loudest southern noises I've witnessed today. Leg tattoos, common sense, top bantz and a bit of 'how's your father?', but literally genuine concern for the old man. A World Cup theme dominates but it's more Mexico '86 than Utter Yank 2026 Nonsense. The ghosts of Joao Havelange and Stanley Rous haunting Infantino. Ray Wilkins wanders through, but then turns sideways, and goes backwards (of course). There's a L**ds Utd scarf but I'm ignoring that because this Ranmore is pint of the day. Only cask on, GO FIGURE, even out stripping that sensational Plum Porter in Oxted and the quality Harvey's in Redhill. A wonderful late flourish to a tough but rewarding day's pubbing.
I had to work hard to make my train, and I'm temporarily distracted as I bump into our erstwhile French leader (not Napoleon) again for a quick stop 'n chat but not sure where her troops had gone.
Back in King's Cross, time for a swift one in the Parcel Yard? Of course!
Comin' through Madam, don't block me off with your Timmy Mallet-esque fashions .....
Ashamed to admit that I purposefully swerve the ESB for a light pale. BAD MISTAKE. Then all the trains got delayed probably due to the heat. So I didn't bother with York Tap which was probably a wise decision as I had work in the morning.
Join me on Friday or Sunday when I tell you about Daddy BRAPA's pukey day in mid-Essex.
Keep it pub, Si
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