BRAPA .... THE DEVON COUNTDOWN (PART 2 of 8 : 'HAZY, NOT OFF' 43-38)
Welcome back!
I feel like Father Ted at the Golden Clerics writing these reviews. "They were the pubs that really fecked me over, now we move onto the boring feckers".
43. Stoke Canon Inn, Stoke Canon
Biggest effort to get to a pub yielded the most unsmiling welcome as the barmaid heaves herself up from the seat with her parents (I think) to glower as she serves me from a 'greatest shits' range of beers I saw this week. I kinda regret not going Exmoor Gold, as the Otter doesn't really cut it. I wonder if I'm going to be ID'd at one point (I WISH!) but considering I'd had such a long walk from Silverton which I'd escaped on foot (we'll get to that one soon) and arrive with sunny demeanour, I deserve more. Then she sat back down with her equally grumpy probable parents in an all round grumpy inn, not the last time this holiday that staff seem allergic to being behind the bar which I always think it a bad look for any pub. Anyway, the carpet was nice. Realising a bus was nicely timed which meant meeting Grecian Dave at Newton St Cyrus Christie is achievable was the highlight of my time here as, not for the first time in BRAPA history, I force the Otter down the hatch!
ID me please!
42. White Ball Inn, Tiverton
You'd be forgiven for thinking that those Wetherspoons which used to be former pubs, like this stately coaching inn, would be my favourites in the genre. Not in my experience! Too many tight squeezes, nooks and crannies, bit like being in ah haunted house, you don't know what weirdo is gonna pop out and bump into you next! Exactly the same at Bishop Auckland's surprisingly shite Stanley Jefferson. Interminable wait at the bar here, Saturday morning I must admit, and staff were doing their best, felt a lot better ran than that Paignton monstrosity (not that it is hard). Roosters Fort Smith is the surprising standout guest, decent, and in a moment of BRAPA stupidity, I mistake the well for a jacuzzi.
41. Lamb Inn, Silverton
Let us be clear here, the pub itself is a strong farmhousey (if slightly knowing try hard with plasma and cutlery) relic of the past serving an excellent pint of Devon Amber from stillage like so many of this weeks greats. I'd recommend. No, it was the awkward circumstances I found myself in that eventually had me hot footing it a few miles to Stoke Canon with much relief. I'd got a (reluctant) lift off this funny chap called Pete, Phil or Paul. The Daddy of a local farming family. His middle of three sons, Samuel (photo'd in doorway), 21 years old, was celebrating a crazy new haircut in Tiv with a few pints, he'd just discovered the art of pubs and getting sloshed on Guinness. A lovely lad with an enthusiasm that reminds me of my old mate Tom Clag Monster. Turning 'You're Beautiful' by James Blunt up to 11 in the car on the family mix CD is his only real indiscretion. But Daddy P is here against his will (sort of). Knows he's had his arm twisted by young Sam (I'd been willing to bus/walk it from Cullumpton but I wasn't gonna decline a lift!) Sam rang the Mum to say Dad had been 'detained by work' i.e. he lied so he could have another pint! Ooosh. Oldest son Tom even rings to tell Daddy P en route to say that Mum ain't happy. Eeeek. Sam's loving it. Aarggh. And against that backdrop, the bloke sat outside (above) criticises our parking! Why does every dude have the same haircut in outer Tiverton by the way? Enter barmaid Emma, who they both know and who Daddy P has a special soft spot for! She's fuming from the get go. Three hours sleep she tells us, load of blokes came back from some event and she couldn't get rid of them to lock up til 3am! She didn't seem like she'd take any prisoners, but there we go. Asking her to highlight the GBG and the sight of Colin is a step too far for her tired low tolerance levels and she lets out a loud "FFS!" and Staedtler's my Guide like she's slashing a victim, then closes my book with a thump. 'SATISFIED?' she demands. I am, this was my 50% pub in Devon, but I don't tell her. Or celebrate too much. "I'm nice really!" she later tells me. Good grief. Sam meanwhile invites me back to the family barbecue. But on further questioning, turns out there isn't one! This was getting a bit Jay Slater meets Saltburn, with less cacti and creamy bathwater. Sam tries to persuade his Dad to stay for yet another! I decide to step in and tell Sam I'm so grateful for his efforts re helping BRAPA but he should listen to his Dad. Daddy P says "you're a good lad Simon" which is a good outcome in the circs, and I decide this is the time is to split!
Emma's now legendary angry highlighting
40. GWRSA Railway Club, Exmouth
A pleasant and welcoming railway club with a fun and easy entrance, but as Fergal Sharkey once nearly sang, a bad beer these days is hard to forgive. In fact my entire Exmouth experience was blighted by bad beer. Paignton Zoo Funky Monkey by Bays shouldn't be this funky, and I'm a bit annoyed when I return it and the welcoming clucky landlady snipes "not to your taste then?" Well, for the first time ever those pathetic little jam jars come in handy cos I can show her what is in the jar is nothing like the swill in my glass. "Fair point!" she replies, and my replacement Hanlon's is fine, but in some ways, the damage has been done. Especially when the worst cover of 'Higher Love' by Steve Winwood pollutes my ears. Oh and their yet to be unfurled Euro flags looked grubby so there!
39. Peter Tavy Inn, Peter Tavy
The weakest of my 'Dartmoor evenings with the amazing Pete' (DEWTAP) and the highlight was actually the theatre of getting here. A road that just seems to run out, three dogs lay in the road unmoving, and then chase our car, I bet they could speak too. No wonder the Cray's famously hid here back in the day. A surprising amount of (mostly toffee nosed) folk were here enjoying the sun and scran, in fact I think we are only people sitting inside for a drink. A disappointingly gentrified dining inn, yet still with so much character of old, the low warped beams, the cool conditions indoors due to thickest walls imaginable, imagine how good this pub could actually be / was. Frustrates me. Oh and the beer! Tavistock Brewing. Not sure the landlord fully appreciates my 'TB : Tuberculosis' joke though he's polite enough to chuckle behind grated teeth thinking 'What a tit'. Proper local slop. No doubt kept as well as it could be. Plonk this gaff in Lincs, tis a classic. On Dartmoor? Average. On our way out of the 'village' (conurbation? The Peter Tavy sign is miles away down a country lane), a dog is now sleeping at the top on the main road, still unwilling to move. Madness!
38. Henry's Bar, Paignton
Rule number one in the art of pub ticking is 'always tick alone where possible'. Of course, this doesn't apply when kind strangers offer to drive you around impossible to reach places #DEWTAP but pub ticking alone is being in control of your destiny. Like here, a surprisingly beautiful soothing interior with booths, tiling, stained glass, mirrors. But try telling that to the Devon duo of Pete and Dave who were here with me - both demanding we sit outside. Their reasoning was that we'd be so starved of sun and warm weather of late, outside made sense. It really didn't. Opposite the dreadful Talk of the Town Wetherspoons, we are situated in a dirty tatty smoky front area resembling the underbelly of Delhi meets Castleford. With a comedy Yorkshireman strategically placed next to us for effect and the lolz. His female partner hears my gripes and confidentially whispers that she too would prefer indoors. A clearer minded soberer me would've at least told the lads I was off inside for a few mins to get the ambience, but this was pint six and I suffer (not quite) in silence. Barmaid had already peed me off when I'd asked for a pint of their surprise regular ale Timothy Taylor's Knowle Spring, which drank gloriously this far from home. "You mean Timmeh's?" she says when I ask for 'Knowle Spring'. Well no I don't actually you idiot West Cuntry yokel, how many times have you been to Keighley? Even been on the Oxenhope railway ya daft bint? Ever even sang Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush whilst swirling around Haworth? Didn't think so chump. Oh dear, maybe the beer and the sun was affecting me. Time to get my train back to my Exmouth digs to watch boring England be boring in the boring Euros.
And the locals seem so friendly too!
Well that was bloody miserable wasn't it? Hope you enjoyed my misery.
See you on Monday night for the month end review for June.
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