BRAPA .... OXFORDSHIRE COUNTDOWN (PART 2 of 5, PUBS 26-20)
Welcome back you gluttons for pub punishment - PUBISHMENT!
I suspect this next batch might be hard to make interesting, colourful or lively, but I'll give it my best shot, out of respect for you dear reader....
Greyhound, Letcombe Regis
After the most pleasant of walks from Wantage, through midgey woodland, I popped out into this sleepy village and I'm thinking this pub, especially the old mossy roof, looks full of character. But a bloke on my TwXtter says it looks 'dour' on the outside, I disagree! Once inside, dourer. Clompy stompy floorboards and staff who absolutely refuse to smile to customers but love a bit o' bantz between themselves. The cleaner was the exception but things eventually got awkward due to my over compensating smiling. You'd find more atmosphere on Pluto, the planet AND the dog. A random Northumbrian beer (not black, just very very very dark brown, like priest's socks) was a canny inclusion, excellent condition. And that pair of Canadian lesbian hikers who appear every two years (first time was Hole in the Wall, Torquay, 2003) chose this moment for their cameo to give me some company. But overall, a pub to really kill the good mood you've arrived in.
Clifden Arms, Worminghall
Now here's a pub exterior we can surely all agree on. I'm a sucker for a thatched roof. We cross into Bucks for this one, on Daddy BRAPA's pre-Oxford Utd defeat car day, for a choice of three Marlow beers .... well once we got served, which despite a Tuesday afternoon quiet lull, took an eternity because the main woman was dicking around the carpark with some visiting bloke and a stand-in chef had to be sought. Dad gets a coffee and rings his Sheffield mate Brian for a chinwag whilst I train Colin in the art of vintage birding. The 'pub' is frustratingly airport lounge-esque in hubbub, but at least it had soft furnishings and a colourful pumpkin motif on the large mirror. And immediately following on from hideous Beckley, anything was an improvement. My egg-chasing themed Rebellion beer goes down the hatch nicely. From thatch to hatch. Could be the pub motto.
Right way up would be a start mate
White Hart, Headington, Oxford
It thought it was as legendary as the nearby (nearly) excellent Mason's Arms, but came across more White Rabbit, but too try-hard and with rubbish quality beer. Youthful & smiley inclusive, the student punters create a buzzing late night atmosphere in the pub which proved to be my final tick in Oxford. But this Night Vision chocolate and rye porter from Derby's Brunswick, with a percentage of the money going to guide dogs, was vinegar, and you didn't need a well trained nose to sniff that! When I return it, she calls to one of her superiors whizzing past "He's saying the beer is off!" to which whizzing bloke waves a dismissive hand and shouts "Ohhh, just give him what he wants!" So I say to her (my third bad beer experience of the week so I was losing patience) "Look, if you don't believe me, try it .... or at least smell it" She refuses on both counts. In fact, she looks violated that I've asked! I get something disgustingly sweet n peachy as a replacement and hate the pub after that. The previously lovely students just seem irritating. Oh, and of course, when I leave, the handpump on the original hasn't been turned around, no investigations made, why does Oxon hate admitting their ales are off?
Crown, South Moreton
The hardest part of my week, from a travel perspective at least, was getting stranded in the Moreton's. Rural anyway, buses are rare, compounded by a road closure to the south meaning the diverted bus route all the way back up to GBG pub desert Didcot took 50 minutes. Bladder is killing as we stopped at a makeshift bus stop on a country lane. The scales have long since fallen from my eyes with regards 'community owned pubs' (I used to think it meant 'guaranteed classic', it definitely doesn't!) but at least our landlady here has a modicum of humanity compared with most of her fellow 'Part 2' peers. 90% of the pub is laid out for dining, so just as well it is empty on this Wednesday afternoon. The two comfy seats are in the centre, separated by a central wood burner, and I can hear her and hubbie (?) discussing how the shut road is costing them business, but personally I'm not sure how busier it'd be. On the plus side, it is my best wee of the week, a solid pint of Hooky, Colin had a rocking chair, and the soundtrack was Miaow by Beautiful South. Decent effort. And I did the post-emptive Bear up the road at North Moreton (just a half) which had brill staff but irritating diners.
Punch Bowl, Woodstock
On a bus route just north of Oxford, I was due to meet Daddy BRAPA for the beginning of our pre-Kassam adventure about 1pm, so arriving at 12:10 I'm thinking I'll have loads of time to kill. But what is this as I walk up to the bar? Dad is early too! And he's just got two pints in #PubMan. "I've actually been misbehaving!" he confesses naughtily, nodding towards the barmaid, who may I just say is one of the top ranking staffers this week, a genuine people person. I ask him 'how come?' It seems she wanted to bring his drink over to a table, but he's shunned her offer of table service, preferring to use pubs as nature intended i.e. waiting for it at the bar. And I can see she sort of admires his stance. I publicly back him, and I can see her eyes thinking "cripes, northerners." Well, we find a settee in front of a bubbling fireplace, and isn't this jolly? Like a reunion. The Arkell's beer might be proper bland (kept well I reckon, just the beer itself), the pub might be a proper dine-hole, but the presence of surprise D.B. makes everything Rosier than an overrated Strasbourg manager.
Angel, Burford
'Welcome to the gateway to the Costwolds!" screamed the road sign as the bus careers west of Oxford on my final morning down here. I knew this day would come, in fact a nice man from Kent wants to drive me around the heart of the Costwolds, in a bid to oust Daddy B. from 'BRAPA Personality of the Year'. In a week of dining pubs, I'd not been to one as unashamedly dining as this. 100% of the tables are kitted out with knives & forks. Restaurant not a pub, you couldn't dress it up any other way. I glance back at the landlady for encouragement as I sit in the prime comfy window seat beside the wood burner. "Yes, you are fine there until 1pm" she shrills like a kind shrew. She smiles reassuringly throughout, sensing my square peg in round hole predicament. Much appreciated. Some unsuspecting tourist asks to use their loos without having a drink and gets proper huffed at, and I admire this level of huffage. The Old Hooky is excellent, first time I'd seen this classic all week. I've time to kill for another half before the bus, but I decide to do it elsewhere (the Royal Oak) as the posh coffin dodging diners were starting to shuffle their way in.
Kings Arms, Wantage
No pub this week suffered from the lack of carpet, bench seating and beermats as much as this one. Three things that this below par county seems allergic to. I think I felt their lack more keenly here because the shape of this old pub had 'trad boozer throwback' echoes, how distant these echoes they are, I'm not sure, but when it is as empty as it is this afternoon, fair to say it suffers. The barman is a shy boy, mumbles and doesn't favour eye contact, and yet you sense a dry sense of humour under there somewhere. The same could be said of the entire pub. It was unintentionally hilarious, but I couldn't work out why. 'Twas like I was being tickled by a ghostly Ken Dodd stick. And I wasn't even enjoying my beer - not the pub's fault, I'd gone for something pumpkinny, and it was too rich for my blood. Whilst Colin keeps an eye on the contrary pub cat with the massive bum hole, I wonder whether the board games really have caused any serious injuries. Funny, frustrating sort of pub.
Good night all, see you in part three, I hope we can start to see an upturn in pub fortunes, but it might be only by small degrees so don't get too excited.
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