Mud between your cleats

There's a certain something about November.

Looking out of my office window, I've been watching trees on the turn. Burnished golds and russet reds replace the green swathe. And my mind is set on one thing.

Boot time. A good Sunday yomp. Mud between the cleats, leaves stuck in your hair. And a good, malty beer at a country pub as a reward.

After a morning spent ankle-deep in the mud it was good to stop off at a cracking pub near where I live, The Royal Oak at Ockbrook, kick off the boots and introduce a vague aroma of cowshit to the bar. Sat back outside in the bright sun and cool breeze, with a coco-choc-full pint of Derventio Barbarian, I remember just how much I enjoy getting out into the countryside. And just how great the first sip of that first pint tastes.

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