BRAPA in .... ZIP ME UP BEFORE YOU GO-GO, HAMPSTEAD BEER PRICES ARE A NO-NO
Saturday 31st August 2024
Having escaped the Sunderland fans bound for Pompey with their 8am cans and tinny Oasis singalong, we took a tube north to Hampstead where I had an amazing FOUR ticks to be done. The 'we' included Daddy BRAPA and Oscar T. Owl.
Day one of a new round of LNER train strikes, and we'd escaped unscathed. In fact, I'm now reading that the strikes have now been cancelled so bring on the 2024/25 SE pub mop-up operation!
George hears the latest from ASLEF
Isn't Jack Straw's Castle the worst castle you've ever seen?
'They need to turn it back into pub!' cry the TripAdvisor reviews. We don't get that up in York, although York Minster would make a superb 'Spoons.
At the junction of the 'castle', a leafy walk takes us along the hedge of Hampstead Heath, close to THOSE public toilets, (no blue plaque? Every one else has one around here!) to reach our most difficult tick of the day which is an 11am opener to give us the early boost we need.
A weatherboarded survivor (the pub, not Dad)
Spaniards Inn, Hampstead Heath (2968 / 5128) might look (artificial flowers), smell (grilled sea bass) and sound (clompy floorboards) like 90% of London pubs you've been to in your life, but it felt its 16th century age, and that meant atmosphere. The timbers shiver. 'Soaked in history' says WhatPub, not an exaggeration. Mentioned in Dracula and Pickwick Papers, and Keats wrote a poem about a daft bird in the garden. We keep judging people with a stern glare for entering through the forbidden 'exit' door, but they aren't, we are looking at the wrong door! A chirpy cockney pulls boxes of Quality Street out of a carrier and presents them to the kitchen staff with a bear like hug. The Proper Job is strong and (for London) above average quality. But £6.55 a pint felt a bit steep. A posh lady orders peppermint tea and pointedly asks if a tip has been included in the price - which it obviously hadn't. A little girl whispers to Mummy "wot's that?" about Oscar, so I introduce him, but he hides behind a plant. Hates kids and dogs, Prefers pussycats and pea green boats.
I hear they keep an excellent Madri
Oscar - trying to avoid Twildery
We retrace our steps towards Hampstead station, then up a few more steps to find our pub in a partially secluded corner. I apologise to a woman across the road for getting in the way of her pub photo. A new ticker perhaps? She doesn't follow us in. Playing the long game perhaps and catching a ferry to Stromness first?
But I shouldn't be coy. Pub photos always look better with me in them. That's BRAPA fact. Welcome to my pub of the day, the cutesie and ever so slightly posh Grade II Fullers house which is the Holly Bush, Hampstead (2969 / 5129). Now I'm not claiming it is the latest incarnation of the Vine of Brierley Hill, but as London GBG entries go, definitely above avg. Best beer of the day for starters. 'Dark Star' Hophead isn't a beer I've liked much over the past 5-10 years, but in glorious condition here. £6.35 too, bargain(!) Would've been better had I noticed the 20% CAMRA discount, gah! "I'll be sensible and save my ESB until the Parcel Yard!" I announce to anyone who cares. It would be a comment that didn't age well. Dad has done well to find an unreserved snug cubbyhole, best place for him (I mean 'us') and I doubt the pub would have been quite so enjoyable / bearable without a good seat. The Toby & Jocasta twilds we'd sneered at back in 2010 were now fully grown, wandering around suited and groomed and making me feel very scruffy in my t-shirt and jean shorts. I try to explore a much vaunted open-fired side room on the way back from the loos, but a stern waitress is like "not so fast BRAPA". But after our Hackney horrors last time in London, Hampstead was pleasing me.
And a short gallop from here, we came to pub three. One I'd overlooked when doing my pub planning on the Friday, only noticing its existence on the train down. Almost a monumental BRAPA error!
The Old White Bear, Hampstead (2970 / 5130) is owned by someone called Northern Union and they have Leeds Pale on regularly, NOT what I wanted to see on a day where Hull City were away to the dastardly W.S. and doomed to defeat. So I went for a Five Points XPA which like a mid January foggy day in York city centre, never clears. But it tastes ok. Off-shoulder barmaid is the star, admiring my owl pendant which I show her also functions as a timepiece ... "I like things with moving parts" she breaths ethereally. Oscar was obviously hugely jealous. Decor and atmos wise, it lacks something our previous two had, and as I grasp for something ornate and colourful, I end up loving three tiles on the sink in the gents loos, not to mention a not too convincing stuffed bear rug on the ceiling. Certainly not a poor pub, but perhaps the first sign that our strong early start was waning. This pub tick represented 66% GBG completion, and that is reason enough to celebrate.
Our final Hampstead tick was situated opposite Hampstead Heath station, but I can't remember the walk feeling too strenuous.
'Alrite Daddy B, concentrate please!'
A bright artsy chunky one roomer, Magdala, Hampstead (2971 / 5131) has positive youthful energy, I'm a fan of the possibly New Zealish barperson who later winks when I go for a wee(!) but when I tell you there are 20 keg beers and 7 casks on, I think you can guess what I'm gonna say next. Yes, poorest beer quality so far. Soupy. Nice flavour, NOT that I know what Eqkuinox and Eldorado are supposed to taste like. High ceiling equals tough acoustics, and with the odd bearded Dad presiding over a buggy, we're soon enquiring about the possibility of opening this fire door and sitting outside. We can! Good, Dad had a plan. Hunger pangs kicking in and much easier to smuggle our malt loaf and Red Leicester out here. Helped the beers palatability too. And we'd set a trend. Soon, two Spanish Guy Fawkes chaps are out here, closely followed by 'thoughtful book lady' who smiles whimsically when weird passers by do weird passer by things. The distant sound of 'The Pink Panther' is being trumpeted on the wind. Worth mentioning that Ruth Ellis, the last Blue Peter presenter hanged in England, shot her lover to death in a disco at this very pub. He'd just ordered a Pride instead of ESB. It inspired her moon-faced daughter to write 'Murder on the Dancefloor' which premiered at Saltburn beer festival #BRAPAFact
Hampstead done, but I still wanted two more before we got the 19:30 outta King's Cross.
And as luck (or amazing BRAPA planning) would have it, I somehow still had two within KX touching distance. This grand ole' place was up first .....
But the Golden Lion, Camden (2972 / 5132) was today's weakest pub. The Sambrook's tasted like licking condensation from a Barnsley bus window. "No through draught .... someone needs to get a back door open!" cries the king of the stuffy pubs Daddy BRAPA, but he ain't wrong. And this is despite sitting so close to the front door next to two stuffed penguins, our beaks are almost in the street. Dad was actually so distrustful of the cask, he hopped aboard the Staropramen. I have a sip. It is refreshingly cool, but I still prefer my Barnsley Bus Window. A group of touristy yoofs play one of the worst games of darts I've ever seen, not sure they've seen a dartboard before or even know the rules. The loos are downstairs in what appears to be a Charrington's time portal, my highlight. But I was grasping. Oh, you can play a board game called 'Pandemic Legacy'. And that was it.
We continue on the Overground heading east and come to Highbury & Islington where I have a pub crazily close to King's Cross which I've been desperate to tick for ages, but it weirdly doesn't open until 4pm even on a Saturday.
Despite their disappointing 1-1 draw with Brighton finishing hours ago in the lunchtime kick off, the streets are full of bereft zombie Gooners who have either forgotten where they live or feel that they should stick around unless they are called back into the Haem. to see an injury time winner.
Reminds me of those people who stand by the stage after a gig when all the lights are back on, bar shutters are going down, and piped Blitzkrieg Bop is blasting out, still hoping the band will come out for an encore.
Expectation is a dreadful thing in this pub ticking game, particularly in London. Hampstead had been so decent cos I'd expected utter shitness, but here at the long-standing GBG entry the Lamb, Holloway (2973 / 5173), I really thought I was going to walk into Worth Matravers younger cousin. And the tiled frontage did nothing to discourage me. But the reality was more 'dive-bar' than pub. It had a friendly bouncer on the door, and the beer was still being served in Polycarbonate. Felt like the place needed a scrub with hot soapy water. Toilets were horrific! And yet I preferred it to some of our more recent pubs because it was dark, and I do like a dark pub. It also had a few surprising corners, like being in a haunted house. And the JW Lees Manchester Bitter (interesting choice, is the beer picker trying to psyche out the home fans?) drank pretty nicely. And my favourite feature, apart from the waistcoated werewolf Martin Keown, is a 'Cabinet of Curiosity' depicting a pub over three levels. It even has a skeleton underground. Could stare at it all day. I wonder how much different this pub feels on a weekday afternoon (after 4pm, obviously)?
I was expecting to get back on the Tube, but Daddy BRAPA has a better appreciation of 'on foot London geography' and reminds me of how easily we glided back to King's Cross after THAT win there in 2008 when Geovanni scored THAT goal.
And to seal the deal, he says "and approaching it from this angle, we'll be passing the Charles I" and oh yes, what a pub that is! Every experience feels identical, and I mean that in the best possible way. I think I've only ever sat in one seat in about ten visits!
The Siren Mesmerist is fab, best beer since that Holly Bush Hophead all those hours ago and the perfect 7th when you're flagging a bit.
Back in King's Cross, I tell Dad I'm still going to go for the ESB. I can see he thinks I'm mad. "It isn't that I really want a pint, I just don't want to disappoint my TwXtter followers!" I tell him, and he looks at me like 'yeah, you keep telling yourself that'.
But shock horror it is shut! Like 'huh?' Saturday evening 7pm?
Before I realised the awful truth!
So I sit outside for 15 mins eating my scotch egg and telling a succession of disappointed folk the awful truth. Quite fun really. Only one bloke blames me personally and even then, his wife drags him away with an apologetic glance. And no, I definitely didn't need a pint. Thank lord we did Charles I though.
BLOGS UP TO DATE FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE PROBABLY DEVON IN JUNE (for about 16 hours until I tick off my first pub tomorrow).
Holiday coming up, so see you on TwXtter tomorrow and back here in over a week. Might even receive my GBG soon which means cross-ticking which'll slow my blogging down further.
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