We're hitting the fun stuff now. Seven pubs for your perusal. All worth a visit if you're in the area.
Stonehouse Brewery & Distillery, Weston
Fully aware that I'd missed the last bus back to Shrewsbury which was some lame time like 6pm (Salop hates bus services, pass it on), I left Oswestry centre on foot and I'm amazed how rural it becomes so quickly. Pot-holed puddled country lanes, the smell of manure in the air, a sheep bleats and a cow maybe mooed behind a hedge, someone did. Darkness descends, it's atmospheric, thrilling and a bit scary. Not Vine Inn Pamphill levels thankfully. But I can't get in! Just as I'm beginning to panic, an old couple apparate and tell me I'm at the wrong building and it is further back. Now, Brewery Taps are one of the most troublesome of GBG venues, but this is a cut above. Actually designed for punters to enjoy a warm comfortable drink, maybe stay for a seventh? Guisborough can only dream. I'd sampled a few Stonehouse beers this hols, and I must say I'm impressed. This 'Shadows and Dust' zings. And they know they're good. Red haired women with poise and grace float around the room like human glade plug-ins, probably drinking Matcha green tea out of 'Girl Boss' mugs when no-one's watching. What happened to the pot-bellied bearded blokes of old with their Oliver Reed t-shirts shambling about with a Sports Direct mug of coffee and a brace of Rich Tea biscuits? Place shuts at 8:30pm, so 1.5 hrs to work out some form of Uber/Taxi. I needn't have worried, Christopher is immediately on it!
There's an unsavoury epilogue, nothing to do with the brewery, back in Shrews I ask Christopher (a black Christopher) to drop me at Tesco Express so I can buy some late snacks. Police pull us over. They reckon he was driving erratically. He wasn't. Make us both get out the car. Explains he's simply dropping off an Uber customer. They ask me if I'm okay and this is true! All very weird. Racial profiling? When did Shrewsbury become downtown L.A.?
Bossin' it
Yew Tree Inn, All Stretton
'Operation Yew Tree', as I affectionately named my walk from Little to All via Church : The Strettons are like Pokemons, you gotta catch 'em all. It's a fair yomp, and I couldn't have been unluckier with my timing because the hourly bus to both Shrewsbury and Ludlow were flying past me at my moment of arrival, meaning a full hour in the pub. A pub which is a tale of two halves. I enter left. Gloomy restaurant. So I make my way around to the right. Proper! There's even a tray of cobs on the bar. The Ludlow Gold drinks averagely and the tables are so old and heavy, I hit my shin on an iron underneath bit. OUCH! Best of all, it appears to be a family run affair and when I return t'bar for a Shroppie Golden Thread (far better than the Ludlow), I get chatting to Mummy / Daughter combo. With that cheese pie (that I don't like to talk about) still fresh in my mind and heavy on my gut, I ask the Mum why she was critical of her own lunchtime pie earlier on. 'Too much pastry, not enough filling' was a reasonable answer. New supplier, unimpressed. I bond with daughter over OS App route map usage and the grumpiness of 'Jack off the bus' from Little Stretton, and that is game set & match.
Distant cobbage, close up cauliage
Black Horse, Bridgnorth
The only Bridgnorth tick in the low town, and it makes sense cos we'd sunk to devilment depths with the lewdest, bawdiest pub of the holiday. The only one of my 36 ticks this week where you'd hear a distant "well fucking fuck off then you fucking cunt" and it'd be treated as a cheerful bit of banter. Our poor barmaid's accused of always having her legs akimbo, but she takes this in the spirit it is (probably) intended with a further 'fack orrrfff mate'. All this whilst a lad wanders about in a Liverpool kit making gurgling noises and collecting glasses. My welcome was pure Angie Watts, I'm referred to as 'angel', 'darl', 'schweet' and 'luv' in an exhilarating one minute period during my Bathams Bitter pulling. A weird ale to see outside of their own pubs, tastes chalkier than usual, possibly psychological. I'd chosen to nurse it after a rushed experience in the pub before due to an overly-efficient taxi driver. But once my kindred spirit, the sensible Mr iPad Holsten Pils departs, I feel exposed and quite naked. Though if you were going to see a streaker in any pub this holiday, it'd be here. I would however heartily recommend it (the pub, not streaking). I'd seen glorious Hell, and it is bench seated with wood panelling. I bet ya heaven is a dull GK dining pub.
Kindred
Oak Inn, Oswestry
Considering the pubs that had gone before on my wobbly Wednesday (and that's the problem with these countdowns as opposed to my usual format - less context) I mightily enjoyed the Oak on account of its 'just off Blackpool seafront' levels of unpretentiousness. The welcome is warm, the staff eager to please, but unable to give me their full attention, so serve me in an unusual way where they'll ask a question, disappear, return, ask another, disappear, repeat about five times until my pint is pulled. The Stonehouse Sunlander is glorious and considering the pub is making a long overdue return to the GBG, I can only assume they've recently changed hands. The long slim room and 8.5/10 carpet and 9/10 ceiling height stretches to a plasma on the back wall, where a curmudgeonly crowd are snoozing through the final throes of today's Cheltenham races. I pretend to be engrossed, but only because that's the natural direction my head is pointing in. But this pub really was the tonic that today's ginnier pubs had been lacking.
Stretchy
Pheasant, Wellington : Telford
I have fewer memories of this pub than any other this holiday, the fifth on my opening night. So for it to finish in the top ten is testament to its quality, providing I wasn't drinking through a rose-tinted glass by this stage. And factor in the following - due to the Saturday night swell, I was forced to perch at the bar behind a glass screen like some silly Yorkshire goldfish. The Queen Rat is black smoky brilliance, and how have I not had this in York's possibly comparable Fox Inn before? The flooring is chessboard, there's a splendid crackling of a fire somewhere over yonder but it's so popular with the men in various shades of blue jeans, I barely even get a glimpse of it. I was more than content though. I wonder what this place would be like on a quiet Tuesday afternoon? I guess I'll never know. Stupid pub ticking hobby! Though if Hull City play Telford away in 2035, Dad's keen to go, and there aren't enough GBG ticks left, I guess you never know.
Arse-warmer
Ratty
Black Boy, Bridgnorth
Up in the gentler 'High Town', ignore the weird spelling of centre, I enter left and receive a 10/10 welcome from not just the day-care husbandry but even 'females' (who let them in?) lining the back bench of this fabulously atmospheric boozer. Even I'd be forced to admit that a carpet would be to the pub's detriment, what a floor! The welcome from mine host is equally chirpy, I'd say our third Angie Watts of the holiday but in truth she's more Kim Wilde with an element of Richard Burton if you can imagine such a fabulous creation. My eyes have been drawn to the Enville Ginger. "Is it very ginger?" I enquire. "Trading standards would be after them if it weren't!, lolz" chuckles our Kimmy. I'd been asking for a taster without asking for a taster, cos I hate tasters. My view is that you are buying a pint, not a car. You don't need a test drive, it is a short term one time only commitment. But I humour her. 'Very ginger, oof!' I wince, going for it anyway. "Ginger has health giving properties" she comments whilst pulling it. As I'm about to leave the bar area (sad that there isn't room to stay in the superior left side), she tells me the loos are outside - as they often are in great pubs. Thinking I've come up with my zingiest line of the holiday, I quickly reply "ah, is this because of ginger's digestive qualities?!" and whilst it gets a good chuckle from the locals, she meets me head on with a deadpan sulky "No, I realised you'd probably not been here before and thought you might just like to know where they are!" Well, that killed the bonhomie stone dead. The right side is still good, similar style, just more breezy, touristy and transient. Still, more than any pub this week, I that gay abandon of being on mi holidays!
Digestive
Bailey Head, Oswestry
Ready to go potty for the 2024 POTY? The lady behind the bar wears her blue scarf with a flourish, and realising I'm a Bailey newbie, surveys me with eyes that say 'I hope you realise how privileged you are to be in the presence of such pub greatness'. Peak heritage pub behaviour in fact. Worth Matravers S&C and Newton, Cambs QH behaved similar. In an inviting area to the front right, a bloke perpetually shuffles a deck of playing cards which he never manages to deal. Random topical soundbites emit from his vast cave. Don't quote me verbatim but it went something like ....."Iran .... what a pickle eh?" Oil prices, cripes .... so glad me and Justina invested in e-scooters lol" Looking back, he was probably a humanoid Chat GPT bot. A.I Salop if you like. Ooh, blog title potential! Shame, I'd really liked the look of that area, like a mini-curated window into a traditional boozer. But I needn't have worried, because as I spin 180, the pub is full of similar areas. Without going all Linda Barker, they've made the most of the space and it works really really well. Almost giving the illusion of a multi-roomer like a Derby Brunswick. Impressive. As is the ale. I never 'got' murk until I drank Two by Two. Now I wish it came out of my kitchen tap. Wallsend has never been more glorious since Lee Clark left. I'm not removing my jacket, bit of a chill, blue scarf lady was being practical as well as flourishing. And although I feel slightly detached from the pub, like I'm viewing myself from the top corner of the room like some poor sod in a coma, I also feel at home. Tis a funny sort of contradiction. A pub that really represents the 2020's. The micropub decline is upon us. The 0.00007% of young people still frequenting pubs have said 'bondage up yours!' to rickety wooden plywood benches and cold hard metallic surfaces in random shopping precinct lock-ups which cost £1 a year to maintain. Shunning them for warmth, comfort and nostalgia, like 'pubs wot were in the olden days'. BUT, done on their terms, with that modern-day entitlement 'Look, we deserve nice things!' Sure, someone might bite into a cob, scoop a pickled egg into a bun case or play a traditional pub game that's not been played outside of rural Somerset since 1754. Quoits with human skin and badgers. But, they might also ask if they can sell their handcrafted haunted windchimes for £70 a pop, grab a glass of cucumber infused water to stay hydrated, and if they wanna breastfeed their cat in the corner, there's no judgement here. York's Golden Ball (my local GBG pub, distance-wise) and the most recent incarnation of Sheffield's Rutland Arms are comparable examples. A crocheted Cadbury's Creme egg of a pub. Sweet outer, soft gooey innards. Can I see how it won the top award two years back? Absolutely.
Strait Outta Hormuz
Well, I got a bit carried away there but dry your eyes mate, our top seven pubs are coming up next time. I'd like to bang them out for Friday, but because I'm out tomorrow and work volumes on Friday are looking more devilish than Bridgnorth's low down town, Sunday is looking more realistic.
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