"It has been a pleasant Bummel, on the whole," said Harris; "I shall be glad to get back, and yet I am sorry it is over, if you understand me."

"What is a 'Bummel'?" said George. "How would you translate it?"

"A 'Bummel'," I explained, "I should describe as a journey, long or short, without an end; the only thing regulating it being the necessity of getting back within a given time to the point from which one started."

Autumn's closing in, Sunday lunch was sat in a pot waiting to be heated, the Brazilian Grand Prix had the common decency not to start until 5 o'clock, so I had no excuse not to lash on my boots and go out to kick some leaves around for a while. All I had to do was be back before the pot bubbled over. And find a beer to take with me.



I live minutes away from some gorgeous rolling countryside, so I owe it to myself to get out and about when I can. The fact that there's an excellent farm shop and an award winning pub within a 20 minutes walk either side of the house tends to force me out now and again. But today, with the leaves turning, the wind whistling and no need to be back until late afternoon, a bummel seemed a worthy thing to do.



So I wandered over the bottom fields, disturbing knots of rooks picking over clotted brown earth. Through copses shredding turned leaves into a keen breeze. Then over a sandstone ridge where the woodland has been clinging on for time immemorial. And with long-tailed tits scampering over the branches, with squirrels diving for dear life, with the wind literally whistling through my hair, I stood back and enjoyed a beer:



Brewdog Paradox Longrow carries a whiff of smoke, some toasty roasty notes, clean whisky and some dark, dark cherry buried deep into an accomplished malted finish. Nothing but great beer, tweeting birds and rustling trees for fifteen minutes. The rest of the walk was taken with a dirty great smile on my face. I really ought to bummel more often.

Top quote from Jerome K Jerome, 'Three Men On A Bummel'. Photos (c) me >

I was almost ready for another Derbyshire ramble. Except that the weather wasn't great, I was knackered and my boots were still caked in sheep shit from the last yomp. Although I'm off to Leicester soon for my first major CAMRA fest of the year, I fancied the change of scenery so I thought I'd go and roll around a few pubs there.


All of my good city-beery days start with a Spoons breakfast. At 0915 I'm the first food customer in the Babington Arms, Derby, but the baked beans are still lukewarm; seems that Spoons specialise in barley baked beans. Hey ho. With nosh, tea and toast dispatched, I needed a beer to get the blackberry jam pips out of my teeth. I was tempted by the regular 99p pint - no, not Greene King IPA, that seems to have been 'coming soon' for quite some time. Here in the Bab it's quality; Wyre Piddle's Marco King of the Watusi is a reasonably robust bitter that was a favourite of the old soaks here even before the price drop.

Instead I ended up with a Reluctant Scoop. I was up in Lincoln late last year but saw no sign of brews from the city's first microbrewery, Cathedral. Here at the Bab they had Red Imp on offer, so I thought I'd chance a half. A deep brown body with a tight cream collar, it started sweet with an initially indifferent finish. As it started to warm, there was a hint of an odd fruit lurking; strawberry, perhaps? Plenty of inherent creamy bitterness made for a half-decent first beer of the day.

Turning 10am, the Bab was starting to get busier, mainly with old men hacking pleghm whilst ordering cooking lager and being bullish about the Rams' win over the 'red dogs'... so it was time for this Tricky Tree to leave. Derby railway station is in the middle of a rebuild, perished fifties concrete canopies being ripped out and replaced. In today's half-light the utilitarian greyness of the platforms makes the place seem emptier still, as if expecting the passengers and trains to provide all the colour.

At least I get to ride a HST to Leicester. A train that lives; the throb of the engine at rest, springs squeal as it wallows over the points. No fear, dear reader, I'm not turning into a 'rail enthusiast'. It's just that there's something about the roar of a HST compared to the nothingness of Meridians....

Into Leicester on time and a slow walk taken into the centre. Ten minutes along the mainly pedestrianised roads shows off a rich variety of architecture - Baroque blocks now split into offices and shops, the Venician Gothic of the old Leicestershire Banking Company, Victorian Gothic of the clock tower and Queen Anne influences into Silver Street.

Which brought me to The Globe. Quiet in here early doors apart from a couple of regulars. I love the feel of this L-shaped street-corner pub, nooks with odd benches and upholstered chairs, lino and flagstoned flooring, a wide bar for vertical drinkers and a couple of stools for barflys. I secured a broad table next to the bar where the beer choice offered no reluctancy for me; this is an Everards house so a foaming pint of Tiger was called for. I drink it rarely as the only Everards pub I frequent on a regular basis is Derby's Brunswick where they happen to have a beer of five of their own on offer...

This Tiger looked bright indeed in its branded glass complete with the beer's Cyclops profile. Sparking orange with a tight, uniform white head there was a sweet nutty aroma (perhaps just a little Thorntons toffee-ish?) with a first gulp countering with a dry malt and hop itch. In fact, the hoppiness surprises me. Having left the beer alone for five minutes whilst taking some photos, the hops almost leaping out of the glass on my return, an assertive rather than aggressive aroma. I liked the sweet creamy feel too, a great session bitter with balance rather than blandness.

The picture on the wall opposite was intriguing, framed labels of Everards bottled beers (Pale Ale, Nut Brown, Meadowsweet Stout, Amberlite Ale) as well as soft drinks. One of the labels was for 'Kiddiette', no idea what this is/was. If anyone does, please let me know.

Onwards to the Criterion where, for 1245pm, it seemed unearthly quiet. This two-roomed pub, current Leicester CAMRA pub of the year, has always been bustling when I've been there before. To be honest, on recent visits I haven't found the cask offerings that inspiring. I don't know if this is to do with Rugby Brewing taking over, although the award-winning staff remained the same. My temptation was to try a continental bottle from their reasonable range though they didn't seem to have any bottle menus out today. Their newly-imported Belarus beers were advertised on the blackboard (Krinitsa, Syabor, Bobrey) but instead I stuck to a pint of tried and trusted Oakham Oblivion. Certainly a beer in fine form, clean tasting with generous citric hops. I finished off my crossword, licked the last hop juice from my lips and kept moving.

The Swan and Rushes is only five minutes or so down the road - it's great to have a city beer crawl where the pubs are close together. A little busier in here, a bunch of old buggers around the bar, though the beer selection seemed to be suffering from the post-Tigers blues. It looked like the Leicester rugby faithful had hit the ale hard on the day before, leaving just four or five beers on today. Thankfully, one was a welcome scoop for me - let's face it, any new Oakham beer is a welcome scoop for me. The Heckler was worth breaking my rules for, a pint just seemed right. It was standard Oakham fayre but when standard is golden body, perfumed hops and soapy/itchy mouthfeel , then so what?

A few faces from earlier in the day came in, with the bar looking more like a middle-aged men's Sunday luncheon escape committee meeting. Beers were sunk slowly and rumours swapped as Dylan warbled in the background, something from his vaguely in-tune and not-too-sentimental era.

On then to Out Of The Vaults. I mean Vin IV. Which henceforth I'm going to call Out Of The Van. Busiest pub of the day, even though they were hardly hanging from the rafters. There were some quality scooping options here with goodies from the likes of Kelham Island, Belvoir and Elland but I was Reluctant to go without my usual pinta here, Beowulf Dragon Smoke Stout.

With the late afternoon sun slashing off the city council office windows opposite, it was a pleasure to revel in a dark beer as the sun began to fail. Twos and threes of studenty types and tickers came and went; I was happy to sit back, chill out and enjoy the beer. Dragon Smoke has that full on coffee/chocolate vibe in abundance and I gave in totally to its lure - another pint of Brownhill's finest was ordered on the basis that the railway station was only a ten minute stroll up New Walk and the trains were fairly regular. I stuck around long enough to listen to the two blokes next to me deconstruct an intimate relationship in an honest and blameless way. And so I had another pint whilst I was earwigging.


Eventually I had to pack in and drag myself back to Derby. The train was chocked full of students and day trippers returning from Laaaaaandan but I was more than happy to stand by the coach door with an open window and enjoy the fresh dieselly breeze. When you're almost leaning out of the window (don't try that one at home, kids), your lips take on a life of their own as they're buffeted at 100mph.


A final pint of White Feather at the Brunswick rounded out another beery day. It was certainly a change of scenery, though it's worrying to see such great pubs so quiet. I imagine things will be a little busier when I return to the city next week for the CAMRA festival - look forward to live reports and obscene photos!
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The journey starts here. My series of Sunday walks where I'll aim to try beers from all twenty-six Derbyshire brewers starts in the snow with a trip up to Horsley Woodhouse for Leadmill and Bottle Brook beer.



It snowed hard earlier in the week, so I thought I'd stay local and walk as far as a pub with an adjacent bus stop back to Derby. Horsley Woodouse is home to the Old Oak Inn, the brewery tap for nearby Leadmill and its sister plant, Bottle Brook. Around about nine miles as the toper wanders, the walk takes in rolling fields and a few copses as the paths and tracks meander north from my front door in Spondon.

Up to Locko Park first, and as the path rose uphill to Stanley a flock of seagulls flapped off only to reappear when I cleared their patch and entered the wood. Up here, the fields had seen only a few hardy dog walkers in the last few days so I was able to tramp through snow deep enough to crumble over the top of my boots. The muffled crump of my footsteps then sounded more like I was cracking corrugated plastic when I got to field corners, frozen cow pats and puddles making the approach to stiles tricky.

Through the village of Stanley, I followed a brook westwards towards bluer skies before turning northwards for Stanley Common. An inquisitive horse arrived at more than a canter in one field; stoic bulls looked cold and bored in another. Large areas of frozen water had gathered in the corners of pastureland, blue-grey slabs warning of the need to edge next to the hawthorn hedges rather than plunge shin-deep into semi-frozen crap & mud.

After some exhausting tussock-hopping, I made it up to the main road at Stanley Common and the White Post Inn. The L-shaped bar was smoky, the wood fire reluctant to draw. Didn't bother me, though: I was ready for whatever heat it could muster. This was very much a bonus beer stop for me, knowing there was a chance of a local brew. Sadly, they had no Funfair beer on (their beers, by all accounts, make a regular guest appearance here) but a surprisingly decent pint of Burton Bridge Hearty Ale sufficed.

Leaving the diners to their roasts, I hacked my way northwards over icy tracks and fields of almost unbroken snow. Now and again, proto-snowmen appeared in fields, seemingly abandoned like broken neolithic stones en route to a higher place. By now, the sun reflecting off the snow behind me was making the back of my head warm. Still cold hands, though, as I was driven to snowball distant trees and scampering rabbits.

Over the A608 and a few west/north doglegs saw me clumbering over frozen tractor ruts towards a horizon full of Horsley Woodhouse. The last half mile uphill seemed to drag, the snow a little deeper, the mud gloopier, the hill ever just so a little steeper than I know it to be. But I was soon at the road and minutes away from the pub of the day.

The Old Oak Inn will get the full Pubs To Love treatment later on this year - it's been a long time since I last ran that feature. It has that understated character of a proper country pub; no false tackiness bolted to the walls but, instead, the quality you can't buy - people having a good time. The only food here is the selection of cobs & pork pies on the bar so drinkers here are really drinkers; some here for a swift pint whilst dinner is in the oven nearby, others on a leisurely half-gallon post-roast, and always at least one slightly sweaty walker ready for whatever is on offer.

The bar had six or seven Leadmill and Bottle Brook beers on offer. No other guests; when your own beers are of such range and quality, why bother? I took a pint of Leadmill Summer Hop just because of the sheer incongruity considering the weather. It's decent enough, blunted lemon with a creamy hop feel rather than anything aggressively citric. A cheese salad cob and pork pie were dispatched in short order, too.

My choice of Bottle Brook beer was a no-brainer; I enjoyed Louisiana Smoked Porter at the Derby CAMRA Winter Festival a few weeks back and was ready to enjoy a frothing pint of it. Not madly rauchbier and all the better for it - it wasn't as smokey bacon as the guy next to me was making out - plenty of ashen notes with steeped deep fruits.

A great attraction about the Old Oak at the weekend is the conservatory bar. Not that the pub really needs another six beers, but who's complaining? Run by the stalwarts of the excellent local beer freesheet the Rural Real Ale Drinker, the RuRAD bar offers gravity casks from brewers near and far. And here I was, Reluctantly Scooping, eschewing Thornbridge Jaipur for even more Leadmill and Bottle Brook beer. And - my gum -both scoops were excellent. Bottle Brook Red Chinook was crammed full of the aforementioned hop, almost too much of it. Leadmill Made in the USA had pockets of wincing citrics and a keener balance, a dazzling clear lemon looker with sweet drying hops all over the shop. It kept me going right up to when Mrs Reluctant turned up to give me a lift home (ah, the joys of rambles close to home).

So, nine miles into the quest and two brewers ticked off the list. If the weather stays fairer next weekend, I may push out further afield. As long as those fields aren't too full of melting cowcrap.
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There are twenty-six breweries operating in Derbyshire. Just over thirty years ago, there was only one. I'm going to celebrate the microbrewery explosion in the county with a season of Sunday rambles, each one ending up at a pub renowned for serving local beers.


Along the way, I'm hoping to meet up with brewers and topers and get a feel for why microbrewing in Derbyshire has become so successful. It'll take me on walks over nearby fields as well as to parts of the county that I've never visited before.

And it won't be all walk, walk, walk; I'll be shifting malt sacks and pulling pints along the way. I want to appreciate the full flavour of Derbyshire brewing, from producer to consumer. With some great scenery and a few pints, of course.

First walk will be on Sunday 7th February; where I end up depends on the weather. Always have a Plan B, my Dad taught me.... for me, Plan B tends to be a pub near a bus stop. Here's hoping for clear weather and clearer beer tomottow!
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I used to go out walking in the country every other Sunday, but the last few months have seen me shlepping between urban pubs instead. Time to knock the cow crap off my boots and revisit a favourite ramble of mine that just happens to have a couple of pubs along the way.






The circular walk between Spondon, Locko Park, Dale Abbey and Ockbrook is a 6.5 mile ramble that combines farmland footpaths and estate tracks through fields, forest and lakeside. When I lived in an apartment at Locko I put together this website that features directions; the local council also produce a leaflet (pdf) for the same route. From where I now live in Spondon, I took the footpath that drops down across sodden fields before reaching the driveway to Locko Park. This is a popular rambling spot, the byway through the private estate often bustling with walkers, horse riders and small children keen on poisoning the lake’s wildfowl with white bread. Beyond the East Gate, the track to Columbine Farm cuts through molehill-studded slopes which, in summer, will have rabbits scattering over as you approach.

Up into Ockbrook Woods, it was only a short diversion to the nearest pub in Dale Abbey. The Carpenters Arms keeps a half-decent drop of Adnams Broadside, even if it can be a tad cold at times. And that’s what I would have plumped for if it wasn’t for the surprise and delight lurking on the far pump. Blue Monkey Amber Ale, from the new-ish Ilkeston-based microbrewer, was a beer I tried on its debut at the Nottingham CAMRA festival last year. I found it light and refreshing but perhaps a little underwhelming. Today though it really hit the spot – perhaps being a little cooler helps, fairly crisp with clean fruit flavours. And unlike Broadside, it was light enough for me to have happily had another. Except a hoard of day-glo ramblers had just begun to de-boot, so I decided it was time to press on.

Back into the woods, the path climbed sharply before following contours as the Trent Valley opens out to the south. It’s a vista bookended by power stations with freshly ploughed fields falling away before you, down to ribbons of industry by the river as the misty hills of Leicestershire then rise beyond. Eventually turning through the hedgerows and into the wind, the path ran down toward Ockbrook over rough pasture and fallow land. Inquisitive horses cantered up to meet me, perhaps with forlorn hopes of a sugar lump or three.

Meeting the road that rises sharply up into the village, I thought I’d chance my arm at the Royal Oak. No-one was outside, not even hardy walkers, but the crammed car park indicated a swathe of diners inside. I dumped the boots and hoped to find a mildly exciting beer on the bar, perhaps one of their ‘regular guests’ like Whim Hartington IPA. I’d have even settled for this month’s Burton Bridge Gold Medal beer. So the sight of Cottage made my heart sink a little – I’m really not keen on much of their over-malty output, especially when I’ve been out walking. But on the far side of the bar, shining like Sirius in the murky beer firmament, there was Thornbridge Kipling.

I was happy to sit outside and watch the high clouds be blown homeward; no newspaper, no conversation, just me and my thoughts and perhaps the finest cask beer in England. Kipling is so distinctive with its hop profile and juicy grapefruit notes that even the few other Nelson Sauvin-based brews I’ve tried seem plain by comparison. A veritable fruit salad of flavours with a drying finish makes this my Martini beer – anytime, any place, anywhere.

Several pints and a creamy Stilton cob later, I found myself having to roll down my sleeves – a sure-fire sign that it’s getting a tad nippy and it was time to roll onward. It was only a twenty-minute muddy trudge back to Spondon, the sun starting to sag in a sky low-slung with now-brooding cloud. With just enough ache in the calfs and a couple of surprising beers enjoyed, I’d got my love of country rambling back. Perhaps I’ll manage a few more miles next time… as long as there’s a few more pubs too.



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Dogs return to vomit. Christmas makes madmen of the out-of-season sane. So whilst the rabid herd trudge the soiled High Streets, I'm off to my old drinking grounds for dodgy jokes, annoying whistling, the vague smell of shit and an unexpectedly tasty pint.



Days like these start in a Wetherspoons. For the unfortunate Magners drinker, they probably end here, too, in a pool of vomit / ocean of bitter recrimination / puddle of squandered remission. At least the Babington Arms caters for the breakfast-loving toper as well as the wannabe ASBO enthusiast. Occasionally, I'll have a pre-10am pint to wash down the microwave-up and toast, but today's Leatherbritches and Falstaff fayre doesn't tickle my palate. Here be the lager boys who didn't get to bed last night. At least, not their own, as they're busy texting apologies to their Mums when they think their mates aren't looking. Here too are the nth iteration of today's trackie-clad slackers, rosy nosed tweed-ish drunkards who insist the world was a better place when they could beat the wife and contract emphysema indoors. Both groups hate the fecker who raised taxes and denied them their uncivil liberties. It's just one lot doesn't know who this Thatcher character is. The yoof of today eh?

With a startling outbreak of middle-class affectation, I leave the pub to go get a large strong cappuchino, read the Observer review section and then fail to find any suitably freshly-baked baguettes. Honestly, Jez, what *is* this world coming to? Shortcutting to the pub involves getting through Westfield, the could-be-anywhere-in-the-capitalist-world shopping centre. It's hitting full-on centrifugal mode, aisles a blur of misplaced consumerism, jaded shoppers plastered against walls when their cards have been ripped clean of credit. Unwilling to purchase, I am swallowed up into the place and irritate my way clean through, shat out via the smokers' alley at the back.

Ten minutes of a chill wind and I'm at the Brunswick. The attraction of this pub on a Sunday is threefold; no diners, barbed banter and a decent dark pint. Landlord Graham will be off-duty and moaning about the football results, regular Lou will be moaning about losing bets to Graham, other barflys will moan about anything the Daily Mail has been moaning about. And then, like a butterfly braving a stormy afternoon, someone will air a few words that brighten the bar and replace bile with delight. Today, Lou asked Ralph (the cook) how he made the parsnip soup. "Well," said Ralph, "I take a parsnip. And some water. And blend them. And that's parsnip soup". And no-one was too sure what was funnier - Lou's question or Ralph's studious answer. But laughs like drains were exhibited all round. I nearly decorated the table with an as unyet-digested mouthful of Brunswick Black Sabbath. So I guess pub humour is where you find it.

No coal fire at the Brunnie - "times 'r 'ard" says Graham - so I shuffle fifteen paces into the Alex for warmth and beer. Alan was dragging his fire into life with wet wood; reluctant flames still spark, though. No other customers to enjoy it, mind; half an hour of my failings to crack the Azed crossword are accompanied only by a pint of Dark Star Winter Solstice and Alan's off-key whistling as every twelfth dart misses the board and rattles the floorboards. The pint is one of the finest seasonal brews I've had this year, packed with gingery bits and surprisingly aggressive hops. Indeed, it's the kind of beer that tests keenly my Reluctancy on a cool afternoon; upriver I must go, though.

It's a turbid Derwent today, heavy rains lend the water a stewed-tea feel. Sadly, that has an obvious implication for riverside pub The Smithfield - storm drains rise and the whiff through the bar needs something hoppier than Durham White Something to neutralise it. It has a fair crack at it, though, as I'm not gagging my way through reading the Morning Advertiser and The Publican. Quiet here, too; landlord Roger says would be happy to see more pubs close as he'd get more customers. Not sure that they'd leg it over the river, though, even for his excellent beer. Trade tales are exchanged across the bar between licensee, brewer and consumer, all three feeling that they're taking it up the keester from the taxman. It's times like these you wish for a recently-redundant tax inspector to walk into the bar, but you can't have it all.

Another five minutes upriver to the Royal Standard and dreams of dark beer. Amazingly, I didn't have to take pot luck on their recalcitrant guests as Trev Harris had deigned to brew a black 'un. Christmas Porter was velvet enough with some rich fruit notes lurking in the edges. Last described by a Brunswick regular as a cross between "a wine bar and I don't know what", the Standard is a bar masquerading as a pub with the un-nerving habit of serving decent real ale whilst alienating a number of real ale drinkers. More room for me, then; I'll still dispute Harris's pricing policy (charging over two quid a pint for his own weakest beer) but the place is affable enough. The atmosphere isn't painted on the walls - indeed, it's whatever you bring along with you; old friends, extended family, bitter partner, sweetheart, well-thumbed broadsheet.

My bus leaves from round the corner and I'm surprised to have spent three hours on this slow crawl. Then again, this has been a dog-eared slipper of an afternoon, knowingly comfortable with a stubborn sole. >

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.


>

This was a poignant ramble - a trip to Burton to include a visit to the Bass Museum before it was closed down at the end of June 2008.

The history of Burton-upon-Trent is the history of English brewing. Sine the late 1800's, when brewers cottoned onto the fact that the local water was particularly condusive to brewing, Burton has been riven with the industry. The canals and railways provided the arterial supply routes needed to move Burton beers out across the world. Although the town is no longer crammed with thirty-plus brewers as in its heyday, the behemoth brick warehouses of old still vie with steel clad silos full of largering torpor across the Burton skyline.



And it's the recent actions of the Charybdis-like MolsonCoors that brought me to Burton on a wet Saturday in June. They decided to close the Bass Museum - let's call it what it is, it's never really been a 'Coors Visitor Centre' - and I'm not going to pop another ulcer by banging on about that here.

I popped down to Burton early; it's only a thirty minute bus trip straight down the A38 from Derby. A wander around the town led inevitably to a quick half in the nearest 'Spoons, the Lord Burton. It felt dirty to be drinking a Burton Bridge beer in here (Festival Special) but it was well served, well tasty and well cheap.

With the skies turning the wrong shade of grey, I decided to head off to the museum for another beer and wait for Steve and his wife Chrissie who were driving up from Kent.

My first impressions of 'The Brewery Tap' were - who the fuck built a hotel bar on the side of a museum!? The last time I was here, on a cold winter afternoon cradling a nip of Bass Number One, it was a bar crammed full of Bass nick-nacks and a homely feel. Now, it's all clinical chrome and white walls. And the Brewery Tap logo everywhere, even etched into the windows.

It's a bar designed to pander to the corporate hospitality and wedding crowd, those who will neither look nor seek no further than the Coors Light spout. Mind you, the White Shield I tried was still good, the taste holding its own even from within an overly showy chalice glass.























My second impression? What's to stop me waltzing into the museum, unpaid? Well, nothing... has that been the case for some time or just since closure was on the cards? If the former, is there any wonder they were losing revenue? If the latter, then how else is that lack of care going to manifest itself today?

Steve and Chrissie were still en route so I braved the rain for the short dash down the road to the Burton Bridge tap, the Burton Bridge Inn (henceforth the BBI).

This is an intriguing pub; no front door, it's down the alley at the right hand side, and once it you're treated to split level rooms served by a central bar. Narrow pews and loose cushions define the decor in the front bar, with solid tables and chairs to be found in a stouter dining area to the rear. I enjoyed a pint of Burton Porter (and an even more enjoyable corned beef and beetroot sarnie).























Having received a call to say my friends had arrived at museum, I sauntered down there and suggested that we head straight back to the pub - many still close at 2.30pm on a Saturday and the BBI is no exception. They were more than happy at the suggestion and were soon tucking into a range of BB beers - and egg butties, which Chrissie ordered in her most sumptuous accent and made it sound like the sexiest lunch in the world ever.

With lunchtime imbibation complete, it was back off to the musuem. Steve and Chrissie had money-off vouchers; I got in free as a card-carrying CAMRA member... thinks to self: why let in for free those customers who (one assumes) would glady pay to see a brewery museum?

The first section does a passable job at explaining the brewing process in general. Some rather faded figures were propped up over hops or shovelling in the tun. A couple of the exhibits had an audio commentary but I didn't see any of the portable audio guides that used to be on offer (though, truth be told, only about half of the commentary ever seemed to work on them anyway). Various machines could be cranked up (for a few seconds). The mash tun in which the fabled Kings Ale began its life was here as well - albeit only about half of it.

Lots of information boards abound, most of which were genuinely interesting, but it all looked rather outdated. Towards the end of this section, it started to feel less like a coherent exhibition telling a story and more like a random selection of artefacts.

I mooched off to see the shire horses. Here was this museum's nugget of pride; polished brasses and competition rosettes displayed proudly. They horses were still hard at work - one had just returned to the stables to be readied for a wedding party - so hopefully they'll be resettled and continue to work for a living. And, with any luck, that resettlement will allow for re-naming them - I know they're brewery horses but how the hell you could seriously call them Reef, Carling and White Shield is beyond me...

Also outside were a motley collection of buses and delivery vans; let's not ponder too long on the merits of overpainting Bass trucks with the Coors logo. Again, it all felt a little random, no great effort made to explain what the vehicles were or to place them in context. I was getting to the stage, quite frankly, where I found every exhibit a little depressing. All that wasted opportunity - how about the heritage buses being used to take visitors on tours of the town, pointing out notable sites, giving the visitor a feel for what was the grand scale of brewing in Burton?

The next building was a bit of a hotch-potch, too. Remnants of Burton's other lost museum were crammed in for no apparent reason. Again, there were a few working machines (I'm a sucker for firing up well-lubricated pistons). Amongst the random Bass breweriana and rather pallid dioramas, there were a couple of interesting exhibits. The 'pubs through the ages' was good, giving the visitor a feel for how they have always functioned as a social hub as well as being drinking dens. Liked the idea of different pub games in each one. And Steve seemed to be right at home...

Again, though, exhibits such as this made me think how the concept had never really been exploited fully. Why have stuffed dummies behind the bar when you could have had an actor to - er- interact with the visitors? I know it all costs - but what if they'd had guided tours, part of which involved interaction with character actors, charged at a slight premium over the normal entry fee?

The other exhibit which had always attracted me was the model of Burton in 1921 with an N-gauge railway. This gave a real feel for that industrial scale of brewing that I mentioned earlier - to see the town riven with railways, the brewhouses and warehouses crammed together. Again, it's another squandered opportinity as not all the locos seemed to be working (as was ever the case from my previuous trips here). I'd have loved to see the 1921 map projected onto a wall; in fact I would have liked to have seen maps from throughout the town's history projected and overlaid to give visitors an idea of how the brewing industry affected the geography of the town through the ages. But that's the old cartography student in me...

Don't get me wrong. There were still some good exhibits here and a 'beer novice' could visit and at least learn about the rudiments of brewing, the story of beer in Burton and the impact of Bass upon the brewing world. But in many ways it's a museum that's been past its best for some time. It's a curate's egg of a place (pun fully intended); not really a brewing museum, instead a museum to celebrate (commemorate?) a once-proud brewing brand that Coors don't own and don't brew. With the owners several steps removed from true pride and association with Bass, was it any wonder that the museum floundered?

After all that, we needed a beer. It was only a few minutes down the road to the Coopers Tavern - perhaps one of the most interesting pubs I know. No bar, no pumps, beer is served straight from the barrels on a stillage in the corner of the back room. We enjoyed a few good beers here, it's a place where I could happliy spend an afternoon with half-a-dozen ales and a decent crossword. And a carry-out for when I enjoy a curry a few doors down at Balti Towers. We enjoyed some superb beers in a pub where the atmosphere wasn't painted on the walls...

It was my idea to visit the Old Cottage next - after all, they brew their own beer and have been know to serve interesting guest ales. Sadly, I'd left my navigational skills in the pocket of my other coat, and so we circled the Town Hall several times before I found the right road. I wished we'd stayed at the Coopers, though - the whole pub smelt vaguely of loo cleaner and the Old Cottage beers were a tad on the bland side.

There can be no doubt that this country deserves a National Museum of Brewing and it ought to be in Burton - it has the history and it has good transport links to the rest of the country. Incorporation of the Bass collection into a new museum is paramount, but to survive it would need a wider remit. It shouldn't be a repository of redundant brewery ephemera, it needs to tell the story of brewing and tell it well. An on-site brewer with brewery tours is a must - there's surely no better way to appreciate the process than to see it, smell it, feel it, hear it in action.























Living up the road in Derby, I'm all too aware of the Bass legacy. Michael Thomas Bass, grandson of the brewery's founder, was a generous benefactor to our city, including the provision of the 'Free Library'in the Wardwick (still used as a library today) and a recreation ground (one of the rare patches of green left in the city centre). It's about time we honoured that legacy and campaigned for the Bass collection to be a significant contributor to a national museum - one that doesn't just look back into gilded mirrors and reflect on the industry's history but actively involve us all in the joys of brewing. >