The Blacksmiths Arms, one of the most haunted pubs in Britain, this was going to be a good one and my ghost deflowering would take place, there would be no doubts.
The Blacksmiths Arms, Brampton - The ghost of Maggie Stobart is still said to exist in the pub to ensure that all is well and the pub is being maintained. According to reports, when she manifests she is dressed in Victorian clothing and usually has a smile on her face – but not always.
Source
This was always in my mind when visiting the abandoned, but in fantastic condition ‘The Blacksmiths’ Arms’, in Staffordshire. What I had misjudged was that it was the wrong ‘Arms’ and this was a regular boozer without even a sniff of Maggie.
Yet, I am sure I spotted something about this one, and ghosts. Could it be that ALL 'The Blacksmiths Arms' in this country are truly haunted?
It was those freaky paranormal idiots again, must be…
For a simple pub that’s very much rural and out of the way, this ‘The Blacksmiths’ Arms’ appears very popular within the Urban Exploring community and it must be ticked off.
I have the ‘haunted’ excuse for my visit and the fact it was close by to the dismal Marchington Barracks and the forthcoming non-existent, ‘Red Nova Farm’ which we never managed to find, due to bollocks information provided.
I can’t find a build date for this ‘The Blacksmiths’ Arms’. It is built squarely in the middle of a small village and would once have been the central community. In 2009 a vehicle collided with the pub causing extensive damage. It was re-opened in 2011 later and finally closed its doors in 2012.
A Google image (below) shows the damage done in 2009 and workmen trying to repair everything. This was the start of the fall. It must have been a Juggernaut, not a car that crashed into it.
‘All this way and the fucking place is sealed?’
I was getting exasperated. We had checked the back and there was no way in, besides possibly the roof.
@anidiotexplores being more flexible than me, attempted to scale it, managed to climb on a section, and found nothing.
The both of us started to leave, brooding, sulky, and glum barely noticing another section of a hugely overgrown path so much that beyond it was not visible.
One of us had the curiosity to have a final check before leaving and there it was. A door with a hole, just about large enough to crawl through, even fat-boy me.
We crawled through the hole and entered a bare room. This was downstairs and looked to never be a public area.
Finding the bar was easy, though I couldn't tell you what is written on the dusty sign. It looks written in some other weird language.
Everything was quite bare but in astonishingly great condition. While 'The Blacksmiths' Arms' was suffering from a lack of dusting, it had held up well considering it was TEN years since it was operational.
The scores look like the last ever game of Darts played. This is a pub game, predominantly played by gut-spilling oversized males with huge bellies. They tend to weigh you before allowing you to play. Too skinny and you are banned.
'Marstons', it says on the 2009 image. This means the beer is more restricted and limited to that brewery. Free Houses are the best, having no such restrictions.
Serving Britvic is an art it seems, and one needs detailed instructions on how to deliver it effectively.
A much-underused notice board, it looked virtually new.
You would never have guessed that lots of delicious, tasty, jaw-dropping food came from here, would you?
Those coffee prices do seem a little on the high side. You must consider these are 2012 prices, and not today’s.
The Stodges, on the other hand, appear to be a decent deal. A slice of Black Forest Gateaux would have gone down nicely.
THREE courses for £12.95. Now that is a cracking deal, if only I could manage to eat that much.
I did squeeze it but no lemon was forthcoming.
It is probably safe to say that nobody had entered via the front door in around, erm… 10 years? If the owners do visit, it must be the back entrance.
I hear that many explorers have failed to get into 'The Blacksmiths' Arms'. I do wonder if they missed the 'hole' or if it is constantly getting sealed again.
A little mindless graffiti but the rural location has mostly saved it from the hordes of dickheads.
It's a little chalky underfoot. I was at this point, looking around for those non-existent spirits and was quite alone as @anidiotexplores had gone upstairs.
Had this been an early access point for desperate explorers who were longing to see decaying spider webs and the like? I think not.
A few items of cutlery remained, as well as a decent amount of malt vinegar. We Brits like it on our chips you see.
Wishful thinking if you assume any of these contains alcoholic content. They were in the public section and for decorative purposes only.
From the olden days when you could get two pub meals for £10; Ham and Eggs, Fish and Chips, how I do miss those days.
£3 for a pint? Not a chance of that now, it’s more like double!
The styling and architecture of 'The Blacksmiths' Arms' was homely. In its day this would have been a wonderful stop-over so long as the locals were not in the same mindset as 'The Slaughtered Lamb' ones.
The upper areas were sparse and empty, besides the huge CRT TV. In 2012, this would have been dated and nobody wanted to carry the thing out. At a guess, I would say it probably still works.
Billowing wallpaper, but what do you expect when it's freezing inside, yes it was chilly.
Some holes are strictly off-limits, such as this filled with bricks and mortar. It’s often better to find another hole.
We exited and hoped the angry locals would not start hassling us for simply taking external snaps. These people in villages are remarkably protective and have been known to call the cops for the smallest of reasons.
I noted the mailbox attached to the pub and figured it is still used. This is how important these central drinking establishments used to be. The postman doesn’t have to be an explorer to collect the mail, as it does open from the outside.
As if seeing a premonition… we left quickly after a mob of locals were starting to gather at one end of the village complete with pitchforks and broken hoes, shaking their fists and screaming some indecipherable 'hillbilly’ language in our direction.
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