It was only when I had finished reviewing this next six that I concluded what the intro should be (how confusingly back to front!)
So you got a heritage star, grade II status, a 10/10 carpet, a 15th century settle, stained glass windows, ghost and snug? All very impressive, but unless your (fleeting) personal relationship with the pub is satisfactory, it doesn't count for a lot.
Pub blogging should be as much about emotion and personal feeling as cold hard stone-flagged fact. IMO. Otherwise, you may as well be reading a guidebook.
19. Old Exeter Inn, Ashburton
There were times during my 40 minutes squashed inside this 1130 AD gem that I just sat very still, listening closely to the deafening silence of the charged particles buzzing off the inner walls. I felt like a cross between Derek Acorah and Dylan Thomas. Glorious. But a curious mismatch of stylings prevents it finishing top ten. Our gentlemanly host is giving 'Liam Rosenior : the job interview years' and serves me Roosters Yankee on gravity, the only ale on. Although Devon's #Pubmen were generally hospitable to a fault this holiday (if you ignore Hennock) the codgers here resent tourists and made no secret of it, muttering they've only put a Yorkshire beer on to appease the many Yorkshire grockles! Funny that because the young lady in front of me turns around, confirms she's from Yorkshire, before ordering pie & peas wi' gravy to prove it. I then confirm I too am from Yorkshire. This is like Monty Python. In a friendlier setting, this would spark a ripple of approval, laughter, 'how's yer father', 'where's mi whippet' and general bonhomie, but an awkward silence falls over the main bar. Miss Yorkshire scuttles back to her side booth and the safety of her Buckfastleigh BF, whilst the codgers grumble more derogatory slurs and go back to discussing animal husbandry in the lower field.
18. Swan Inn, Dawlish
Didn't we almost have it all at this dyed in the wool street corner brusier? It evokes salty sea dog shore leave, a community buzz-hole, and although I manage to shake off the above kittie that seemed destined to follow me into the pub and become a BRAPA mascot, he stops short, and probably just as well because the pub has its own cat, and no guarantee they be great mates! But again it is the reluctance of locals to fully engage which left me frustrated. My early sanctity (that's stretching the truth a bit) is broken when a couple of awkward knitted sweaters sidle up to share my bench, and that is ok, exactly what you'd expect in such a locals local. The group soon grows to eight, and a chorus of 'H. Birthday' is rolled out as Mark arrives. I tell him that in these special circs, tis only right he should highlight my GBG. Nice bloke, does a neat job, but the way most of their gang fail to acknowledge my existence to the point of rudeness is irritating. As time goes on, the elephant in the room is that I've outstayed my welcome and best stop gate-crashing random birthday do's and push on .... but hang on, I was here first! When I return from the loo, which of course I walked the wrong way to, they've closed ranks in full. Far from me to stereotype lazily but there's no way this scenario would happen up north. You'd be made part of it. Sort yerself out Devon, you aren't SE London ya shit clowns. As I leave, I get a cheerier farewell from those on the other side of the pub than my own table!
17. Butterleigh Inn, Butterleigh
The perfect tonic to those two disappointing people experiences came at this super remote pub on the narrow lanes south of Tiverton. Thought about walking, glad I taxi'd (it rained). Apart from the bit where we got stuck behind horse riding people. As soon as I swoop inside and order a (delicious) Proper Job, the group to my left say "didn't we just see you in the White Ball?" (Tiverton 'Spoons). "You could've given me a lift!" I reply, then we are friends. Probably a dining pub to some degree, it is beautifully spartan and ancient in the main bar. Not that I get chance to do much observing as this epic local farming family take me under their wing, and offer to give me a lift to Cullompton (and as it would turn out, Silverton) to save me more long walks. Legends. We had Daddy P (Pete, Paul or Phil, I forget, but I even called Pete Langdale Paul at one point, I just can't do 4 lettered P men). We had Guinness guzzler and wannabe pisshead, the youngest son Samuel. You met those two in Part 2. You had chillaxed cheerful older son Tom with his Matt le Blanc jawline. And his girlfriend who he met travelling, the livewire and slightly bonkers Naomi from New South Wales. Doesn't watch Neighbours sadly, but does feed Colin a quarter of Proper Job. There's also an older man who must be friends with Daddy P and lives even more local. And the barman too, what a great guy he is. Loves BRAPA. Sifts through my GBG, and wonders if it might've been he who served me at North Finchley's Bohemia when I ticked that off a few years back. Not sure why but we soon all have our bare feet out in the bar, comparing them, which thankfully doesn't frighten the two ladies coming in for lunch too much. I go to the loo and when I come back, they've hidden around the corner pretending they've driven off without me! Pranksters eh? NOT that I was fooled. Note to Ashburton and Dawlish, this is how you deal with weird strangers, get yer feet out with them obviously. One of the highlights of my week.
16. Axminster Inn, Axminster
For all the glitz and goings-on of our last three pub experiences, it might be proof that I'm an old codger in waiting but there's nothing quite like entering a pub on a grey grim chilly midweek day at 11am to find it awash with unwashed old blokes quietly supping dark brown bitter, reading the newspaper and coughing up last night's phlegm, and only speaking when it is absolutely necessary. They all know each other of course, the silence is a companionable one. I felt 'at home'. Being dangerously close to the Dorset border, the range is unsurprisingly Palmers, and the 5% '200 Premium Ale' is a cracker. The barmaid carries herself with a stoic yet friendly air. Surprised a pub in Axminster would have no carpet, but the bare boarded single bar room works perfectly, in fact I couldn't imagine it any other way. Understated, yet very very pleasing pubbing.
15. Globe, Chagford
DEWTAP (Dartmoor Evenings With The Amazing Pete) kicked off in style in this bustling little village which I saw feature recently of Countryfile due to their totally lit farmers market. It had been a sobering drive (in more ways than one) from Torre on the outskirts of Torquay, where I'd enjoyed a coffee outside Pure Gym / Pets at Home before Pete arrived. I KNOW HOW TO LIVE. Felt a bit queasy to be honest, and can only be thankful Pete is fascinated by roads, tarmac and colour coded Devon road signs. A significant pub, my first Dartmoor tick since Princetown 2006. The landlord feeds off our enthusiasm for the ales, he's a class act. "There's more if you want to come through" he says, actually beckoning us to walk THROUGH the bar. How many times in BRAPA history have I (legally) stood behind a bar? I can count on one hand. Come on future publicans, give me that thrill! An anti-climax as the exact same beers are on ... but I still love him. Pete gets an exciting non alcoholic one, planting a seed for what would be my first ever foray into NA beers which I've been enjoying with Euro 2024 cheeseboards! A question on my lips needs asking. "Is it pronounced Chagford or Shagford?" having heard the softer shag (so to speak) on Countryfile and in a pub earlier this holiday. He confirms Chagford is correct. "... CHagford as in CHeese, not SHagford as in Sheeze!" clarifies a lady stood next to me assuming by now I'm a complete imbecile. Fair. Second only to 'Rooney' in Quote of the Holiday stakes. The IPA is fruity, the stained glassed globe glints, and dartboard, carpet and fire would all become features of these classic remote Devon pubs.
14. Blue Anchor, Teignmouth
To finish 14th in a strong field and be up to 20% less enjoyable than it could've been due to my stupid new Google Pixel phone really spoke volumes for the quality that this greasy oilskin clad boozer possesses. Guv'nor is very welcoming, and unlike a lot of his counterparts, owns his impending receding hairline by shaving the top so those 'clouds' don't appear. Rare for Devon publicans. The 'An Howl' by Firebrand is superb, the carpet at 9.75 is practically perfect, and a fish smelling bloke spies my GBG and informs me he used to be a member of CAMRA. In almost any other circs this holiday, I'm sure we'd get into a chat but I'm so distracted by my broken phone, I apologise and tell him I'm going to have to sit outside, definitely not cos he smells of fish. He looks sad, but says he understands. Issue is I've uploaded a video of my boat ride over from Shaldon, which people have enjoyed, but now my phone is totally jammed and it is like losing a limb! Two kind bald men (no one in Teignmouth is very successful in the hair retention stakes) smile sympathetically at my distraughtness. And happily, at the third time of doing a hard reset, it kicks back into life. Such relief. Thank you Blue Anchor, you deserved better from me.
Thanks for reading, 13 quality pubs to go across two parts. Really getting interesting now, who will win?
See you on Monday as I can't imagine I'll have enough energy Fri eve, England are somehow in the final, and traditionally I don't get as many weekend views then cos you are all down the boozer / drinking craft in yer pants on yer laptop.
Si
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