October 2026. Littlehampton. West Sussex.
I see Simon is off ticking Cheshire via rail replacement buses due to Storm Boelo this morning. He really is a trooper, six pubs a day, whatever the weather. I walked to the Rye Harbour bus stop just now, asked ChatGPT the odds on a smooth trip to Hayward’s Heath, and went back to bed.
But Thursday had seen the first day of “Professional Pubbing” in a while. Eight (8) rail journeys, two buses, 10 miles on foot, four new Beer Guide pubs, not much culture.
12 minutes after leaving the Ship & Anchor for Ford station I’d arrived at Littlehampton, as low key a south coast resort as you’d hope for, the Dunbar of the South.
It’s the end of the line, literally. If you’re wanting Angmering you’ve drunk too much and got on the wrong train,
and will probably take photos like this one;
Almost a decade ago I came here for the first time, noted the Arsenal (ugh) mobility scooter outside Spoons,
and walked past to the clock.
Amateur. NEVER walk past a Spoons. They will ALL get in the GBG eventually, and on your return the Arsenal mobility scooter will be gone, replaced by a less fancy, more workmanlike effort.
Devoid of genteel ladies and children, the George is a workingmans Spoons, blokes called Terry and hats worn back-to-front, a London-by-the-Sea professional drinker’s boozer.
There’s a cask line-up with the dregs of a JDW beer festival that has been greeted with univeral rapture by CAMRA types, in part because glamorous continental brewers like Mikkeller are locked up in grim Lincolnshire towns and not allowed to leave until they’ve made a weird beer to sell under £3 (with voucher).
This unexpected rehabilitation of Spoonies reputation is akin to that of Megan Sparkle, and rightly so. Their beer is consistently 3.5/5 or better, like this fake Mikkeller Pilsner, which I expertly paired with the eight Whitby scampi bites from the secret “Sides, extras and sauces” menu.
The young staffer asks if I’d like a slice of lemon brought out in a separate dish, and for a moment I feel the most important person in West Sussex.
On the next table Scouse tradies discuss care home and COVID over bottles of Corona (ironically), and you realise there’s much more “life” here than in the micropubs with high tables dominating Worthing.
My first pub was at 12:30, I reckoned I could reach my third when it opened at 2pm if I dashed back to Littlehampton station, though that meant I’d miss out on the weird beach art this time.
If you’re missing the culture, you know where my complaints department is by now.
I assume your comments about the latest Spoons festival are ironic,but then I haven’t been to a CAMRA branch meeting for some time.
They’ve gone from regular beers who don’t normally supply Spoons ( maybe a test run for both parties to see how it goes) to increasingly odd one-offs which in my experience (two local Spoons which I visit weekly, or should that be weakly?) don’t sell; one beer in Sandbach Spoons has been sitting forlornly on the bar for the best part of a week.
Or perhaps I’m mortified because I used the last of my vouchers this week.
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An Arsenal mobility scooter doesn’t say much for the fitness of the players.
I had one of those Mikkellers in Tim’s Lichfield venue last Sunday morning. It’s advertised as “hazy” but was clear as a bell – I should have complained really.
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