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bristol czech republic

Craving Czech beer in Bristol

When you get the urge to drink Czech beer, as we have lately, Bristol isn’t necessarily the best city to be in. But there are options.

First, though, you have to accept that it’s the big names or nothing. Unless we’re missing something (we’d be delighted to discover we are) it’s Budvar and, if you’re very lucky, Pilsner Urquell.

What about Staropramen? The draught stuff we get in the UK is not imported, it’s brewed by Molson-Coors in Burton. Honestly, we’ve found it fine when we’ve drunk it in recent years, and it is distinctly different from, say, Stella Artois. But delightful and authentic it is not.

And don’t get us started on ‘Pravha’ – a “light tasting pilsner inspired by Prague” which brings to mind Lidl’s evasively named Italiamo range of vaguely Italian foods.

There are also occasional attempts by local breweries to brew Czech-style beers. We’d like to see more of this, not least because freshness strikes us a key part of what makes those beers so remarkably satisfying on their home turf.

Lost & Grounded’s Altogether Elsewhere, for example, has been a pleasure to drink recently, even if it perhaps lacked the full body of the real deal.

As it happens, the Budvar rep has been through Bristol lately, and some pubs that didn’t sell it a year or so ago now do. The Old Stillage in Redfield, for example, had it last time we visited, and it’s turned up at The Swan With Two Necks from time to time.

This brings us to another problem: a glass of Budvar is much less enjoyable when it’s served in a bog standard British pint glass, with no foam, rather than in a branded mug with a good head.

We don’t demand perfect Czech-style ‘pours’ and utter reverence – only an acknowledgement that it’s a bit more than a pint of lager.

When that rep visited The Old Stillage, and The Swan, they apparently left behind boxes and boxes of pretty convincing Czech-style mugs. Round, ribbed, slightly squat. The beer looked and tasted great.

For a few weeks, at least, after a new beer arrives on the taps, you’ll get that full experience. Slowly, though, the supply of this handsome glassware begins to dwindle, being slipped into rucksacks, handbags and coat pockets, and migrating to kitchen cupboards across the city.

We actually have one of these glasses at home. And, no, we didn’t nick it – we found it at the end of our street. Perhaps someone had walked home from the pub, finishing their beer on the way, and then abandoned it. At any rate, we rescued it, gave it a good clean, and now have it in steady rotation.

When the fancy glassware has gone, and while the pubs await resupply, you get your Czech beer in whatever glass might be at hand. Perhaps even one branded for Guinness, or Thatcher’s cider.

It’s only superficial, we know. It shouldn’t matter. But…

This weekend, having seen Ben Palmer’s photos from a trip to Brno, we had a particular craving for something Czech, served properly. With Jess rehearsing and singing in a concert, however, Ray had to strike out on his own.

The first place he thought to look, at Jess’s suggestion, was The Llandoger Trow.

It has an excellent list of draught lager, mostly German, but generally has unfiltered Budvar.

And though it doesn’t always have good glassware (the bar manager has often mentioned, sadly, that it usually gets stolen within a few weeks) when they do have it, they use it.

On this occasion, it turned out to be very much the right choice of pub.

Perhaps spurred on by the aggressive advance of the Budvar reps, the Pilsner Urquell people must have been through, because there it was in the top slot on the menu on the blackboard.

It was served with considerable care in a branded mug – albeit a tall, straight one that didn’t feel like anything we’d ever encountered in Czechia.

And here’s the best thing: it cost £5 for a pint – pretty competitive for a pint of lager of any description in Bristol in 2025.

In every possible sense, it scratched the itch.

Find out more about our local pubs and their specialities in our Bristol pub guide, updated for 2025.

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bristol pubs Somerset

Bookending the seasons in the beer garden at Pensford

It’s becoming a tradition that our first and last beer garden sessions of the year should happen at The Rising Sun in Pensford.

It’s not the best in the world but this St Austell pub in a village just outside Bristol does have three things going for it.

First, the Proper Job is always amazing. Or at least it seems so. It might taste that bit better because we’ve usually hiked across country and have made ourselves weary and thirsty before we drink it.

Secondly, there’s a bus stop right outside with a reliable service back to Bristol, even on a Sunday. So we get to have a proper country pub experience but can still be back in town quicker than from some of our more remote “every pub in Bristol” jaunts.

Thirdly, there’s the perfection of the beer garden itself.

Nestled in a crook of the narrow, fast-moving River Chew, it’s overlooked by a medieval church on one side, and a huge Victorian railway viaduct on the other. It has to be one of the most visually appealing beer gardens in the country.

We hadn’t set out to create a tradition. It’s more that there are lots of country walks that seem naturally to end in Pensford.

In the spring, it’s all about the isolated flowers, noticing the increased volume and density of birdsong, and watching for the identifiable leaves of wild garlic in patches of wet waterside woodland.

In autumn, it’s about supplementing our picnic with blackberries and apples along the way, and estimating what percentage of the leaves have turned to gold. How far away might winter be?

A field with a path cut into the grass by successive walkers. There is a farm and a cluster of trees on the horizon. The sky is very blue.

On this occasion, we simply walked out of our front door, out through inner city Bristol, then suburban Bristol, past bigger and bigger factory sports fields (Imperial Tobacco), and across commons, until the city finally ran out.

Then we tramped across muddy fields, nervously treading around horses, cows, and boggy patches  – until we were over the hills and far away.

The whole time, we were soaking up sunshine, and marveling at banks of daffodils on verges, in council car parks, on country lanes, and in villages like Norton Malreward.

The first sign that you’re approaching Pensford is the viaduct cutting across the landscape. We headed down the slope and beneath its giant arches, popping out in a lane behind the pub.

At the bar, in muddy boots, we were surrounded by people eating Sunday roasts – and people who hadn’t got the memo about pub food in 2025:

“Do you have a table for five for Sunday lunch?”

“Sorry, not without booking.”

“Can I just get a bowl of chips or a burger or something?”

“Sorry, not on Sunday.”

“Just a bowl of chips, though…?”

We wouldn’t have minded some food either, as it happens, but at least we weren’t naïve enough to expect to just turn up and get any.

Two pints of golden beer and a packet of Bacon Fries on a pub garden table.

Sitting on a slightly wobbly, slightly damp bench, we turned our faces to the sun and listened to the sound of running water, laughing children, and church bells ringing.

And we drank.

When you’ve not tasted St Austell Proper Job for a while you forget that it really is a punchy, flowery, bitter beer.

It too felt like a harbinger of the summer to come.

Categories
bristol pubs

Punks, pool and arty postcards – crawling the pubs of Easton

We spent Saturday night exploring the pubs of Easton in Bristol, revisiting some we’ve not been to for a while, and one completely new to us.

Easton is a couple of neighbourhoods across from ours. It’s got a reputation for alternative culture – anarchists, punks, hippies and graffiti.

But, like most places in Bristol, it’s been gentrifying rapidly and its many small terraced houses are increasingly likely to be painted grey with window boxes full of herbs, and bike sheds in the front yards.

The first pub on our crawl was The Whitehall Tavern which has taken us almost eight years to get around to visiting, making it our 311th Bristol pub.

Why the delay? Well, because from the outside it doesn’t look anything special, or especially inviting.

The moment we walked through the door, however, we realised we’d read the signals wrong. It was busy, warm, and lively. The crowd varied from twentysomething to 70+, from work boots to student scarves, from chess players to pool players, from tattooed cider punks to rockabilly hipsters.

It felt like a pub balanced on the sweet spot between traditional and gentrified, where incomers to the neighbourhood had been made welcome but not allowed to dominate.

It took a while to get served because there was only one person behind the bar.

“Got any help coming?” someone shouted.

“From 6pm,” he shouted back, running past with a fiver in one hand and a pint of cider in the other.

He was one of those professionals who was a pleasure to watch. He always knew who was next to be served and the regulars only had to raise a finger for their usual pint to be delivered.

When our turn finally came we ordered two pints of Butcombe Original. He pulled them two thirds of the way and left the foam to settle while he served two or three other people at lightning speed. Then he topped off our drinks and said:

“Six pounds, please.”

Did he say six pounds? For two pints? We didn’t really believe it until we saw the amount on the screen of the card machine.

The beer was excellent, too – cool, fresh, and presented in a perfectly clean branded glass.

From our corner by the dartboard we watched strangers play pool, listened to middle-aged men debate the football, and observed a conversation that seemed to be simmering up to an argument.

“Dad would have loved this,” said Ray. “Especially the price of the beer.”

Frightfully nice

Our next destination, by way of contrast, was The Greenbank, a large corner pub that we would guess was built in around 1900.

The Greenbank is a middle class stronghold – one of those Nice Pubs with small plates, posh burgers, quirky artwork for sale, and artfully mismatched furniture.

“It’s like being in an Antic pub in London in about 2012,” said Jess, not disapprovingly.

Though the pub feels as if it might be in London, and the conversations around us had Home Counties accents, the beer is Bristolian all the way.

A very pleasant barman served us cask Beer Factory Everytime (cask) in a dimpled mug (a key signifier of a posh pub these days) and a half of Wiper & True Espresso Martini coffee stout. This round came to £6.75 – which, by 2025 standards, isn’t bad value either.

Having taken against it on a previous visit – we can’t quite remember why – this made us think we ought to visit more often, if only to eavesdrop on the entertaining conversations of people in mustard-coloured beanie hats.

Samosa intermission

After two rounds we needed a snack and so detoured to Jeevan Sweets on Stapleton Road, where a sign prohibits the consumption of alcohol or tobacco.

We ordered two samosas (£1 each) and a single piece of mango barfi (75p) and ate them as we wandered towards our next pub.

“I had my first samosa when I was six,” said Jess with her mouth full. “It changed my life.”

“The first time I came to stay with you in London you couldn’t wait to buy me a samosa from Pete’s Fish Bar.”

The samosa is superior boozing food. Starchy, crunchy, and only mildly spicy, it lines the stomach without knackering the palate. Pubs should sell them as a matter of course.

The interior of a bare, fairly basic pub with white walls.
The Sugar Loaf

A classic big light pub

Last time we went to The Sugar Loaf it was struggling and felt more like a youth club than a pub.

We weren’t surprised when it closed for a while and have been following the story of its resurrection under new management for a while.

Again, first impressions were good. It felt brighter, cleaner and more friendly, while retaining a down-to-earth East Bristol atmosphere.

We both ordered Timothy Taylor Landlord which, along with Wye Valley Butty Bach, is a permanent part of the offer. It was excellent, making three great pints of cask ale in a row, in pubs that we haven’t particularly noticed cask heads enthusing about.

A couple of years ago Steve ‘Carsmile’ Hewitt used the phrase ‘big light pub’ to describe the typical Sheffield boozer. It could definitely apply to The Sugar Loaf, too, where there aren’t many shadows to hide in.

We listened to a conversation in Spanish from one side and the click of pool balls from the other. Every now and then we’d catch a whiff of weed from somebody passing by. Three skateboarders wandered in, wandered round, and wandered out.

“If the Whitehall is more your kind of pub,” said Jess, “and this is more mine.” (Context.)

Punk’s not dead

Finally, with some trepidation, we made our way to The Chelsea Inn. Not because it’s a particularly scary pub but because when we last visited we got the distinct feeling we were too square to be there.

It’s not all about us or how comfortable we feel, after all, but how comfortable other people might feel with us standing there in the corner looking like a pair of geography teachers, or council inspectors.

The first thing we noticed when we arrived at the door was a sign saying that, while dogs are welcome, they have to be out by 7pm because after that time the pub just becomes too loud for them.

We walked in to find half the space given over to a drum kit and various amplifiers. Around the bar were crowded people in leather jackets, denim, and army surplus. There were studs, chains, piercings and tattoos everywhere. Most of the hair was white, grey, pink or purple.

There was also a small child in ear defenders running around in their pyjamas in a state of extreme excitement. They were high-fived by the regulars, hoisted in the air by a barman, and generally treated like royalty.

We were delighted to see that the cask ale on offer was from Ashley Down Brewery, a tiny outfit run by Vince Crocker, former co-landlord of The Drapers Arms.

He’s a slightly reclusive figure, Vince, better at brewing than schmoozing, but he seems to have a fond status as the Gandalf of Bristol brewing.

As a result, his beer turns up in all sorts of unexpected places, with its handmade wooden pump clips bearing the slogan “Nice with crisps.”

This particular beer, Red Stoat, was rather marvellous: as round and rich as Fuller’s ESB but with more pine and spice.

For those counting, that’s four great pints of cask in four pubs on a single evening – full house!

While the band finished setting up, the child in pyjamas had a go on the drum kit, with the encouragement of the crowd. They weren’t half bad, either.

We slipped out just as the music began in earnest, leaving the punks to their anarchy.

Categories
bristol pubs

Best pubs in Bristol in 2025: our guide on where to drink

Bristol has a huge number of pubs and a decent number of breweries. If you’re in town for a few days or hours, where should you go to drink?

We’re asked for advice on this all the time and in 2018 decided that, rather than keep typing up the advice in emails and DMs, we’d give it a permanent home.

We aim to update this post at least once a year and this most recent update is from 5 January 2025.

If you’re reading this later in the year, some of the pubs we recommend might have changed or closed.

We haven’t been to every pub in Bristol, although we’re not far off, having been to 310.

We’ve visited most of those in the city centre, and most several times.

In general, Bristol pubs are pretty easy to find, on main roads rather than backstreets.

They’re also fairly easy to read: chain pubs look like chain pubs, craft beer bars look like craft beer bars, and so on.

So, you won’t go too far wrong following your instincts.

There are some hidden gems in the suburbs and up side streets, though, so do explore.

And if you want to keep things loose there are some decent crawls with varied and interesting pubs:

  • St Michael’s Hill – Zero Degrees, The Open Arms, The Robin Hood, The White Bear (sometimes), Beerd, The Highbury Vaults.
  • Gloucester Road – start at The Inn on the Green at the top, drop into The Crafty Cow, The Wellington, The Drapers Arms, and then keep going until you’re done, or you arrive in town. Or vice versa.
  • Kingsdown – The Hare on the Hill, The Hillgrove Porter Stores, The Kingsdown Vaults, The Green Man, The Highbury Vaults.
  • King Street – Small Bar, The Royal Naval Volunteer, The Beer Emporium, Llandoger Trow, The Old Duke (jazz and cask ale), among others.
  • Bedminster – there are a lot of pubs in Bedminster, from very down-to-earth to super-crafty. Standouts are Lupe (formerly The Old Bookshop), Alpha Bottle Shop & Tap, and the Bristol Beer Factory taproom.
  • St Judes – The Crown (Bass, Cheddar Ales), The Swan With Two Necks (see below), The Volunteer, The Phoenix.

Before we get down to business we must once again thank Patreon supporters like Mark Landells, Andrew Drinkwater and Simon Branscombe whose ongoing support justifies us spending time putting this together, including on-the-ground reserach. If you find this post useful please do consider signing up or at least buying us a pint via Ko-Fi.

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bristol pubs

Around the harbourside pubs of Bristol as the Xmas lights go up

A walk around Bristol’s waterside is a good way to take in daylight on short winter days, especially when it leads us to some lesser-visited pubs.

We started our pub-to-pub walk at The Orchard, a small backstreet pub surrounded by boat sheds and industrial units on Spike Island.

It’s one of those pubs that feels faintly magical – an apparition. How has it survived in this unpromising location for so long? And not only survived but also become one of the best and busiest pubs in the city?

We approached it from what visitors to Bristol probably think is the river but is, in fact, a man-made ‘floating harbour’, built in the 19th century to tame the tide. Or, rather, it’s what used to be the Avon before they cut a new channel for it and sent it to cause trouble in the south of the city, through Bedminster.

Turn left before the SS Great Britain, cut up an alleyway between buildings, and there The Orchard is, lording it over Hanover Place.

You can always tell from a distance whether The Orchard is busy. On a gloomy, cold day in December there were people in hats and puffa jackets sitting on the benches outside and, in the windows, a collection of heads.

This is, now that we think about it, what stops us visiting The Orchard more: it’s always busy. That means, first, that we tend to assume we won’t find a seat, or even a corner in which to stand. And, secondly, it doesn’t feel as if it needs our support as some other pubs do.

A pub with timbers on the ceiling, bottles on shelves, strings of dried hops, and warm yellow lights.

Pushing through the door, crabbing sideways through the crowd, stepping over dogs and stretched-out legs, we made it near the bar where we joined a non-linear queue. Behind the bar, two people rushed to serve what felt like two hundred customers.

Things would probably move faster if people didn’t make such large and complex orders. In a pub with a list of scrumpy ciders, several cask ales, and a counter covered in bread rolls, pasties and scotch eggs, why would you ask about cocktails?

Yes, yes, we know, offering a wider range of products is how you get people into the pub and make them feel welcome but… in this pub?

Busy as the pub was, we did find a post to lean against, and were then offered a seat by a couple as they departed. From a bench by the wall we watched parties of lads in Christmas jumpers, parties of lads in rugby shirts (home match, 5:30 kick off), families feeding crisps to toddlers, and middle-aged couples (like us) huddled together over their drinks.

Every time a seat near the fire became available, there was a shuffling round as people upgraded from leaning spot to bad table to good table to warm spot.

Our pints of St Austell Proper Job, served direct from the cask, had slight heads of loose foam. They were bursting with freshness and life and, if anything, tasted drier and more bitter than usual.

It was hard to leave but we pulled ourselves away, letting the tide of people wash into the gap we left behind us, and headed back to the waterside, in the direction of the Underfall that marks the beginning of the end of the floating harbour.

The beaten-up wooden bar of a traditional pub with hanging pint glasses and a pump for Bass.

We’ve tended to skip The Nova Scotia, despite it being, on paper, the kind of pub we ought to like.

On previous visits, the beer was of historic interest more than it was delicious, being one of those places where you could always get Courage Best despite Courage having closed its Bristol brewery in 1999. The long, compartmented, richly dark space was also fascinating, but tended to feel more cliquey than cosy.

So, we popped in on this wander by way of a check in, expecting to knock back a half and move on. But it felt like a different pub, somehow, both in terms of atmosphere and offer.

Relax, though: it hasn’t been brutally refurbished, painted grey, or turned into a restaurant. Rather, its essential pubness has been brought out with a few small tweaks.

The beer offer seemed to have grown, based on our hazy memories, but more in depth than breadth. Those of you who grumble at the difficult of finding brown bitter these days, the country is going to the dogs, and so on, will be excited to know that The Nova Scotia has as its standard line-up:

  • Fuller’s London Pride
  • Butcombe Original
  • Bass

There’s also a rotating guest ale which, on our visits, was Wye Valley Butty Bach, which is light brown, for a bit of variety.

The service was friendly, the other customers were friendly, and there were filled rolls on the counter – a sure signal that a pub is civilized without being pretentious.

The pub is under new management, of course, and has been since the summer. Specifically, it’s yet another pub that’s come under the care of Sam Gregory. He’s been running The Bank and The Bell for a while; recently took over The Crown; and has expanded out west with The Nova Scotia and the Rose of Denmark.

The Bass was excellent. The Butcombe was excellent. The Christmas tree twinkled and was reflected in the chocolate brown paintwork. There were more lads in Christmas jumpers, more rugby boys… no, actually, the same ones from The Orchard, on the same trail as us.

Again, we found it hard to leave, but The Merchants Arms was beckoning from across the water.

The Merchants still feels like a hidden gem despite being chosen as the best pub in Bristol by local CAMRA, or a close runner up, most years in recent memory.

It’s another tiny beerhouse on a corner, only its corner faces out onto a busy road junction. That’s why, every now and then, a driver will smash into the pub, knocking it out of action for a while. You can buy an official T-shirt commemorating these incidents.

We squeezed through the door and through the crowd to a spot within shouting distance of the bar. As we peered at the pumps we heard a voice shouting “Ray! Ray!” but ignored it because, frankly, The Merchants is the kind of pub where almost everyone is called Ray.

Eventually, though, we recognised the voice. It was Garvan, landlord of our old local, The Drapers Arms, who was on his way to the stadium for the rugby. There’s a certain warm feeling that comes with bumping into people you know in the city, like you’ve cut through the default alienation and found the layer of community beneath.

We didn’t get a seat this time – no chance! – but did bag a corner of the bar when the couple who’d previously been leaning there upgraded to a table near the open fire. We drank beer from Cheddar Ales and watched pork pies with smears of psychedelically yellow English mustard on the side pass by.

When another tiny table became available, nobody wanted to look as if they wanted it, and a chivalrous game of “No, you take it, no, I insist, well, if you insist, if you’re sure…” commenced.

It must be the spirit of Christmas.