Every summer, the European contingent of ratebeer.com meet up for a beery bash one weekend. We're an eclectic bunch; some hardcore Scandinavian raters with laptops, more than a few Brits full of banter and the occasional mad ex-pat Welshman working in Japan. After breakfast beers at Kernel, our itinerary took us up east for lunch in Leyton.

The King William IV is a rambling pile of gables and flower baskets on the High Road. Inside, it's a boozer. In the finest sense of the word. There are Saturday shoppers, wrinkled regulars, pre-match lads. And they are all here to drink beer.

And what beer there is. Brewed on-site - this is the Brodies brewery tap - in such an array of styles as to make tickers and beer geeks cry into their notebooks. Definitive English bitters.  A slew of New World citrics such as Amarilla, Kiwi and Californian. Darker delights like Superior London Porter. There was even a 13.3% tripel. The price? £1.99 a pint, squire. Any pint. Now, that's an enlightened pricing policy.

From the front door onwards, the pub expands as if it's let its belt out a couple of notches and relaxed. A large bar gives way to a larger maroon room at the back, all crammed with etched mirrors and stag's heads and a petrol pump. Like you do. In other places, it would look identikit kitsch; here it works. The St George's flags are a clear declaration - of pride. English pubs are too often backwards at coming forwards and celebrating their heritage. The King William IV has no such reservations.

Out the back, there's a few toper traps and the brewery. I sat out there with a few others in the occasional rain, supping Californian and watching a spitroast lamb wind its way to greatness. Later, with pints drained, the lamb singed slowly until its leg dislocated and swung around like a macabre charred clock hand.

Before I knew it, it was time to go. A bottle of Brodies' bought - you don't need to ask the price. Our bus was waiting- personal service as we'd hired a 1959 Routemaster for the day. When we roll, we roll in retro-style.

Everyone was thoroughly refreshed. Up on the top deck, the Scandinavian contingent started singing something melancholy. Which would never do. Us Brits had to respond.

So that's how I came to be sitting on the back seat of a red double-decker, in a traffic jam, drinking Brodies Seven Hop from the bottle, singing "The Wheels On The Bus".

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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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