Wake up. Catch train. Go to beer festival. Drink beer. Drink cider. Eat pork pie. Catch train. Drink beer in Brunswick. Go to bed. To be honest, I'm getting bored of writing up fest trips. Would a visit to Tamworth be any different? Would there be something more imbibable than average British bitters? Would these gentlemen make it back to the rest home before curfew? Read on, dear toper.
To be honest, the day didn't get off to a great start. The new rail fares are anything but fair; the 20-minute Derby-Tamworth trip cost me more than the peak time fare to Brum used to only a few weeks ago. But this wasn't for any old festival; this was a Tamworth festival. New breweries. Church End specials. And the finest trio of food shops that I know of; Truckles for cheese, Claridge and Son for pork pies, Wood and Son for fish. Cycling John, Comrade Brian and I stocked up on cheese and porkies - we thought we'd not bother with DIY sushi - and set off in the rain for the Assembly Rooms.
Steady rain resulted in a wobbly line of wet tickers queuing for fest entry, which didn't bode well for the aroma later on. The eau de odour of certain tickers reaching reheat often puts me in mind of an incontinent Labrador. With Tamworth having a somewhat compact layout, as the rest of the line spawned left into the main room I bolted right to secure one of the few tables in the small but perfectly formed bar/dining area.
Pretty soon, we had a table full of pork pies (from Morris), cheeses (including the sublime Black Bomber from the Snowdonia Cheese Company) and Comrade Brian's home grown toms. The food was so enjoyable, it slowed down the purchase of beer. Amends were made with two rapid halves; Church End's Mocca Chocca Focca (fairly underwheling, some itchy chocolate faded into a thinning malt by the finish) and Beowulf Coffee Hazelnut Porter (needed a few minutes to warm when it revealed a superb creamy nuttiness).
I'm still experimenting with pork pie production and am having jelly problems. The stuff in the first pie was good - you could put a thumbprint into it and watch it spring back. My jelly is not so much runny as theoretical. Gives me the opportunity to stuff my face full of other people's pies; er, I mean conduct in-depth market research. All this pie malarkey was distracting me from the beer. The other chaps had sampled some damn fine looking light beers like Brown Cow IPA, but I decided to stay with the dark side. A Reluctant Scoop for me; though you can't come to this fest and not scoop a new brewery. Outstanding have been up and running for about six months and I'd yet to try anything from these Bury-based brewers.
I gave their stout a crack and, by gum, it was good. Fairly hoppy, deep malts balancing the flavour out, enough body to carry bold flavours into a satisfying mouthfeel. So good, in fact, that I decided to try their other beers on offer. Their Ginger beer had a fantastically agressive aroma, thinning a little on first taste but developing a slow spice burn as the beer warmed. There was an efficient cask cooling system here, perhaps a little too efficient as some flavours were chilled out on the pour and needed time to come up to temp and fully develop.
As we tucked into a majestic hand-raised pork pie, I went to complete the set of Outstanding beers with their Standing Out. Hazy gold with a thick citric lick, there was plenty of smacking hop oil squeezing out through the keen malts to deliver a real lipsmaker. Clearly the best trio of beers from a brewer new to me since those I had from Hopshackle. With the cheese demolished, pork pies reduced to crumbs and the toms all gone, it was time to shift through the gears and stretch those drinking trousers.
That last Outstanding beer had given me an IPA lust; Comrade Brian had been struggling to find light beers that were to his liking but he was able to point me towards the Woodlands Super IPA which certainly upped the bar with its punchy hop nose and fat wet fruity flavour. I sampled a couple of the chaps' beers as well; Great Heck Golden Fleece had a rather gluey feel with dusty hops and Brampton Aspire had an odd fruit flavour that no-one could put a name to. Back to the dark beers, then, with some heavyweights to round out the day.
Having loved their porter earlier on, I had high hopes for Beowulf's Strong Mild. At 7.4% I didn't expect it to be exactly mild. And so it goes. The faintest petrol spiral on the witch-tit flat, black to brown body. Christmas cake forced through an oil sump for an aroma. Fruits in the flavour not so much developing as rupturing under the concentration of alcohol steeped within. As it warms, a higher register aroma kicks in that Cycling John noted as that of cycle puncture fix solution. This was a massive, MASSIVE mild, it would take Sarah Hughes' Dark Ruby down the alley and paste it senseless.
As the picture above shows, Dave Unpronounceable had braved the nose-bleedingly giddy trek from Sheffield to serve beer darn sarf and gave his punters a warm Yorkshire welcome. My next beer had to be Bass. I mean Museum Brewery. Sorry, White Shield. Sod it, let's call it what it is - proper Bass beers, brewed by a proper brewer, albeit not for much longer, it seems. But what a choice to make; Bass Number 1 or P2 Imperial Stout? The complex barley wine or the intensely layered darker beer. Only one thing to do - buy both and mix them. Texting Mes to get his patented formula, perfected at Rail Ale earlier this year, a few reverential sips were taken from each glass before creating some kind of monster. I could play a round of beer bullshit bingo and take you through an un-necessarily overlong description of the effect, but John said it all after one long slurp; "My goodness!!". I then inflicted Brewdog Tokyo onto my rapidly-fading tastebuds. I'm convinced I was drinking alcoholic soy sauce. A Japanese chain smoker had expectorated into my glass. Did I love the sticky tar-laden smoke-fest? Do bears practice Catholicism?
With no way of improving on these last beers, it was time to Reluctantly leave the fest. And, er, go to the pub. The Globe was an impressive looking building with lots of 1980s brasswork and crass carpets. And Worthington cask. And something that must have been palatable, as I definitely had half a something from a handpump. But, in my post-Tokyo state, anonymous brown bittery stuff was literally pale by comparison.
So why did we stop in the Albert for a drink as well? I've always had nothing but below-average beer in here, it's never going to have a beer the equal of anything at the festival. But, every year, like a dog returning to vomit, we stop for a drink here. At least it allowed me to a) go for a huge crap, b) eat the chicken sarnie I bought earlier and c) water the plastic hedge with whatever fudge-like bland crap it was that Comrade Brian bought me.
And what's with plastic hedges? Are they wash wipe? I ruddy well hope so, the amount of crap beer that must get poured on them. Is it modular? Do you slot in seasonal varieties - holly for winter, hawthorn to prevent gatecrashers? Or is it part of a gigantic oversized Playmobil set? Is there some eight foot tall freak queuing for the BBQ in the rear beer garden with a crash helmet hairdo, poor fashion sense and no genitals?
Off to the train, then, and some light relief. The upside of the pricey 'peaktime' tickets was that the Cross Country service wasn't stuffed to the gunnels with shrieking PAs and unemployable students. Comrade Brian treated us to a grand precis of left wing political theory (I think) and Cycling John nodded in all the right places. Though I preferred Brian's excellent Tommy Cooper impersonation. At least, I think it was the Coopermeister - I had nodded off five minutes before.
Back into Derby in good time, then, for our Survivors Club pint in the Brunswick. A White Feather is always welcome, even at the end of the beeriest day. Mind you, I was so tired by this point that my photos turned black and white. But it had been a cracking day - top nosh, great range of beer, high quality, excellent Reluctant Scoops and some enjoyable old faves. A couple of dire pubs, mind you, but overall it was a day that reminded me that some CAMRA fests are worth drinking at and are fun to write about after all.
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Peterborough - *the* place in the Midlands for arson action, swathes of eastern European swede slashers itching for a return ticket home (where gas fitting has become more lucrative) and a stupendous amount of beer in a feck-off marquee during the middle of August. But is it quality beer? Are these two feckless raters just putting it on for the camera or did they buy Greede Kerching by mistake? Read on, dear toper...
Now, reluctancy is a core competency for me. And if a scoop is reluctant, it's ever more so if it involves a long-ish rail journey. When I could be in Sheffield instead. But there's a lure to Peterborough; 500+ beers, ciders and perries, a great venue, meeting up with fellow Ratebeerians. And, truth be told, an enjoyable journey. Foresaking the hell of a Leicester change onto the diesel cattle truck that is the Stanstead Airport service, I went round the counties via Nottingham and Grantham to revisit my trip earlier in the year. And, by buying two tickets - Derby-Grantham, Grantham-Peterborough, it cost me £16.30 rather than £25. Here's a Reluctant Scooper tip - if your scooping journey goes via a station you could change at after 0930, run the permutations through the National Rail site - the more you save, the more you get to spend on beer.
So then - Peterborough. Or 'Pity Borrow', if the Guardian is to be believed. I tried to walk past the first pub I saw, a Wetherspoons called the Drapers Arms, but failed spectacularly. And, Chambourcy Nouvelle, it was full of the unemployable, elderly and stinking tickers. You might say they were one and the same. I couldn't possibly comment. A swift half of Elgood's Peterborough Festival Special Ale Special Festival Thing was partaken. Sadly, detailed notes on its proper name or ABV were not taken. Tasty stuff, though.
Plenty of time before the fest opened for some photography. The parish church and market place offered some inspiration, as did the ladies old bogs... and the cathedral is always an attraction for me. So I took lots of piccies of the green by the West Front instead. I dared not go inside the cathedral, as I'd have spent several hours shooting the stained glass. And the painted ceiling. And the fan vaulting... it's indeed a hard knock life to be a keen lensman on a well-lit day in front of one of the world's finest Norman cathedrals. But I had beer to drink.
Off to the big PB fest, then. Down near the river, a quad of marquees, like Worcester BF on steroids. This pic was taken later in the day on exit; with twenty-ish minutes to opening time, the queues were stretching wayyyyyy back down the green stripe. Fortunately, my hyper-organised friends were bagging a head-of-the-queue spot. Mark and Hughie had both endured uncomfortable bus slogs to get here - that'll learn them for living in the arse-end of nowhere. Or Bedford, in Hughie's case. You might say they were one and the same. I couldn't possibly comment.
As we're sad fest types, we had our own glasses and soon secured a table close inside the first tent. By the wine stall. Think; wine = women topers; women topers = tight jeans and low cut tops. Dirty old feckers who ought to know better with our age and marital status? Hell, yeah, but what happens on tour stays on tour... (honest, Mrs H!!) Beers were bought and I was in full-on semi-reluctant scooper mode. Three Ratebeerians, buying halves, can manage a scoop from each glass. Only a sixth of a pint each, but ostensibly enough to get a flavour of the ale.
And, for what it's worth, those beers glowing in the photo were (l-r): Son of Sid - Muck Cart Mild (bought by Mark). Earthy and lactic. Yard of Ale - First Yard (bough my Mark in my glass even though I wouldn't have scooped this shite). Backyard, more like; had the odour of cobbles relieved on by a dog several hours ago. Leeds Bombay Sunrise (bought by Hughie). Butter. Bombay Butter. Fairy nuff; it got better later after some air was whipped into it.
For me, the story of PB BF was my cross-country odyssey. Denied at Worcester, the list here proffered potential and my Ratebeer wingmen could support me on my mission from sea to shining sea. Well, consecutive counties with a start in Northumberland and a finish down in Cornwall. Fortified by a roast pork cob (NOT a hog roast, you need a pig twirling on a poker through its arse and gob for one of those, not just flabby slices of whatever steaming in a stainless steel hopper), I set off on my journey.
Well, thanks to Mark's excreable choice from Yard of Ale, I needed to backtrack. Up to Northumberland, then, for a Wylam beer. My only known prevous for this brewer was an easy going gold (Gold Tankard). Sadly, this one didn't really hit the spot. Another buttery bugger, diacetyl rampant, though it tasted better than the aroma suggested. Fortunate, really.
North Yorkshire next, and a Reluctant Scoop of a new brewer for me. I'd have been happy to settle for a Brown Cow beer (or do I mean Suddaby's?) but these desperate scoopers went for Redscar's Sands. Brewed on the five barrel plant at the Cleveland Hotel in Redcar, this is one of the beers brewed by licensee Chris Appleby who is attempting to bolster trade by opening a microbrew plant on the premises. Light, itchy, some fruit fights through. It's a dependable beer, the kind that you'd pray for in any hotel. More power to his entrepreneurial elbow.
A skip to West Yorks next for one of Mark's suggestion's, Osset Black Bull Bitter. I enjoyed this, despite my palate wishing to downgrade from a sweeter bitter. The other guys weren't as keen, though I wondered how much this was due to preconceptions of the brewers style. A sort of homecoming for the next beer; Derbyshire had to be represented by Thornbridge, with a festival special on offer too. Karnival was Thornbridge-by-numbers and I didn't care; fat citrics, wincing nettles, baked lemons... of course, I loved it. Hughie was unsure, called it 'predictable', but I'd rather predict this great taste than Reluctantly Scoop a poorer beer.
Westwards again to Staffordshire and Enville, only holding off the Ginger as Hughie was equivocal about not having it. I plumped instead for their White, an OK-ish beer in my book. Often found through the summer at the Smithfield in Derby, it's not an overly wheaty white but still fairly enjoyable.
With only one Warwickshire brewer represented here, the next beer for me had to be from Church End. The very name makes some scoopers salivate and others run for the hills. They produce an inordinate amount of specials, usually off-the-wall flavourings of stock beers (turkish delight, mint and celery seeds have all featured. Though, not necessarily in the same recipe). I went for their festival special, Passport to Peterborough, which was an un-mucked-about-with bitter. Just goes to show that they can brew a solid beer when they leave the mad box of additives unopened.
Because Hughie is a ratings whore and we're sat next to the wine bar, he couldn't resist trying a mead. The Lyme Bay traditional was fantastic, tons of Lockets-like honey with fat burnt butter notes too. It got even better when I poured the rest of Mark's Toloja cider into it.
After that brief break from beer, it was over to Gloucestershire for the next beer and Festival Gold. Sadly, this had drippy hops and a plastic-y feel, like a defrosting freezer. A quick hop across to Wiltshire was called for, offering the chance to try what was, for me, a new Hop Back beer. Groovy Mover was plain, straightforward, strong golden stuff which came as a relief after a few dodgy light 'uns today.
It was around this point that Mark had to go, as he had his epic return bus journey deep into the heart of darkness - sorry, Northamptonshire. Hughie and I soldiered on, with three counties left for me to chalk off. Somerset was next west, allowing me to pick up a beer with a familiar name from an unfamiliar brewery. I can only recall trying one Milk Street beer before (Mermaid) so I tried The Usual - at the Brunswick in Derby, that's the adopted name of Second Brew. This was an inoffensive beer, adequately hopped though rather rough around the edges.
Two counties left, then. Whereas at Worcester there was a wide range of beers form Devon and Cornwall, choice was restricted here. The Devonian representative was on-its-own Otter brewery. Now, given a choice, I'd usually go for another brewer before these. Nothing actually wrong with Otter beer, mind, it's just that to my palate they're simple and safe. But, notter lotter else to choose from so I went for Otter Ale. And you know what? It was super - even that hedgerow sweetness didn't put me off today. Clean malts, dry finish; like the Church End beer, it does the simple things and does them well.
And so, dydh da, Kernow. Twelve beers had brought me across the country and the last of England was to be Skinners Cornish Blonde. Truth be told, it's a bit of an -ish beer, wheat-ish, wet spice-ish, lemon-ish... the flavour fluctuates from mild sweat to spritzer lemon to soft bread rolls. Probably more enjoyable by the pint, by the sea. One day, perhaps...
Some good beers, then, with plenty of average ones. Which I find encouraging - I try to impress on fellow raters and real ale bods that average beer is something to be cherished. Because if we didn't have plenty of average beer, we wouldn't have the occasional excellent ones. And we woudn't have dire stuff like Greene King IPA to take the piss out of. Though, if you take the piss out of it, they'd be nothing left. (That line was brought to you by the Haddonsman Campaign for Recycling Crap Beer Jokes).
My fave from the cross-country yomp? Thornbridge Karnival, of course... but Church End Passport to Peterborough ran it a surprisingly close second.
Lots more beers were imbibed through the day. Some standouts included Son of Sam's Muck Cart Mild, Purple Moose Tryfan and Ascot Anastasias Stout. Beer of the day, though, had to be the bottle from Hopshackle - Restoration was a bold Belgian-style strong beer with just bags of spiced alcohol, leather, pepper, chocolate... the flavours list seems endless the more I think about it.
The journey home through rolling fields and fens gave me time to reflect on the fest. It was a relaxed do, securing a seat close to the entrance helped so we didn't feel hemmed in. Plenty of room around the marquees (at least there was during the day), room outside too albeit not as inviting as Worcester. The food was good - though a proper hog roast would have gone down better. I should have had something from the ever-excellent Charters BBQ! Toilets were odd, all rather beaten and battered. And the beer.... there were some really tasty ones but a fair few that were bland or bordering on poor condition. I enjoyed the day - it's always good to meet up with some Ratebeer guys - but on reflection I'd rather be at Worcester. Consistently good beer, an easy-going vibe and great bottled cider won the day for me.
But some things remain the same - watching blue skies fly by on the journey back and a pint of White Feather in the Brunswick before setting off home. No matter how far I've travelled, how many beers I've had, there's always room for one more. Looking back through the programme as I supped that last pint, I decided that I probably won't be going back to Peterborough next year. And so the cycle continues; I go to PB, enjoy some good beers, endure more average ones and throw a few dire halves, make the long journey home, decide to give PB a miss the next year, do that and then go back the year after, enjoy six good beers.....
If you're at the festival in 2010, I'll be the one sat near the wine bar wondering out aloud if I missed anything decent the year before.
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Wake up. Catch train. Go to beer festival. Drink beer. Drink cider. Eat pork pie. Catch train. Drink beer in Brunswick. Go to bed. To be honest, I'm getting bored of writing up fest trips. Would a visit to Tamworth be any different? Would there be something more imbibable than average British bitters? Would these gentlemen make it back to the rest home before curfew? Read on, dear toper.
To be honest, the day didn't get off to a great start. The new rail fares are anything but fair; the 20-minute Derby-Tamworth trip cost me more than the peak time fare to Brum used to only a few weeks ago. But this wasn't for any old festival; this was a Tamworth festival. New breweries. Church End specials. And the finest trio of food shops that I know of; Truckles for cheese, Claridge and Son for pork pies, Wood and Son for fish. Cycling John, Comrade Brian and I stocked up on cheese and porkies - we thought we'd not bother with DIY sushi - and set off in the rain for the Assembly Rooms. 
Steady rain resulted in a wobbly line of wet tickers queuing for fest entry, which didn't bode well for the aroma later on. The eau de odour of certain tickers reaching reheat often puts me in mind of an incontinent Labrador. With Tamworth having a somewhat compact layout, as the rest of the line spawned left into the main room I bolted right to secure one of the few tables in the small but perfectly formed bar/dining area.
Pretty soon, we had a table full of pork pies (from Morris), cheeses (including the sublime Black Bomber from the Snowdonia Cheese Company) and Comrade Brian's home grown toms. The food was so enjoyable, it slowed down the purchase of beer. Amends were made with two rapid halves; Church End's Mocca Chocca Focca (fairly underwheling, some itchy chocolate faded into a thinning malt by the finish) and Beowulf Coffee Hazelnut Porter (needed a few minutes to warm when it revealed a superb creamy nuttiness).
I'm still experimenting with pork pie production and am having jelly problems. The stuff in the first pie was good - you could put a thumbprint into it and watch it spring back. My jelly is not so much runny as theoretical. Gives me the opportunity to stuff my face full of other people's pies; er, I mean conduct in-depth market research. All this pie malarkey was distracting me from the beer. The other chaps had sampled some damn fine looking light beers like Brown Cow IPA, but I decided to stay with the dark side. A Reluctant Scoop for me; though you can't come to this fest and not scoop a new brewery. Outstanding have been up and running for about six months and I'd yet to try anything from these Bury-based brewers. 
I gave their stout a crack and, by gum, it was good. Fairly hoppy, deep malts balancing the flavour out, enough body to carry bold flavours into a satisfying mouthfeel. So good, in fact, that I decided to try their other beers on offer. Their Ginger beer had a fantastically agressive aroma, thinning a little on first taste but developing a slow spice burn as the beer warmed. There was an efficient cask cooling system here, perhaps a little too efficient as some flavours were chilled out on the pour and needed time to come up to temp and fully develop.
As we tucked into a majestic hand-raised pork pie, I went to complete the set of Outstanding beers with their Standing Out. Hazy gold with a thick citric lick, there was plenty of smacking hop oil squeezing out through the keen malts to deliver a real lipsmaker. Clearly the best trio of beers from a brewer new to me since those I had from Hopshackle. With the cheese demolished, pork pies reduced to crumbs and the toms all gone, it was time to shift through the gears and stretch those drinking trousers.
That last Outstanding beer had given me an IPA lust; Comrade Brian had been struggling to find light beers that were to his liking but he was able to point me towards the Woodlands Super IPA which certainly upped the bar with its punchy hop nose and fat wet fruity flavour. I sampled a couple of the chaps' beers as well; Great Heck Golden Fleece had a rather gluey feel with dusty hops and Brampton Aspire had an odd fruit flavour that no-one could put a name to. Back to the dark beers, then, with some heavyweights to round out the day.
Having loved their porter earlier on, I had high hopes for Beowulf's Strong Mild. At 7.4% I didn't expect it to be exactly mild. And so it goes. The faintest petrol spiral on the witch-tit flat, black to brown body. Christmas cake forced through an oil sump for an aroma. Fruits in the flavour not so much developing as rupturing under the concentration of alcohol steeped within. As it warms, a higher register aroma kicks in that Cycling John noted as that of cycle puncture fix solution. This was a massive, MASSIVE mild, it would take Sarah Hughes' Dark Ruby down the alley and paste it senseless. 
As the picture above shows, Dave Unpronounceable had braved the nose-bleedingly giddy trek from Sheffield to serve beer darn sarf and gave his punters a warm Yorkshire welcome. My next beer had to be Bass. I mean Museum Brewery. Sorry, White Shield. Sod it, let's call it what it is - proper Bass beers, brewed by a proper brewer, albeit not for much longer, it seems. But what a choice to make; Bass Number 1 or P2 Imperial Stout? The complex barley wine or the intensely layered darker beer. Only one thing to do - buy both and mix them. Texting Mes to get his patented formula, perfected at Rail Ale earlier this year, a few reverential sips were taken from each glass before creating some kind of monster. I could play a round of beer bullshit bingo and take you through an un-necessarily overlong description of the effect, but John said it all after one long slurp; "My goodness!!". I then inflicted Brewdog Tokyo onto my rapidly-fading tastebuds. I'm convinced I was drinking alcoholic soy sauce. A Japanese chain smoker had expectorated into my glass. Did I love the sticky tar-laden smoke-fest? Do bears practice Catholicism?
With no way of improving on these last beers, it was time to Reluctantly leave the fest. And, er, go to the pub. The Globe was an impressive looking building with lots of 1980s brasswork and crass carpets. And Worthington cask. And something that must have been palatable, as I definitely had half a something from a handpump. But, in my post-Tokyo state, anonymous brown bittery stuff was literally pale by comparison.
So why did we stop in the Albert for a drink as well? I've always had nothing but below-average beer in here, it's never going to have a beer the equal of anything at the festival. But, every year, like a dog returning to vomit, we stop for a drink here. At least it allowed me to a) go for a huge crap, b) eat the chicken sarnie I bought earlier and c) water the plastic hedge with whatever fudge-like bland crap it was that Comrade Brian bought me.
And what's with plastic hedges? Are they wash wipe? I ruddy well hope so, the amount of crap beer that must get poured on them. Is it modular? Do you slot in seasonal varieties - holly for winter, hawthorn to prevent gatecrashers? Or is it part of a gigantic oversized Playmobil set? Is there some eight foot tall freak queuing for the BBQ in the rear beer garden with a crash helmet hairdo, poor fashion sense and no genitals?
Off to the train, then, and some light relief. The upside of the pricey 'peaktime' tickets was that the Cross Country service wasn't stuffed to the gunnels with shrieking PAs and unemployable students. Comrade Brian treated us to a grand precis of left wing political theory (I think) and Cycling John nodded in all the right places. Though I preferred Brian's excellent Tommy Cooper impersonation. At least, I think it was the Coopermeister - I had nodded off five minutes before.
Back into Derby in good time, then, for our Survivors Club pint in the Brunswick. A White Feather is always welcome, even at the end of the beeriest day. Mind you, I was so tired by this point that my photos turned black and white. But it had been a cracking day - top nosh, great range of beer, high quality, excellent Reluctant Scoops and some enjoyable old faves. A couple of dire pubs, mind you, but overall it was a day that reminded me that some CAMRA fests are worth drinking at and are fun to write about after all.
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