BRAPA IS ..... ONE SANDWICH SHORT OF A TICK, NICK

The pretty posh village of Ickham isn't quite on the Sandwich-Canterbury bus route, which is a bit anti-social of it really, when you are against the clock.

It wasn't a particularly long walk from Littlebourne I admit, although it was a wet day, and Kentish drivers did with what Kentish drivers do when behind the wheel, and plough on without caution or patience, with absolutely zero regard for pedestrian welfare. Richard Pitcher off of Twitter is exempt from my sweeping generalisation.

Back in Bramling, I'd declared to my two new bar friends, Andy & Kim, with much confidence, that as long as the beer quality and the people are spot on in a pub, nothing else matters. I believed it when I said it. But that was before I'd been to Duke William, Ickham (2392 / 4296), BRAPA hell in so many ways. A restaurant shaped like a pub. Out of control Twildlife flinging itself across leather sofas, careering around tight bends, a dangerous combination as a procession of friendly terrified waitresses were bringing food out of kitchens on blind corners .... how there wasn't a smashage, I'll never know. I was the only wet-led dude in here, with the exception of one old bar codger who eyed me askance, like 'how dare you treat this like a pub, that's my niche!' In the loos, a whining boy has locked himself in the cubicle and Twaddy is losing patience as he tries to explain what clockwise and anti-clockwise mean. A boy sat behind me is sulking cos Twummy is making him finish his peas. Imagine looking like John Major at the age of six, poor lad. I'd waited almost as long to be served my Tonbridge Coppernob (excellent quality) as I took to drink it! Glad to get out.

Colin's look of disbelief says it all

Another decent stride out, this time back in the direction of Canterbury finds me winging my merry little way to Wingham, a village I'd passed on the bus out to Bramling earlier. I might've shortened my walk had I worn my boots and braved the muddy tracks, but I hadn't foreseen country walk potential so only had my best shoes on.

Anchor, Wingham ( 2393 / 4297) was more my speed. Pedestrian to be honest. Having said that, I'd seen a bus in exactly 25 minutes so I needed to show some urgency. Quite why I thought Sharp's Sea Fury, the ESB of Doom at 5.1% was a neckable drink when I'd previously had it in all manner of obscure Cornish outposts, I don't know. When it comes to beer selection, common sense is rarely high on my agenda. It went down my oesophagus like a battered ship on the rocks. But what I'll most remember is that this was a pub was the 'human touch'. A barmaid folding napkins near me (they'd be serviettes over in Ickham) tells me she has strategically positioned herself here so she can see both bars, in case a customer approaches. "You can't teach that, years of experience" I say, going all football commentator. As I sup my Fury, two random blokes bond over dogs. They both like dogs better than humans. Both sound like loners. Both say their dogs give them a reason to survive, to get up in the morning. All a bit bleak. Colin looks up at me says "like you and me that, pal!" I tell him any more comments like that, he's off to the British Heart Foundation.

Good job I head to the bus stop 3 minutes early because the bus comes hurtling around the corner early, just as Andy & Kim had said they were liable to do back in Bramling. Always pay attention to the local knowledge. That'd be one of my top 10 tips of ticking.

There's already another man waiting, he sees me and says "hurrah! Another waiting passenger!" I've never had such a positive reaction from arriving at a bus stop before. I tell him I'm delighted he was in a position to flag it down, cos I was still zipping up my jacket, fumbling for my ticket etc etc.

Back in Sandwich, it is time for my 4th and final Kent pub today. Frustrating. I'd considered my final Canterbury tick. I'd considered Eastry and Finglesham. I'd even considered a cheeky duo in Dover, but London to Sandwich takes 1.5 hrs each way, and despite booking myself on the 8pm back to York, I had to play it safe and get myself back in the vicinity of St Pancras and take it from there.

"No I don't want to buy a boxing ring, not enough room in my bag" I joke to the red cow emblazoned across the front of the Red Cow, Sandwich ( 2394 / 4298) - I wasn't drunk, just like to keep myself entertained, and I was giving Colin the silent treatment after his last outburst. Not too dissimilar from our previous pub, it was pitched as an old skool boozer, but one you could definitely tailor to more prosecco dining pashmina needs if you felt a sudden urge. Not that anyone did today, in fact the group opposite me were playing dominoes. Not one of them over the age of 80, reassuring. I love the rattle of doms, not many better pub noises in my opinion. The barmaid's a chirpy young bird, first time I've managed to order Gadds' 'She Sells Seashells' and get my words out properly. She seems impressed. I'd stay and chat, for this immediate bar area in easily the most ornate, but seating is at a premium and a bunch of paint stained overall hi-vis lads are in here making southern noises like 'Spurs, 'Ammers, The Arseniw'. So I sit near the doms players. A bit of an uneventful contest, but a well kept ale in a good place.

I arrive back in London at an awkward time. Retiring to Parcel Yard for my usually obligatory ESB (or three) this early would be an admission of ticking defeat, and potentially dangerous.

Thankfully, I'd held over a couple of Saturday opening Central London ticks for an emergency such as this. Another top ticking tip : never focus on Central London pubs. The churn is massive, and they are handy reserves when travelling back in from other areas.

Globe, Moorgate (2395 / 4299) was every bit as underwhelming as most occasional GBG Central London ticks are on an early Saturday evening. It almost felt like two pubs in one, the rooms were that distinct in style and atmosphere. The Keats bar, if that was the pretty one, had no space & not much beer, so I wander through to a drabber but beer heavier bar with more room. A sessionable and wholly unremarkable 'Moor Revival' sets me back £6.20 which breaks the £6.15 ESB record for the most I've paid for cask so far. I doubt this record will last long! Spying two free tables with 'Anthony 17:30' written on them, I sit down (it is 17:41). "Yes, you can sit there for now" says a barman, scribbling out the 17:30 off and changing it to 18:00. "Anthony has just phoned to say he's delayed". I wonder if he's delayed working at his grocery store where he's been saving his pennies for some day. I don't say this out loud of course, Billy Joel related humour never gets the praise it deserves. At 17:55, I'm unceremoniously usurped. "Ah, are you Anthony?" I ask, desperate to glimpse the man. But the bloke tells me that he is simply here to get Anthony's table prepared in advance. Probably Mr Cacciatore. I was getting images of some celestial Anthony being by now, and despite peering over from the end of the bar from 17:56-18:06, I never caught glance of our new hero. Time I was movin' out.

I arrive in Farringdon all set for my sixth and final tick, only to find it not existing when I type it into Google Maps. Really should've researched in advance, because I notice it is now closed down. Ooops.

Best way to see it is that a shut down GBG pub is one step closer to completion anyway!

So with time to kill, but not enough to go looking for a pub tick, yet not particularly in an 'ESB State of Mind', I head to an old classic I've not been in for years, Charles I. And I have a glorious little pint and a half session in there, fire in, scaring two young Proclaimers into sharing their table, heading a pink balloon back to this girl ... I mean I don't wanna turn my back on Parcel Yard, but if I'm being honest, minus the ESB factor, this is the superior pub .....

And there you have it. Today is BRAPA's 9th birthday so raise a glass if you've still got time, I wasn't allowed the day off work today, but I will be aiming for a single post-dentist tick tomorrow so look out for me on Twitter.

Cheers for reading, Si