BRAPA is in .... RURAL LINCS PUBS AND 'WILLINGHAM' TO IMPROVE
"If you were a murderer on the run, you could do a lot worse than hide here!" says Daddy BRAPA, as we drive through the isolated village of Willingham by Stow, having turned onto a lane we shouldn't have, surrounded by tall hedgerows with the faces of Ian Huntley, as we search for today's second pub.
The Ship at Morton had set the bar so incredibly low, even by Lincolnshire standards, that you felt an upturn in quality was imminent.
Turns out that the pub is on the main street, exactly where you'd expect. It is a humid day. Grey but muggy. As we lock the BRAP-mobile and cross the street, a distant werewolf howls at a crescent shaped moon. The old man drinking out front refuses to make eye contact.
Dad puts his shoulders back and chest out, artificial confidence is a pre-requisite when it comes to village pub ticking ......
"Hullo, hullo, anybody there?" my voice echoes back to me, as we await service at the Half Moon, Willingham by Stow (2525 / 4420), a Marie Celeste style atmosphere unfolding. The only other people inside are a young smiley couple eating puddings and drinking G&T's out of giant fishbowl glasses. The close atmosphere smells of grease and long lost lunches, but the carpet is a pleasing 8.5/10. Finally, a fraught but friendly looking lady appears, murmuring relief that the lunchtime surge is finally over. I order a Bateman's. Malty and true, but let's be honest, a temperature reminiscent of a mug of Horlicks. The brewery see my comment and apologise, so I write back 'Word up bitchezz, don't y'all go hatin' on yo pussy ass selves cos yo Half Moon homies ain't got their shit together' (I'd been listening to Chris Brown the previous day). BRAPA the rapper? Could become a thang. I actually chicken out and wrote a more measured reply, sadly. The table layout is a bit higgledy-piggledy dining, Dad sits at one reserved for 'Holly' from 6pm. Hope that doesn't make me Phil. I spy an 'secret' garden through a gap and go to explore. A pale lady putting an imaginary horse in a disused stable encourages me to linger. She speaks so gently and poetically, it has me convinced. So I grab Dad and my pint. She's disappeared when I return AND locked the stable door in ultra quick time. Weird. Then I try and help a timid dehydrated blackbird drink water from a dog bowl. There is one of those 'doggy casks' (ugh) selling Doom Bark (ugh) which is actually water (ugh). So, in conclusion, a marked improvement on the Ship at Morton but it still don't impressa me much. Was it Biggie Smalls who said that?
Onto pub three, a few nerves a-janglin' now as this was the first of the later openers. 3pm or 5pm depending which source you read, though a final check looks like 3pm is the more likely now we've hit summertime. But it doesn't look particularly open. Thankfully, I'm looking at the wrong door!
Another weird Lincolnshire pub trope I notice a lot, the most obvious door is locked, and you have to go around the back or side, a bit like a boring knocking shop.
But fear not, Lincs spotty resistance is finally broken despite Nev & Julia's hideous Jokerman banner, enough to give SeetheLizards nightmares, and the Stirrup Inn, Willoughton (2526 / 4421) is the first sign of an upturn in fortunes which would last for the rest of the day. G'wan Lincs, I always KNEW you could raise your game! Another cracking carpet (8/10), a deep sweeping undulating kinda place, you could play mini-golf in here. The bar is a bit tiny and edged, so it is hard to know at what angle to stand, but the owners seem pleasant and the local Lincs slop from Horncastle is a winning drop, nectar after those last two pints of bab. The Test Match is on, manna from heaven for Daddy BRAPA who pulls up a pew, stopping only to moan occasionally that piped Ricky Martin ain't really adding anything to proceedings. To add a bit of balance, and because Aussies make the best TV, I give the lad Khwaja a generous round of applause as he brings up his century. I think Daddy B wishes I was more pro-England but ya know cricket, I just can't get that competitive about it. Love it, but in an edge of the village green overlooking the church, men in white jumpers, 4 day lazy midweek sort of way, not the horrid modern short forms, T10 finger blast and all that nonsense. Cute pub this one, serene and atmospheric.
And full Lincs redemption was achieved at our pub of the day, in the most Lincs sounding place ever, Snitterby, up next. Another 3pm Saturday opener.
Outdoor bench seating, first sign of quality
What was truly astonishing about Royal Oak, Snitterby (2527 / 4422) was just how busy it was. Remotest of villages, middle of nowhere, going nowhere. Huge carpark, and we're forced to park in an overspill section. And by the time we leave, the overspill is overspilling! Some dude is trying to park in the shed. The destination boozer you've never heard of? And I mean 'boozer' because unlike 95% of Lincs pubs, it has a shitload of fabulous (and FAB - that's a Lincs real ale joke btw) ales on, which the locals are getting through like, and I'll borrow a wonderful phrase from Sir Quinno here, like whales get through krill. Bass for heaven's sake. I look no further, although Daddy B's Stancil Barnsley Bitter looks equally inviting. "Half a Stancil, and half a lemonade please" asks the great man. "In the same glass?" asks the livewire guv'nor, quite reasonably. Dad guffaws snortily, before realising it was a serious question. He hadn't considered a bitter shandy! And why would he? Beer quality is on point. I think a neighbouring rival village might be here, cos there's a small front room with about 80 people herded into the tiny space, seemingly unable to mingle with those in the larger room. They smile at me like mad bastards, I bet they ain't Snitteronians. Do I hover and ask mine host whether Bass is a regular, or a guest? Of course, I must, I can feel the hands of history (well, Ian Thurman) on my shoulders. What hands they are. And a regular it is. Stick that in ya GBG description in 2024 ya Bass deniers! Yes, today really peaked here in Snitterby.
And on that happy note, we'll leave it there until Wednesday night (I'm dragging the poorly toe I don't like to mention out into York tomorrow).
Two more Lincs pubs to tell you about next time, both 6pm openers even on a Saturday because, well, #LincsBantz . Would they be worth the late finish? I'll also tell you about a micropub in Peterborough which I enjoyed very much, as we light the blue touch paper on leg one of my summer holiday double header.
Comments