BRAPA is .... STILL SPANKING LANCS : More Lune, less Doom (Pt 2/2)

Saturday 16th May 2026

Look, there's a train over there if you squint.

The tip of South Cumbria was the setting for my second consecutive week in Lancs. A Daddy BRAPA car day no less. We'd have all round better pub experiences than the Blackpool coast provided last time out.

The journey over t'hills was dominated by Wemberley chat after our shock win at Meewaw the previous Monday.

But who will we be playing? What day? What time? We were all of a fluster due to the spying Saints. Do we cancel our hotel or keep it? Go in the car? Train? Our heads were fried. You should be able to enjoy the run up to a playoff final. Boo Southampton, boo. I needed a pint.

Excuse Dad's thumb, his first BRAPA photo on my new iPhone, I never got on with the Google Pixel. Not too sure what I was wearing, but we'll gloss over that. What a delightful little gaff is J.J. Crossfield's, Arnside (3449 / 6239). Not a pub, barely a bar. More a waterfront coffee shop with beer. The customer facing fonts suggest 'help yourself', but the switched on guy can read my thoughts and promises a pint of Lancaster will soon be mine if I behave myself. More 'drinks station' than bar, he tells me! If I ask for a pint of 'Hull City' (Lancaster Black and Lancaster Amber in the same glass), will (a) he know what I mean and (b) will it come out stripy like a tiger? I chicken out at the last minute and go full on Amber, like the 2002 kit sans 'Sportscard' sponsor. The upholstering is an 8.5/10, Dad doesn't rate his coffee and shortbread but loves it, if you see what I mean. A 10am opener too FTW.

Note a debut for the new green BRAPA fountain pen, as gifted to me by Paul G of Kent fame

On the way back to the car, a crone with supersonic bat hearing hears us slagging off her shit dog.

We cross the border back into North Lancs, for another pre-noon opener. An early finish was high on my agenda today because I'm hosting my annual Eurovision party for one - a dress rehearsal for an actual party I'm having next Sunday, the day after the play off final.

There's two types of brewery taps in this world. Those who put some effort into creating a customer friendly experience. And those who remain a basic brewery with some form of limited drinking space. I'm glad to tell you that Old School Brewery, Warton (3450 / 6250) is the former. Bit too outdoorsy and strange on a blustery Saturday in May, not sure how it works in the winter. Like walking into a kibbutz. Perseverance finds us the bar. Everything's school themed which I always find irritating like those Real Ale Classroom gaffs infesting Leics, because not everyone thinks 'your schooldays were the best days of your life'. Kill me now! My pint of Blackboard actually does drink chalkily. A lady trots over and asks "is your owl real?" What do you think madam? Last time I had this was in Ulverston with Martin (the owl) so must be something about this part of the world and fluffy owls! The clientele are hesitant 'brewery tap' stereotypes, like 'how do I behave?' / don't know where to put their bodies. A small child with a penchant for pub games asks Mum to crack the doms #PubChild The ceiling is full of chamber pots and disco balls. The route to the loo is cobbled with piddly intentions. But apart from the occasional icy gust, I speak for us both when I say we rated this place.

South we continue to the village of Halton. Not as straightforward a drive as it looks on paper because the River Lune is a divisive presence. Sorry for the brightness of today's photos, my new phone was taking some adjusting to.

And this sense of Halton being rather more cut off from civilisation than one might expect continues inside the Greyhound (3451 / 6251). Absolutely 0/10 for service, how many staff does it take to do a sum total of bugger all in slow motion? I don't THINK they were deliberately trying to piss us off but they did a great job, and Daddy B. has a lower patience threshold than me he'd be the first to admit and chuntered long after we were settled on a settee facing a fire, top tiled floor and 7/10 carpet. With all these Ossett's on, we could be back home in the Fox, and the sight of White Cat just makes us think it is White Rat rebadged but no, a Moorhouses original which tastes identical. The pub feels rejuvenated in a traditional style rather than refurbished in unsympathetic dining destruction, and for that you've got to be pleased, but sneering at the lazy staff from a safe distance was our main hobby whilst here.

Our next tick doesn't open til 2pm, and we were making such good time I needed a pre-emptive to fill the hole.

Thankfully, my new tactic of looking for 3* beer rated pre-emptives on the CAMRA website had come up trumps, with a trip into Lancaster, but nicely off centre to avoid any parking headaches.

I only need a half (BRAPA rules), so Dad decides to sit in the car and give me whatever half of 27.5 minutes is ......

I thought I was striking gold at Gregson's, Lancaster. Especially as I'd read on their website the previous evening that they'd recently scooped a CAMRA award But my plans to send a dynamic WhatsApp to my fellow pub tickers was swiftly shelved. The beer is well off 3* for one thing. It is like an artsy crafty centre, like a more annoying Chapter Arts in Cardiff. Smaller too. I put my half on a table and a gang of posh blouses tell me to move it cos they're selling their plants here! So I have to squash in next to a toddler sicking into her palm and wiping it on her Daddy. She has a penchant for lego, destruction, pizza and rice around the chops. I feel a bit ill. I return to the car, which is pubbier than this. Daddy B. is surprised how quick I've been. He would've HATED it.

Not my mascot!

2pm has passed and our next tick is now open, a 'beer hall' no less! Hopefully not selling 43 different discounted poor quality casks like that dreadful thing in the Clitheroe January snow #NeverForget

Takes us a helluva long time finding it, in fact my first try takes me into a desperate food cavern, but I find the beery bit around the back which is actually the front. Quite striking with its grand chimney. Dad says he'll move the car and join me in a bit ......

Up a staircase emblazoned with all sorts of nonsense, one of which finally promises I'm heading in the right direction for beer .....

What a palaver. (In real time, I'm breaking off now to cheer on the Swedes against evil France ....)

(Right that ended badly for the Swedes, let's get this finished before England hopefullu destroy Dr Congo).

Beer Hall, Galgate (3452 / 6252), I'm unsurprisingly the only customer probably because no bugger can find the damn place. A solid fluffy bloke greets me and looks concerned when I ask for the chocolate brownie stout, all furrowed brows and questions regarding tasters. I do the manful thing and say "nah, I'll go straight in with a pint, pal" cos I mean, chocolate brownie stout - you should know what that's gonna taste like. Alas no, 'tis puddingy battery acid! Is this how Lunebrew normally brew things, or was it on the turn? Impossible to tell! After all, my dodgy Gregson's half as a Lunebrew too. Oh, and that eggy tasing Creme Egg stout in Cleveley's a week before was also theirs. So I don't think I'll be picking their ales in the future! Dad's arrived by now, his OJ is a steady solid 8/10, and yes this was a direct quote. Nothing else happened, no one died.

One tick to go! An 'emotional' return to Garstang for a typically outer Preston flimsy grey looking micropub which almost certainly be a robot strip club when I complete the GBG in the year 2525 with Zager and Evans.

Thing with Garstang is, the people are perennially dysfunctional so at least Gin & Brews (3453 / 6253) was never boring. Party lasses to the front are proper 'extra'. Whoopin' and hollerin' , a few prosecco's here before the pink limo (slag sick-mobile?) takes them to the bright lights of Preston where they can upgrade to Plum Porter Grand Reserve + Old Tom and bother Matthew Lawrenson in the Black Horse. They're the least of my worries though because people are QUEUEING! In a MICRO! Told ya Garstang folk were special. The last time I was in town, an old lady accidentally dressed as Chewbacca (brown furry nightie) in sunglasses was walking backwards down the street with a fag hanging out of her mouth. I nearly saw her wookie. For added BRAPA excruciation, there's actually two staff on, trying to beckon folk forward to the bar but they won't be told. They're all on the cans so don't wanna stray too far from the fridge. Finally, a break of sorts appears so I'm able to 'walk' Blue Ben Stokes to the bar and stand alongside him. Painful. Dad appears for a brief cameo pee so I tell him he's dodged a bullet again. I buy him a can of something hazy with 'Fog' in the title for being patient as I've exceeded my 27.5 min stay due to the trying circs.

So there we have it. And just like last week, we're back in York so early that there's plenty of time before my Eurovision festivities for another trip to my local pub of the moment Volunteer Arms, which is in imperious form this evening with Beartown Creme Bearlee at the top of its game and that friendly landlady who seems to recognise me nowadays ......

Eurovision was as abysmal as it always is, but look 'it's tradition' and I enjoyed some exciting snacks, a tiny drop of red wine and doing my crazy voting. I even picked the winner this year for the first time since first year of Uni on a hot 1997 day down at Sunderland Panns Bank.

Hull City pants. Up the Greeks!

I've cancelled tomorrow's Thirsty Thursday up in Cumbria cos I've still got post-Somerset dropsy so I'll try and get another blog out and sneak two bonus ticks in on Fri eve because Saturday is also looking skinny. July ticking is already annoying me!

Keep it pubber than me, Si