BRAPA in .... THE BEST LITTLE HORSHAM IN SUSSEX
21 hours ago
12 min read
Wednesday 5th August 2026
It started with the purchase of six Lidl eggs as the sun sets on a balmy summer's evening just outside Horsham town centre. Because if I can't have my breakfast eggs how could I possible face the tough pub agenda I'd set myself?
Back in May 2025, after a successful birthday week in Chichester coincided with Hull City's Championship survival at Pompey on the final day of the season, I'd promised myself that during 2026 I'd get myself back down to West Sussex to attack it from a Horsham angle, where I had four required ticks plus plenty of hard-to-reach rural ones.
Eggs purchased, I checked myself into my Air B&B situated amongst industrial units. It resembled a shanty town with west African women hanging bedsheets outside large open windows, Highlife music blaring all around and yes I know these things because I managed the Cape Coast Ebusua Mysterious Dwarfs in (virtual Football Manager) Ghana a couple of years ago.
The property is MUCH nicer inside I'm relieved to discover, despite signs saying to keep all windows not just closed but LOCKED at all times you are out cos you'll probably get robbed.
The good thing about being situated on an industrial unit was that the locality contains two brewery taps - one GBG, one not, which I could whip in before last orders. Not bad considering I'd only boarded a train from York at 4:40pm.
Tired and 'not really with it', I failed to notice that 'Brewers Decorator Centre' and Brolly Brewery (3562 / 6353) were not the same thing, and was worried I'd missed 5pm last orders! Errm, did I really think they open 7am?
But I finally find the gaff around the back, and after a warm welcome ....
.... no honest, he was a good guy who just looked up at the wrong time. I settle down to a majestic Salted Caramel Devil's Dyke porter which prolly isn't Brolly but I wasn't sure what was. Do they brew beer? All those shiny metal tanks CAN'T be for show.
I probably should have joined the lonesome old dudes on the picnic benches outside as dusk fell, because the Pret a Manger long thin benches indoors offer little comfort, and there's a sense of winding down and 'can we close soon?' amongst alleged brewers and staff. Lots of doors sliding shut, hugging and congratulating each other on battling through another tough day in the world of Horsham craft.
My new mascot was a tiny nameless Broccoli (I didn't have the baggage space for a big hitter like Colin jnr). As we'll see in the coming episodes, he wouldn't last the pace.
Relieved to be outta Brolly before the staff start actively resenting my presence, the most lonesome of all the lonesome old dudes with the fluffiest lonesome dog helps me find a gap in the hedge to take a shortcut back onto the main drag. It is pitch black by now.
Still time for the pre-emptive Horsham Brewery Tap before they call time. I've taken better photos in my life, but can't remember when .....
Look, I won't review it because it might be a 'pre-emptive come good' in the coming years. Whilst the beer quality wasn't QUITE Brolly levels, everything about the place was infinitely more enjoyable.
Apart from the shorts. Broc and his nauseating positivity couldn't stand up after one pint (lightweight).
Time to head back to the House of Bamboo. I was relieved to find the music had stopped and all my belongings were present. I'd brought my own snacks and juice to get me through night one before I did a 'proper shop' tomorrow.
Annoyingly, I couldn't get the TV working. Nearly ended up retuning the whole set! Surely this ain't right. I'll message the property tomorrow morning. Ridiculous they've given me a HUGE folder on how to do the most basic of tasks, but nothing about this!
So I watch 1985 Neighbours on my phone.
Thursday 6th August 2026
A decent night's sleep came to an end about 6:30am when the area just outside my bedroom window (which I'd had to keep open) became a lorry park.
Some hosts leave a complimentary chocolate on your pillow. I'd been left two sets of earplugs. Ominous, and now I could see why!
After my breakfast eggs and remainder of my juice which I'd rationed (and a black instant coffee cos I'd found a random 19th century jar), I took a bus to a place called Southwater, from where I could walk through woodland to pub one.
I was determined to prove the naysayers (i.e. the voices in my head) wrong. They were doubting whether I had the stomach and stamina for the REALLY tough stuff so I decided to start with a pub that was my 'West Sussex Most Wanted'.
A very pleasant woodland walk in truth, far better than the dire shite I'd force myself to do in North Devon a month later #StillScarred
Ten minutes shy of 12 noon opening, I wander around the village trying not to be conspicuous. The only lady I say hello to is rocking some shades and a band top from the 80's (can't remember who, Bananarama?) and without following her so as not to be creepy, I get the impression she's pub bound.
I'm right, she's opening up! Lovely she is too. As in another lady who randomly appears around a corner. 41 consecutive years in the GBG, soon to be 42 and 'tis immediately obvious why. White Horse, Maplehurst (3563 / 6354) is one of the best pubs I've been in all year. Better than the Case in Altered at Five Ways and I don't say that lightly. Salted Caramel Devil's Dyke Porter again? Why not! After some BRAPA chat, I explore and coo over the interior. She directs me to the front saloon bar because this part of the pub is 200 yrs old and most likely to be haunted. But a bloke outside doing some serious hedge strimming means it's hard to pick up any atmos (W Sussex villages always have a lawnmower, strimmer or a bloke up some scaffolding banging away!), and I wish I'd stayed in the side room. Tropical shirted landlord Simon has been told about BRAPA so pops in for a chat. Great guy. Thinks sparklers on beer is wrong, but no one is perfect. Makes a few noises about retiring (don't you bloody dare!) and recalls how back in the 80's, it took CAMRA a few years to wake up to this place being great and were putting in some reet old shit instead. I tell him that's still a trend I notice to this day. Most impressive of all is when he asks about the rest of my agenda for today and when I mention Kissingate Brewery, he looks concerned and in one fluid movement is straight on the phone to their owner Bunny (not a Man City ladies centre forward). He knows they close for a short time in August, and is making sure they'll be open for me. Bunny confirms their break ain't til Aug 31st. What a guy. What a pub.
Before Kissingate comes Littleworth, another regular entrant over the years and a long straight walk down the road from here.
I'd checked the walk was safe, and the general consensus amongst our Maplehurst friends was that as long as I keep my wits about me, I won't get squashed. Despite a couple of hairy bends where I had to get right into the hedge, pretty calm. The last bit REALLY dragged though, and I arrive my usual sweaty mess.
More 'food forward' at the Windmill, Littleworth (3564 / 6355) but I'm pleased to say they've retained olde worlde character. My main gripe were the people. So cold and stand offish. Perhaps I'd been spoiled by the White Horse hospitality? At least it made the presence of pitchforks and various farming implements hanging from the ceiling amusing. Sussex Best or Hophead ain't a beer range I'd take around the country with me, but the latter drank as well as it can in its 'Vapors' era (Turning Japanese - please try to keep up). One punter having a better time of it than me is Scottish Frank Carson. Maybe because his dog Molly is turning tricks (in a non sexual way), somersaulting in the air when thrown a biscuit. One of the barmaids who'd looked like she wanted to stab me in the heart a mere ten minutes earlier records it for her adoring Tik Tok following of 50 and does some 'awwing'. Then I realise my bus doesn't seem to be turning off the main road into nearby Partridge Green (when Dark Star Hophead was yummy, yes I'm old enough to remember) so no idea if I miscalculated or what, so order an Uber to bail me out. Tsk!
After two long walks plus the knowledge that this brewery tap shuts at 4pm, Uber was probably a wise move (I'd considered walking to the main road near Shermanbury to pick up a bus from there but it looked like hard work).
Just like last night in Horsham's Brew Taps, I arrive to a very 'open' kinda set up, a few folk dotted around on seats outside, and I hope I can find my way to getting served without making a fool of myself, so I coo at their awards to buy myself some time .....
Just then, Bunny appears and she couldn't be Bunnier. Unless she had floppy ears and a fluffy bum I suppose. "You must be the chap I got a phone call about earlier, visiting all the Beer Guide pubs?" I feel obliged to apologise for my ridiculous hobby. My one previous experience of beer from Kissingate Brewery Tap, Lower Beeding (3565 / 6356) was an award winning mild in 2021 that tasted like weak blackcurrant squash so I studiously swerve that in favour of a 'Choc Cherry Dipper' which is nearly as nice as it sounds. They won't take payment here and now, ugh, almost guaranteeing I'll look like a criminal later on when I accidentally walk off so I put my wallet on the table as a reminder. Bunny's cultivated a highly sociable atmosphere thanks to her aura, so before I know whether I'm Arthur or Martha I'm sat a table with a chirpy holidaying couple from Basildon. They confess they spend more time drinking Germany and Belgium dry and give me a few tips, but I'm more interested in Basildon's new pre-emptive 'Spoons.
I've plotted an ambitious walk north through the trees, and everyone thinks I'm mad, but at least I remember to pay for my drink. Look, there's even a tough guy by a till ready to crack skulls.
Even in BRAPA terms, this walk is actually bonkers. Despite some nice views ....
Added complications include the button popping off my shorts when weeing behind a tree, and walking the wrong side of a fence and having to retrace my steps which costs me about 15 minutes. On a long straight dirt (cycle?) track, I end up sitting against a tree for a half an hour snack break only to find ants nibbling my bottom.
But the most traumatic part is when I'm actually within shitting distance of Faygate and the scary Crawley Road crossing. I realise I'm accidentally trespassing on private land (Holmbush House) but cannot find a way across so end up deep in private woods, very Blair Witch, only to fluke my way out at a gap in the fence by Faygate roundabout bus stop. Oh the relief, I can't describe it!
Still a bit further because the pub is on a country lane and not in the village itself, and finally .....
Nearly two hours walking, nearly 'croaked' en route (THANKS!), but finally made the Frog & Nightgown, Faygate (3566 / 6357) and yes the pub name might seem peculiar but suits it well, there's something 'iron fist / velvet glove' about the place. A bunch of gnarly old toads bring the 'banter' whilst casually throwing in lines like ".... the first time I went to Borneo". All have kids who can speak five languages. I particularly enjoy the segment where a retired RAF squadron leader in tight salmon shorts tells Sofia to whip her young boy into shape before it's too late. Posh as shit, but reassuringly 'proper' - it was a perilous tightrope to balance but by jove they achieved it. I've rarely felt more like a northern scruff, up in the far corner laughing along at jokes I don't understand. But I appreciate them (especially Mrs Squadron) trying to include me. The frog game is strong, though the lack of nightgown related tat felt like a missed opportunity. Main man Costa, named after a famous coffee chain, is now on the scene in his pristine white shirt with his reluctant weary whimsy, happy to be the butt of jokes like a demure Manuel Fawlty Towers. With everyone planning a trip to Majorca, I felt vindicated in booking today's second Uber. Horsham ain't far as the crow flies. Oh, and Ranmore is a brilliant beer isn't it?
For this pub to get 'de-guided' when it has been a nailed on regular for years felt like a sucker punch, I can tell thee! It will return, surely.
And even worse, my Uber driver proper stiffed me by both taking an elaborate route from Horsham, AND dropping me at a back gate of our next pub which was locked! I'd have given him a poor review but he started being nice about Hull City at the last minute, and I'm easily bought.
Finding the front of the pub wasn't difficult, but every unneccesary step I walked at this stage felt like fire burning in my calves. I get settled down amongst strong wood panelling with a peppy pint of Firebird in the Bear, Horsham (3567 / 6358) on bench seating so deep, it really demands a fatter arse to do it justice. As I remove the BRAPA paraphernalia from my bag for the tick, I realise I've left my nameless little brocolli mascot propped up against the salt & pepper pots in the Frog & Nightgown! Oh well, he's green and knitted so should fit in well with their plethora of frog trinkets! I couldn't dwell on his loss because a nameless, faceless BRAPA follower who lives in Horsham and is out drinking with a mate and says he'll come and meet me and walk me to my sixth tick. I'd ticked the Malt Shovel, King's Arms and Piries Bar back in 2021 (on the day I reached 2,000 ticks) but still had Horsham work to do. He appears! Ian, a Crystal Palace fan. Loveliest bloke on this most sociable of days. What a relief!
After the shortest of walks (thankfully for my metatarsals etc.), we're here .....
Back on my 2021 Horsham debut. I'd found a 'shut pub alert' in Anchor Tap, Horsham (3568 / 6359) - looked like a building site inside. Well here is proof that everything happens for a reason. Bright, shiny welcoming bar full of life, I'm introduced to rosy cheeked Darren who's enthralled by my accent because he's only used to hearing southern voices. I let it be known only a stout or porter can sate me in my current physical state (it repairs bone muscle or something - #BRAPAFact) and the Downlands 'lost weekend' (all lower case cos they're edgy) purrs. See, they don't need salted caramel to make their stouts ace. Bought by Ian, who declares his love for Hull and Sunderland and reveals he's probably a northerner born in a southerner's body. The pub at large is talking about Wiccan and Wicker Men which MIGHT be the reason that when I look at my camera roll a bit later, not ONE indoor photo of the pub has come out properly. All pitch black or containing hieroglyphs. Unless I was drunk?
So instead, here's Horsham's unique church which Ian introduced to me on the way to pub seven ....
Yes, pub seven! I was going to save my final Horsham tick for a rainier day when ticks are harder to come by (tomorrow or Saturday) but Ian reasoned that I'm walking past it anyway, it is a Horsham institution of sorts, and he has a soft spot for it.
Photos (sort of) working again by now, the Wiccan curse had passed. Welcome to the Black Jug, Horsham (3569 / 6360). A touch foody, but had the right boozery spirit and some good bar bantz with the quality dude serving us who'd come dressed as Lewie Coyle escaped from the kitchen via a mental insitution sealed the deal early on. Tom Paine is one of my favourite Harvey's, and felt a very Parcel Yard-esque thing to drink at this seventh pint stage of the proceedings. Ian wants to buy me food because that's a measure of the man he is, but I explain I'd rather get back to my dodgy Air B&B and eat under my own steam. Darren nearly scared a dog on the way in, now he's zoning out a bit so I refocus him by allowing him to do the Stabiloing. He goes for a very different expression from Mrs Basildon earlier, and my phone wen strange again so I had to photograph my photo and repost it so apologies to Darren for the effect. Wicca.
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