BRAPA in .... WHAT A WONDERFUL (PUB TICKING) WORLD : FROM DOVER TO CHELMSFORD

I don't think I've ever quite seen an open pub looked quite so shut as the Louis Armstrong, Dover (2507 / 4401). So much so that it it had totally deceived me the previous evening. And once again, late on the Sunday, I'm about to walk away in disappointment when at the last moment, I see a baldie head reflecting off a light in the right hand window. God bless bald people, saving BRAPA since 2014. I push one of the worried, worn, forbidding black doors in puzzlement, and even now, I'm surprised to see it creak open. The pub is dimly lit verging on dark, but there are folk dotted around benches lining the perimeter. The place smells fusty, vintage 1860's I'd guess. The handsome bar sweeps all the way through to a cavernous right, where gentle live jazz music in tinkling away. A layer of dust circa the late 50's is worthy of its own ACV. A mardy landlady blinks at me as if to say "when are you going to stop taking mental notes and start drinking?" Two ales on, a Canterbury and a Gadds', neither of which I've seen before despite being two of my Kent faithful brewers. It's a real 'sit down, shut up' pub, so that's what I do, oozing into a spongy lowdown seat. I smile at the couple nearest me, I get a curious smirk, no words. Tough crowd! But as you can imagine, especially seven pints in, this atmosphere is quite intoxicating. Two Kentish people I'd spoken to previously both told me this place was rubbish and only makes the GBG year on year because the local CAMRA man lives around the corner and CBA to walk very far! Note to self : never trust other people. I was in love by now, and a combination of showing my appreciation for the band with gentle drunken applause, a constant look of wonderment, and going back up for a second (8th) pint, suddenly I could sense the landlady softening to me, and the couple soon become very chatty too. The earlier 'welcome' had obviously been a test to see if I was going to linger and pay the pub the respect it deserves. And what a reward! At the end of an astonishing day, this was perhaps the most astonishing-ist moment.

Fair to say my head wasn't feeling too clever the following morning as I trekked back into London to get the train home, but thankfully I'd saved one of those Kentish Gypsy Tarts (that make you fart) and the combination of the sugar off this plus an 'Intenso' coffee sorted me out, and by London, with time to spare, I realised I had time for a bonus tick before King's Cross.

But where? Well, the answer as it so often is in any given London situation was 'Croydon'. South Croydon to be precise. I've done East and West, I don't know if North even exists, but this was my debut down South.

I find it tucked away on a side street. Genteel Croydon. Or at least after two nights in Dover, that is how it seemed!

And when you are feeling a little bit fragile, you could do worse than to take yourself off to the Crown & Sceptre, South Croydon (2508 / 4402), the perfect restorative. Wood panelled, soft and sympathetic with twinkling coloured glass partitions, a foodier conservatory area towards the back can be easily ignored. And being a Fullers house, ESB helps. The perfect hair of the dog. Or hair of the cat. Or hair of your chosen pet, for that matter. £5.10 actually seemed pretty decent after Parcel Yard's recent £6.40 hike. And for some reason, Camelot of the National Lottery fame stuck £5 in my account this morning for no apparent reason, so the pint technically cost me 10p. With the pub tinkling along gently, my peace is only briefly disturbed when the Sceptre Matriarch wanders through brandishing a watering can and belts out a bit of Human League, gives me a defiant stare as if to say 'this is my domain', like a cat marking its territory, and disappears to find a dry looking plant. Marvellous.

Fast forward to the following Saturday, 3rd June, meaning that for one night only, I'm just one month behind on my blogging. I'm on a mini-holiday again tomorrow so it'll only get worse.

I was back in Essex, where my old mates Simon & Daddy Dewhurat had kindly volunteered to drive me around.

But because they had to coax a gigantic bumble bee out of their home, I had to tackle pub one alone.

I had to check my spreadsheet five times to be sure I hadn't previously visited the Ship, Chelmsford (2509 / 4403) , after all I'd done about ten pubs in the town and this was so close to the station, so Greene King dyed in the wool, so stolid and stodgy, it seemed impossible. But I hadn't. And that was good, because in ticking terms, it was low hanging fruit. I set my expectations to 'low' (it is the GK way) but I must tell you, that with the exception of how bloody miserable punters and staff were this Saturday morning, colour me impressed! Brassy, shiny, polished, touched up, an interesting shade of oak, and that's just the Essex ladies. Joking, it was a top interior and they'd even made an effort with the 'Ship' nautical theme. Less nautical was Pato Banton and Ranking Roger's classic Bubblin' Hot coming on suddenly, and loudly. It made me chuckle as it all seemed so incongruous , though the facial expressions of those around me remained unmoved. Where's the passion and humour? Careful what you wish for though, a Twitter bloke called Matt tells me on his visit here, an old boy offered to perform a 'bum dance' for his table, and his trousers were half way down his ankles before they were saved by the cry of 'leave them alone Dad'. Pubs, you can't beat them.

So yes, I'm off to straddle two counties which aren't Norfolk or Suffolk tomorrow, so I'll be back here for some more blogging either Sunday / Monday next week.

See you then, Si