"Would you like a ticket for Meat Raffle?"

Good Friday of the Easter Bank Holiday festival at one of my almost-locals, the Holly Bush Inn in Makeney. I'd been drinking steadily for several hours. Thornbridge's imperial IPA, Halcyon, was being spliced into Thornbridge's black IPA, Wild Raven. A cask and keg shotgun marriage.

"Um... pardon?"

"Would you like a ticket for Meat Raffle?"

Meat Raffle? A resurgent grindcore band playing at the pub later on? Or a play maybe, satirising the recent horse-in-food-chain debacle?

"It's a raffle. For meat".

Now, that makes sense.

I remember meat raffles in pubs but hadn't come across one for years. I thought they had gone the same way as the bloke selling cockles late on a Saturday or the Sally Army lady selling War Cry. Although I suspect that they still do the rounds of pubs somewhere.

Do I want a ticket? Hell yeah! The Holly Bush has its meat supplied by Owen Taylor, a quality local butcher.

"It's two pounds a strip. Write your name and phone number on the back. We'll call you if you win".

That's when my five-pint lack of logic kicks in.

"Don't I need a ticket? 

The reply was surprisingly patient.

"No... because you write your name on the back of this one. We keep the ticket, draw a winner and then call you".

IPA clearly leads me into fuzzy logic.

"So how do I know if I've won?"

She's deadpan.

"We call you. You write your phone number on the ticket. Then we can call you".

It finally makes sense to my IPA brain. I buy a strip of tickets and get back to cod-mixology.

And a week later I get a call to say I've won a pack of sirloin steaks. Which made for a cracking Sunday supper.

Apologies to whoever has a phone number similar to mine and took a call about winning a meat raffle. Apparently I didn't write my number down very clearly. After an afternoon of mixing IPA. Funny, that.

As for the Albert Tatlock Negotiators, they're not really relevant to this post but will have at least some tangential bearing to the next one. I just wanted to give them a mention today because I like their name.

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Too cloudy to go take photos of trees in leaf fall. Too boggered to go see the Astons race round Donington. If in doubt, I hit the emergency-bus button and go for a troll up the Derwent Valley - there has to be a few regular beers and more than a few irregular locals to paint a smile back on my cracked facia.


I'm not feeling in great spirits today. I can't even be bothered to go get a hot breakfast cob from anywhere - and when I say anywhere I'm including Greggs. I was looking forward to a clear but blowy day, something to backlight the falling leaves and let me yomp through the countryside with camera on hip whilst enjoying the light and shadow. Instead, it's murkier than a pinty of poorly pulled shit bitter.

Only one remedy - road trip. Up the Derwent for me, deciding that a day of average beer has to be better than a day of overcastness. So let's take Reluctant Scooping to the max and go for those beers that my local pubs are (sometimes) famed for. First stop is the Holly Bush at Makeney. This is a tourist wet dream and pure Sunday-lunch-tribe fodder, but it has its saving graces. Namely, a cracking pint of Farmers (in this case, Brown Cow), some superbly crumbly pork pies and a snug that has two tables, no children and the feeling that generations of grumpty bastards have supped bitter and spilt bile here. It's magical.

A short drop downhill lands you into the King William IV. Different kettle here; no Sunday lunch = no customers. There is food at times, but today the emphasis is on drinking. I choose the Tim Taylors Landlord, never a beer I'd usually plump for ahead of a guest but TTL at the KW4 has a tale to tell. Well, one told to me by Cycling John on out last visit here. Back in the sixties, he used to cycle out here after work for a round trip of about sixteen miles - just to drink Landlord, as at the time it was the only pub near Derby that served it. I'm glad to report it's still in damn fine fettle, a beer sweeter than my palate may be used to but a cracking bitter nevertheless. A lovely pub, too; eclectic furniture, hops strung round the beamed ceiling and a genuine warm welcome. And as if by magic, Cycling John turned up for a swift half or three as he, er, cycled past. I stayed so we could sample the Oakham Bishop's Farewell as well, rude not to etc. The state of which was simple enough to state; well-conditioned, well hopped, well tasty.

Back onto the back seat of the bus for the quick squirt up to Belper. There are several fun things about Belper; the Nailers, George's Tradition and Liquid Treasures. More about the middle 'un later. The Nailers were playing away and Liquid was shut, but I was able to entertain myself with a trip up the hill to the Cross Keys. A Batemans pub - I know that name makes some people run screaming - redeemed by the simple fact that Colin keeps a pint of XXXB that is phenomenally good. Tyrrels crisps, too. And no music, as everyone on a Sunday lunchtime is too busy drinking to spend money on the jukebox. This is an unfussed pub that has a clear dividing line. Bar billiards in the lounge, pool in the bar. Chalk yer cue and choose yer door. The beers are sparking on either side.

George's Tradition beckoned, for a homemade fishcake that had the strangely attractive taste of fresh snuff and peppered haddock. The bus home took me past the Flowerpot, so it would be rude not to call in and have a pint of.... well, in this case, Marble Lagona IPA (just.... mmwwwwwaaa!) And the day proved that an average Sunday downing average bitters can be anything but average.


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A gentle walk on what seems to be the first vaguely sunny and dry Sunday of this summer.

The walk from Derby to Belper is about eight miles and forms part of the Derwent Valley Heritage Way. It's one of my favourite walks; easy going terrain, plenty of variety (woodland, river meadow, pasture land, urban) and - funnily enough - a few good pubs along the way.


The first pub I pass on the way out of Derby is the Abbey at Darley Abbey.

As it was only 10:30, the pub was closed. As I rarely to the walk in the opposite direction, I don't usually pass when it's open. It's a Sam Smiths pub, so cheap and cheerful. Personally, I think it's underdeveloped and could make itself more appealing to villagers and tourists alike.

The route wends it way onward, along the river (the banks thick with dragonflies), over the railway and into Little Eaton. A couple of pubs here, but it's still too early. The village's prize-winning butcher, Barry Fitch, doesn't open on Sundays so no pork pie to eat en route today.

Over the hill, drop back down to the river at Duffield, ignoring The Bridge pub as it's only a few more miles before the first stop of the day.

The Holly Bush at Makeney is just superb and will probably feature at some point as one of my Pubs to Love. Doofus boy here didn't take a photo, knowing he's got loads of them already... and promptly forgot to upload one. Gah!

Lots of little rooms, flagstone floors, low beams, open fires... you get the picture anyway.

A pint of Bradfield Farmers Blonde and a pork pie made for an ample enough lunch. The Reluctant Scoop Percentage was 20% - a guest beer that I can't remember the name of now - but the weather was such that a decent blonde was required. Coz you can't beat getting your lips round a fruity blonde on the wall in the pub car park, fnarr fnarr...

A short skip, hop and stumble up and over the hill into Belper, where the walk ends right outside the Cross Keys.

A great Batemans pub, where Colin the landlord puts on an array of guest beers. Some months, the guests will all be from one particular brewery, giving you the chance to try a range of beers that you wouldn't otherwise see.

A pint of Batemans Salem Porter was swiftly dispatched, followed by several pints of XXXB whilst watching the European GP.

Then it's a wobble downhill, trying to resist the temptation of fishcake and chips at George's Tradition, to take the bus back to Derby.

A few miles walked, a few good beers imbibed. An excellent ramble! >