Lulled into a false sense of security by the town of King's Lynn on Thursday 17th August 2023.
Crossing the manicured green parklands, you could've been forgiven for thinking you were crossing Jesus Green or Parker's Piece in Cambridge, but the truth was that KL was the town that puts even Lowestoft, Kirkcaldy and Grimsby in the shade with its .... well, shadiness!
Never before have I seen so many toothless midday folk zombieing their lost souls around with cans of super strength lager, it felt like a town with a drinking boredom problem. I'd taken a bus from Peterborough, to prove to myself that Norfolk isn't out of reach on a #ThirstyThursday, and I was joined by a recently released prison dude who sat next to me, lamenting loudly that he didn't have many people he could contact because they were all still inside. He was very twitchy. I turned my headphones up and stayed very still, hoping I could become invisible. I think it worked.
After a not very life-affirming five minutes in the sun by the piss stinking 'bus station' where topless old blokes winked at schoolgirls and burly Mums with giant laundry bags clobbered their twild life, I took a short bus ride to the suburb of Gaywood (a name that didn't really suit it) for pub one, that rare type of bird that rarely troubles the GBG.
I want to speak in defence of the White Horse, Gaywood (2619 / 4514) , a cheap simple basic Craft Union pub that aims to serve the local community with the least possible fuss, and on this evidence, succeeds. I felt a bit overdressed because I wore proper trousers and had sleeves. A burly chap who looks like he'd know how to handle himself in a fight pulls me a well kept London Pride for £2.85 (the lacings stuck to the glass all the way down), and although it is 1pm on a Thursday, there is a 'healthy' bunch of happy/drunk punters, shouting across tables to each other. I cannot understand the accents, so when they try to include me in the chat (which I appreciate), I laugh along, as a moody Norwich City fan gets laughed at for being negative. The bloke to my left has a dreadful chesty cough, I think he is far enough away not to infect me, but I shuffle along anyway. He explains that if he downs a pint of Strongbow Dark Fruits, he's confident he'll make a full recovery. 'Love Shack' by B52's plays, so the loudest man explains to the pub that a B52 is the name of an American bomber plane, and this is a fact that we could all do well to remember. His wife rolls her eyes at me when he's finished, mouthing 'he talks too much!' When I leave, there is genuine surprise I'm not staying for another. But real pub vibes here, I've been to so many posher, so many duller, so many less honest 'pubs' this year. Respect the template! Had I visited 10pm on a Saturday, I may well have been able to write a novel.
Back in 'The Lynn' (as probably no one calls it), I'm a bit annoyed how spaced out my three GBG pubs are when I'm already against the clock. Perhaps Norfolk was a bit of a stretch on a Thursday after all! I tackle the furthest first .....
Live & Let Live, King's Lynn (2620 / 4515) felt aesthetically a good pub, yet had an invisible force holding it back from being great, or even very good. Although the weird Cambridge comparisons continue as I got a Free Press / Champion of the Thames vibe, with tight, wooden nooks and creaky floorboards. I think what jarred most were the throwbacks to those restrictive days of 2020/21. The boards supporting Perspex screens were still standing, loads of irritating 'jokey' social distancing signs. It wasn't the nicest pubbing time, though us tickers approached it with the humour and optimism required at the time, I would like to think it could be consigned to the shit history bin. The two posh gents next to me spoke gently, with a distant air, totally at odds with the warm jocular folk in the White Horse. Staff lad was decent, entering me into their 'Thursday Club' meaning I just need to drink 11 more pints to qualify for a freebie! Overriding feeling though was that everything operated on a different level from reality, like I was peering through the looking glass to a dimension which was just out of reach. But that might just be 90% of Norfolk pubs. The Black Dog drank suitably chilly in the circumstances.
King's Lynn was determined to get weirder still, as we ventured into club land. Google Maps, often my saviour, didn't have a clue and soon I was in the back garden of a nice posh man with bright red cords and an element of the Lord Emsworth,
He seemed delighted to have someone to talk to, and I thought he was going to invite me inside for a cup of Darjeeling and chat on animal husbandry, but after sensing my urgency, points me in the right direction and waves me off.
But in keeping with BRAPA club times past, gaining entry to the Ferry Lane Social Club (2621 / 4516) was never going to be easy. Thankfully, a delivery driver appears at my shoulder brandishing a large parcel and presses a bell / buzzer. This was my chance .....
"Sorry mate, but this is a private member's club" says delivery driver as we wait for the door to open. "Well, I'm a CAMRA member so I should be allowed in for a drink" I reply. He eyes me like I'm speaking in an alien tongue, rich for King's Lynners. Well, the door opens, parcel is dropped off, I put my foot in the door, and repeat my CAMRA schtick to the club steward. "Yes that's fine sir" he replies. "Oh wow corr, well then, there ya go!" says delivery driver raising eyebrows, still lingering, like he thought I'd been trying to pull a fast one. (Tell yer what mate, you stick to delivering parcels and mind yer own business). Probably put me in a bad mood, for I didn't much rate this place. NINE ales on, so no surprise first one I had was off, but after some back n forth, I end up with a pint of Nirvana which is decent, in a <insert their third best album> kind of way. Place just didn't have the clubby spirit I admire. Nothing sweeping, loungey, old fashioned or plush to be found here. Bloke who let me in addresses me as 'Sir' so often, it became very Fast Show Suits You. After about the tenth time, I decided it was losing any aspect of politeness or reverential, but verging on creepy and was perhaps some in-joke / challenge he had going on with his colleagues, you know like when footballers throw song lyrics into their post match interviews for the bantz. People here were more concerned with sitting out on a little balcony rocking baby buggies, looking across the water, speculating on missing passenger ferries, than anything else. When I try to join in, the attitude is typically Norfolkian 'errr, why are you even talking when we don't know you'. Not very 'club'! The situation is saved late on by some amusing chat emanating from the bar area. A Scottish eccentric is the ring leader. He'd just belted out "When the Boat Comes In" when he turns to ask a frail quiet tiny chap. ".... do you have any links to Yorkshire?" Chap replies softly "I went to Whitby once .... but I couldn't distinguish the sheep from the mist", before lamenting that the following morning, he walked around the town for hours and didn't see one 'native'. It was all very bizarre, quite amusing, but in an unnerving way, which summed up my entire King's Lynn experience in one swoop.
One tick to go then, and that took me to another type of GBG venue .... I really rode the full gamut of Beer Guide emotions on this fine afternoon!
Initial relief at just how 'impersonal' the Wenn's Chop & Ale House, King's Lynn (2622 / 4517) was, just that feeling of being able to breathe, stretch out, and be myself, after a few stifling experiences. Problem was of course, it lacked personality in a rural mid Lincs end of the night kinda way. Seemed to be going for a posh foodie vibe, but not quite hitting the mark. This made it a curious entry in itself. Looked relatively glitzy, shabby chic chandelier, smart staff, and yet more chainy than high end dining. The Juice Rocket in a Courage glass is the best pint today, and I find this small stretch of bench seating in the sun, alone in the biggest room. I couldn't have done it pubbier! And had it ended like that, I'd have been satisfied. Bored, but satisfied. But King's Lynn had been hellbent all day on employing a variety of strategies to make me feel uncomfortable / socially awkward. So it was no surprise when the staff decide to conduct job interviews for a chef role directly in my eyeline. Just me and them in this room. I felt like an independent watchdog. Bit cringe, as I hate interviews. Though this lady wasn't exactly putting the effort in. 'Tis all very well believing in your abilities, your CV and having self confidence, but at least try and impress - don't slouch, mumble and act like the world owes you a living because you're a general legend in your back garden! The two staffers occasionally break off to glance over and give me a sweet smile. So I in turn, feel obliged to raise my pint in encouragement. Ooof. King's Lynn. A town that had spent all day taking the piss out of me in a most nuanced way, please don't make me go back in '24.
There was time in Peterborough for a quickie in the Brewery Tap across the road. There was a time circa 2010 when I'd have a rated this amongst my fave pubs in the entire country, no joke! I love Oakham, my first two visits here were idyllic drinking heaven.
But how the scales have fallen from my eyes in the intervening years.
First, I had an experience where the entire venue was closed due to a private party, unreasonable considering the size. And ever since then, it has felt increasingly grotty, and the once perfect JHB, Bishop's Farwell, Inferno and Citra et al have become increasingly dishwatery. Today was no different. The Ostrich is also nothing like the excellent pub I first visited. Quite frankly, Draper's Arms 'Spoons would probably be my choice for a quickie next time! One of those towns I never quite know what to do with myself when I have 37 minutes between trains.
And that concluded an eventful but quite painful day! Wouldn't have changed it for the world. Pub ticking eh, what a mad silly hobby.
Si
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