Southwold had put on a good show on its BRAPA debut, but it was time to hop back on that bumpy bus in a Lowestofterly direction, a couple of ticks en route.
First up was this fascinating foray into 2023 pub culture in a coastal resort ......
Sailors Home, Kessingland (2548 / 4443) had a promising shabby exterior, a cheeky defib machine and barrels galore, so I was a bit disappointed to find a cluttered tourist crowd littering an astroturfed area around the back, the main entrance today. Worst was to come at the bar, as the tourists are forming a single file queue. I'm not having this 21st century bullshit, so I 'walk' the old man in front of me to the bar - he doesn't realise, but it is a coaxing technique I've taught myself, and it works a treat today and he manages to stay ahead of me without realising! The staff seem a bit impatient, maybe even a bit defensive. Attitude-wise certainly, which is backed up by the plethora of passive aggressive signs dotted everywhere 'be nice or go home' ,'we can only serve one arsehole at a time' etc. you get the picture!
"IF IT IS ON THE BOARD, WE HAVE IT ON" squawks one barmaid when I question the presence of the ale I want - which has been abbreviated so blackboard doesn't match what is on the bar. I get chatting to a nice couple behind me, also trying to queue, hellbent on finding out 'how this all works'. Do these idiots not go in pubs?
"I'VE HEARD IT IS NICE BUT I CAN'T HAVE IT COS IT I'M (GLUTEN) INTOLERANT. PROBLEM WITH BEER!" says barmaid passing me my ale.
"Ah, I'm pretty sure places are doing more gluten free ales these days ... a bit like being vegan, my sister says she ..." I venture, but I'm cut short.....
"BEING GLUTEN INTOLERANT AND BEING VEGAN ARE NOT THE SAME THING" she bellows .
"Yes, I know" I reply, desperate to get my point across, "What I was trying to say is you see more and more vegan ales these days, and I think it is going the same way with Gluten free ones"
I puff out my cheeks, smile and roll my eyes towards the nice timid idiots still lurking behind me, and take a seat.
Well, what a revelation my fresh vantage point is, facing the bar from a brand new perspective. Because it soon becomes clear, and I never thought I'd say this, the queue is NOT the fault of the queuers!
What has actually happened is that the gaggle of locals have spaced themselves across the front of the bar (three quarters of the way at least), dogs, sticks and bar stools for additional props, leaving the tourists entering the pub with one single file sliver of opportunity to reach the bar. I even witness 'limb stretching' like a random arm or leg going backwards to further decrease the space! I get their local mentality ... "We support this pub all year round, in deepest winter, not like these Johnny-come-latelys" but it is ignorant behaviour in my eyes, very pre-meditated. Marking their territory, well, they may as well have pissed all over the bar like a bunch of ginger tom cats. More than one staff member is on too, so the situation, now creating a blockage by the entrance, could easily be avoided. Not that the staff would EVER think about moving the locals. So next time you see a pub queue, have a closer look, you never know, you might be blaming the wrong people (but not in Wetherspoons, then it is ALWAYS the queuers fault).
The beer by Green Jack is excellently kept, and the pub if you look at it dispassionately, people free, which wasn't easy to do today, is flippin' great.
Absolutely fascinating pub observing. Hated and loved it in equal measures.
The bus chugs north, one more stop before we're back in Lowestoft, and that was Pakefield, more like Pukefield.
I'll admit I was still smarting from that Kessingland experience once I step inside at Oddfellows Arms, Pakefield (2549 / 4444). But this is such an absolute godawful turkey, that it allows me to put things into perspective and muse that the Sailors had actually been loads better than I'd been giving it credit for. Drab in decor and layout, a fish-eyed lady to my left and a round bloke who made me cringe break off from their conversation briefly whilst I get served a Citrus Sunshine, which is kept far too warm to be remotely pleasant. Flies circle the pool table, so I move into a side room. Sadly, I can still hear the bloke. The chat has already been exceptionally inane, when he reveals he's never seen a game of football in his life, which is fine of course. He claims Premier League footballers should only be paid £10 a week, and that's only if they win, after all, they are just playing a game ... "the closest I got was on the day of the 1966 World Cup Final .... I was fishing in Walton on the Naze and a bloke next to me had it on his transistor radio, and I nearly got into it!" And this conversation was all done in the utmost seriousness. Well, what a depressing place to have a drink this was. My last two pub experiences teaching me to be 'careful what you wish for!'
Thankfully, back in seagull shit infested doom hole, Lowestoft, we can end this blog on a much happier note. 4:01pm when I arrive at the 4pm opener, almost like I planned it, but I didn't.
Being the first customer in probably helps my cause at the Stanford Arms, Lowestoft (2550 / 4445), greeted by the wonderful Merynn, a former hairdresser who has the chatter to prove it. The way my day had gone, good quality human interaction was something I wasn't taking for granted. I feel like a local within about ten minutes, propping up the bar (like an evil blocker) of this wonderful backstreet basic boozer full of ale, saying hi to anyone who appears. They squint at me like "should I know you?" I mean 'errm, BRAPA? Don't you KNOW who I am?' but seriously, I've never been drunk enough to use that line ..... yet! Our most notable arrival is an Elgood's travelling salesman, checking up on how his beer is selling. He grabs some bottles from his car, desperate for Meryyn to stick some of their Plum Porter on the bar, she cracks open a bottle for us all to taste and appraise. Mmm, decent, but this straight talkin' rootin' tootin American lady says what I was half thinking but was too polite to say 'yee-haw, I prefer the Titanic' but spends all her time over here cos 'American beer is shit'. Surely not ALL of it? Well, Mr Elgood's was such a top grifter (grafter?), I'm sure he managed to sell some of his wares. Meryyn is off to Fuerteventura in a couple of hours, and the bonhomie of earlier disperses as the pub fills up, and Mr Elgood departs, so I decide to head off to the Norman Warrior, hopefully of a third classic, as the Triangle Tav had been an epic Lowey pub too.
So join me tomorrow, or Friday, where we'll see how the Norman W fares, plus a pre-emptive 'Spoons, before getting stuck into Great Yarmouth.
Thanks for reading, Si
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