Birthday bash #2: Ratebeer Sheffield

Take one resident of the People's Republic of South Yorkshire. Add one toper from over the Pennines, one from over the Peaks and one from the South Coast. Mix them up in several pubs all up and down the Valley of Beer with lashings of ales both local and from far afield. What do you get? The ratebeer.com Winter Crawl around Sheffield. Warning: this story includes images of fat clowns. No, really.


Like a many a day on the sauce, the ratebeer meetup was at a Spoons. The Bankers Draft is a curate's egg in the world of JDW; downstairs it feels like every other crowded meat market bar up and down West Street. But upstairs has an easier vibe, comfy sofas and a better beer selection. At the bar already was my old mucker DJ Monarch, looking enviably thinner since he stepped up the five-a-side football. Yomping through a breakfast was Dave Szwejkowski, AKA Dave Unpronounceable / hellsbrewer / evilempire / Arthur Fox-Hake. I bought myself a half of Hilden Molly's Stout and joined the party.

The Molly's was a half-decent stout, plenty of roast and just enough ash sprinkled into the spicy tobacco notes. So much so that I had to have another one whilst we waited for Phil to turn up. Some people would say that driving from Ramsgate to Sheffield is a shag of a trip just for a few beers. You'd be right, but Phil's the kind of guy who crosses continents to share a brew and chew the fat. He turned up - wearing gloves like a soft footballer - and we headed off to the Harlequin.


Now then, I LOVE this pub. Away from the throng, chock full of tasty beers, trays of rolls on the bar, a cheery welcome and a lovely Alsatian lolling around. Steadily busy with knots of tickers and 'normals', the Harley is one of those pubs where I could sit back with a beer or five and watch the world slide by. And I would, if it wasn't for the fact that there are at least another four pubs in the city where I also do likewise.

We got stuck into some of the ten beers on offer. Sadly, my Thornbridge Ramberg was uncharacteristically insipid. There used to be a herby edge to it that seems to have been lost along the way. More impressive was Brewsters Morgana, lip-smacking fruits and an assured balance. But head, shoulders and wig above all of them was Clown's Pout, my birthday beer brewed by Crown. Starting with their Stannington Stout, Dave had arranged for Crown to pour a bottle of port into the cask, giving the beer a vinous edge. It seemed to go down well amongst the ratebeer clan and soon the tickers too were soon itching around the pump. With someone that handsome on the clip, who can blame them?

Having had previous disagreements with the landlord, Dave declined the trip into the Fat Cat and headed on to secure a table for us at the KIT. The other two piled into the small yet perfectly formed front bar and, by the time I returned from a pee, Phil was in full-flung-beer-tourist mode. Halves of Kelham Island beers were stacked on the bar, bottles of Brooklyn Smoked Porter bought and stashed, small sausages in a tub procured and one of his own bottled beers was being sampled by the management. Literally, one of Phil's beers - he brewed Dark Conspiracy in partnership with South Coast brewing legend Eddie Gadd at the Ramsgate brewery. It's stuffed full of chocolate, dusky fruits rupture after a while and there's a pervasive hop presence that never intrudes.

Being on a chocolate and coffee tip at the moment, I felt drawn to Mordue's Newcastle Coffee Porter. And it fulfils the ticklist on the tongue - roast, coffee, choc, sweet malt, lingering finish - but it all seemed accidental rather than planned. Compliant flavours, not assertive in the way that porter ought to be for me. As it would be rude to visit and not have a Kelham Island beer, I twisted my own arm and gave in with a Pale Rider. Still sublime, still has sticky citrus bits and (I insist) a vaguely minty backwash. And here's a picture of shoes - I know some regular readers have been disappointed by the lack of random foot shots recently, but I've had to work out if any of you are that fecking pervert who likes my pictures of World War 2 re-enactors on Flickr for the wrong reasons - i.e. they're wearing shiny, calf-length boots. Seriously. Some shit you just couldn't make up.

So, from the Cat to the KIT. Dave was anchored at a corner table, demolishing yet another plate of scran. I love being wonderfully Reluctant in here; pint of Pictish Brewers Gold, cheese cob. End of. It's a beer I described as "Silverstone, not Rockingham" during the summer Ratebeer crawl here; it has a soul, a sense of craft, there's surprises tucked away around the corner rather than being laid bare for all to see. Confirmed citric flavours, but there's petals floating in, honey around the edges, veins of vanilla exposed with every other sip. I like. Mucho. The cobs aren't half bad either, Red Leicester today with a silky sheen that provided just enough resistance. Busy busy in here and rightly so. Plenty of diners and a few verticals in the bar, more in the conservatory, even a few hardy smokers out in the garden. There's a good vibe in here, friendly staff and keen drinkers who aren't exclusively beer geeks. Banter was had, beers were shared. Not too sure what we talked about or what else we drank - I was too busy having a good time to take notes. Or indeed to eat often enough. Or to stop drinking pints.

Onward anyway to the Cask & Cutler. I mean the Wellington. Or the Cask & Welly as some of us obstreperous old sods like to call it. It was surprisingly quiet in here until we blustered in, with just a few familiar faces from earlier in the day still hacking their way around the circuit. With a small bar serving two rooms, the (insert preferred name here) offers a dozen-odd mix of beers; rare-ish guests, rebadged regulars and its own Little Ale Cart brews.

Reluctantly, I didn't plump for my usual choice here and eschewed the Old Git for a pint of Baby Git. Both are re-named Millstone beers, True Grit and Tiger Rut respectively, and on reflection I have to say that I'm more of an Old Git. Note: any comments along the lines of "you've always been an old git" will be deleted...

I ought to have tried at least one of the Little Ale Cart beers, but I was soon lost in the bottles that Phil cracked open to share with the bar staff and whoever happened to be around at the time. Midtfyns Imperial Stout hid its alcohol well with smooth mellow coffee flavours. Three Floyds BlackHeart IPA was frustratingly good - plenty of biscuity malt, enough resinous hop, a whiff old old oak. Why frustrating? Because it's brewed with British malt, hops and yeast... I can count the number of British brewers who are this bold with their recipes on the fingers of one hand. Where's the British experimentation? Well, it happened to be in the next bottle. Hopasaurus X is an uber-hopped trial brew by Saints & Sinners, another of Phil's projects. All rather lively, for work-in-progress it had stacks of promise with shouty hops to the fore.

There's a pint on many a crawl that becomes the tipping point, after which memories become hazier than farmhouse scrumpy. Today, that pint was Stannington Stout in the Hillsborough Hotel. I can remember vaguely how I tried to tell the barmaid about how it was the base beer for Clown's Pout. And that all the Crown beers (from the on-site microbrewery) were incredibly cheap (certainly none over two quid a pint). And that the mighty Badgers, Eastwood Town, powered through to the third round of the FA Cup. But I was starting to wane; even the camera didn't make it out of the pocket. One day I'll start off a Sheffield crawl here; I'd like to try a range of Crown beers and rememebr what they taste like. Too often I've ended up here only after a thick wedge of too many beers in too many (excellent) pubs.

Sensible topers beat a retreat at this stage. Tipsy topers with a love of Thornbridge beers head instead to the University Arms. Daft topers with drinking ambitions way in excess of their capacity buy a pint of Saint Petersburg, prick about with a camera and start to feel sleepy. My first time at this pub and it won't be my last - elegantly appointed, plush but not stuffy, glass panels and comfy chairs and lashings of Thornbridge beer.

I'd love to wax lyrical about the place and the beer but I was shot through by this stage, excellent beers all day but too often they were drowned in pints rather than sipped in halves. So, here's another pub to revisit early on a Sheffield day trip; perhaps I ought to try visiting just here and the Hillsborough rather than trying to cram six or seven pubs into one day?

Time to go. One last group photo (with me, far right, seemingly giving the finger to someone other than the photographer) before I slumped onto a tram, poured myself onto a train and slept in first class back to Derby (Cross Country Trains don't seem keen on disturbing reasonably-well-dressed drunks. Thankfully). Another great Sheffield day - next time, fewer pubs and less beer. Yeah, right...