Thursday 5th December 12:30pm
As the bus trundles on its interminable route from Chester to Parkgate, a prettier place than it sounds out on the River Dee, I feel like I'm going to be sick. Especially when I look at my phone screen. Which is a problem because only Google Maps knows where I need to hop off. I grab my clammy forehead and grimace. An old lady sat on those side-on priority seats sees me, and gives the sort of concerned / worried look you normally reserve for a tramp who has bile spewing out of their nose after a sesh on the Special Brew.
I'd felt fine on my morning walkaround of Chester city centre, but the previous evening, I'd met a lovely Cambridge based #PubMan Dan Maycock, and his Dad, Daddy Maycock, for a debut at my favourite local, York's Fox Inn. One pint led to two, and when I realised these dark beer lovers hadn't witnessed the joys of Bad Kitty before, two pints became three. And when I realised they hadn't been to the nearby classic Volunteer Arms, a couple more followed including a syrupy 6.6% Thornbridge delight.
I felt fine when I got home, fried myself some Turkey Mince, Sainsbury's own chunky budget tomato sauce and grated some extra mature cheddar on top, a sprig of parsley for no reason, but the room was spinning when I went to bed later on. Had I really overdone it? I feel rough waking up to catch an 8:30am train over to Manchester, but coffee helped and by noon, I felt fine ..... until now!
I stagger off the bus, the rain lashing sideways. The beginnings of Storm Darragh. I tilt my head towards the sky to 'cleanse' my pounding head. A dog walker eyes me curiously. "Alrite mate?" "I will be!" I croak. Boat House, Parkgate (2855 / 5339) is a Hyde's pub, which often but not always means over reliance on beige dining with a degree of comfort. I clutch the edge of the bar like I'm going down with the ship and notice the Catchphrase themed beer you see above. Through a thick mouth, I slur "Say What You See". Barmaid chuckles. Of course, she thinks I'm doing a Roy Walker impression. I really wasn't. Why has Mr Chips head shape changed? Hyde's worried about an ITV lawsuit? I wander up some steps, past one man and his dog, opposite a po-faced couple waiting for lunch. I wince in agony at them all. The beer is nectar. The pub? It is all about the location. The beautiful bleakness of the view over the salt marshes towards Wales and the Dee. Though visibility is minimal today. A soggy pub cat appears on the window sill outside. Someone let the poor blighter in! No way I'm drinking this pint in 20 mins when next bus is due, so I nurse it, get another half, and wait 75 mins until the next one. I'm recovering. The waitress drops Mr Po-Faced's chicken goujons on the floor. The local dog snaffles them up before anyone can react. Mr Po-Face fumes as the dog's owner apologises and shouts "at least they aren't going to waste!" and has to watch his wife eat her lunch whilst he waits for his replacement. The waitress brings the dog a side plate to complete the scene. Surprised she didn't bring it some garlic and sweet chilli dip. Ah, the sweet life-giving qualities of being in a pub. Nothing finer.
Despite my improvement, I cannot face the bus all the way back to Chester in case I get another wave of puke so hop off at nearby Neston station. You cannot catch a direct train to Chester from here so it was a rare BRAPA foray into North Wales on the Wrexham line.
Wrexham seems a step too far for a Thursday, thirsty or not, but Hawarden and Shotton both have GBG pubs.
After some more life giving rain inhalation, I sit in the shelter and eat my gala pie. Definitely feeling 100% again.
My phone buzzes. Amazon delivery. "We have hand delivered parcel to the resident". Errrm, which resident? I never did locate my package which contained cod liver oil and fly spray. A weird thing for one of my neighbours to steal, but the way they do their recycling, definite weirdos.
Dusk and rush hour are already approaching when I reach pub two, having splashed through the puddled pot holed pavements of Hawarden which seems to be pronounced with close to zero emphasis on the 'W'. More like Haaaaarden. Rain is worse than ever now.
Entering through a red velvet curtain, I'm wondering if this really is the Glynne Arms, Hawarden (2856 / 5340) or whether I've stepped into some neighbouring boutique restaurant by mistake. I ask a fresh faced young lady in a pressed white shirt clomping around the corridors like a boss, and I'm quite surprised when she reveals that yes, this is indeed the pub. Incredibly happy, welcoming friendly staff throughout. Very 'North Wales' from my limited experience, in this regard. But deary me, what an utter non-pub of a pub! Gravestone will read 'no pretence was made'. Grotto hotel? 'Too pastel and chintzy' says Old Mudgie. Fair assessment. I'm offered a handled glass. "Go on then!" I grumble. Not a fan, novelty wore off sometime around 2013. "Voila!" he replies, which must be Welsh for "av it lad!" The beer ain't great considering it is called 'The Splendid Ale' but I don't think it is a pub problem. Side lounge even offers me a footstool. You don't get many of them. I accidentally squash a money spider that has crawled into my GBG at the time of highlighting, just at the moment a barmaid is lighting candles. I confess my crime and worry it'll impact my financial situation. She seems tickled. It is the kind of quirky place that appreciates that kind of silliness.
Back in a Chesterly direction (yes, I'm delighted to learn you can do Chester directly from a Hawarden angle), I reach Shotton. Scene of Daddy's BRAPA's Photo of the Year 2024, he still talks about it today. When I took it, I didn't realise I was creating a masterpiece.
I'd say I was in the top 10%, possibly top 5% of UK residents when it comes to 'Spoons Enthusiasm. But I'd normally describe them as a safe pair of hands. Functional. Reliable. You know what you're going to get. Not often they get my juices flowing like a 16th century smoky wickerman tavern. But I thought Central Hotel, Shotton (2857 / 5341) was a touch of genuine class. The carpet is 9.5/10, and like an NBSS perfect pint, you won't find BRAPA giving full carpet marks even if it is perfection. The pub has a fire bubbling away. I could count on one hand the number of non-arson related Spoons fires I've witnessed. Bridlington and Turnpike Lane are the only two I recall off-hand. The beer, Dark Side of the Moose, absolute top tier - I've always known it was good but to have one this well kept is a dream. £1.49 with the voucher. An old man next to me looks up from his fish n peas and tells me he has lost his watch and wants to know the time. Then he wants to know when the next train to Wrexham departs. I think he called me boyo. "At least it's stopped raining" he says, cheers for jinxing it mate. Today's 'moment of contentment'™ was here though, and I finally thought I was back on track, in the direction of Chester, before it gets too ridiculously late ..... but I was about to jinx myself.
Split level station alert! And it takes me far too long to realise. Simply couldn't work it out. Retford I think it is which has similarly stymied me in the past. I overhear a bloke with my same predicament asking an unhelpful local yoof with headphones in.
We bond in our shared confusion, he reminds me of Ralph from Ted & Ralph and we go wandering together like we're off to fix the drainage in the lower field. But train pulling out as we approach!
Darn! Next train to Chester ain't for another hour. Back to Spoons? But hang on, a train to Wrexham is due in a few minutes time. Two pubs there. Could I? I see our old watchless mate from 'Spoons, but make sure he can't see me. Let's do this!
Storm Darragh has returned with a vengeance when I arrive at Wrexham General (NOT A HOSPITAL) which is slightly out of town, but not Congleton levels of cruelty.
Thankfully, the gale force wind is in my favour and pushes me into the town centre. The couple of people I see walking towards the station I didn't envy! My bum and back of legs are soaked, even my GBG spine and Colin's forehead are damp when we reach the pub.
Only the etched windows tell me I'm in the right place. Magic Dragon Brewery Tap, Wrexham (2858 / 5342) and I'm out of Puff (thanks). I enjoyed this pub, and pub it was, certainly in atmosphere sense, not your conventional brewery tap nonsense. I even had a shimmering settle next to me, cheeky bit of stained glass atop. Experience is a bit of a blur, though I'm not as blurry as the bunch of sweaty pissheads who inhabit this place tonight. They make it special. Not so much 'frolic in the autumn mist' as 'bollick anyone who isn't pist' because before long, a woman across from me holds her Wrexham Lager aloft and slurs "sing, SING you miserable bastards!" but the only song playing is in her head. I toast her from afar but otherwise, hide behind my Magic Mild and as another giant gust of wind smashes against the window pane, I wonder where I'm more likely to end up tonight. York, or Honalee? A very non-Swedish bloke wearing a Swedish tracksuit top wanders past and fist bumps me. "Have a good night mate" he says. I tell him I will, but I'm anxious I can't lie.
One more tick to go, marginally closer to Wrexham General (still not a hospital).
And today's best pub was this 'breathe-in-if-you're-feeling chubby' slimline ornate Joule's house, the Royal Oak, Wrexham (2859 / 5343). A rowdy pocket of bald men with slopey Welsh shoulders are playing darts in the back room and I'm relieved my bladder is behaving for once (think I'm dehydrated from last night) cos I'm pretty sure the loos are down here. Our eyeshadowed heroine is a great sport, some good chat and asks if I want a 'try before you buy' on the Slumbering Monk, but no, I had it it Chester in 2014 and ironically actually feel asleep in the pub! She appreciates this anecdote to some extent as I promise not to slumber here. It's the only Joule's beer I truly enjoy, their pales are too pissy for my liking. Empty front bar is a joy but has an ailing fire, I put a log on, give it a prod, and after causing a brief smoke-out, things settle down and the fire is now roaring. I'm chuffed with my efforts. Couple o' mins later, Ms Eyeshadow and a staff bloke walk past, off outside for a ciggie, they glance at the fire and I hear her comment "the fire is going well, you did a great job" and strokes his arm! I'm fuming. A darts player wanders past and says hello so I tell him what's just happened. "ME, IT WAS ME! ALLLL MEEE!!" I scream. He laughs. And then, when I go to return my glass and say thanks at the end, Ms Eyeshadow says I've made her jump cos she hadn't seen me! Something that's happening a lot at the moment, I must train myself to be noisier.
Unsurprisingly, the trains are proper fouled up so I decide to compartmentalise the journey in my mind to stop it becoming too onerous. Step 1, get back into England, namely Chester. I've found a delayed 19:40. All goes to plan.
Chester is annoying because I have a 40 minute wait until the next Manchester train which is step 2. The final coffee shop has just closed. And the vending machine only gives me my raisin & biscuit Yorkie when I gave it a good kicking. But it staves off the cold.
Connection for the final York train (step 3) is only 8 mins so I'm proper nervous all the way from Chester to Manc Vic as we lose the odd minute here n there. We make up some time at Newton-le-Willows and I'm delighted. Connection made, back over t'hills.
Mummy BRAPA has 'the worst cold she's ever had' and can barely breathe, so doesn't bother going to bed, so we WhatsApp til 1am to keep each other entertained! I arrive home 1:15am, got work in the morning ugh. And tell myself I need to be more sensible the following Thursday. I wasn't.
But that's a story for another day. Join me Wednesday, when I'll tell you what's going down in West Kent with guest start Paul G.
Good night, Si
Definitely in the top 1% of posts about stolen cod liver oil.