I live in Derby.

Well, I live in Spondon. Which used to be a village on the outskirts before being swallowed up by the city when the latter became desperate for a charter back in 1977. A city needs a populace; boundaries were redrawn to bump the numbers up. Some villagers - self-proclaimed Spondonians - are still bitter about this. There was a bloke at the pub today who was quite bitter about the claimed wattage of energy-saving bulbs. People need to learn to not be bitter about stuff that doesn't really matter.

I'm always going to have a jaded view because I was born in Nottingham. Lived in Nottinghamshire as a youth. Still support Nottingham Forest, to the extent that you can support a rudderless bunch of muppets that couldn't score in a brothel.

But I married a Spondon girl - a Derby County-supporting Spondon girl - so here I am. Conducting endless missionary work amongst the heathens. And regularly taking advantage of Derby's great strength.

Regular train services to other parts of the country.

Within the hour I can be in Birmingham, Nottingham, Sheffield. Or into the Peak District. So I don't spend a great deal of time drinking around Derby.

Until today. Gulp. Because I couldn't be arsed to go anywhere else.

The Alexandra Hotel is the birthplace of Derby CAMRA but thankfully there are no awkward stains on the welcome mat. Fyne Ales Jarl was served the cool side of cool and all the better for it.

When in the Brunswick, all of thirty seconds walk from the Alex, I drink one of three beers. Budvar when it's really hot. Brunswick Father Mike's when it's really cold. Brunswick White Feather when I just fancy a beer to knock back. The latter today was its usual combination of slight sulphur, dry malts and wincing hop. It may now be two quid a pint, but I bloody love it.

Most of my drinking time outdoors in Derby is spent at the Smithfield. Sat above the river, the constant grind of the A52 nearby doesn't really detract. There's always plenty of pale & hoppy on - Oakham Citra for me today - and a half-hour spent watching swans stretch their wings and kick lazily upriver is all the entertainment you need on a Sunday lunch.

Speaking of which, I wish I'd eaten at the next pub. The Exeter Arms has always had a reputation for keenly-priced pub grub. My wife keeps telling me how good the lunches are and I've enjoyed the five quid pie-and-pint night. But I didn't quite fancy the pork lunch, so I just supped a pint of Dancing Duck Gold. The brewery now run the pub; their beers are fairly sugary which often clashes with my palate, but their Gold had a Belgique-sweetness and strong malty backbone that worked un-nervingly well.

Perhaps the problem with the Flowerpot is my high expectations. A few years ago they had around 15 beers available on a Sunday, maybe a third of those being on gravity in the glass-fronted stillage room. The beef and mushroom cob was a thing of genius - thick slices of beef from the Sunday roast paired with pan-fried mushrooms in a blousy bit of bread. But times have changed; there's still about eight ales on, including Thornbridge Jaipur on gravity, but the beer range is wanting and the food is really poor. My Sunday roast was a plate heaped full of veg freshly-pinged from the microwave and a sorry tablespoonfull of stewing steak. That's not lunch; that's a cop-out.

There's always a pub up the road to chipper my spirits back up. The Five Lamps is a case study in how to Get The Pub Right; somewhere that was a failing grot-hole made wonderful by the application of a simple equation: good landlord + good staff + good beer + good food + good atmosphere = great pub. Buxton Kinder Downfall was good, but... average. Perfect condition, well brewed, but just seemed to have something missing. Not sure what.

It could be that Buxton brews are usually hopped up the wazoo. It was certainly the case with Adnams American-Style IPA at the Standing Order. One of the festival beers, it survived being poured as flat as a trampled badger. Riven with juiciness. And even though the pub is a real JDW barn - it was a massive banking hall beforehand - I love being there. Huge ceilings to gaze up at. Excellent beer quality. Just a shame that staff don't pick up empty glasses by rote: if you're on the way back to the bar and pass a table with empties on, it makes sense to clear as you go.

Every beer was spot-on quality today. The range was exactly what I expected. And perhaps that's the issue I have with Derby. You're unlikely to find a leftfield brew, a new brewery tick, an adventurous recipe. You won't find anything interestingly kegged. Don't even think of looking for world-beating bottles in the back of those dusty fridges.

Derby delivers what Derby does best: dependable, tried-and-tested beer. I know it could be worse. But, I know it could be so much better. Forty minutes and nine quid away, I can have the best cask and keg beer in the UK at the Sheffield Tap. A monster roast at the Harlequin. Stunning cider and The Best Chocolate Brownies Ever at the Rutland.

Which is why the best place for me in Derby is still Platform 2, northbound... >

Unchuffed by the selection and prices at the Derby CAMRA festival, I thought I'd trawl round a few of the city's choicer pubs to see what they had to offer.

Brunswick - 12 beers, tried Westerham British Bulldog, a sparklingly well-balanced bitter

Alex - 8 beers, tried Holden Midsummer Witch, sweet malts aren't really my thing sadly

Smithfield - 8 beers, tried Abbeydale Belfry, chock full of tangy hops and cool toffee notes

Royal Standard - 8 beers (some pumps were dry), tried Derby Hop Til You Drop, flatter than a very flat thing with some hops leaking out

Silk Mill - 8+ beers (didn't count properly), tried Harviestoun Schehallion and Thornbridge Kipling, both in good nick, the latter being 40p cheaper here than at the festival.

Flowerpot - 30 beers... so many it was tricky to read the board. Tried Lymestone Ein Stein, lots of fresh hay and fat pears.

So that's seventy-odd beers, most in decent condition, plenty of variety, plenty of ticker-tastic stuff and local favourites. And keenly priced, too.

Yet.... with grinding inevitability, I ended up in the fest. £1.80 was just worth paying for half a Fullers Vintage Ale. £1.60 was still too pricy for Kipling but I couldn't resist (and I was also buying it for a fellow Tweeter who'd never tried it before).

Verdict? The pubs win on range, quality and price. - the Flowerpot alone is worth travelling to Derby for. It's a real shame that the festival this year for me is just an average barstop rather than an exciting centrepiece of a grander Derby crawl. >

Back in April, we had a National Cask Ales Week. Apparently. A concerted marketing effort by Cask Marque via (in the main) pubco estates to increase the sales of regionally-brewed beer. So, England expects and all that twaddle - I did what I needed to do. I went out to drink the finest keg beers I could find.

As you may have guessed, I felt ambivalent about National Cask Ales Week. It didn't involve all cask pubs as it was driven by Cask Marque; not all pubs think cold cask beer is the way to go. The marketing gets lost in its own hyperbole (if, as they say, 65% of adults haven't tried cask ale, how can it be our 'national drink'?). And as for the Saturday's world record attempt for the largest number of people giving a toast.... ".. participants don’t have to raise a glass of cask beer but can use any drink, although cask is preferable". WTF?

So I wasn't particularly surprised to see a headline saying lager was a valid part of the week's proceedings. Budvar was being offered at the The Crooked Chimney in Lemsford as a way of 'encouraging lager drinkers to give something more like a real ale a try'. Still with me? It's gets even more mind-bending: up then pops Roger Protz to say, "Not many people realise that Budvar is actually the only craft lager approved by the Campaign For Real Ale", adding that Budvar is "the only lager that's not CAMRA shy!".

I'd noticed that quote cropping up in some more stories.... then realised all the pubs in question were in the Vintage Inn group and part of Protz's quote is featured on their website.

So, let's not worry too much about all those English cask lagers, eh? Or even consider that fine Derbyshire keg lager, Moravka. But anyway - if Rog says its OK to drink keg this week, I'll go with the (smooth)flow. On Wednesday night, then, I took an amble upriver from where I work into Derby to see what non-cask delights I could find.

First stop; the Brunswick Inn. Fourteeen cask beers, half from their on-site brewery, two of them (White Feather and Triple Hop) being two of my favourite beers. But, I had a mission so I was on the Budvar. And you know what? It looked good - even the tap looked good. Clear and sparkly. Tasted refreshing. There I was, in a suit and tie, drinking lager. With out-of-towner cask-ale-drinkers almost looking down their nose at me whilst exclaiming "... they brew *this* one at the end of the corridor, you know. It's lovely and malty!". How the other half drink, dear topers...

Next door to the Alex next where there's always a few continental keg offerings. Indeed, today there was a new addition and a Reluctant Scoop for me, Duvel Groen. Which was OK-ish; dry and spicy, slight creeping sweetness. But every mouthful reminded me of just how great 'full-fat' Duvel is on draft. And at 2.40 GBP a half, I wasn't rushing back to buy another.

Ever onward upriver to the Smithfield. Now, my knowledge of keg beer here is akin to a pair of bridesmaid's knickers - scanty. And so was the selection; Carling, Guinness, Strongbow.... with a fail whale making its way up the Derwent, I had to Reluctantly drink cask. Didn't want to. Vile, living, yeast-ridden stuff. So, with a heavy heart I suffered a pint of Whim Hartington IPA. Every mouthful tasted like the last leper from hell was shitting into my mouth. Obviously.

(for the benefit of my humour-challenged readers who send me incomprehensible post comments, the above paragraph is an example of irony. Have you got your favourite crayon handy? Let's write it together - i-ron-y. Well done!)

Last stop, Royal Standard. Renowned for its generally overpriced continental keg offerings, I plumped for a glass of Schneider Weiss and took to the deserted roof terrace. With the sun slumping over the river and nascent leaves waving in the evening breeze, I sat and slurped the Schneider. And it was damn fine. Refreshing, sippable, mild spices and easy esters. I actually enjoyed it more than nearly all of the usual Derby Brewing cask fayre also on offer.

You know what? I really enjoyed that evening. Yet at the same time there was a tinge of sadness. Where's the quality keg beer brewed in the UK? Apart from Taddington's Moravka, where's the tasty UK keg lager? Where's the experimentation by major micros or regionals? Are they afraid of being accused of selling out? I know CAMRA will gripe about keg... but the queues at the foreign draft bars at the likes of Reading and GBBF tell their own (profitable) tale.

Ask if it's cask? Fair enough, but kegs don't always contain dregs... >

My next three months of Sundays are taken up by long country walks. So you can expect a few rambles involving rural pubs and eclectic bus services. Meanwhile, it's the last day of my Christmas holidays so I forced myself round Derby for four pints. And another one.





There's something vaguely dirty about drinking alcohol before 10am. Unless you've been caning it all night and haven't gone to bed. Or it's New Years Day and you've woken early to find a spare bottle of champers in the fridge. Or you're travelling business class. But having a pint next to a cooked breakfast seems odd even for a Reluctant Scooper like me. At least I had the common decency to wait until I'd finished my microwave-up in the Babington Arms before my first beer - and at least my breakfast wasn't just a pint of Stella like half the old soaks in there. Despite the usual panoply of beers available I don't usually succumb to booze after breakfast here, but I don't usually see Thornbridge on offer. A pint of Kipling was almost ordered before a gem was spotted - Seven Heron, brewed by Melissa Cole at Thornbridge. It's a superbly smooth drop, light malts and creamy hops, just a hint of flint amongst those fat wet fruits. It was good enough to stop me being pissed off by whoever was whistling the refrain from Nessan Dorma, over and over again, out of tune.

After a spot of shopping, a damn fine cappuchino at the Grand Cafe Caruso and a laugh around the remnants of the M&S sale, I dragged my cold bones into the Brunswick. No coal fire at 1205 so I pitched up by a lukewarm rad with a pint of Father Mike's. Velvet liquorish is a glass. Really quiet in here, mind; I could actually hear myself drinking. The odd bus passing by and a foot sticking to the bar floor were the only sounds to keep me awake. And can I just say something about shopping? Glad as I was to buy a Simon Drew calendar, why are they selling at half price, with a further 50% off at the till, only four days into a new year? And how can a set of 'gentleman's beard scissors and moustache comb' cost sixteen quid? It's a rather small pair of round-tipped scissors, as used by primary school kids, and a comb that you used to buy for your Sindy doll. Not that I ever had a Sindy doll, of course. My Action Man always preferred Barbie. Even though he had no genitals.

The long haul of literally two dozen paces plonked me into the Alex. Alan was removing the Christmas decorations and ensuring that the Abbeydale Absolution was pulling through OK. It was, so I had a pint and By Gum was it wonderful with a rich creamy melon-melange. Quiet here as well, two guys in the corner discussing the merits of fewer megapixels and the cellar cooler vibrating the table to leave pattens in my pint. Eventually though the near-silence seemed to be mocking my failure at yet another Azed crossword in the Observer so I decided to go freeze my nethers off and slope up to the 'Pot.

Rewind. Play... 'Really quiet in here'... me and the barmaid and the off-duty cook and the off-duty-cook's mate. Almost two o'clock; I wouldn't see another paying customer for over 45 minutes. At least is ensured that the cellar bar was quiet, apart from the jukebox lurching into life every fifteen minutes (no problem with that when it's the likes of 'The Prince' by Madness). Un-Reluctantly I plumped for a pint of Headless Summat Else - rather like KSA or First Bloom, more than possibly a rebadge/mix but still wonderfully citric so I don't give a tinker's tassle. Then the entertainment arrived, a charmeless nerk who regaled his mate with such pearlers as "Belgian beer is shit, it's all lager", "Brooge, it's beer city", "that festival in Hanover, er, Hamburg... I was sick as a fucking pig in there" and my personal favourite on a Bremen beer festival: "there must have been 800 beers, nearly all free". Thankfully, all too soon he had to catch his bus home, probably to edit some Wikepedia pages. I celebrated his departure with a pint of Acorn Ahtanum, a copper/red flat fart of a pint with a clean grapefruit feel with a little earthiness lurking.

Another fun Sunday - they nearly always are. Solid classics, new scoops, freezing cold pubs and a laugh somewhere along the way. If you can get into Derby on a Sunday it's well worth a trawl around - leave it until April and I'll show you around.
>

Dogs return to vomit. Christmas makes madmen of the out-of-season sane. So whilst the rabid herd trudge the soiled High Streets, I'm off to my old drinking grounds for dodgy jokes, annoying whistling, the vague smell of shit and an unexpectedly tasty pint.



Days like these start in a Wetherspoons. For the unfortunate Magners drinker, they probably end here, too, in a pool of vomit / ocean of bitter recrimination / puddle of squandered remission. At least the Babington Arms caters for the breakfast-loving toper as well as the wannabe ASBO enthusiast. Occasionally, I'll have a pre-10am pint to wash down the microwave-up and toast, but today's Leatherbritches and Falstaff fayre doesn't tickle my palate. Here be the lager boys who didn't get to bed last night. At least, not their own, as they're busy texting apologies to their Mums when they think their mates aren't looking. Here too are the nth iteration of today's trackie-clad slackers, rosy nosed tweed-ish drunkards who insist the world was a better place when they could beat the wife and contract emphysema indoors. Both groups hate the fecker who raised taxes and denied them their uncivil liberties. It's just one lot doesn't know who this Thatcher character is. The yoof of today eh?

With a startling outbreak of middle-class affectation, I leave the pub to go get a large strong cappuchino, read the Observer review section and then fail to find any suitably freshly-baked baguettes. Honestly, Jez, what *is* this world coming to? Shortcutting to the pub involves getting through Westfield, the could-be-anywhere-in-the-capitalist-world shopping centre. It's hitting full-on centrifugal mode, aisles a blur of misplaced consumerism, jaded shoppers plastered against walls when their cards have been ripped clean of credit. Unwilling to purchase, I am swallowed up into the place and irritate my way clean through, shat out via the smokers' alley at the back.

Ten minutes of a chill wind and I'm at the Brunswick. The attraction of this pub on a Sunday is threefold; no diners, barbed banter and a decent dark pint. Landlord Graham will be off-duty and moaning about the football results, regular Lou will be moaning about losing bets to Graham, other barflys will moan about anything the Daily Mail has been moaning about. And then, like a butterfly braving a stormy afternoon, someone will air a few words that brighten the bar and replace bile with delight. Today, Lou asked Ralph (the cook) how he made the parsnip soup. "Well," said Ralph, "I take a parsnip. And some water. And blend them. And that's parsnip soup". And no-one was too sure what was funnier - Lou's question or Ralph's studious answer. But laughs like drains were exhibited all round. I nearly decorated the table with an as unyet-digested mouthful of Brunswick Black Sabbath. So I guess pub humour is where you find it.

No coal fire at the Brunnie - "times 'r 'ard" says Graham - so I shuffle fifteen paces into the Alex for warmth and beer. Alan was dragging his fire into life with wet wood; reluctant flames still spark, though. No other customers to enjoy it, mind; half an hour of my failings to crack the Azed crossword are accompanied only by a pint of Dark Star Winter Solstice and Alan's off-key whistling as every twelfth dart misses the board and rattles the floorboards. The pint is one of the finest seasonal brews I've had this year, packed with gingery bits and surprisingly aggressive hops. Indeed, it's the kind of beer that tests keenly my Reluctancy on a cool afternoon; upriver I must go, though.

It's a turbid Derwent today, heavy rains lend the water a stewed-tea feel. Sadly, that has an obvious implication for riverside pub The Smithfield - storm drains rise and the whiff through the bar needs something hoppier than Durham White Something to neutralise it. It has a fair crack at it, though, as I'm not gagging my way through reading the Morning Advertiser and The Publican. Quiet here, too; landlord Roger says would be happy to see more pubs close as he'd get more customers. Not sure that they'd leg it over the river, though, even for his excellent beer. Trade tales are exchanged across the bar between licensee, brewer and consumer, all three feeling that they're taking it up the keester from the taxman. It's times like these you wish for a recently-redundant tax inspector to walk into the bar, but you can't have it all.

Another five minutes upriver to the Royal Standard and dreams of dark beer. Amazingly, I didn't have to take pot luck on their recalcitrant guests as Trev Harris had deigned to brew a black 'un. Christmas Porter was velvet enough with some rich fruit notes lurking in the edges. Last described by a Brunswick regular as a cross between "a wine bar and I don't know what", the Standard is a bar masquerading as a pub with the un-nerving habit of serving decent real ale whilst alienating a number of real ale drinkers. More room for me, then; I'll still dispute Harris's pricing policy (charging over two quid a pint for his own weakest beer) but the place is affable enough. The atmosphere isn't painted on the walls - indeed, it's whatever you bring along with you; old friends, extended family, bitter partner, sweetheart, well-thumbed broadsheet.

My bus leaves from round the corner and I'm surprised to have spent three hours on this slow crawl. Then again, this has been a dog-eared slipper of an afternoon, knowingly comfortable with a stubborn sole. >

One of my regular rambles is around my home city of Derby on a Sunday afternoon. usually on a wet, cold, miserably grey day when my 'reluctant rambling' results in nothing more than a potter around the local pubs.



Well, it beats lunch with my wife, her godmother, her mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law talking about recent bereavements and strangers with wonky wombs.

Actually, the session can start in the morning - the Babington Arms opens at 9am and I'm not averse to popping in for breakfast. Nothing overly exciting about their fry-ups; at least for a McSpoons the food is hot and served quickly. Unless a dozen labourers have just ordered every possible curry combination to go with their vat of Wifebeater.

I try to resist a drunky with breakfast and usually manage a black coffee first before succumbing to the Bab's beer range. And why not give into temptation; 17 beers listed on the widescreen TV/beer board, always something local (Derby Brewing Co or Falstaff) and often something from far-flungerer parts.

Then it's off to the rest of the city for a few hours of exhausting coffee-drinking and newspaper-reading. Which builds up a good thirst that requires slaking at perhaps Derby's finest pub, the Flowerpot.

No slouch for beer variety during the week, the 'Pot still ups the ante at the weekend at often offers in excess of 20 beers of various styles and strengths. I set myself up in the cellar bar, near to the superb glass-fronted stillage, which is a little less busy than the main room. The jukebox in there lurches into life with a random track about every fifteen minutes but it's got a great selection so I rather enjoy the odd choon.

This is a day for really reluctant scooping - I have a beer agenda at every pub I visit on this Sunday sloucharound. Here I'm looking for one of three things: a Derbyshire beer as first choice (last weekend that was Amber Ales Imperial Pale and the First Brew from newcomers Wirksworth); one of the regular-guest beers from Durham or Oakham if there's no notable local stuff; failing both of those (unlikely but possible) then it's one of the Headless Brewing Co. beers, brewed at the pub.

The beer here is superb in terms of quality and range - and so is the food. I'm not really one for Sunday lunch with all the trimmings, but here it's awesome. Though I usually plump for the hot beef and mushroom cob - whacking great hunks of beef and freshly fried mushrooms. In a cob the size of a side plate. Beyond yummy! Leaving the 'Pot is a hard thing to do, but there are more great beers to be drunk. Working my way down to the river, I pass two other pubs.

The Dolphin (sorry, Ye Olde Dolphin Inn) is a cracking pub; tourist-trap, Ghost Central and busy busy busy on a Sunday lunch. I pop in occasionally; beers from Milestone, Newby Wyke and Shugborough aren't unusual guests here.

I used to pop just over the road and into the Old Silk Mill. But this pub's been in a troublesome rut for a long time; licensees come and go, some really enthusiastic about cask, others not seeming to give a twisted fig about it. At the time of writing, the beer quality and range isn't great. Hopefully the place will fall back into good hands and get a bit of TLC for the medium term at least.

In happier days, it was a prime outlet for Derby Brewing Company's beers. You can get a few at the Babington, but it always surprised me that they weren't more widely available in their home city. Now that may all change - DBC are looking to take over the once-redevelopment-threatened Royal Standard by the Exeter Bridge. Here's hoping the plans work out - Derby needs a pub to showcase a brewer as good as Trevor Harris.

Following the river downstream, it's a short shuffle to the Smithfield. This is a no-nonsense pub; the jukebox seems to play and play all day with whatever the staff want to hear, the food is simple and served in shovel-sized portions, the beer range is reliable and reeks of quality. And served in outsized lined glasses. Here you'll get Oakham, a Headless beer if you didn;t get round to drinking one at the 'Pot, and a few beers from one of the shire's finest brewers, Whim.

Hartington IPA and Arbor Light are nearly always on; I could drink both in grand bladder-bursting volumes. But it's the occasional Whim beer that often grabs my attention; on my last visit it was Flower Power, a CAMRA award winning beer in 2007.

OK, the furniture is a little jaded and the gents has a fantastic crack in the tiling but I'm here for beer, not to score them on interior design.

So, yomping onwards and over the Derwent for the last pub of the day. I'd like it to be pubs plural, but the Alexandra is normally closed by the time I make it this far. Sometimes I crawl in the opposite direction (as it were) to fit in a visit here; although its bottled continental beers aren't a patch on those once on offer, it's become the most likely outlet for Thornbridge Hall beers in the city. The landlord, Alan, is doing a cracking job - either because of or in spite of the (probably unsolicited) advice of the licensee in the pub next door; his brother Graham.

And it's Graham's place that brings the afternoon to a close - the oldest brewpub in the city, the Brunswick. One of those pubs that seems to tick along nicely even on the bleakest winter Sunday afternoon. To be honest, I rarely look to see what guest beers are on, I'm here for some of the Brunnie's own finest. White Feather is one of my absolute favourite beers and I'm always keen to knock off a pint or four when I make it down here. Their Triple Hop is damn fine as well, though on a cold and now-darkening day I tend towards a roastier drop; Father Mike's Dark Rich Ruby must have been made for afternoons drying out in front of a roaring real fire.

If I've timed all this right, in a couple of pints time my wife will be driving past and so I get a lift home. I think the word I'm looking for is serendipity. But that leads me into thinking about whisky, which is another blog altogether.... (justanotherdram.blogspot.com)

Update: As if often the way, this article was written several weeks ago. Since then, I've repeated the ramble, naturally. And the beers; well, here's a random sample:

Amber Mild, Oakham Delirious, Riverhead Black Mass Stout, Harwich Lighthouse Bitter, Fernandes Centennial, Acorn Amarillo, Crouch Vale Brewers Gold, Thornbridge Kipling, Acorn Bloomfield, Acorn Kashmir, Marble Porter, Full Mash Drizzlecombe Porter....

If that sounds tempting - and ruddy hell, it should be - Derby has a regular weekend train service. Just try not to be tempted to stay on 'til Sheffield :-)

>

The Alex in Derby has occasional 'Meet The Brewer' nights, where a local brewer gives an informal talk about the beers he brews whilst the regulars try a sample.

This week, Bruce Wilkinson (top left of the picture) of Burton Bridge popped by to tell us about some of his beers.

Fours beers were on offer: Bridge Bitter, Golden Delicious, Xthirsty8 and Top Dog Stout. Bruce explained which malts and hops were used for each beer and described how they contribute to the flavour and aroma.

Half-pint samples were freely available for each beer, as the picture shows!

A really interesting evening, always good to hear about how beers come into being and the challenges that modern craft brewers face.

What's more, it was all free! Major congratulations to the landlord, Johnathan Hales, for laying on this event. Looking forward to many more!! >

Really a B&B nowadays, the Alexandra Hotel has a longstanding tradition of championing real ale and was the birthplace of Derby CAMRA.


Currently in the safe hands of Johnathan "For The Use Of" Hales, the Alex is a Castle Rock pub with an interesting range of UK cask guests and (unusually for Derby) a wide selection of bottled and draught continental beers.

So then - why a Pub I Love?

The RS percentage: Around the 30% mark for UK cask. Just enough to tempt me - as long as Harvest Pale or Jaipur isn't on.

Noise-o-meter: Can be a little too quiet, particularly mid-afternoon, with just the sound of local radio and traffic jams to keep you company. But that's OK as background for crosswords and Su Duko.

Niffy? Not at all - enough ventilation to keep it breezy in the summer, a nice fug of smoke from the wood-burning fire in the winter.

Bog off? Clean enough, but it's the little things; the towel is hung on a window opener, no coat hook in the cubicle...

FTL... At least ten seconds further away from the railway station than the Brunswick. So that makes it 1:10 to the railway station and about five minutes from the main bus stops. Unless you catch a bus back into the centre from outside the Brunswick, which is, er, ten seconds away...

ESP: It's probably Johnathan. Where else will you hear "A pint for the consuming of, change for the use of and your very good health" whenever you're served a drink? He's fantastically phlegmatic and has a wonderful philosophy that can be applied to every topic of conversation in the pub; "It's all bollocks".

Overall: Re-assuring. Solid, dependable beers, solid, dependable landlord. >