Gales, sewage, and a giant plastic shark - searching for pub nirvana in Bideford

A powerful tang of raw sewage was huffing about in the gale on Bideford quay as we got off the bus.

We were already bilious from sitting on the back row during the 40-minute journey from Barnstaple as the storm rocked the vehicle like a dinghy at sea.

There were bits of trees on the road, at least one road traffic accident, and a wintry sense of peril. The BBC news had hysterically told everybody to stay indoors. 

On the quay I guessed the heavy rain had caused a sewer to overflow somewhere nearby. Gagging, we pulled our coats over our noses and ran up a hill, searching for an inn with buxom serving wenches, log fires, and an old man abusing a squeezebox.

The rain-lashed streets were empty save for an occasional quartet of teenage boys who stared hard. They probably knew we weren't local. We marched on with a shared dim memory of a decent pub "over there" "near the pannier market".

When we found our destination, The Joiners Arms, it was closed and didn't look like it was going to open (see picture above).

Back downhill.

There were about a dozen punters in Lacey's. I asked for a pint of Firefly bitter and a middle-aged man barfly with the determined look of a man after a smile from a stranger by any means necessary said: "Where's it gone? Where's the firefly? Ha! It's gone! See - I got a smile, didn't I? Didn't I? Where's the firefly?".

We took our pints to a far table. My friend had a pint of Black Boar, a chewy stout. The Firefly was refreshing and light and typical of O'Hanlan's. There was a choice of Country Life Brewery ales on offer (Mr Lacey is Mr Country Life). Despite the exceptional range of beers, I found the place itself on the uncosy side - bright and cool like a European bar or a cafe at a large railway station. Nothing wrong with that but just in a different category to a certain type of traditional English pub. 

Our next stop was the best pub of the evening - The Kings Arms on the quay. As soon as we crossed the threshold we were welcome and cheered. Wood. Low ceilings. Beams. Tankards on hooks. Pictures of old boats. Tasselled lampshades. A snug. Conversations. A proper local. No buxom wenches, but you can't have everything on a platter like a fat old king.

My notes record my friend saying his pint of Grenville's Renown, made by the local Jollyboat Brewery, has "a bit of fragrance", and is "quite uplifting compared to the Black Boar. "It's giving me a new reason to live," he apparently then said.

My pint of Exmoor was crafted - velvety with a little bite - calmer and more quaffable than the stronger locally-ubiquitous bottled version.

We then made the courageous error of leaving the Kings Arms to see if there were any other good pubs nearby.

Moments later, stars were collapsing in unknown galaxies as the icecaps melted, and on far-off continents the future dreamweavers of humanity were being born. We, meanwhile, were in Crabby Dick's.

What else can you say about a public house with a giant plastic shark hanging nose-down from the ceiling?

Other threatening creatures became apparent as we took our pints to one of those tall tables with tall stools you get in fastfood takeaways.

The music was horrific tin clatter. There were no cask ales so I had something billed as Guinness and my unlucky pal had some sort of weird-tasting keg bitter. Both scoops were on the wrong side of the line of acceptability, but were just about drink-able, as are many time-wasting beverages.

There were a group of large bouncers on the door but we didn't see any bloodshed. Maybe we were too early.

Someone was nearby wearing a perfume that reminded me of something fatally medicinal...

My notebook records my thoughts in Crabby Dick's thus: "Plastic sharks. My Guinness like watered-down Marmite."

We threw ourselves back into the rainy night and tramped around, looking for ale nirvana. I noticed at least two welcoming little restaurants, which seemed to be busy, but no obvious signs of pubtopia. I bet the two Wetherspoon's pubs in Barnstaple were rammed to the rafters.

Our next potential port of call was dangerously near the squally sewage-scented quay, but bravely we pushed on.

We found Quigley's. We peered in the windows; empty. 10pm on a Friday night. Faintly demoralised, and slightly faint, we walked back up another hill. A string of lights twinkled romantically by the river.

In the shopping area we found the Heavitree Arms, which from the outside looked like an unspoiled, old-fashioned boozer. Could this be the hidden gem we desired on this odyssey?

The music was loud-ish, the ambiance was intangible and the beer tasted of pipe-cleaning disinfectant. We drank about three mouthfuls and left, too lazy to complain.

And that was our pub crawl. Sewage, a brilliant alehouse, a giant plastic shark, a closed boozer, an empty boozer. Beer that tasted like disinfectant. That all sounds a bit honest and realistic and, yes, true and fair.

The Kings Arms was good and it could be we just encountered Bideford on an off-night...

I do not claim we visited every single pub in the town. The Camra beer guide for 2010, which is fallible, recommends no pubs in Bideford.

As we waited at the dark wet bus-stop shortly after 11pm, again eyeballed by a scowling gang of boys, I was thinking that Bideford is a handsome and historically-fascinating town.

You should visit as soon as you can. Hopefully there is a splendid pub somewhere we missed. The good people of Bideford deserve nothing less.

Bideford Pub Crawl

Adam's Ale Rating: 1 out of 5 (the King's Arms deserves 4 out of 5)

Try This: The real ale in the King's Arms or Lacey's.