BRAPA is .... TICKING AT BRECKNOCK SPEED (East Sussex 4/4)

There are some truly gorgeous Harvey's pubs out there, and a short shuffle from Frant station took me to the Brecknock Arms, Bells Yew Green (2578 / 4473) for my final tick of an action packed day three. A folk band are playing a series of rousing sea shanties in the corner, and a very drunk lady perches at me next to the bar and starts slurring something about chilli nuts so I tell her I'm allergic i.e. don't breathe nut breath on me! The IPA is of the utmost quality. Then a shiny Cliff Richard type who has spied my GBG swivels around to tell me about the dangers of covering Bob Dylan songs. Then a silence falls over the pub, and a previously yawning bloke who I thought was tolerating the music for his wife's benefit, sticks a finger in his ear and belts out a whimsical folk classic. Brilliant stuff.

There was time for a late pre-emptive back in Hastings, a Wetherspoons called John Logie Baird. I didn't think it was a particularly strong 'Spoons, but I've been assured it has (somehow) made a previous GBG so I can add it to my gross tally. Bit rough, with only Emily Atack tracing her West Yorkshire ancestry on 'Who Do You Think You Are?' to keep me sane, as a bunch of kids next to me got chucked out for underage-ness :

Fast forward to the following morning, Friday 7th July was my last in East Sussex. Running out of food now, so just a light brekkie (not the sheep):

Our first of six pubs today, was this (and apologies for the length of this blog, but I really need to catch up):

Everyone knows the Australians are the worst sportspeople but the best at TV, and there's not enough Aussie themed pubs out there, so we must commend Harvey's yet again on the excellent Dinkum, Polegate (2579 / 4474). Cash only was a bit of a surprise, always important even in 2023 to carry a bit in case the technology fails. Despite a tight-knit bunch of locals gathered around the Sussex Best and some plush curvy bench seating, this never quite hit Brecknock heights. Had to return my dodgy ale (Olympia), bit of an inquest, thankfully decided I'm correct, and the Sussex Best is a zillion times better, always safest to go with what the locals are drinking! Good boozer though.

An arduous journey out to the sticks follows, and quite bumpy too when you're sat on the wheel arch as is my favourite bus position (Daddy BRAPA will confirm) :

Bull's Head, Boreham Street (2580 / 4475) was one of the greatest pubs of my entire holiday, purple patch for Harvey's this. The almost total lack of reaction on Twitter to my check in perhaps shows how obscure this place was, as people aren't normally shy of a comment in this part of the world! Ah, so this was how Olympia is supposed to taste. A perfectly proportioned wooden boozer with a farmhouse feel and the friendliest staff. They're surprised to hear I'm not eating, which also causes 'Daddy Pardew' to eye me askance, and hurriedly order a chicken burger for himself and the Boy Pardew. I escape without being headbutted and secrete myself in a small gap by the fireplace and mantelpiece, observing four old boys who must've been coming here for centuries, as they help the frailest of their troop find his wallet so he can pay for his drink!

Halfway back in the direction I'd just come from, was the village of Hailsham where today's third tick could be found .....

I know it is far from unprecedented but 'Spoons which aren't easily accessible from the train, such as here at the George Hotel, Hailsham (2581 / 4476), seem a bit of pain #RhyminWithSimon. It was baking hot by now and there was too much sunburnt flesh on show as I make my way from courtyard to bar. It was a typically chaotic scene, even from my vantage point at the furthest end of this long room with carrier bags of shopping and kids toys scattered about the floor. Parents try to keep their twild life entertained whilst necking a few My Little Peroni's. One girl finishes her baked beans and is congratulated, she then asks Mummy to read the pub history displayed on the walls, as is the 'Spoons way. A sweating man in the gents asks me when this summer will end. The carpet is an 8.5, the beer is superb, but I'm still glad to leave!

Takes me an age to pick up a bus out of Hailsham. My plan had been to get to Eastbourne for my final tick there but a further 25 minute walk in this searing heat didn't appeal, so instead I head to Lewes for two.

This was the first .....

All those Harvey's classics earlier, and yet when I hit its hometown, I'm faced with a Greene King house. Nearly reaching for that defib on arrival, the Black Horse, Lewes (2582 / 4477) was uphill and cobbled and I'm sweating buckets. NOT that I get any of the sympathy or pint of water I did at the Squirrel in Battle yesterday. That 'work is finished for the week' atmosphere is evident, and a big roar goes up as England take a wicket versus the evil Aussies whilst I'm being served, interestingly by a guy with the jawline of Peter Siddle. Busy, quite a traditional pub in many ways, but as I often find in Lewes, lacking some good old fashioned humanity. My beer is far too warm, but at least I find a quiet back bar with a ceiling fan and 7/10 carpet, and a smattering of fragile faced bar staff eating rice dishes. A motivated Scottish daughter asks her Da' if she can crack the doms.

Back down the hill in a stationly direction, one of my other two Lewes ticks was begging to be ticked ....

Nice inn sign, nice frontage, it was quite a tight squeeze at Rights of Man, Lewes (2583 / 4478) and a touch too touristy for my tastes. I was sick and tired of bar blockers by now, so I've decided I'll force them to contribute (I've realised this holiday that I'm not 100% anti bar blockers, providing they have spatial awareness and contribute to the atmosphere/welcome). I think you've got to behave like a de-facto staff member if you insist on sitting up there. Bloke initially seems scared by my chat, but he passes the test with a 7/10 joke about having his remaining few strands of hair blown away by the fan. I laughed like it was a 9/10, because he needed encouragement so in future he can be the best bar blocking version of himself. The Sussex Best is on excellent form, and I'm fortuitous to find an empty wood panelled booth facing the bar, even if the posing table is unnecessarily awkward. Great mural out back, interesting upstairs, pretty decent pub. Should've preferred Black Horse, preferred this.

Here we are then, final pub of the holiday. I wanted to end on a high, with a short crawl back to my accommodation, and was confident this next place could deliver, as I follow the landlord on Twitter and he seems a bloke who does pubs 'properly' (or at least, the way I like them!)

A slow walking Germanic looking couple wouldn't let me pass, and walked right up to the pub entrance without going in. Just to add to the tantalising sense of intrigue.

Ypres Castle, Rye (2584 / 4479) didn't disappoint, a cool dark simple sort of pub, you could even call it a boozer, how often to you get chance to say that in East Sussex? Little flickering candles (tealights?) were quite hypnotic and one of my abiding memories. This bright young bar-lad is serving me the house bitter (3.8% was about all I could manage by now!) but where was the famous Jeff? Suddenly, someone shouts 'Jeff!' towards a bloke in the far corner wrestling with some cardboard. Hurrah! Has he seen me walk in and hastily decided to assemble a cardboard house to hide in until I leave? That'd be sensible. But no, he finally clocks me and then recognises me. Selfie for his scouse mate who's been waiting for my visit here! Canny north easterner, South Shields to be precise, like a capable more convincing Phil Brown. Ball of energy too, here there and everywhere, not since I've been ticking with RetiredMartin have I seen someone cover so much ground in a pub! We chat football, and he gives me a guided tour, including the spectacular garden. Tells me the pub is wet-led too, wow, quite astonishing but brilliant in the circs. Great way to end my hols, enormous sense of well being #BRAP-Life

With the night's drawing in and the moonless night star-less and bible-black (Dylan Thomas, not BRAPA), it is back to my digs for a late supper, it seems I did still have some food in (Jeff's given me a bottle of something lurking in the cellar to wash it down):

And then off back to York the following morning via two pints of Parcel Yard ESB, and three with Daddy BRAPA in York's Fox.

See you on Wednesday, I'll give you a breather, then we'll see what the West Midlands is up to these days.

Si