BRAPA is .... TAKING THE PLUNGAR (UNBLOCKING THREE COUNTIES AT ONCE)

With Bottesford and Redmile safely under my belt, now came the key moment of my Saturday 12th August outing. A rare bus out of Redmile, to the neighbouring village of Plungar.

It nearly didn't happen. "Why are ya standing there and not at the stop?" berates the bus driver, braking just in time. I explain that I didn't think there was one so I stood opposite the one on the other side of the road, which is what happens in one-horse villages sometimes.

He points at an unlikely, rusty pole with no sign attached, half hidden behind a brick building, and mutters something that sounds like "dork from York". I decide I hate him. I hate 82.7% of bus drivers I encounter. That is a BRAPA stat. Only dogs (82.9%) and toddlers (91.666%) have a higher BRAPA irritability rating.

Anyway, I'm soon plunged into Plungar and I can put all negative thoughts out of mind as the pub appears on the bastard Leics horizon .....

A lively bar scene greets me at the Anchor, Plungar (2616 / 4511), famous amongst pub tickers (well me) for having three different sets of opening hours listed on social media for Thursday's. 3, 4 or 5pm, which is it? Facebook, Whatpub, or Dr Google. Who would you trust? I forgot to find out. The benches are lined with rosy cheeked round faced couple in their mid sixties, whilst a gaggle of Nottingham Forest fans blink up at the Arsenal game, which seems to have been going on for about 5 hours (2-0 to Arse at present). I purchase an excellently kept pint of 'Tink's Pixie Dust Pale', I somehow manage to confuse the barmaid by paying for it. "I'm having a bad day luv .... don't worry, it isn't your fault" she says. Well that's reassuring(!) With one more smile at the men with cheeks rosier than a Forest shirt, I retire to the peaceful side/back bar, take a deep breath and a sip, and then this guy approaches me half tentatively, like you would a caged tiger that might maul you. "Simon? Si? BRAPA? StymieSi? Keeper of the cauliflower?" he enquires (not a direct quote) and I confirm I am he. Well, it is only Rich 'Rizzy Bizzy' Mr Poombastic and Steve 'Grand Central' Halstead. Twitter/X/Untappd legends both! A bit of a shame Andrew McWilliam isn't with them, as I've always seen them as a trio. Felt a bit like getting tickets to watch Green Day and then Tre Cool not turning up. They're on a day's cycling / pubbing, they are pretty much doing my pub crawl today but in reverse. This being the midpoint. I ask if I can join them. They do some mental maths, realise they don't have time to abscond to Devon (Victoria Wells) or the Emirates (Pete Blackburn) so they acquiesce, and we have a lovely old chat about local pubs and football - just missing Neighbours for the perfect trilogy. They give me a couple of actions to take away - colouring in Derbyshire in this year's GBG, and remembering to check in with locations when I do Untappd. Then a huge roar goes up and we're like "no way have Forest pulled it back to 2-2!" but no, it is only a late consolation. Then, knowing BRAPA all too well, they do the piccie of me out front, point me in the direction of Granby, and get on their bikes. Lovely stuff.

It is quite a serene walk to Granby, but the moment I cross the border into Notts, the heaven's open and I have to stop in a ditch and pull out the ole' green raincoat ......

I wonder if the lads have reached Redmile before the storm hit, and then the pub comes into view, one of those 'living rent free in my head all year' kinda ticks, very satisfying to get done!

But I'm incredibly unlucky at the Marquis of Granby, Granby (2617 / 4512), a pub which I'm convinced had plenty of quality, meaning I could've come here 99 times and had a better experience than I did today. See the minibus above? Well about thirty party lads and ladettes emerge from it, Pink Tommy the ring leader very generously buys one of the most expensive rounds I've ever witnessed, he's beaten me to the bar my a nano-second. Gah! The locals can see what has happened and offer me words of consolation out of the sides of their mouths, and sympathetic glances out of the corner of their eyes. It helps, but not enough. The guv'nor seems a switched on wiry wired up type of fellow, and I keep giving him sad eyes as if to say "ONE PINT, I ONLY WANT ONE PINT, SO PULL BRAPA A PINT, PULL BRAPA A PINT" but to no avail. Well, after the fifteenth limoncello has been poured, Pink Tommy and the Nobbers disappear to a side room, and a Marquis house beer from the always good Brewster's is soon mine. Except it seems very bland. And it is only when I've forced half down that I see the landlord has turned it around and is pulling something else through. Gah x2! I leave the final third of dishwater, and leave disappointed, wondering what might have been.

Granby has this circular bus that doesn't really go anywhere, well I mean it goes round in a circle and stops at Bingham, IF you can count Bingham as 'somewhere', so it is here where I hop off. With time until the train, it is time to pop in what I believe to be Bingham's second best pub, the Butter Cross 'Spoons for a quick 'arf.

I approach it from a different angle from last time, skirting around a stranded mime artist who thought he was in Paris, and it is a bit quieter this afternoon than on market day morning, so I can appreciate a top quality carpet too.

Seriously, if Bingham must insist on putting a second pub in the GBG to partner the excellent Horse & Plough, then it should be this, not the Wheatsheaf. Of that I'm convinced. Above average 'Spoons.

Time to take the train back to Grantham where I encounter this rather moth eaten creature on the railway bridge touting itself as the next BRAPA mascot .....

Poor lad doesn't have a hope, unless Hull City sign a Dave Rabbit before the end of the window.

Next, I shun the chance for a bonus pint in the Whistle Stop micro and instead sit in the station waiting room for a good 35 minutes, eat my quiche, Space Raiders, biscuit, yoghurt, drink my lemon barley and do all my Untappd catch ups whilst I'm in the vicinity, half engaging with some lost ladies trying to cadge a lift off a tanned sports car bloke to Sheffield with an element of Alfie Bowe.

Now I'm ready to tackle my final pub of the day, which is through a scary thin pissy tunnel .....

"You just errrm, visiting eh? Passing through, hmmm?" says the club 'steward' (good word) out of the corner of his mouth as I enter the Grantham Railway Club (2618 / 4513). And aren't there a lot of people talking out the corners of their mouths today, must be a Lincs/Notts/Leics border trait? "Oh, I'm a CAMRA member, just popping in the a pint if that's okay?" I ask. He brightens a bit at that (rare) before a bawdy bloke next to me says "cameraman? eh duck?" "No, CAMRA - campaign for real ale!" says the steward. "Oh, I thought you meant you were gonna take photos of us, duck, LOL!" he says with a wheezy chuckle, patting me on the back. "Oh well, that too!" I reply, laughing as wheezily as my clean lungs will allow. He laughs again. He thinks I'm joking! Poor sod. "Sup the top off tha' duck and ah'll top it oop!" instructs the guv'nor as my Brewster's 'Et Citra Et Citra' comes out very foamy and creamy. Old skool. Absolutely love this place, I'm in my element. A burgundy and gold panelled bar, deep low slung club room with a long shallowness, a large stage, and simple red chairs lining the perimeter. Phoenix Nightsy. Everyone is so old, and so kind, I was getting proper Grandparent nostalgia. Such sweeties. Just felt so at home here, not often you can say that about a GBG club visit, even with the best will in the world. Says a lot about Grantham, one of the more down to earth Lincs towns I've visited, like Sleaford. Keep it mid-Lincs! I thought I'd sobered up with my earlier food session, but I'm still called back cos I've left my green jacket on the seat next to me, which gets a big laugh and eye roll from everyone. Oh well, it wouldn't be a 'club exit' if I didn't make a tit of myself in doing so. Remember Woking when I accidentally turned all the lights off trying to release the door? Proper japes.

I had to change unexpectedly at Doncaster on the way home, which I think we can agree is entirely unreasonable, but at least it means I got to visit my current 'Parcel Yard of Yorkshire', the astonishingly good Little Plough .....

The liquorice stout drank very well and I got chatting with a nice duo, she was from Goole, they seemed quite interested in BRAPA so I gave them my details and hello if you are reading! Then everyone sang along to a live band. And with the news coming through Hull City had beaten Sheff Wed 4-2, feel good factor was through the roof by now, and all was well with the world.

And you really know the football season is back when you are on a station platform and encounter Scunthorpe, Grimsby and Middlesbrough strangers all randomly chatting on how their teams have got on. Nice to see.

Next stop York, and I arrived home feeling remarkably sober. I blame the lack of ESB.

Thanks for reading, Si