BRAPA - THE DEVON COUNTDOWN (PART 7/8 - PUBS 13-7 : OOH DEVON IS A PLACE ON EARTH)
13. Fountain Head Inn, Branscombe
An 85% certain Noel Edmonds cameo was not what I'd been expecting towards the end of my 40 minute walk, through a donkey sanctuary into the narrow lanes of beautiful outer Branscombe. I found an inlet, breathe in my increasing Devon beer belly, as I had done many times already today, but Noel being probable Noel of course has to 'own the space', winding down the window of his black Range Rover, arm out so he's nearly touching me, as he thanks me in a 'did you know you were in the presence of greatness but positive vibes anyway' kinda way, before speeding off. I'm sad to find him not in the pub, as I'd been planning to introduce Colin (a sort of small modern day Mr Blobby) and get him to do the highlighting. But what a pub. A magical timeless farmhouse of forefathers, and foremothers, even our unkempt phlegmatic host looks like he could have his forehead stamped with a Heritage star. The Branoc by Branscombe Brewery drinks alliteratively, and aside from one yokel farmhand, I'm the only customer choosing a seat inside - it'd be a crime not to drink in this atmosphere. The outdoor crowd are discerning tourists. Sadly, I have to remain in the (boring) 21st century moment as I struggle in vain for a taxi to East Budleigh. When the 7th lady Karen says "sorry dear, I'm in Honiton" I decide instead to visit the non GBG Masons Arms in the centre of the village, a rousing well run old St Austell house but without any of this ancient alchemy.
View to the Masons Arms from the bus stop
12. Cherub Inn, Dartmouth
It looked as perfect as my imagined Moon Under Water (not a Spoons btw), Dartmouth truly was the prettiest town I visited all week and this was one of the oldest buildings in it. It was actually in my bad books early on for not opening at noon as advertised, and with still no signs of life by 12:10, I was forced into a rushed Stoke Fleming experience first. So to arrive grumpy and it still finish 12th in such a strong field is testament to its quality. Central London in style, and I mean that in the nicest (historic) sense of the word, very 'up & down' if you know what I mean (again, in the nicest sense of the word), death defying staircase up to the gents, little suit of armour, even if you don't need a wee, I recommend the climb. And to my relief, reassuringly quiet. An amazing old crow shuffles in and starts showing off her Poundland stash to the barmaid (who'd called me 'luvvrly' to extinguish any opening time ill feeling) and a younger woman, three generations of same family? In the far corner, two strangers have got chatting. One, later labelled 'a fascinating bloke' remarks "I'm a big fan of Drake .... Francis, not the modern singer" which comes in third in our Quote of The Week. The South Hams is nothing special, some young Americans, dressed for the Winter Olympics, wander in and start cooing so I give up my seat, which intensifies their cooing, and then it is off to Superdrug to buy some hair wax.
11. Volunteer Inn, Ottery St Mary
With just two days left, the Volly represented a 'greatest hits' of all I'd love this week about Devon pubs. Beer from the stillage, immaculate array of dartboards, unnecessarily hidden loos with fun decor, happy go lucky staff, artful codgers who don't like visitors drinking their ale, carved wood groaning and just about holding the building up. All that was missing was a carpet, and like in Axminster, apart from my loud clompy walk to the Gents, it didn't detract. A simple but perfect pub formula. The long bus ride from Exeter is worth it, but cross your legs on the way back and turn the punk rock up to 11.
10. Beer Engine, Newton St Cyres
Lurking attractively across a leafy bridge like yer problematic cousin Jules, this cracker offers a change of pace from the majority of Devon classics in so far as it isn't resting on any ancient laurels (though it is an 1850 building). A fresh wholesome happy brewpub that felt like it was 'tryna do something guys', but not too hard so never slips into annoying or grating. Mi old mate Grecian Dave is across the way with the long suffering Karen ready for her BRAPA debut. The Silver Bullet drinks very werewolfy, and having arrived on foot via the bus stop, they walk me down to the picturesque railway, where we flag down a request stopping service back to Exeter. If that experience had been a bit rushed (and I was trying to be sociable so wasn't at my observant best), I returned later in the holiday, by train this time, with time to kill en route to Crediton. A breezy after work crowd are in, and a nice cooling downstairs bar showing the Euros is near the loos. Not in keeping with all that is BRAPA, I order a dry cider and take it into the leafy little courtyard. I'm soon invaded by an 'interesting bunch', the lady works at a Badger brewery pub and is moaning about it, but fawns over her doggo n elderly daddy which makes me cringe a bit. A bit like my Swan in Dawlish experience, they semi-include me in the chat but also keep me at arms length when I get overly chatty! But this is a brilliant little spot, certainly one for the beer tourist, and offers something different in the Devon GBG line-up.
Pressure is on poor Karen
Station selfie woooh
My view on day two - note Raisin & Biscuit Yorkie to help the cider go down
9. King's Arms, South Zeal
This thatched 14th century stunner was the second DEWTAP (Dartmoor Evenings With The Amazing Pete) pub of the week, and if the Globe in Chagford had been very good, this was a marked step up. The smell of manure and gentle birdsong greet us as we pull into the gravelly car park - the only other sounds are a handful of garden dwellers chattering, probably their teeth in a vain attempt to convince themselves it is warm enough to sit out. The charismatic stripy jumpered barmaid greets us - funny, quirky and welcoming - and if the BRAPA Brunette of the Year Award was still a thing, she'd win hands down, but of course #EverydaySexismInBRAPA2017 meant I had to pull the plug! The pub has not one but TWO undulating 9/10 carpets, stretching the length of the pub like a golf green in Yosemite National Park. In fact, the entire pub seems to be on a tilt and I'm really not that drunk. Mouthwatering curry smells, dartboards and trophies complete the scene, and the Legend drank amazingly well. Must visit.
8. Red Lion, Exbourne
They weren't messing about when they built this beauty were they? After a chirpy exchange with that couple behind me, we (this was a DEWTAP pub) wander in and although it isn't a baking hot evening, the walls are so thick, it is like a fridge inside. And it smells like it has the same pub air it had 500 years ago. Low beamed celiling like a a 1960's Batman cliffhanger, ecclesiastic backdrop and wet led ethos follow. Good job we are outgoing cheerful characters otherwise the bar scene could've been quite intimidating - the lads look like they could do with a Radox bath, and perhaps have been stood here since 1750AD. But helped by a lovely bar chap, they warm to us quickly (take note evil Hennock) and are soon laughing as I cannot believe the fluffy head on my Yellowhammer (beer, not bird). Straight outta stillage, yet it could be banked Bass or Cameron's in the North East. And the taste, oh the taste, a top 5 pint of the week. Pete hasn't been feeling the Exbourne love like I have, and this is compounded when we leave and his car has been blocked in. The tall lanky Cristiano Ronaldo is the culprit. His excuse? He thought the car belonged to a mate! He moves it with an unnecessary F1 style burn never to be seen again. Fair enough, due in Germany for kick off in two hours time.
7. Crediton Inn, Crediton
Crediton (Kurtan) was the greyest place I visited all week. Even when the sun is shining across Devon, you can guarantee there'll be a grey cloud hanging low over this gloomy meandering town. So imagine my thrill when I enter what appears a quite unprepossessing grime hole to find a soothing lounge lizard of afternoon companionship, each assorted bloke glimmering with positivity, like they'd all been plucked and individually unwrapped from a Quality Street tin. No other way to describe it. Choosing the one pale ale in a sea of exciting darks was a stupid decision, especially considering I'd just had a coffee, but everyone laughs when I tell them. I like being laughed at, life affirming. It tastes like 2% cider, but I don't care. I'm happy. The dog, who has been sleeping with one eye open throughout, is suddenly in my lap, clawing at me, demanding an ear scratch for eternity. No chance I'm smuggling my Mini Cheddars now. This is why I love the GBG, you'd never think to come in here! Superb.
And there we have it, six to go, getting close to our champion! Wednesday is the aim, might be Friday, certainly won't be Tuesday, and probably won't be Thursday.
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