Breweriana. It sounds like such a magical place. You know; take a wrong turning back from the toilets, open a suspiciously-wardrobe-like door and you're there. A lion sings and fonts spring forth and spout the best beers in the world....

Oh. Wait. I see what I've done there. That's not what breweriana is.

In essence, it's anything with a brewery or beer brand name on it. And when I say anything, I mean anything. Pumpclips, labels, adverts, windows... breweriana encompasses a broad beery church. As I've mentioned before, collecting doesn't really float my boat but last weekend saw curiosity get the better of me. CAMRA were holding their annual breweriana auction just down the road from me in Burton, so I thought I'd tag along and see if I could snaffle a bargain.

Perhaps a long-lost crate of King's Ale? One of those salmon-pink porcelain mugs so beloved of Orwell, going for a song? A quick shufti at the list of lots revealed lesser splendours for my tastes, but I still thought it was worth a crack.

Burton's Town Hall was fairly quiet and it seemed clear that many in attendance were usual faces at these kind of events. Local MP and chair of the All-Party Parliamentary Beer Group, Andrew Griffiths, gave a rousing introduction about how vital brewing was to this country; sadly I didn't get the chance to talk High Strength Beer Duty with him. Another time, maybe.

There were a few early lots that I had an eye for. Sadly, the price of a few books and a rather bizarre Gibbs Mew 'Blue Keg' plastic advert sign soon spiralled beyond my limited budget. It's tempting to get auction-fever and pay over-your-own-odds for something; likewise, to bid and buy anything for the sake of it. But I wasn't being saddled carrying a Tetley's Mild pub window home on the train with me. Close call, though...

A disappointing day? Far from it. I'd arranged with auctioneer Mike Peterson to collect some commemorative bottles I'd bought from his collection. They'll find their way into the Christmas stockings of friends, although I'm keeping the Home Brewery D.H. Lawrence Centenary Ale - you take the toper out of Eastwood, but you'll never take Eastwood out of this toper.

And, in a great twist of fate, I actually bought something from one of the stands which I'd have happily bid for. A ten-sided handled glass, bang-on my budget. This one being stamped 301 for the West Riding of Yorkshire. Which is why I'm drinking Timothy Taylor Landlord out of it tonight and really rather enjoying it.

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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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