A couple of Kentish Gypsy Tarts on your bed, probably the best way to start any day's pub ticking:
..... and on the eve of my Margate debut, I was in excitable mood. Not even a Sunday bus replacement could quell my mood.
I was determined to bring 'BRAPA beach chic' to town, even if the inhabitants of everyone's favourite transport interchange, Ramsgate, look a bit tired and sleepy on this Sunday morning ....
I breathe a lung of fresh salty sea air, and head the wrong way out of Margate station for a pub whose opening times scream 'hobby pub' and a bit like Coldred yesterday, is virtually impossible to do if you are travelling back to York on the same day. Here was my one window of opportunity .....
In fact, 12-3 were the advertised hours on a Sunday at Ales of the Unexpected, Margate (2501 / 4394). "To be honest, the regulars don't start coming in until after 1pm, so I tend to stay open beyond 3 if they are still here" says the guv'nor from behind a confidential hand, like he's letting me into the Micro trade secrets. A genial chap, not showy, not loud, unassuming, down to earth, occasional glint in the eye, wiry. Liked him. I'd been interested to see what I made of this one as two BRAPA chauffeurs had pretty polarised views. But I didn't really form any strong opinions. Ale's decent. Map of Vietnam and Cambodia added something. Vaguely. A bit of care has gone into creating a semi-cosy environment. Reminds me a bit of one I hated in Cowes on the IoW, but I definitely don't hate this. The bloke continues to potter about between serving me, half commentating on his progress, when a bunch of beach ready thirtysomethings charge in. "Ooh, looks like you spoke too soon earlier!" I say, returning my glass through a tight gap between Tristan and Jocasta, and dashing off at 12:27 and 30 seconds.
Margate has this drab urban inland sprawl situated a couple of miles out of the vibrant seaside area called 'Cliftonville' , with 2 GBG ticks. I took a bus which felt a bit of cheat, but not really, because 3.5 miles walking might seem a steal in Norfolk or Lincs or Cornwall, but in Kent, it feels like the ends of the earth.
Although the micro trend would continue, this felt a lot less conventional.
With the overgrown grass and a jolly summery Daisy and Onslow from Keeping up Appearances saying "aright mate?" outside, I knew Laughing Barrel, Cliftonville (2502 / 4395) would offer a different type of challenge. It had a WMC atmosphere, friendly verging on the intimidating, all eyes on me, this strange visitor, curious expressions, more "alright mates?" every time I make eye contact. It smells of the 1970's. Low lit neon is always fun. When 'Margate' comes up in conversation, the locals seem to regard it as a far and distant land. The 2014 me might've run out crying, wondering why he didn't have a cauli shaped comfort blanket, but the 2023 me is forced to reflect that places like this are more rewarding, because they make you feel that bit more 'alive', even if it slightly painful at the time. The pub equivalent of colonic irrigation. If my mascot was angry, would that be Colin-ic irritation? Sorry. I think I apologised about five times on my way across the indoor astroturf to the bogs, simply because I didn't feel I had any right to be in their gaff! The Wantsum was far from great, but beer played second fiddle to all else around it in here.
And this pub was probably the first clue that today was going to be one of those classic BRAPA days out that leave you shaking your head and wondering if you imagined the whole thing.
A twenty minute walk back in a Margaterly direction follows for my other Cliftonville tick ..... if you peer inside, you might spot the problem quicker than I did!
Morris dancers! In a Micropub. Now that's a first. And not just any type of Morris dancers. Geordie Morris dancers. The WORST type of Morris Dancer. #KeepitMackem Banks Ale & Wine House, Cliftonville (2503 / 4396). Now, I don't have a natural aversion to these quintessentially Ye Olde English creatures like say, my friend Lisa does, but there's a time and a place for them, and that is around a maypole in a picturesque Essex village, not in a bastard built up Kentish Micropub, bah humbug. They are mid-ritual, so I can't get in, but a local thinks I'm loitering unnecessarily in the doorway, barges past me, realises he has nowhere to go, and when he finally reaches the bar and the dance is over, he spends so long deliberating over his ale choice, that I'm served first anyway. 'How d'you like them apples impatient dickhead?' I don't say that, but my face does. Gorgeous strong Oakham, a new one, much needed! The Morris dancers and their kids (grandkids?) disappear swiftly, and I think I may've misread the room re the remaining locals because when I exclaim "Phew, I thought they'd never go, what a blessed relief!" or words to that effect, everyone looks at me like "Si you harsh biatch" and I feel obliged to backtrack and say how some of my best friends are actually Geordie Morris Dancers. Ten groups in town I'm told, from all over the country. Cripes! "... and these are just the warm-up act" a blotchy West Ham tells me. Is he joking?
Well, little did I know as I left Banks' that it'd only get stranger in Part 4.
But it'll be a while until I tell you about that because I've got five nights coming up across three counties, so see ya over on Twitter tomorrow for day one.
Thanks for reading, Si
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