A bit like any England Euro 2024 match so far, this next bunch 'get the job done' without really inspiring confidence. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised to find Gareth Southgate manning the cellar.
37. First & Last, Exmouth
Labelled as a 'Brew House' on account of a lone cask which went off anyway (in keeping with my unlucky Exmouth beer run), the main thing I took from this little-talked about, deceptively deep back-streeter was 'identity crisis'. Barman gives 'The Apprentice' energy as I eye up the cask offerings. 'Oi oi, luvvly jubbly, apples n pears' isn't a direct quote from him, but it may as well have been. He talks up the beer only for it to splutter and die. Thankfully, the replacement from Salt is another modern murk chewy 5%er. Back towards the loos, sweaty pungent yoofs play pool. In the front, angry young men play darts. A swathe of carpetted wasteland separates the two. This is where I perch. There's also a contingent of folk circling the pub, not actually inside it. A back door latch flips open. A lass calls to one of the darts dudes "...you off to Ginger's birfday later?" "Am I invoited?" "I don't know, ticket only". "Arhhhh". It was that sort of pub.
36. Grapevine, Exmouth
Staying in Exmouth which this countdown is proving was the cruellest beer town of my entire stay, this bar felt a lot more 'Brew House' than the First & Last, with a range of Crossed Anchors beers. Mine is perfectly fine, doesn't pull up any trees, and in doing so, wins the award for my best Exmouth pint all week. The barmaid is pleasant and we may've had a bit of bantz, but this was pint six so I can't remember. A professional well run operation, but in being so, is always liable to be a teensy bit dull identikit, what with its twinkly lighting, navy blue, rubbish seating and clompy wooden floor - the type that when you set off looking for the loos, all eyes are on you - CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP. Didn't see many bars of this ilk in Devon but as a seasoned London pub ticker, I've been to more than I can remember. One for the beer tickers.
35. Green Dragon, Stoke Fleming
I'll remember the ridiculously narrow lanes which gave Branscombe a run for their money, not to mention a very nice bus stop chat with a 'Tamworth Two', more than my (rushed) pub experience in this village dosser. Frustratingly foodified, the warped upper beams give a flavour of the pub of yore. Too many doors left open, too many little flies buzzing around, I soon make the decision that the bus 20 minutes from now back to Dartmouth was very much ON if I drink quickly. Thankfully, one of my pints of the week, Otter Oak IPA, made this possible. I didn't enjoy much Otter this week, still being punished for selling KLO to British Heart Foundation FC no doubt, but this was nectar of the highest order. Shame the pub was one of the duller offerings. Barmaid duo pleasant, as long as their jokes were 'in house'.
34. Paignton Conservative Club, Paignton
If that MRSA club in Exmouth had been a breezy effortless walk-in, then this Con club was a reminder of why club ticking always gets the anxious butterflies fluttering in the pits of the tummy. Intercom 'get buzzed in' button, a mean outer door clicks open from evil unseeing hands, and you walk the gauntlet through a litany of moody men, some of whom wore suits (Sunday best?) and had expressions set to 'we're about to lose an election'. Thankfully, I was in great company with Pete Langdale and Grecian Dave and our jovial ebullience soon has barman and locals softening to us. My second best Otter of the week was enjoyed here, on low slung seating but a belter of a 9/10 carpet. Yet, an experience that passed me by on the whole, not worth the butt clenching entry. Spare a though for poor maligned Paul Anthony.
Go on Dave lad, give it a tick!
33. Ferry Boat, Shaldon
A pub experience that had nothing to do with anything that happened inside the pub itself, unless you count a thrilling upstairs toilet trek that'd make Timbo Martin blush. The pub was fine, not as promising as the above photo would suggest, and what is that bloke doing? No, having walked from Teignmouth, I was determined to get the ferry back so I plonk Colin and my pint in the outdoor space overlooking the river and go exploring. An old lady tells me the FINAL ferry is at 16:40, half an hour from now. "But from which side?" "He says if you stand on the beach and wave, he'll see you!" she tells me. So I rush back to my pint which tastes like Oranjeboom but isn't, an annoying woman is treating her dog like her life partner and gets laughed at for pronouncing Glasgow 'Glaaarsgow', a young German man with a Ken Doherty style scar scowls at Colin, but all is good otherwise. I drink up in 22 mins, run to the beach, wave like an idiot, and hey presto, the boat bobs into view. Hurrah!
32. Duke of York, Crediton
Just a bit too early for the massive pint giveaway, but if this countdown was in the form of a football league table, there'd be at least a 3 point buffer between the other pubs in this section and the DOY. An uncompromising middle of town boozer in the perpetually grey town of Crediton, but a good 'un nonetheless. Could've tipped over into 'intimidating' territory, but was just about friendly enough. Although my main recollection is a gang of after work hi-vizzers playing a never ending darts match yards from my face. Even Luke Littler must give himself a breather compared with these guys, finding a gap so I could rush across to the Gents was super awkward. Even more awkward, when paying for my pint earlier, I count my change out expertly (and accurately) despite scrutiny from the mass of bar blockers ..... only to walk off and leave my pint on the bar! Real 'walk of shame' moment going back for it. "Oh, I wondered what you were doing!" says a young lady. When I return my empty glass at the end, it is gratitude like no other glass return before! I like a pub when you feel you've really been in it, if you know what I mean.
So there we go, see you maybe Friday but probably Sunday for some more where we will actually start to visit some real decent ones.
