BRAPA - THE WILTSHIRE COUNTDOWN PART 6 (TOP HALF, JUST!)
23. Rugby Club, Salisbury
Carlsberg? Yummy, my favourite (not really)
About five minutes into my Rugby Club experience, I thought 'ahhh, this is rather pleasant, I like this place'. By the time I left, I snuck out with a sad expression, feeling quite annoyed. After my toughest walking day of the holiday, this was my final of four quality ticks, also my final in Salisbury. The Summer Lightning was drinking well, warm and carpeted throughout (the club, not the beer), Premier League football dominates the screens because let's face it, it is superior to rugby (and the rugby season had finished). Yes, I was content. One table were even wearing matching Lycra Hopback outfits. Easy to sneer, but I'd wear one. My mood changed when a tottering old guy called Ted decides he wants MY table, explaining it is quiz night and this is their usual spot, he has some women joining him and his mates. Lucky Ted! "So, you're saying you want me to move?" I keep asking him, noting the lack of table reservations. I never get a full blown "yes" from him, but when he's practically sat on my knee, I decide to scoot over to the neighbouring table. He must feel guilty because he spends the next ten minutes bellowing local pub & beer advice at me, having found out why I'm here. He's deaf, so it is a bit of a trial, I can see his mate thinking "give it up Ted lad" and to be fair, for a rude bugger, Ted has some spot-on views about pubs, ale, CAMRA etc. Just as the quiz is about to start, one of Ted's ladies turns to me and calls him 'Ted the troublemaker' because he is now moving them to a more central table so he can see the football whilst the quiz is on. I'm not invited to partake in said quiz, club members only I assume, the Summer Lightning suddenly doesn't seem so great, and I feel like the only outsider in the entire (stout) place. Time to drink up and sullenly sneak off via the bogs.
Brighton & Hove, and the dog who 'knows'
22. Wyvern Tavern, Swindon
Only a town like Swindon would be 'authentic' enough not to sneer at a Sports Bar atmosphere and stick something like this punchy cracker in the Good Beer Guide. A zillion plasmas, most of them showing snooker meaning all the punters took on a greenish hue to compliment their custard cancer skin tone. Pretty. Like a bad Norwich City kit. Lads play pool and growl, and the brekkie menus are out at 8pm. Colin was up for late night fry-up, even if I wasn't. They had some great ales on, I went for Outer Limits from Bristol. Quality. AND best of all, they let me use a Mudgie voucher, and had me down as a CAMRA member before I'd even opened my mouth because 'why else would a stranger come in here and scan the ales?' Nowadays, the vouchers aren't just valid in 'Spoons but I never think about trying to use them elsewhere. The Wyvern had a straightforward honesty to it that I admire.
21. Pheasant, Salisbury
Salisbury's version of Swindon's Wyvern, perhaps? Cheerful and down to earth, in a more historic and 'knowing' cathedral hotspot city sort of way. I had to hope I was in the right place .... with those huge courtyard doors half open, I knew I was at the '....nt Inn, 1500' - well, my GBG said 1435 so close enough. What's 65 years between friends? A friendly gent serves me a Butcombe Original, was that or Dartmoor Jail Ale. Prob prefer latter in truth. Earlier in the holiday, I'd been told this place was under the threat of closure. What a shame that would be. Despite some foody modernisations, the beams, bricks, stone floors and wood burner certainly give it the atmosphere of an ancient coaching inn. And that's with a brother/sister combo careering up and down, like it is some human bobsleigh slalom. Where's the twarents? A few moody old blokes look on, one winks at me from afar which I'm hoping is a nervous tick. Certainly made my green Stabilo'ing a more nervous tick. The sort of place where you could imagine some ghostly fishwife appearing, sticking some leeches on you in a bid to cure all your drinking related ailments, or should that be ale-ments? Sorry. I'm turning into Maltmeister.
20. Fox & Goose, Coombe Bissett
First day of my holiday, first of many quality Wiltshire inn signs, and BRAPA being BRAPA, I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I'd played it safe and spent the whole day in Salisbury. No, I needed the early morale booster of a village tick to really get this Wilty show on the road! Sleepy rural village, sleepy Saturday afternoon atmosphere inside. A sweeping interior, handsome curving bar, carpetted throughout, it smelt old, and if it is a dining pub at busy periods which I'm certain it must be, you could enjoy it as a 100% pub on quieter days like today. The Sixpenny Handley nonsense wasn't on, Olde Trip always taste like arse to me, Speckled Hen I despise these days, so Doom Bar it was, and quality Doom it was. After all, Doombe Bissett, Coombe Bar, makes sense doesn't it? The only exciting moment was when the friendly laptop lady had a sneezing fit, but that's what happens when you neck the continental lager whilst writing cosy crime fiction, probably.
19. Cross Keys, Corsley
I'd taken a bus from weirdo Warminster, past a Safari Park where a lion had no doubt escaped and was hungry for pub tickers and their cauliflowers. Past a scary hill famous for UFO sightings, the bus chucks me out in the middle of nowhere, the sign for 'Somerset' is visible from here, and unlike Corsley's two other pubs, this GBG one is tucked away 10 mins walk from the bus stop. Two men on tractors wave their thanks as I throw myself into a bramble hedge. A peculiar farmer's daughter scowls from a cow shed entrance. Grey clouds swirl, buzzards call. Yes, it was all set up for one of those sinister yokel experiences, I mean what kind of pub opens Monday but then closes Tue & Wed? So lots of credit for the friendly welcome I receive at this community run boozer. Especially as I often find community pubs take the 'here to serve the local community' thing a bit too literally and forget that outsiders are actually welcome. The chef wants something to do, but the few customers they have are drinking only. Adam Henson is drinking well. Okay, so the older lady unwittingly insults me by reckoning I'm old enough to remember when pub food was limited to sausage/scampi & chips in a basket (I can, but only in Leicester's Globe). But at least, even when I left the bar and sat down, they all kept throwing glances over and keeping me half involved in the chat. It is things like that you appreciate, remember, and elevate a pub in your Wiltshire league table.
Five more on Wednesday as we start to look at those which may feel they've got an outside chance of the backdooring the playoffs, but are unlikely to go the full Sunderland. Or is it Kidderminster?
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