Nope. Not THAT one in Beckenham, though BRAPA is dangerously close to the Surrey/South London borders at the moment.
This is Bedlam Furnaces, where Mrs and I stuck our campervan on Friday night.
So, another night of free parking and at least £50 saved on chintzy B & B, with this view mere minutes away.
I’d only been here in February, when the area was recovering from the catastrophic floods that seemed likely to be the worst thing to hit us in 2020.
The Coracle micro was closed, and as I drove past a scene of desolation along the Severn that day I thought how nice it would be to bring Mrs RM back in mid March when it was all dried out.
Oh. Events, dear boy.
It had reopened on the Thursday, and invited my booking for a table in the outside garden. You can see why they’re not letting folk inside.
Ben Viveur just mentioned my success in finding trad wet-led pubs open and close(ish) to normal, compared with the beery bars and micros.
This is one Ben would love. A classy place, great staff, weird keg and Salopian on cask.
The descent down the stairs was a carefully planned event in itself.
Mrs RM had brought her raincoat, but the sun shines on the righteous (me) and we enjoyed our allotted hour.
This was the view from our table.
Mrs RM had it posted on Facebook quicker than the time it takes her to down a pint of Dark Singularity (about the time it takes to say it).
I nipped back up the stairs for the Blood Orange Sour, safe in the knowledge that Mrs RM Doesn’t Do Sour. Or Coconut or Fudge beer, to be honest. Pure grapefruit murk only.
We got chatting to a couple our age (low middle) from t’other Telford (Wellington) who raved about the Pheasant but not the Cock and raised an eyebrow when I referred to other people as “Older folk” but were otherwise fine company.
The chap was a Brummie.
“Blues or Villa ?”
He fondly remembered a chap called Clarkson, whose clearance often cleared the Tilton Road stand, forcing a guy in a coracle to reclaim the ball from the Bordesley Canal.
Most of that is true.