BRAPA in .... TORRENT OF TORTURE TIL TORRINGTON (N.DEVON 3/5)
6 minutes ago
7 min read
Wednesday 2nd September 2026
Had I turned right like any sensible person would, my day may've been a lot less arduous, both physically and mentally. In fact, unless something goes seriously wrong in the next six weeks, this day was hands down my toughest BRAPA day of 2026.
Our tale of woe begins, like all the best tales of woe do, in a damp Barnstaple bus station at 10:30am.
Bus lady cares not a jot for setting off on time. Such a lengthy route, I assume she thought she'd make up the time along the way.
She's chatted at/up for an hour by a couple of lonely blokes, despite the sign clearly stating 'do not talk to the driver, they won't shag ya mate'. North Devon plays by its own rules. I wave as we pass GBG mainstay the Globe at Beaford, not open today and experiencing financial difficulties meaning reduced hours but a fair dinkum classic according to Devon Dympsy, who knows these things.
Winkleigh is my first port of call. Neither pub is GBG listed for 2026 (or 2027 as it turns out) but scoring 2* on the CAMRA website meant a half in each feels a worthy exercise.
Up first the Seven Stars. Basic, happy, quiet and unpretentious. Up second, the King's Arms. Handsome, thatched, full of internal character, busier, but foodie, distracted and less likely to give your cauliflower a reassuring smile from across the room. Beer good in both.
The most mentally challenging walk follows.
I wildly underegged the pudding (walk) to the point where my vegan sister would approve because the pudding is probably therefore vegan, although if a cake it won't rise properly.
Yes, like the 'Chittles' yesterday evening, I refused to Google the walking distance for fear of scaring myself.
The rain lashes down sideways at one point. My waterproof is £8 off Temu so as you can imagine, not very waterproof. A couple of farmers smile like they know I'm mad. A BT van nearly runs me over. But it is generally deserted and having a widdle in the hedgerow not fraught with any peril. Apart from maybe a Hoopoe with razor sharp teeth. Like in 'Mog in the Dark' #NeverForget
The Duke of York, Iddesleigh is (apart from 2026) a nailed on GBG fave and on this evidence, my pub of the week. It reappears in the 2027 Guide, NOT that I knew this at the time but justified 3* beer on the CAMRA website, wonderful young host Ben, and one of the oldest sturdiest buildings absolutely singing with centuries of age mean this place had better appear for the next 40 years straight or I riot.
Once I resigned myself to not getting a taxi and put my phone away, I enjoyed the experience even more.
I thought that this pub had a fire that never goes out as the Smith's nearly sang, so I felt a bit cheated in that respect, until I realised that I was getting it muddled with something up on Dartmoor.
I wrote in more detail about this one in my 'pre-emptives come good' blog so I'll leave it there for now.
A girl on a horse was the only 'traffic' I saw for the first hour of the next stage of my agonising walk, and now I think about it she was probably a ghost or mirage. At least this part was flat, smooth, downhill and had an ACTUAL Good Beer Guide tick at the end of it.
Yes, it was by now approaching early evening and I'm cursing myself for giving myself such a ridiculous undertaking.
Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, space felt unreasonably limited inside the Tally Ho! , Hatherleigh (3607 / 6398). Even the ancient beams felt like they were leaning into me. Like a sixties episode of Batman. Dog leads like those criss-crossed laser beams stop me going right, and rumbustious locals with the loudest gutteral voices of my holiday block the left. The barmaid will never know just how much I appreciated our light-hearted two minute exchange about Timmy Taylor's new hip pumpclip design - owwww, don't mention 'hips'! The Landlord drinks exceptionally well from the comfort of my leather settee, although a guy I affectionately nickname 'Peter the Prick Pirate Parrot' keeps perching on the back of it and squawking loudly, AS IF trying to book a taxi somewhere/anywhere with a GBG wasn't hard enough! Was I invisble to these folk? Despite a couple of helpful matronly Devonian voices, no one can help. I'll be walking again. Ugh. Good pub though, just a bit disconcerting to see so many human beings in one small space after the day I'd had!
'Tis a hilly climb out of Hatherleigh - OF COURSE IT BLOODY IS! My third 'leigh' of the day, and I know some of you are interested in these type of things so I can tell you exclusively that the suffix 'leigh' in Devon place names is Anglo-Saxon for 'no phone signal, weak Wifi & bugger all taxis'. And that is a BRAPA fact.
As I reach the top, I have a five minute breather where I eat what's left of my mini-scotch eggs, cheese bites and Lucozade. Tea of champions!
I'm initially reinvigorated but it soon wears off and this becomes so most physically challenging leg of the journey yet .... owwww, don't mention 'legs'.
Considering the terrain and topography, it is something of an achievement that Half Moon, Sheepwash (3608 / 6399) manages to be an anodyne gastrotwat of absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsover. Of course I wasn't in the sunniest frame of mind, but even so. The barflies are ignorant arses, and the barmaid has a stick up her ass and the most supercillious aloof attitude - most notably when I ask for the WiFi code and she simply snorts and points dismissively at a wall. I try sitting outside, but the changeable weather that's blighted the entire day whips up a sheepy squally storm, blowing my GBG pages about, knocking my Stabilo off the bench and collapsing a pub blackboard in the process. I laughed in a scornful way and return to the bench beside the front door. Nowhere to rest your pint glass, and more sneering looks from all. Every table was taken by diners, and drinkers were definitely treated as second class citizens, which I'm thankful to say is a trend I've seen a lot less since BRAPA debuted in 2014 and the Plough at Bolnhurst brought me compimentary chips.
Black Torrington is (relatively in the scheme of my day) not too far from Sheepwash , and another tick now would mean I'd salvaged a vague level of ticking success from a brutal day.
It's hilly again (COURSE IT BLOODY IS) and with dusk falling, I don't mind admitting at this point I'm actually shitting it in terms of how the hell I get back to Barnstaple tonight. Sleep in hedge? Graveyard at Shebbear? Or if I'm lucky, maybe this pub has a room? 8pm bongs just I take this photo ....
This was much more like it thank the lord. Well once I'd got past the sight of rusty farming implements usually used to chase off northern pub tickers. Black River Inn, Black Torrington (3609 / 6400) is a pub lovers sort of pub! The locals have formed a witchy circle in front of the bar which I have to walk through, but you can immediately tell they are made of the right stuff. The barmaid is a sweetheart. Pub temperature warm, comfort 8.5/10. After a couple of deep nervous gulps of excellent Salcombe Seahorse, I apologise for breaking the circle once again and after a quick wee, give a speculative phone call to A1 Taxis Barnstaple. After all, they saved me at Chittlehamholt last night. But Black T. is another level. Still, I recognise reception boy and as always, nothing's too much trouble for him. He even knocks £10 off the price, though it was as eye-watering as you might imagine. So eye-watering, I have to give him my card details in advance. Reception is faint, he's softly spoken, the locals are quite rowdy so I'm wedged in this dark toilet corridor shouting my 16 digit card number, and it keeps breaking up so he keeps only getting 15. STRESSFUL. I'm thinking 'stay with me mate, you are my only hope!' and finally we get there! I've been away from my drink for so long, that when I return with hop, skip, jump and beaming smile. the locals must be thinking I've had the greatest shit of all time. Finally, the main lovely lady asks me to join their little circle and when I describe my day and why I'm here, well they are absolutely gobsmacked but loving it! Such warm folk. The highlight is when I slag off Sheepwash and two of the blokes look at each other, cheer and high-five! So they obviously had a similar experience! Half an 8.5% dry cider straight from a box behind the bar. And I finally find my taxi lurking in the dark halfway down the lane. Have I ever in BRAPA history departed a pub so triumphantly comparitavely to the dread I felt on arrival?
Mr A1 drives like a maniac down the dark narrow lanes, I feel quite woozy with the hot stuffy car after that bonus cider, and I try to get us onto the topic of football or cricket but he thinks all sports stars are overpaid nobheads which of course is true, but means we just sit in silence for rest of the journey after that!
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