Saturday 16th August 2025
Another country road with no footpath, another day in North Oxfordshire.
After yesterday's outer Bicester trials and tribulations, I was feeling rather rough around the edges but a long Premier Inn sleep (cheers Lenny) had helped immensely.
A ten minute bus ride north of Banbury took me here, Williamscot Turn, for the walk to pub one.
Like the farmer's arable yield ripe for picking ..... I'm, CROPREDY! (Thanks, I'd been waiting to try that 'joke' since last September).
And I'm going to strive to be the first person in blogging history to write about this village without mentioning F***port C***ention. Not that I've anything against the folky relics, in fact, the only song I've ever heard by them (in French) was a pleasant jaunty ditty. As part of an eclectic Island Records double compilation, it wasn't up there with Desmond Dekker or Buggles, but edged out Jethro Tull and Procol Harum.
Quite a few people insisted I did the post-emptive non-GBG Red Lion, Cropredy whilst I was here. Made sense. Glad I did. This thatched beauty was the superior of the two. Homely family feel. The first time 'climate change' has been cited as the cause of a struggling pub. The canal has dried up, the chatty landlady with her arm in a Nanny from Count Duckula-esque sling. They're just not getting the footfall this summer, and have had to bin off their kitchen staff. I thought it seemed pleasantly wet-led, if accidental! "You live up norf .... what's the situation on the Leeds-Liverpool canal?" she shouts over to me later, and I have to feign intimate knowledge. "I bet you were busy last weekend though?" I shout back, aware I've thankfully missed their annual music festival by a week, more popular than the CAMRA one. The ancient stereo system promises to play The Carpenters on vinyl, but all I'm hearing is digital Miley Cyrus. Two bonkers pub dogs start fighting over a toy sheep. Other customers come in for more dry canal chat, so I neck the rest of my random Black Sheep Blonde (excellent quality) and slope off to my actual GBG tick.
No sign of chefs and kitchen staff being binned off here more's the pity, Brasenose Arms, Cropredy (3295 / 5781) is a restaurant with the shape of an old pub, giving it a 'square peg in round hole' aspect which just doesn't work. An outdoor family of Wolves fans are the first I witness, the most gormless still bravely sporting a Conor Coady top which had a tragic air about it. I'm hit by a barrage of Tim Taylor beers and helpful hot brunettes (I mean due the temperature from working so hard on an August Saturday lunchtime, you understand), but what is this bar set up? Totally ridiculous. They've shut off the length of it, where the craft/keg taps are held, just so they can squeeze some extra dining tables. This leaves a small square corner pocket. No wonder it leads to pub queueing, can't blame the punters for this one, nowhere else to go, and this must be unpleasant for diners having arses in their faces at busy times. No, this pub wasn't designed for this. The barmaid who looks like Mary Blount from the Baby Shakes (obscure reference) tells me the Brasenose Blonde is brewed especially for them and deffo not a rebadge. It is great quality. Cropredy loves selling good quality Yorkshire beer, pass it on! Not a pleasant drinking experience though, facing a poor but overfed family, the queue setting my teeth on edge. Was happy to get gone!
Time for today's first painfully long walk. Our next pub doesn't open until 2pm (6pm most days) but I wasn't going to be early.
I'd FINALLY downloaded the OS Maps App. Immediately useful as having negotiated Great Bourton, it gives me a footpath across fields without the need for a small scary bit on the Southam Rd. One nervy moment negotiating the M40 crossing, but some steps up through woodland allow me to cross it easily.
Still a way to go, I'm puffing and panting through the village of Hanwell, so when I see an open pub, I decide to pop in for a half and a quick wee .... after all, every pub is pre-emptive .....
As Wetherspoons completist Leon Foster commented, I could forgive anyone on my TwXtter or Bluesky for being totally confused and thinking I'd suddenly landed in a West London 'Spoons as I check in at the Moon & Sixpence, Hanwell. Its welcoming well groomed, hanging basket exterior belies a messy post-lunchtime drab dining mess. Our host, a young Kurt Cobain, is pleasant, but when I see a Doom Bar pump clip face-planting the bar, I realise cask ain't an option at present. But the crafty Foghorn is cool, fresh and much welcomed. Time to mop my 'profusely' sweating brow, echoes of White Lion Fewcott yesterday. Burly guv'nor comes out, starts pulling through a cask (typical!) and gives me a long hard stare. Done! No GBG place anytime soon for this one, I say today with some confidence. Still, ya never know with CAMRA. They think the Brasenose is better than the Red Lion.
Again I use my OS App to navigate a way north through possibly forbidden fields (I'm slightly scared when I hear shooting) to save me walking a small stretch on the possibly scary B4100. Straight across and finally, my second tick is worth the wait .....
A beauty. Red Lion, Horley (3296 / 5782) has just been voted best pub in entire Oxfordshire, and you know what, CAMRA are bob on on this occasion. "Wot Si, even better than the Peyton Arms at Stoke Lyne that you did yesterday?" Well yes. Jaw dropping as it was, it is a relic, a museum piece, a curio. This is a living breathing fabulous pub. More depth. You don't have to agree, you probably don't. North Star Steventon was pretty special too. They'd probably form my top three Oxon's so far. Our host is a northerner, with plenty to say. Good bloke. I probe. He's from Manchester. A Man City fan. We won't hold it against him as long he returns all his medals, trophies, and takes his 5 billion point deduction, 5 zillion pound fine and relegation to the Isthmian tier 2 like a man. No, he was there when they lost at York, so respect. "Ya know, this is a hazy beer, I gotta warn you" he says of the Pentrich. I'd be more surprised if Pentrich knew how to brew a clear beer, but I don't say this, I don't wanna sound like a smart arse beer nerd. Older locals don't trust it. Horley's Younger set put ice cubes in it, he tells me. A lady in jodhpurs arrives, dropping off flyers for 'equine massage' just at the moment I'm Shazaaming the interesting song. 'Dead Horse' by Yard Act. Apt! Two couples arrive - really friendly. One lady recognises me from Exchange at Banbury two nights ago, so we laugh on how shit Bicester and Banbury 'Spoons are, how mad the BRAPA concept is (I'm open to a lift if you got a car? Nope, okay!) but best I get moving, much as I'd love to stay.
Today's second crazy long walk doesn't need my OS app, as I can see a myriad of thin snakey roads on Google Maps. I just need to avoid the Stratford Road which I'd zoomed in on 'street view' to reveal something quite deathy, very unfit for pedestrians.
The unmarked road past Banbury Utd Youth FC Ironstones seems to go on forever, but at least I barely see a vehicle. I swing a left onto the Shutford Road, and then with legs like jelly, down into Balscote. Hurrah! Penultimate pub tick of the holiday here we come ......
I'm still a way from the pub when I come over the hill, hear a DJ, a load of whooping and cheering. I know immediately what's going on. Wedding at pub. Shit. Please don't be closed ......
I've not come all this way to be denied. No way. I tell the food van man my predicament. He's a prick. Errm, you sell hot dogs mate, you ain't a bouncer, I'm not asking your permission. I don't say this out loud. When he disappears to look for squeezy mustard (probably), I clamber up the steps, stand just inside the marquee, and do a bit of intense smiling, hoping to get someone's attention. Thankfully, right next to me, I overhear two young lads saying they're off to get a drink in before the speeches start. I ask the friendliest of them, a sort of Tom Hollander / Ben Stiller / Pete Dinklage if I can tag along with them, I'll even buy them a drink. They are very chilled, seem tickled by my desperation, and say "fine mate, whatevs". I'm in! No Hook Norton, no cask ale (tsk, do these twentysomethings not have taste?) but no time to worry about that now. Free bar say the two barmaids. This is both good & bad. I don't have to buy them a drink, but when I see the staff eyeing up my bedraggled look, I cave in and admit I'm not 'officially' part of the wedding, but have been given permission to have a drink (I side-eye the two lads, who smile and nod stoically, good lads). Staff are fine, but I really shouldn't have let my conscience get to me! Pint of Guinness. I've had far worse in GBG pubs. The speeches are starting, booms the DJ, my lads rush outside, I say thanks and bye and smile and say 'ow do' to this glamourous couple indoors. They are dressed for the occasion (minus the socks), but have no intention of going outside or even listening to what's going on, so that makes me feel happier about sitting in. Especially halfway through when an older lady staggers in for a drink rolling her eyes, which makes glam couple chuckle. Hmmm. Not a universally popular union? I'd love to have known more. My first nervous gulp of Guinness is so huge, I nearly 'split the G' without even trying! Closest yet. At least with 99% of folk occupied, I can somehow enjoy my drink. Even better, a quick trip to the loo and exploration shows me that I can leave around the back of the pub, avoiding marquee, straight onto the road down to Shutford. When I hear the DJ saying ".... so raise your glasses to the BRAPPY couple" that's my cue to leave. I follow out a 'performing pets' van and totally buzzing, I glide down to Shutford. Butchers Arms, Balscote (3297 / 5783) complete.
Even better, Shutford has a none shut pub. It is lively. And it sells cask ....
For my money, George & Dragon, Shutford is a strong pre-emptive. Not sure if it has ever been in the GBG, not recently that I can see, maybe Oxon CAMRA aren't aware of it? I felt like I deserved this break after my Balscote trauma. I'd be a dreadful serial killer - one of those who gets caught out by telling everyone how clever I am, like in Poirot. Hold that thought. At least five dorks loiter at the bar, but strangely they part to let me get served first .... I swear the pub gods were smiling on me at this moment! Great pint of Shakespeare Falstaff Folly. Shame I've overplay my hand when overhearing a bloke mention the wedding up the road, I boast 'I've just been, not sure I was supposed to!' Dickhead. The landlady, one of those matronly kindly souls who will give you 100% but rules with an iron first is triggered by my claims that any pub that closes for a private function is scum, because her son is getting married later this year and is planning to book out a room. The difference we agree, is that a one room reservation is fine. A whole pub isn't. I have no signal. Only an Uber can save me from here (original plan was to ring from Balscote, I obviously wasn't gonna do that!) The younger barmaid who is also earning above avg. staff points gives me their WiFi code but warns me it is dodgy, and it is. "You're best standing at the far end of the garden at the highest point!" she says, so I wander up, but have to suffer some incredibly irritating student Hooray Henry's in a covered tepee contraption, who think their world knowledge is complete. I finally return to the bar and say 'I've had no luck', so our publican, legend that she is, rings a taxi for me, which arrives in 15 mins so I sneak in a bonus half. Get this pub in the 2026 GBG .... which as I write this, must be getting close now. In fact, I predict someone in the south east will get it tmw.
Back in Banbury, still one final pub to do which I'd strategically left on day one, and TwXtter had howled "HOW COME YOU MISSING THE BEST PUB OF ALL?" Let's explore ......
They'd be correct, but for one detail that ruined the pub forever for me, White Horse, Banbury (3298 / 5784) has a people problem. Following today's events, I walk in with a positive buzzy energy. Not overdone. I can read a room. But perhaps with an extra twist of pzazz in my voice. "Hii, how are you?" Four barmaids. All huddled around a postage stamp area of a bar not unlike the Brasenose earlier, but with loads more room around it. The response I get is tepid at best. Banana Split beer That sounds interesting. Right? RIGHT??? They give me nothing. May as well be talking to myself. Pint of it then. The staff scatter, like crabs on Christmas Island. To be fair, the most elderly calls over her shoulder "not banana enough, some might say" which sounded like a mid 90's Indie lyric if ever I heard it. The goldfish to my left next to the snacks looks more likely to chat to me after that. I sit down. Dispassionately, yes the White Horse, Banbury (3298 / 5784) is a very good pub. As good as the beer is, yes, more banana's needed. Just be nice human beings, it isn't hard, and makes such a difference to the 'solo traveller'. I'm rating Olde Reine Deer above you, and it really shouldn't be the case!
And there we have it. Back to York the following morning. But being Dross Country, it was well into the afternoon when we arrived.
In fact, the second I click 'submit' on my £56.80 delay repay claim, Ollie McBurnie hits a 94th minute winner by Oxford. Perfect symmetry.
I'm expecting the 2026 GBG any day now (tomorrow would be nice, Monday probably more likely), plus I'm off to Scotland this weekend. So I'll see you in the future, possibly for a quick GBG update.
Keep it pub, Si
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