Halfway through perhaps my most spectacular of all Kentish pub ticking days so far (and yes, I HAVE been to Gillingham before you ask), it was about to get even more spectacular at Halfway House, Brenchley (2488 / 4382). Unique, jaw dropping, possibly on loan from the Isle of Wight(?), set in a stunning location, I cannot for the life of me fathom why this pub never gets mentioned in the same breath as your Worth Matravers', Queen's Head Newton's, Seven Stars Falmouth etc. Probably because no one can find it. And good. Let it be our little secret. Because it still feels like a pub. Not a museum piece. It lives. It breaths. It isn't 'knowing'. You aren't greeted with a "consider yourself lucky to be inside our wonderful inn" attitude. No, this is rural Kent at its friendliest. Even the dangerous rusty ancient farming implements strewn about the place don't feel threatening. And if you want a bout of tetanus anywhere, you could do worse than suffer it here. Hops hang everywhere, that's very Kent. It is wooden, multi levelled, it is narrow, every room is interesting, a bit like a funhouse of pubs, but with less Pat Sharp mullet and the twins. Probably all that was missing. "This pub is like a fine wine, it ages well" says the barman where he hears me saying 'wow', 'cor' and 'gadzooks'. I order something called Horsmonden pale straight from the barrel, turns out to be a Kent brewery house beer, gorgeous drop. And I didn't get told off for one of the 5 billion photos I took. Great stuff.
Well, you wouldn't envy the pub having to follow that. Could Petteridge better it(dge)? Which rhymes. Unlikely, but we've gotta go into these doss houses open minded haven't we?
We were really going for Kent pub bingo today with 'dried hops stuck to the top of the bar' for a 58th consecutive pub, the equivalent of 'a pub stabbing or arson the day before you visit' on your Preston bingo card. But here at Hopbine, Petteridge (2489 / 4383), the hops felt a bit of an afterthought (see below) as did the whole interior which was a bit empty foodie bland, but then again, I knew Brenchley would cause me to be a particularly harsh critic. No matter though, with the sun high in the sky for the first time this year, and more utopian leafy surrounds (smallest village green ever?), an outdoor pint was just the ticket. That Tonbridge Traditional, pow, have you ever tasted a more Kent beer? 3.6% AND put much needed hairs on my chest. The loos just HAD to be outside, and they were, under a rusty old King & Barnes sign who were the forefathers to Brewdog according to Colin - he thinks he's funny. And that was that, I could feel the sunburn creeping up one me, but 'with an enormous sense of well being' I didn't really care, and besides it was time to get to our sixth and final tick.
Our final tick took us to the comparatively heaving metropolis of Pembury, just the throw of a badly behaved pub mascot from Tunbridge Wells, which had put in a solid if unspectacular GBG showing a few months back.
The King William IV, Pembury (2490 / 4384) was something of a culture shock after what had gone before, feeling very much a belts n braces town pub 'n all. But looking back, I really appreciated the contrast and my comment on Twitter about it being 'weak' were poppycock. I just couldn't adapt to the lack of dried hops and rusty farming implements and half human woodland creatures. The Bowland was drinking well for a honey beer, another brewery I had not expected to see today. By now, attentions were already turning towards a cheeky late ESB, and having already been scared by a dead pheasant swinging from the rafters and real life Green Man with bushy beard, Jim the Skeleton haunts Colin from behind, so to speak. Jim is a possible relation of leading pub ticking WAG, Christine Taylor, a sort of kind Rebekah Vardy, She was possibly born in this very pub, I'd hate to speculate, but definitely had a (pre-Martin) boyfriend who lived next door. A quirky end to a fine day.
But the drama wasn't quite over as Richard's SatNav didn't quite tell us the full story re how far away the train was from here, and he ended up having to put his foot down, from which we dash into the station, smash through the barriers like wailing banshees, making the train with seconds to spare. Phew, excellent work from Mr Pitcher who Daddy BRAPA has recommended for a BRAPA Person of the Year shortlisting.
After all, if we hadn't made that train, scenes like this wouldn't have been possible ....
And you couldn't end a day of such pub brilliance and beautiful scenery without a £6.40 ESB!
I've got a few 'events' coming up now so I'll most likely be back on Sunday or Monday, for an extended 4-pub blog about the day I circled the drain of Leicester.
Have a good 'un, Si
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