BRAPA is .... WET LED IN WETTENHALL : A RURAL CHESHIRE ADVENTURE
4 minutes ago
5 min read
Thursday 20th August 2026
From my default position in Manchester Piccalilli station, leaning over the balcony squinting at train times having just bought posh snacks in M&S, I am forced to reflect that 2025/26 hasn't been a vintage year for Cheshire BRAPA.
After an excellent 2024/25, I'd basically forgotten that the county existed. It isn't always the most appealing. In parts, a snooty snothole WAG orientated shellacy french-tip-manicure-wipe-away-the residue dining pub of a county , I'm sure Cheshire would be the first to admit that. But it has its moments of clarity and class ( as I saw yesterday in Chester's Albion - blog due out when A.I has taken over the world).
One promise I did make to myself a year ago was to attempt at least one of my two 2025 holdovers - Bunbury or Tilston. I hate breaking promises, and with the #CruelChurn2027 looming, now was the time to act.
I chose the former because Tilston pairs nicely with Whitchurch which is Shropshire which may in turn pair well with either my North Wales or Herefordshire plans for next spring/summer.
I take a train down to Crewe, which must be a candidate for England's greyest town. Exacerbated in my mind by romantic notions of Crewe Alexandra when I was a Saffron Walden child playing Football Director 2 on the big Amstrad. Huge floppy disc. Good job Barry Bennell wasn't watching.
The walk from the bus stop into Bunbury is soggy and pavementless, but fairly devoid of traffic. The sun emerges as I approach the pub .....
Brunning & Price. As I live and breathe. How incredibly 'on brand' of the Dysart Arms, Bunbury (3586 / 6377) to be SO rural Cheshire. I was hoping to be served by evil Scottish screw Jock Stewart from Prisoner Cell Block H (real name Tommy Dysart) but sadly, the welcome was friendly and beige. I'd have welcomed a threat of being pushed down a stairwell with neck snappage potential. This dining hole stinks of cabbage and potato (bubble n squeak with a bit of Daddies sauce, yum) and is solely populated by the gerriest of geriatrics. There was a leather armchair by the fire, but it'd have left me exposed, so despite a wet bum, I took my pint out to the attractive little garden. A squirrel disappears up a tree. That's the highlight, alongside a 'mysteriously' good pint of Weetwood, which I'm forced to neck because my Uber cheat (and I wasn't convinced I'd get one out here at all) is THREE minutes away. Down it, down it!
Despite the name 'Karen' popping up, I was expecting some Czech dude to appear, so when it was an actual female Karen (think a Cheshire Megan Rapinoe) I was like 'ah that makes sense!'
A white Merc with cream leather seats. Door handle took me a while, sort of automatic. She barks at me to remove my bag from the seat! Never had that before. "This is a very posh Uber!" I say, trying to ease the tension. "It's got four wheels and an engine, same as any other car really!" she snorts. I wasn't going to win with Karen was I? We sit in awkward silence after that. She's VERY nice on departure, wishing me a great rest of my day, bright pearly smile! Where had this Karen been all journey?
A surprisingly reet, good 'n proper self-contained gaff with a pleasant 'family feel' and plush red benches, I'm impressed with the Little Man, Wettenhall (3587 / 6378) .... to an extent! A communal fag smoking session is going on outside, so I have a long wait for service, just Jimmy Nail on the plasma for company. Very friendly when they all trot back indoors, never heard 'ey up' so many times in a five minute spell. The beer is farty. I later hear the landlord on the blower to some beer / cellar expert about issues they've been having with air getting in, part of the issue is fixed, part of it isn't. I could've told him that! Still, it's nice to know that they care. There's even a quick staff meeting about it. The fartiness is more palatable after hearing all that. Terrified of bumping into Karen again, I decide on a long OS walk back to a bus stop near Nantwich.
About 60% of the way through my walk, a farmer has taped off the route I'm following with electric fencing. I realise I must now take a long route around to the right, but at that exact moment the heaven's open unleashing a biblical downpour.
I'm forced to cross fields, my unsuitable footwear is an issue as the ground is boggy. Soon my shoes are swimming with mud and water. My hoodie is no use. My rucksack barely waterproof. As I emerge ono a country lane, I'm well peed off I can tell ya!
To think I've been begging for the summer drought to end for weeks now, I thought I'd enjoy a bit of rain. I was wrong! Thankfully, there's a bus shelter, and a bus on the horizon so not a long wait.
Back in Nantwich, it is too early for my 5pm tick to open so I head to a pre-emptive Joules called the Leopard. Great hand dryers(!), sympathetic barmaid, attractive interior quite palatial (it has won pub conversion awards), test match cricket, geeky student invasion and a Seville Orange guest ale which tastes more like Stoke Tan.
FINALLY, it was approaching 5pm and I could get to my intended pub .....
Must be the staircase, but there was something Head of Steam Newcastle meets Beer Engine East Grinstead about Ebenezer's Craft Beer Emporium, Nantwich (3588 / 6379). Bit of Ledbury thrown in too. 'Eezer good, the cobbled Dickensian approach is certainly more Mr Scrooge than Birthday Leah Betts. Our affable host jiggles around with his Rage Against the Machine playlist. Just the one ale on, a deep full bitter with a 'Hot Fuzz' inspired pumpclip served in a tricky tankard I didn't really appreciate. Against the odds, the ale is excellent quality which must be a result of 'one on at a time'. This place definitely leans more towards keg. Oh, and was dropped from the GBG as was the Little Man. In fact, if we ignore my late York Tap pint, Bunbury's Dysart is the only pub I did all day which features in the 2027 GBG. FML!
Back in Crewe, there's time before my Manchester bound train to pre-emptively tick their Ebenezer's too, having been recommended it by such luminaries as Jim Brunt and Laura Hadland. I'd passed it on my walk to the bus stop this morning.
NOT that it had any cask on. But a delicious pint of Wilde Child birthday cake stout. I was talked at by a kind but solemn Elliott about Diazepam and dead parents. Another guy got excited by the prospect of Mars Bars. Smaller than the Nantwich pub, but cosier for it.
A swift Marston's in the Bull's Head ensues as it so often does when I'm waiting for a train from Picc because although the beer ain't always the best, it feels 'alive' and like a throwback to a time past which is so unusual when you consider its location.
And as mentioned earlier, a bit of late York Tap to further anaesthetise my difficult day. Miss Wetnose is on her summer break, but the staff duo were carefree jollity personified, rare in here. The Jaipur is on stunning form.
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