In the steamy mirror of my Premier Inn bathroom, the Ghost of Pub Ticking Yet to Come appears and offers a stark warning. "If you don't start getting out on the bus routes Si, no one is going to take your Devon ticking quest seriously".
He was a pervert for being there, but he was right.
After an unnecessarily painful hilly long walk through Exeter, I board the bus to Sidmouth. End of the line, in so many ways.
'God's waiting room' is an overused phrase for coastal towns, but in Sidmouth, God is Alan Sugar pressing the buzzer to reception in The Apprentice and saying "Can you send the candidates in now please?"
It was freeeezing and squally. Not May weather. I bought malt loaf and bottle of vitamin drink, apologised to a few totterers for nearly colliding with them on the narrow streets, and had a Graham (potter) along the seafront, where some cute little birds that my book says are called Turnstone come to say hello. Get them ticked!
That phone box starts freaking me out by saying 'ring. ring, ring ring' but in the voice of humans. I look at the clock. 11:05am. About time I got pubbing.
An early morning dosshouse for elderly coffee drinkers on my visit, early signs are good at the Anchor, Sidmouth (2785 / 4945) because they all wish me a cheerful good morning as I crash through the windy door. Old bar bint hasn't read the script and despite my "hi, how are you?", "ooh isn't it cold?", and other examples of scintillating banter, she grunts, and not even a friendly grunt. Oh, but when Bill and Ted come in, it is all 'hi, how are you two today?". Totally bogus dude! And Mary, she's treated like Moses returning from a year on the Seas of Galilee, or something biblical. The Jail Ale drinks very well, the aquarium complete with shipwreck is the best I've ever seen, and the carpeted left hand side all contribute to a promising start, but why so many local pubs are hostile to strangers I'll never know! Do they get a kick out of it? How do they ever make new friends? How do they expect people to return? Cos when I've completed the GBG and my new 20 year old trophy wife from Southend demands we holiday in Sidmouth, I'll be picking a different pub.
Shhh, Ozan is having his Sozreen
Couldn't afford to hang around in this fuckhole if I was to make pubs 2 and 3 work. Both are on the bus route I'd come in on, but notably both are mid afternoon closures. Something Devon loves to do, especially midweek, party like it is Mexborough 1975 lads.
Polar opposite experience at the Popp, Cannon Inn Newton Poppleford (2786 / 4946) is one of the stronger pubs of my Devonian sojourn. Choice of two doors, I choose left though I suspect the right is the 'pubbier' because that is where the disembodied codger duo can be heard, but it doesn't matter. Landlady immediately asks "you out walking?" to which I reply "if by walking you mean bussing, training, walking and taxi'ing to every pub in the Good Beer Guide, then yes!" Next 27.5 mins is me stood at the bar chatting with her about BRAPA. Lovely lady. Says she makes it her aim to make visitors welcome. What a contrast! Her and husband have moved recently from Newport Pagnell. I once went there, and everyone was ridiculously smiley, like even happier than MK folk, and it shocked me! In fact, I'm sure the pub I did was called the Cannon, and if you think about it, they've moved from one New P. to another! Outdoor loos with a corridor which smells of my L**ds grandma's jar of sweets is no surprise, and the beer is straight from the barrel. Ossett Yorkshire Blonde no less! Hit the spot. Doesn't always, not even at my beloved Fox Inn. In fact, best I've had it since the Grapes in Slingsby and I don't say that lightly. Faith restored in humanity when it was most needed.
I couldn't linger, as much as a non-BRAPA me would've loved to, and the speedy bus drops me by a road bridge, which I have to cross, then walk a few minutes through the village to pub three. At least this one shuts 3pm rather than 2-2:30pm to take a bit of pressure off.
Oh dear, oh dear. It should be a crime against humanity to fuck up what was surely once a traditional pub interior this badly. Worst I've seen all year. Welcome to the Half Moon, Clyst St Mary (2787 / 4947). Frustrating. It has the spirit of Newton Popp and you can tell the landlord is a good bloke, enquiring after my health, whilst his probable daughter, Miss Moon, is similarly personable when I ask challenging questions about WiFi and toilets a few minutes later. The main bar has a modicum of 'old', with a woodburner, but it only seats three or four, and two blokes are already sat here. I'm sort of glad as it would have only have applied a thin veneer to the true horrors. He points me in the direction of a side room, huge circular booths and horrid dining furniture. A dog on a long lead must have sensed my distress, so wanders over to say hi. Owners blissfully unaware. My Exeter Ferryman is a decent meaty drop, but I decide to leave early and stand on the side of the main road to wait for the bus as it is preferable to another minute in these surroundings.
Too early for Topsham due to late pub openings, but fear not as this same bus took me back into Exeter through this nothing suburb called 'Heavitree' where one of yesterday's two remaining GBG pubs that got away was located. Let's go in .......
The boozy tonic we needed after that Half Moon disgrace, Royal Oak, Exeter (2787 / 4947) welcomes me in with its slimline narrow central corridor opening up into a bar room full of hi-vis clad labourers who appear to have finished work suspiciously early, sinking their twelfth Madri's. Separate drinking areas mean I can hide from a howling baby which judging by the expressions of those around me, is giving everyone 'the ick' in 2024 parlance. The rug is a juicy 8.5/10 and tunes such as 'I'll do my Own Washing' by Big Tom & the Mainliners seem cultish, with only 135 Shazams before my attempt. The Otter Bitter is a bit grim, but I'm blaming the beer rather than pub because way too often in the past few years, Otter Bitter has let me down. Wishy Washy. Is that Big Tom's follow up hit? All in all though, a success.
Join me on Monday for part 3 (I'm Fursty Fridaying tmw, curtailed Saturday and celebrating Sister BRAPA's 40th on Sun), when we'll head to Topsham and I then get lost in some super rural bits.
