BRAPA in .... THANK SPENCER : SOME TICKERS DO 'AVE 'EM (A STORMY DAY IN LINCS)

Saturday 21st October, 10:38am

"DO NOT TRAVEL UNLESS YOUR JOURNEY IS ESSENTIAL!" comes the LNER announcements every five minutes, squashed into the edge of a vestibule, unable to get anywhere near my reserved seat, on a farcical York-Kings Cross train journey, Storm Babet having 'ravaged the country overnight™ '.

BRAPA IS essential travel, I hope that much is clear. The birthday party ladies, trying in vain to pass plastic flutes of Prosecco and tubes of Pringles up and down the carriage, believe their journey is essential too. Strong doubt. But they tell me they've been planning it for months, and if I squint hard enough, the blouse in front of me looks like an 8/10 pub carpet.

Spalding had been the aim (I was booked to Peterborough), but that line was underwater, all trains today now cancelled, so I decide to bail at Newark, improvise, and hop into a fortunately positioned taxi - I notice the Newark Castle-Lincoln line is running two hourly at best.

I felt a bit chewed up and spat out as I emerge from our Polish mate's vehicle, but here I was, pub one, only 11:23am. Result!

Must've been the travel trauma, but it takes me a good ten minutes to realise I'm in an Ember Inn for the first time in ages. I can normally pick 'em within seconds! Centurion, North Hykeham (2475 / 4633) ladies and gentlemen, scruffier and more 'lived in' than your Ember standard. I approve. Old Peculiar is the perfect drink for this occasion, not often even I'd say that pre-noon. Barmaid is particularly scatty, two people at the bar seem one too many for her to deal with. The tempestuous swirl of the carpet pattern is mirroring the current UK satelitte picture (7.75/10). One of the four lager lads in my eyeline sings the 'Neighbours' theme tune. I suddenly feel at home. Before long, three of them decide to leave, one stays for another. "Don't leave me on my own!" he wails. "You can talk to 'im" says one of the others , pointing over at me. I give him a theatrical wave and a big smile. And that guarantees he doesn't make any further eye contact until I leave.

Just around the corner, buses run to the awkwardly situated village of Bassingham. It really felt like my best opportunity to get this ticked. But it nearly doesn't happen as the bus driver tells me they are only going as far as a closer village due to a flooded road.

Almost ready to give it up as a bad job, a second bus arrives a couple of minutes later and to my delight, the driver tells me that they are indeed going through to Bassingham. Different route. How I'll get out of Bassingham, well I'll worry about that once I've had a swig of beer and done the Stabilo'ing!

Exactly the same letters are missing on the inn sign at the other side of the building, I guess that offers a certain symmatry to life at the T'Bug On, sorry, Bugle Horn Inn, Bassingham (2476 / 4634) - a pub of two halves, with a popular back dining room and a far pubbier front where I base myself. I perch at the bar, not oftten you'll see me do that, but it was all part of 'Operation : Escape from Bassingham' with no bus due til mid affternoon! A degree or two too chilly if I'm being super critical, but in the grand scheme of Lincs village pubs, it was nice to find a boozer you could call boozehole! Greene King guest Fresh Legs is on form. A kind chatty hospitable landlady with a facial tic is the perfect person to explain my morning 'struggles to', a motherly soul, and we're soon joined by two locals, a confident chatty bloke called Spencer who clicks with me instantly, and a shier Man Utd fan, who chats eventually. Nice chaps, I also make sure they can hear my 'transport struggles', laugh at their jokes, and try and make the odd comment about the Merseyside derby which we're all half watching. When Spencer starts making noises about leaving soon via his car in a Lincolnwards direction, I do a bit of emotive futile Stagecoach bus app checking, and being the legend he is, he offers to drive me back to the main road so I can pick up a number 1 bus to Coleby. Life saver. Had to stay for an Abbot Ale to fill in a bit of time, but I could manage that!

No Bass in Bassingham, but nevermind!Spacebarsuddenlynotworking

So we trot around to Spencer's car, he pops the Cruzcampo and coke in the back so I had a bit of leg room.

One of the lanes is severly flooded, enough to scare a none Lincs local like me, but Spencer explains the key is to drive through it very slowly, I hold my breath, and thankfully, we don't float off into the abyss, or the Trent, or whatever they call it.

When I explain buses from Welbourn are hourly but Coleby (where my pub is) has a half hourly service, he says "I may as well just take you to Coleby then, only just up the road!" - this was getting better and better, what a legend, I even ask if he'll mind doing me a photo outside:

Not all heroes wear capes, but they do drink Cruzcampo, and I buy Spencer a half before he returns home to the 'tasks' he has to do. We stand in the garden of the Tempest Arms, Coleby (2477 / 4635), an apt name in the conditions but it seems the rains and wind have finally abated. A watery sun pokes through the clouds as we cast our eyes towards Derbyshire, and Spencer points out a bit of Peak District landscape. When he leaves, I go back indoors and the highly switched on / desperate staff are quick to talk me into an extra half before I've even decided I want one, or checked bus times, or finished my first pint! And that first pint was Bateman's XXXB, a beer that messes with my sobriety more than any other. By the time I was on my half of Haka, I was practically doing the Haka, so I go off for a number 2 which calms me down. Then it is bus time.

The bus does its job and soon I'm up in Lincoln for the final tick of this slightly curtailed day.

I'd been holding off on my final Lincoln tick because (a) it is a 4pm opener on Thursday (b) it is up that annoying steep hill called Steep Hill and (c) I was expecting the new GBG, if not to de-guide it, to put something else new in Lincoln in, but it didn't, so it is finally time to fully green Lincoln for the first time in BRAPA history.

Up Steep Hill I went, totally paggered cos I set off at a rate of knots, overtaking all and sundry, but when I reach the top, I am bent double for 3 mins puffing and panting and all the people I overtook on the way up stroll past me. Terrible tactics on my part! Look at them all, gah!

After composing myself, it is time for today's fourth and final tick ......

BeerHeadZ, Lincoln (2478 / 4636) exceeds expectations in so far as, with the exception of that cracker on Nottingham station, I've never been particarly enamoured with their other offerings. A bright mural, a healthy broad age range, 50/50 male/female split, cute but attention seeking mutts, not to mention a decent pint of an Ossett/Abbeydale brew called 'Discover Ossett' (been there, done that) are all ingredients towards pub success, even if I doubt it'll live as long in the memory as say the Victoria, Strugglers or Golden Eagle. I notice Hull City are labouring to defeat at home to Southampton, and that was that!

All that was in my mind now, with all ticks in the Lincoln area complete, was getting back to York ASAP in one piece. Forget pre-booked trains, I can't believe much ticket inspecting was taking place today, so I just hop on what I could and it all went very well .....

My only slight moment of panic was when I had a flashback at Newark Northgate on seeing the loos out of order, but this time, I was sober enough to recongise some hastily erected portaloos just outside, to save any more near arrests.

Four ticks might not seem great for a Saturday, but it felt very much a big win in the circs.

Join me on Friday, where it'll be getting hairy in the Walsall area, in brief!

Si