BRAPA in ... THE ROMANCE OF NORTH BEDFORDSHIRE : GULLET FOR MY VALENTINE

Saturday 14th February 2026

It was all change on the Grand Central from YRK-KX on this unusually dry, sunny Saturday as Welsh mascot Brekkie the Sheep makes a rare start. As usual, he made zero impact on proceedings.

Another substitute came from Sainsbury's, my regular Arctic Coffee replaced by an evil Starbucks Tripleshot Espresso. Creamy mouthfeel. And didn't I need it? Slightly hungover from a Slip Inn / Costcutter bottles / Hull City v Chelsea on TV / Jenny's Fish & Chips with Daddy BRAPA the night before.

St Pancakes to Bedford follows, and because it is alphabetically the first county in the book, I never feel happy having unticked pubs in Bedfordshire.

First swift tactical revisit of that splayed arsehole of a local 'Spoons, Pilgrim's Progress, where an ambulance woamn with defibrillators are ready to restart the heart of a bloke who has had a bit too much already, on this most apt day of the year. A cute old man in a bobble hat tells me he's going for Rev James because he likes to support all things Welsh. I should've got my Brekkie out.

In retrospect I should've visited the Brewhouse & Kitchen rather than here, the only recent years Bedford GBG tick I haven't done. Never mind.

Uber man Shishu had a reg plate to help me remember his name and we whizz off to Pavenham. Yes, a bus was only 40 minutes away but if I could get off to a good start, I can get a connecting bus to Harrold an hour sooner #AlwaysThinkingAlwaysDrinking

He deserved his tip for telling me that he'll wait until we know the pub has opened. 11:59am, but no need for Shishu to linger because the entrance door is gaping one minute ahead of schedule ......

I daresay I won't be the last person to enjoy cock this Valentine's day ('it was at this moment that Si realised that the 'British Guild of Beer Writers award' wasn't coming home for another year) but the Cock, Pavenham (3264 / 6105) was a serious contender for pub of the day, parlouresque in its step-back-in-time brilliance. The armchair by the woodburner has my name on it, not literally that'd be weird. Whilst none of the four ales on particularly appeal, the Tribute drank steadily. The welcome is friendly too, from staff and punters alike. A wet-led pub, how rare must these be in these parts in 2026? (well, if you don't count the occasional Friday night chippie van). And by the way, what a shame the GBG description spends more time apologising for this than showcasing the pub's true beauty .... take the Skittle table for example, doesn't get a mention. A young farmer is getting a bit of practice in. The pub team lost were gubbed at home last night (the Hull City of Northants Skittles) but are still 2nd in the league. Roger arrives, straight into the loo, and everyone plays 'guess what Roger will drink?' My money is on Tribute like me, but sadly, I don't see the outcome as I've been told 'don't stare at the dog' (he'll want biscuits from you for life!) It had been a great start to Beds pubbing, it wouldn't last.

There is no bus stop on this side of the road. That always makes me nervous. The stop opposite offers reassurance ('for buses to the middle of nowhere, stand on the other side of the road') and sure enough, a bouncy Grant Palmer bobs along, jolly driver refusing to let pot holes ruin his mood, and I'm the only person on it.

'Harrold!' and yes, I did say it in the voice of Madge Bishop off of Neighbours (RIP) as I walk towards this thatched enticer.

Miss Immaculate Conception greets me with a beaming smile, the most 'front-of-house-slender-attractive-blonde-and-definitely-not-ombre-haired' young lady you could hope to welcome you in. I explain that I'm only here for a drink, even venturing that perhaps I'd entered through the wrong door by mistake, which she finds slightly amusing, because no, Oakley Arms, Harrold (3265 / 6106) is an unapologetic restaurant. I'm told off for taking my pint to a table full of cuttlery "we're getting busy soon" (if you say so!) and instead I'm asked to perch at one of two stools at the bar, even though a tray of glasses mean resting your pint glass is difficult. I'm sensing a touch of mean-girl energy from our host behind that gentle exterior, sniffing a lot (lemsip required?/ cocaine habit? - delete as appropriate) and morose lanky Ryan Giles gets bossed about a fair bit. On the plus side, the Tring is quality beer. Toad or Pig. I went Pig cos I've had Toad a zillion times. She eventually offers me a lower seat, hurrah, but I couldn't feel any more scruffy or out of place. (Pulling out my tatty GBG out of my bag and highlighting it felt like the equivalent of taking a dump in the middle of the floor). But give the devil its due, this is a warm and carpetted and if you were a posh Beds person in for lunch, I'm sure you'd be impressed. The beef looked less pre-packaged than York's Black Swan, I'll say that. But by gum I was glad to leave, and I bet they were glad I was gone too littering the place like a tramp!

Heartfelt thanks to the handful of you who at various stages over the past couple of years have suggested I download the OS Maps app. Game changer! In the way bustimes.org was in 2014.

Being able to zoom into Harrold, find myself, and then that black dotted path offering a shorter route across fields to Turvey was quite the thrill. Especially considering the pavementless busy main road according to Google street view.

Shame I'd worn my brand new cherry Converse instead of walking boots but you can't teach stupid. Despite the sunny day. the ground is saturated with the sheer amount of rain we've had this winter, a muddy swamp in places. Keeping my footing is a struggle at times as I cross fields, hurdle stiles, even nod at a pony. It takes me an age ......

Looks nice, wasn't at the time!

Civilisation is finally reached at the edge of a football pitch (Turvey North End?), I give my muddy caked shoes a good scrape and wipe, because our next pub has some serious posh baronial vaulted poncehole snoot about it ....

The distance / my enforced slow walking pace means I'll fail to catch the next Yardley Hastings bus, and they are only every 2 hours! 'Circumstances' mean I become a def-facto mystery shopper at Three Cranes, Turvey (3266 / 6107) and because I'm here for ages, and because they pass all tests with flying colours means there's no way I'm dismissing this as 'just another Harrold'. It actually has community local vibes, you just have to scrape further benath the surface than a muddy Converse shoe to find it. The beer is weird. I mean, it tastes like a fine avg. bitter but it is brewed by some Beds contractor, with input from Robinson's and Woodforde's. What a monster! No way I'm waiting two hours for the next bus in a Northamptonly direction. The sensible thing to do would be to head back to Bedford (buses are hourly on that side of the road) but I don't have a pub plan in that direction, so I decide to Uber it to Yardley Hastings. But no signal means I first have to ask for a WiFi code. But it ain't connecting, so the barmaids have to call the main man and his bryl-creamed hair to fiddle a little nob beneath the bar and reset their box. Finally I'm in! Even better, I have a plug socket right next to me so I can charge my phone & powerbank which I've remembered to bring this week, but I'm down to 31% battery and North Warwickshire is still haunting me. Uber ain't picking up. Plenty in Bedford, plenty in Northampton, but I couldn't be more slap bang in the middle of both, and no one dare venture out here, middle of the sticks! Our main man is back with a local taxi firm number. I stand outside and ring a nice Sikh man who can barely hear me. Expensive, half hour wait, but go on then! Extra half, Adnams Southwold this time. More normal. Nice n fresh too. I start chatting with two local lads pretending to watch a boring rugby match that's been hologrammed onto the wall of the pub in the absence of a TV which would be far too common for such an establishment. They think BRAPA sounds a bit extreme but my taxi has arrived 10 mins early so I must dash / gulp ..... and it might just be Stockholm Syndrome but I will NOT hear a bad word against this place!!

It had been a ridiculous last 90 mins plus stoppages, but maybe I could salvage a decent outcome after all? Plan forming in my mind.

I ask North Beds happiest Sikh if he's willing to wait for me at pub four providing I'm a strict 25 mins, and whip me to Northampton for a fifth tick in one of the UK's most underrated pub towns, and he acquiesces. Life saver! (that two hourly bus still wasn't coming quick enough to get me back to London via Northampton for my 19:23).

Attractive crumbly stuff from the Rose & Crown, Yardley Hastings (3267 / 6108). Northants is a superior pub county to Beds, that's fact not even BRAPA opinion, so no surprise that despite more dining fluff, this pub interior has that extra 10% charisma that our previous two lacked. It wasn't an easy experience though. The small low down pubby area to the right of the bar is full. I hover further back amongst the knives, forks and tablemats resting my Phipps NBC (Northants Bitter Craft), occasionally bobbing fwd to see if a bar table has come free, whilst smiling at barmaid, the Gentle Approachable Amanda Holden (GAAH) who in truth only shares her voice and bottom half of face. A man wheels in two giant stinkin' dogs , yuck, I'm jealous of these nose-blind dog lovers, and I come to the conclusion that I'm happiest in this pub when I'm in gents washing more mud off my shoes / trousers whilst admiring the sink tiling (9/10) and peering through a window to make sure my taxi hasn't driven off, which he hasn't. Though it has happened twice before (Audlem Cheshire / nice village near Tamworth beginning with an E).

What might've been

What was

I'm keeping an eye on the clock as we speed off towards Northants. He's so bloody chilled out this guy, I'm thinking 'step on it mate!' But the traffic is non-existent cos all Northampton residents are in the pub, and he drops me opposite with just enough time for a 'comfortable' pint and stride out to the station to make the latest train I dare get back to Euston.

It had turned into an expensive day, but still cheaper to whip this lot in together rather than a return trip to the A4278 badlands (well, until the #CruelChurn decrees that Lavendon, Cold Brayfield, Denton, Brafield-on-the-Green and Little Houghton have pubs with GBG quality beer).

Bit o' cheeky green brick frontage, the refined architectural pub tickers version of the mobility scooter. Yes, we've struck gold at the Garibaldi Hotel, Northampton (3268 / 6109), in a town whose residents party and drink like every day in their last day on earth. Exactly like Isle of Man in that respect except No'ton folk can escape, they do pay tax and they don't chop the tails off their cats. A culture shock after my last three 'pubs', nicely bookending my day after those encouraging Cock Pavenham beginnings which now feel like a lifetime away. I nearly trip over an amp and guitar lead as a Catweazley duo play all the hits, none of which I recognise. Did you know Northampton actually has its own 'hit parade' where bands like Steeleye Span, Pentangle and Jethro Tull dominate the charts? A fruity man smiles, but I'm pleased to report that it is only a fine chocolate orange Phipps that goes down. A typically hazy BRAPA pub five, combined with a spin cycle of an experience. 'Hairy, happy, sweaty, doggy' was the best former Si could do in descriptive terms. Current Si has even fewer memories, but knows it was good.

'Don't follow my hand, it is lost too'

'Hairy'

'Fruity'

It isn't a short walk to Northampton station from here, no good pub is. But I'd given myself just enough time. Being down south, there was no question of delays or cancellations, and I can afford myself a gentle stroll across to King's Cross from Euston.

No time for Skinners Arms, but I could've whipped a quick ESB in at Parcel Yard ......

.... but no, see I DO have will power.

With a fourth consecutive days drinking tomorrow at a friend's birthday in York with a giant Yorkshire pudding, mash, gravy and three sausages, I instead turn 360 degrees and go to Waitrose for a second Tripleshot Starbucks, a Twirl and a Mango Immunity before similarly shunning York Tap and going straight home for lasagne & garlic bread. Good discipline eh, I hope you're proud.

So there we have it, I'm caught up with my blogs for approximately 15 hours before I end up two blogs behind again by Sunday/Monday, identical to last week.

See you back in the South East tomorrow (don't ask me where cos I don't know myself but it won't be Berkshire) if you're over on TwXtter / BS.

Keep keeping it pub, Si