I've been on the lookout this year for fests I've not frequented before and this one looked interesting - a beer festival inside a working engine shed. The Barrow Hill roundhouse is home to a collection of restored steam and diesel locos and runs an annual beer festival with train trips included. Sounded like a fest of fun indeed!



First stop, The Babington Arms in Derby. Yes, I know I was about to spend the thicker edge of the day drinking high gravity beers but.... I can never resist a swift half or three in the Babby if I'm passing. And glad I did pop in too - the Great Newsome Holderness Mild and Great Oakley Welland Valley Mild were superb.

Catching an earlier train up to Chesterfield than I planned, I was able to take in the sights. Firstly, there's the famed 'crooked spire' of St Marys church:























Secondly, there's.. er... the Portland Hotel:
Well, all that sightseeing made me thirsty. Odd for a Spoons, perhaps, in that
1) it was an interesting building
2) the tables seemed to be clear of dirty pots
3) there was an separate 'unofficial' coffee and tea queue so beer drinkers didn't have to wait half an hour behind the blue-rinse-and-cappuchino crowd
4) it served dream beer. I really fancied a pint of Jaipur - and that's what they had on.

Eventually dragging myself back down to the railway station, I caught the heritage bus up to Barrow Hill. As I somehow got onto the staff bus, I ended up with a half-hour wait outside and opening time couldn't come soon enough.

As the gates creaked open, I stamped my circulation backinto action and hotfooted it into the shed. I had my eye on a special Thornbridge beer, a mix of Jaipur and St Petersburg Imperial Stout. Ignoring the steaming wonders around me, I sidled down the alphabetical stillage to 'T'... and what a disaster! All the Thornbridge beers had gone! Always willing to chance my arm, I asked if there was anything left at all and was rewarded with a mere mouthful of the mix, not really enough to gauge the measure of the beer. Ho hum. So, I sought solace in Destitution, a typical hoppy Leadmill beer, and went for a look around.

Standing back and looking at the stillage, there was the stunning looking LNER A2 Class 60532 Blue Peter. And steaming away on the turntable was the Great Central Railway 'Butler Henderson'.
This was great; steam and oil, diesel fumes, hissing pistons and quality beers.

I soon met up with some fellow Ratebeer members, Mes and Ang, who seemed impressed that the idea of a festival in a loco shed worked so well in practice.

Whilst they stocked up on chips (the breakfast of champions) I cashed in my CAMRA members voucher for a free half pint. And what better way to use that voucher than on a half of Bass No 1.

The stuff that legends are made of, Number One is such a sublime brew that it'll be sad if Steve Wellington at the 'White Shield' brewery doesn't get to brew it so often, what with all the changes going on at Coors.

We pitched up in a marquee tacked onto the side of the main shed and worked our way through a number of decent - and high strength - beers. I enjoyed a few that I've tried before (hey, that's why I'm a Reluctant Scooper) of which Bottle Brook Imperial Russian Stout and Kelham Island Brooklyn Smoked Porter were both as stunning as I remembered them to be.

























Mes and Ang were availing themselves of some quality Midlands beers (as all of you who live south of Watford ought to do more often). And then, What Mes Did Next was either inspired, sacriligious or the product of a genius mind addled by strong drink: The Bass No1 - P2 Stout mix.

Either way, he'd get flayed and covered in salt if he tried it in Burton and probably won't make it onto brewer Steve Wellington's Christmas Card list. Or would he? Because this actually works - the smoothness of the P2 carries the heat and alcohol of the Number 1. It's a fiery hand in a velvet glove, designed to reach down your throat and not stop til it hits your cockles. In fact, it ought to be a regular brew, Bass Gestalt: flavours emerging as a whole, reification kicking in to bestow nuances that were never intended but seem all too real, the multistability of a palate rocking unstably between P2 and No 1 before the invariance as the genius of the drink becomes recognisable even as perspective deforms and your brains leak over your shoes.

(note to self: you should have drunk less before your psychology lectures all those years ago; that last paragraph reads like the impaired ramblings of an undergrad ripped to the nips on snakebite)

I needed more pure Bass Number 1 to recover. And indeedy I did.

By this time, or possibly earlier, or possibly later as my temporal perception was waning rapidly, we had a table full of merry sorts - Sim had exhausted the shops of Chesterfield (which probably left several hours to go for a coffee) and turned up with her Mum, Sue, soon followed by Mes's brother Nick and his soon to be wife Kylie.

Beers were imbibed, ciders enjoyed (I'm sure someone had the Olivers Pyder which has to be the strangest thing I've ever tried from that renowned producer) and foreign bottles secured for the journey home. To be honest, a day of drinking beers at ever increasing strengths had left me feeling delicate around the edges so I did what I had to do - had a pi55 that seemed to take ten minutes, got some chips down my neck, bought the strongest beer I could find and went for a train ride.

Up and down the Springwell branch isn't exactly the greatest rail journey in the world, but you can't beat sitting back in a well-sprung seat in a compartment of a proper coach, decent beer in hand as steam wafts through the window. And that beer was The Doctor, the pinnacle of Falstaff's Dr Who series of bevvies that I've seen sloshing around Derby and local beer fests for the last few months.

Following on from this, I know that the following things happened:
1) I took photos of random strangers and, for reasons unknown, pictures of my feet.
2) Mes and Sim et al beat the retreat to all points north and south. I wasn't sick on any of them and I didn't molest the womenfolk. And I didn't give Mes a shoulder massage this time.
3) I drank even more Bass Number 1.
4) I caught the bus back to the railway station and caught a train. Miraculously, I got off at Derby. I have no recollection of either the bus or the train journey.
5) My ever-loving and patient wife let me gabble incessently at her for several hours that night about beer and trains.
6) I didn't feel hung over the next day. Which could be testament to the quality of the ale, or the fact that I just didn't get out of bed.

A fest of fun? Damn right! Top beers, decent grub and an atmosphere that wasn't painted on the walls...

If you get the chance to go to this, do so - there's no beer fest quite like it that I know of. >

Now, I wouldn't usually bother with the likes of a CAMRA festival in Coventry. But this trip had several factors in its favour; a direct train service from Derby, an interesting venue (Coventry rugby club) and the chance to meet up with some of the England Ratebeer.com crew.



It was a gorgeous blue sky morning, so with an early arrival into Cov I set up off to the cathedral for a spot of photography and a trip up the old tower. All 180 steps to the top where you're rewarded with a sobering view of the bombed out shell of the old cathedral. And a view of the multi-story IKEA, where (apparently) devout flatpackers flock on a Sunday morning...

With my heart beating its way out of my chest, I decided a beer stop was in order. Fortunately, there was a Spoons/Lloyds close by, the Earl of Mercia. As well as intermittent free wifi, I got the 'other' foreign-brewer-brewing-in-the-UK-Spoons-fest beer, Tokyo Yoho black. Which wasn't that great - if I hadn't seen it come out of the cask, I'd have questioned whether they'd given me extra cold Guinness.

So, after a tramp around Cov's exquisite ring road (having asked a policeman the way) I found the rugby club. And a fine place it looked, too. Sadly, there was no drinking in the stands which I thought might have been the case.

It was a busy place, a cram of tables in one room and a stillage in a room further along. Getting warm , too - more about that later. Ratebeer stalwart Glen from Oxford was already there and had secured a table. Mark and friends had made the trip up from Northamptonshire and were there too, busy tucking in to some decent ales.

And those ales - some -though not a lot of - fun local beers (Discovery Darwin's Delight was probably the best), good beers from further flung parts (Dark Star Over The Moon) and the occasional standout (Fullers London Porter, Leyden Raglan Sleeve). The beer of the fest for me, though, was Alehouse Sauvin So Good; good to see the Nelson Sauvin hop being used more (as it is to stunning effect in Thornbridge Kipling).

Whilst at the bar, I spotted a familiar face; Mes and Sim without the Sim. He'd blagged a trip in the Phil L beer taxi. Always good to share a few beers and more than a few laughs with him, particularly as he never fails to remind me how good my ratebeer review of Full Mash Drizzlecombe Porter is ;-)

As for Phil L; first time I'd met the man and what fun it was - a genuine, knowledgable, affable guy who knows his onions but doesn't ram them down your throat. If you see what I mean. And, what's more, he brought a couple of bottles to share round the table; Dragonmead Final Absolution (a US Belgian-tripel style) and my first Finnish beer, the incredibly moreish Mikkeller Santas Little Helper.

So, a fest of fun? Just. The venue was OK; a little cramped perhaps and certainly on the warm side. Just before kick-out time (4pm) the beers were getting decidedly warm. The loos worked most of the time. Access was on the level but it was a bit of a struggle for some wheelchair users as everywhere in the place had drinkers dripping off the walls. I didn't try the food (as I did take a Walter Smith pork pie) but the trays of chips seemed to be going down well. And it was a bit of a hike in the wrong direction from the rest of the city.

Let's be clear - it needs a bigger venue (or perhaps a marquee on the pitch after the season's finished). But the beer list was interesting and the ratebeer company was as fun as ever.

Will I be back? Get some coolers on the casks, let us sit in the stands, get Phil L to smuggle some more foreign beers in and I'll seriously think about it.

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So, I say... Oxford. And you think of.... dreaming spires, Inspector Morse, Tolkien, ruddy tourists and the blue hue cast by the gown around town. But did you think of beer?

Probably not (and this is a beer blog! Sheesh! You just can't get the readers nowadays).



To be honest, it wasn't my first choice for a Midlands pub crawl. Truth be told, it wasn't even in my top tweleve choices of rambles on the beer. But it was the chosen venue for the second Midlands ratebeer.com crawl and with over a dozen members set to meet up there, it was too good to miss out on.

Now, I've travelled cattle class on this Cross Country line before and had no intention if doing so again. So, it was hoi polloi class for me and a dozen or so maiden aunts and far-too-well-off football fans. Shame, then, that to claim the complimentary beverages you had to claw your way to the other end of the train across sprawling students and feral families. Having marginally avoided kneeing a few toddlers in the head, it's then another let-down to be given not a crusty bacon roll but a 'snack-pack' which had some strange, squidgy stuff in it that smelt a bit like a Belgian beer. I think they call it "fruit"; I tried it once and didn't like it. At least they also gave you a Kit-Kat to dunk in your hot chocolate.

A pleasant journey, then. Having met up with our Glen, our esteemed leader for the day, and some of his mates we set off for the short stroll to the first pub of the day. Arriving there at 1130 gave us half an hours advantage on the rest of the mob who were due around 12.... shame then that the St Aldates Tavern wasn't open. So - Glen put Plan B into action, a walk across the city to the Three Goat Heads. Delightfully art deco on the outside and possibly on the inside to... but as this was shut as well, I'll never know.

Plan C then - hang around outside the Aldates 'til opening time. By now, a few more Ratebeerians had joined the hubble - Hughie, Chris O and Mark (complete with baguette in gob. Though, as he was bringing me Westvleteren, I'll be nice to him just this once.). As we watched what seemed to be every bus in Oxford try to force their way down the street, Gazza's arrival was heralded by scooping acolytes scattering hop flowers before his feet.

Eventually the door latch was slipped, havoc cried and the Aldates invaded. This is a non-nonsense single-room pub, utilitarian furniture, pump clips on the ceiling, rugby shirts on the walls and some juicy looking White Horse beers on the bar. As I tucked into a pint of White Horse Bitter, the rest of the gang began to pile in - Ian "Kippers" Harrison, Merton BF's Fin, Steve and Casey looking unnervingly like father and son. And that veritable rating combo (but a crap hand at Scrabble), Mes & Sim and Ang.

This was a bubbly little place, felt like a community pub beached in the city, with some excellent White Horse beers (their aforementioned Bitter and Giant were in great nick). A surreptitious slurp of Hair of the Dog's Adam, courtesy of Hughie, was greatly appreciated (by far the best- and almost only- dark beer of the day). Just a hint of surly landlord on glass collection, a service level incomparable to the indifference yet to be encountered...

No rest for the beer crawler - the next stop was but a bus-defying dash across the street and down an alley to the Bear. Glen was saying we wouldn't all get in; my stomach alone took up the room normally occupied by four diners. And it was those sausage eaters, with their tables and chairs, that took up precious room that could have been better served by cramming in a dozen vertical drinkers. So, with Old Hooky Bitter bought, we repaired to the 'beer garden' - a stupendously euphemistic term for a line of picnic tables next to the bins. Which didn't stop a steady line of tourists taking photos - though probably not of the bins. Unless they're on ratebin.com. And how *sad* would that be... the Hooky was fine, would have been disappointing not to have any during the day. Every county needs a solid, local-brewed bitter - just that I much preferred the cleaner taste of the White Horse one.

Glen then seemed hell-bent on finding even narrower alleyways to lose us down - I half expected to round a corner and hear "They lured him here to bugger him senseless, Lewis!". But, as Endeavour inevitably found, there was a pub at the end of the alley. And not just *a* pub - the hallowed Turf Tavern.
I forgot to take a photo here, so here's one purloined from t'internet.

A ramble of rooms, a sizable beer garden (one with plants and roofs and everything), a tiny bar and Oxford's representative in the Surliest Put-Upon Barman competition. Though, to be fair, if I was trying to serve fifteen punters in a pub that's bristling with students and tourists, I'd have been reaching for the machete rather than pleading with people to keep his hatch area clear. Little pleader.

Loads of room outside though, highlighting the peccadilloes of prime ministers and presidents during their time at the Turf. The beer was educational as well; I tried another White Horse beer brewed for the pub, Turf Tavern Summer Ale, which was a clean and refreshing drop.

Sitting outside, to be honest, was like drinking in the outdoor section of B&Q, with more decking than Charlie Dimmock can swing her things at. Inside was fairly cool, quaint in a 'Greene King Survivor' way, with some individuality not totally snuffed out by the suits from East Angular. I should have spent more time inside musing around; I may have enjoyed the pub more.

From here, then, on to the White Horse. Sadly, not a brewery tap but an engaging single room pub just down the way from the Bodleian. It reminded me of some old market town boozers that I know, stepping down from the street into a bare-boarded bar with a hub-bub of conversation. Having taken a few minutes to scare off the locals, we commandeered half the pub and drank White Horse Wayland Smithy. Apart from Ang, that is, who had Hoegaarden and Lemsip. Allegedly.

Time for nosebag and Glen had recommended the next pub as a suitable scoffing point. Far From The Madding Crowd was a Ronseal pub - does exactly what it says on the sign. Away from the main drag, busy but not crammed with be-scarfed loons and camera-addled visitors. Swift table-arranging allowed us to set up dining for twelve with King Gazza promoted to the sofa. I swapped Derby tales with Fin, whose Dad is lucky enough to live within staggering distance of the Old Oak in Horsley Woodhouse, the brewery bar for Leadmill and Bottle Brook.

Unlike very other pub today, the 'Madding' has little history, being a new build to fill in the gap between extended modern shops. As such, it was an opportunity to do something different- instead, it's all rather bland and boxy. Even more disappointing was the long wait for sausages that , when they finally decided to put in an appearance, had seemingly been warmed by the light from an energy-saving bulb rather than cooked in an oven. As least the beer range was diverse (although few dark beers today - surprising for the time of year) and with a new Abbeydale beer for me to try (Ephiphany) I was happy to mull over a pint. I just got the feleing that here wasa chance wasted - I wouldn't have wanted a 'ye olde' facsimile (no pint when the city is throbbing with the real thing) but it felt a little like an Ikea showroom. With tuck scoffed, Hughie bade us all farewell at this point - hope I'll catch up with him sometime for a Peak District ramble.

No rest for the scooping crawler, regardless of reluctancy. Two uber-historic pubs to knock off yet, starting with the Eagle and Child. Or Bird & Baby, or Fowl & Foetus. Anywhichway, it's an attractive place, tiny front rooms leading off a long bar, beyond which is a dining area and a fairy-light-encrusted corridor where I and a few others pitched up. The Cains Dragon Heart had just been drunk dry by the ratebeerians who weren't outside taking photos, so I settled for a more than adequate Adnams Broadside (only problem with it being that is I'm used to having a steak and mushroom pie at the same time, pie and Broadside being my staple meal at one of my locals, the Carpenters Arms in Dale Abbey). This was a pub I'd like to spend more time in, have a bite to eat and a chat with the staff. Was it the sort of place where you could imagine Tolkien and Lewis nattering away... "There's been a murder, Lewis.... it's Haldir!". Well, er, no, but it's still an atmospheric place.

Time to head over the road - well, over the unfeasibly wide urban motorway with a car park in the middle - for the pub the Inklings defected to, the Lamb and Flag. And let me get my one piece of negative criticism out of way now; the barman seemed to resent customers with every strand of his DNA, never knowing (or caring) who was next to be served but instead just shouting 'NEXT!!' whilst looking at the drink he was pouring. Never smiled, no manners... no wonder pub staff in this city get a bad rep.

But, what a pub - solid beers from Skinners and Palmers (the latter rebadging Gold providing the pub's house beer, Lamn & Flag Gold). Room to swing a cat if you fancied it, plenty of nooks for tables and chatter, room at the bar for surly service. And to sit there on a stool with a beer and chew the fat about whatever you wish - which I did with Warren Monteiro, playwright, journalist and beer drinker extrodinaire. We shared our views on Oxford's beer scene, I evangelicised about Reluctant Scooping and Warren gave me the lowdown on beers NYC style. And he helped date my Westys! Certainly a pub I'll return to.

Mark then made his way back to deepest darkest Northamptonshire - and I bet he'd written up his blog entry for the day by the time the bus got him home...

That's all the pubs I'd planned on visiting today, but with an hour and half to go I decided to be dragged along to another pub, the Gardeners Arms. This was a wee way away to the north of the city (should have been more attentive of this at the time). On the upside, I noticed a fish 'n chip van on the way and immediately began to dream of a fried supper on the way back to the station.

The Gardeners was a locals pub at the end of a row of houses (natch). A few warm and friendly rooms, Marstons beers and (apparently) a great reputation for vegetarian food. I sampled the Brains St Peters - OK stuff, underwhelming but beery enough. Cue the great 'stout versus porter' debate round the table: I personally don't think there's a spit of difference between them, but a reasoned and loquacious discussion on the style(s). Suddenly mindful of the time, I thought of heading back to the station. How long would that take? Glen thought it would be twenty minutes - Fin was convinced it woud be thirty. I had thirty five minutes but it ended up being a hard paced walk, foresaking fish and chips on the way.

An on-time train and a quiet carriage awaiting made for a blissful journey home. Even if I'd been tempted, the Westys stayed unmolested by virtue of me falling asleep on the approach to Banbury and not stirring again until I entered the nether regions of Staffordshire. Too tired even for a nightcap at the Brunswick on the way home.

All in all, a fun day; some above average beers, especially impressed by the White Horse brews. Some pubs I'd like to revisit and linger longer in (Lamb & Flag, Turf Tavern). And always good to meet up with ratebeer bods who are never backward at coming forward and telling people why stout is porter. Like, duh!

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