BRAPA in .... THE GREAT MANCUNIAN MOP-UP (PART 1/2)
FRIDAY 10th MAY 2024
My first BRAPA trip as an ancient 45 year old took me to Manchester (Prestwich to be precise because it was about £100 cheaper) for a double overnighter and a gig on the Saturday.
After three days of healthy living post-Devon and birthday shenanigans, you'd think I'd be champing at the bit, but I'd picked up a bout of man-flu on the train home from filthy London (not to be confused with dirty L**ds), hadn't slept well in days and was well below par.
But the sun was hot, I wasn't at work, ten ticks in relatively close proximity await, so manifesting positivity wasn't the impossible task.
It starts in a myriad of industrial units somewhere 'twixt Piccadilly and New Islington, wherever that is. I'd already seen Cloudwater and a couple of names I didn't recognise when I reached this, hoping it is the right place despite a total lack of signage. Track Brewery Tap (2799 / 4959) was the name, and i didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the twentysomethings out front so i stride forward with a fake sense of purpose. I'm in luck. Three handpumps bearing a Track logo are the first things I see. I go for the Mild. Far too warm. Nice flavour. Now this might shock you but there is no BRAPA rule which says I 'must' drink the cask (I choose it cos I prefer it, plus I'm following a book that supposedly has one thing in common - quality real ale). It is 23 degrees today. Note to self that when we start getting up past 25 degrees, colder fizzier expensive murk may be preferable. We're short on comfort here too, I think Colin is the plushest li'l bastard in the room. A large plant in the centre breaks it up a bit, but you are very much drinking in a brewery. I guess the expectation is that your craft brewers like Track are such fascinating rock star idols (a merch stall underlines that), you are here for the beer first and foremost, so soft seating shouldn't even register on your list of priorities. Ho hum. I'm getting old aren't I?
Is that Big John over there? Avoid the bogs lads
Back in that central area of Manchester which I always think of as the 'eye of the storm' near St Peter's Square, where no one roams on weekends, pub two was located down the steps overlooking a water feature. A former Pitcher & Piano, no less, as the good folk of Twxtter loved telling me with an unerring regularity.
The sun starved Mancunian massive were littering the outdoor benches in that superior 'Young Professional look at me, look at me, look at me' kinda way which they do so well in Manchester. Society, Manchester (2800 / 4960) was empty indoors with its masses of Pret a Manger benches and Prisoner Cell Block H airducts (good for a quick escape). Belonging to Daddy's BRAPA's go to brewery, Vocation, for exciting craft cans washed down with an Aubergine Surprise, Blue Lights and occasional witticisms from Mummy BRAPA on weekday evenings, I was sad he wasn't here for this one. He was actually recovering from a lads holiday in Dumfries. "I think you'll find it is a gentleman's holiday" he corrected Sister BRAPA when she used the term 'lads'. The Red IPA kicked the shit out of the Track mild , I sat upstairs which was a cross between 90's happy hardcore and a pre-Hillsborough 1980's football stadium. Debaser by Pixies plays. All good.
A painful bus ride follows as I start heading north towards Prestwich for my hotel check in, hopping off in one of the five zillion areas listed under 'Salford' where everyone was either Jewish or topless, but never both.
Our dirty-vested host (important he had some sort of top to identify him from the punters) drags himself up from an outdoor bench with his mates and follows me inside to serve me. Everyone else says 'ow do' and ogles my striped trousers which were so unnoticeable in Central Manc. Star Inn, Higher Broughton (2801 / 4961) may've been a bit rough n ready, but it was community quality. The beer is a quid cheaper up here, and the Brightside drank well. I have pretty much the entire indoor room to myself, unless you count Mr Mister on the plasmas (no.83 in the best eighties hits of all time?) and a young girl who walks past my table just so she can sneer at Colin. It is a beautiful room with its curved green bench seating and wood panelling, sun streaming in. It didn't surprise me though that everyone was outside, toothless and topless. On my previous Higher Broughton visit, the streets were paved with litter and a kid was dunked in a paddling pool as I walked to bonkers Holt's beauty, the Duke of York, so at least I was ready for it this time!
Time to check in to my Premier Inn, buy Tesco supplies for later (I found a trolley at the far end of the car park so whizzed it around with gay abandon like someone who'd just had 3 pints of ale on a hot day), and jump on a bus north to Bury, from where I could get to Ramsbottom, but evening had come around pretty quickly and bus timetabling was getting quite sparse.
Quite a heart warming bus ride up to Rammy's latest entry as I get chatting with a fluffy pink old lady, and a young lass off to meet her ailing Dad, who's fading fast. But trust me, heart warming.
The orange theme continues inside Casked, Ramsbottom (2802 / 4962) and colour me impressed because it is exceedingly rare to find modern bars of this ilk which offer comfort AND colour. So many people on my TwXtter tell me it resembles a Little Chef / American Diner, that they can't all be wrong. Obviously a pub style I go for! 'Pizza' is the more predictable buzz word, and there's a line of men of a 'certain age' with weird grins on their faces, hovering vaguely about one row back from the bar. Staff look desperate to serve. But I don't want to push in. So I turn and ask them all if, seeing as I actually know what I want, if they'd mind awfully if I ask for beer. They grunt a half approval. One bloke who has got pizza'd, beer'd and sat in a window seat is Darren. I ask if I can join him, and through a mouth of jalapeño, he agrees. Soon, he says 'Big Trip?' and I'm about to reply with "you got it mate, no bigger trip than BRAPA, but how did you know?" when I realise he's simply identified my beer, a naturally unfined hazy DDH Galaxy singled hopped IPA, if you allow me to talk dirty to you for a moment. He's a great guy is Darren, loves the BRAPA concept, and we're soon chatting like we've known each other for years. Sadly I can't linger because I've worked out if I leg it (and I mean really leg it), I can arrive in Greenmount about 2 minutes before the next bus is scheduled! And every second counts this evening.
And I really do leg it, in fact I run up the hill out of Rammy and a jolly group across the road see me and shout "that were a proper good effort that mate!" which gives me motivation like a half marathon runner to keep going.
Even better, once I reach Greenmount, I spy a bus stop I'd not noticed on my App and there is a perfectly timed Bury bus 42 minutes from now, bonus! Now I just have to find the entrance to this place .....
Clubs are never the easiest to access, but although there was very much an open door policy here at Greenmount Cricket Club, Greenmount (2803 / 4963) , there was also a huge flurry of wasps, and I had to run through them for fear of a late stinging! Aptly, there is a bee on one of the pump clips (the honey one from Bowland) so I go for that, mentioning to the barman that there could well be a wasp's nest out front that needs looking at. "Ho ho, I certainly hope not!" he replies, like a bloke who thinks I'm creating fiction to justify my beer selection. A group of codgers trod on my toes, having appeared from an unseen side room and tried to push in, this room looked like it was gearing up for a disco later on. The atmosphere had hectic Harvester vibes, families and most notably kids rushing about with Fruit Shoots and plastic cricket bats. I settle on a bench beside the cricket pitch, but there was no escape. I moan about this on TwXtter, but in perhaps the most optimistic and fanciful BRAPA comment of 2024 so far, Steve Brood claims that these kids are the future pubmen and pub women, and I should teach them well and let them lead the way, showing them the beauty they possess inside, give them a sense of pride etc etc. I was glad to leave, unscathed and unstung.
Some buses simply HAVE to turn up, and I'm delighted this one did as dusk starts to fall over gentle Greenmount.
Back to Bury. Quick complaint to the Metro staff they'd closed the loos which draws rather too much attention to myself. Quick wee in that epic Wetherspoons across the way, and a tram back to Prestwich, half wishing I'd got a ticket to watch Sick of it All in town now I had a second wind, but ready for my Tesco snax and day two tomorrow.
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