Sheffield crawls and pints

Hello,

   I haven't posted for a while but wanted to tell you about some drinks I have had on two local crawls in Sheffield. I may even confirm some of the excellent bottles I have had, but that will come at a later date.

The first Ambale was on Tuesday last. I started at Itchy Pig and had a half of Abbeydale Encantada, described as a Neolithic Gruit Fruit ale, and an Emmanuales Ryejoice, both on keg. The Ryejoice doesn't work as well as it does on cask alas but was a refreshing starter, the Encantada was a very interesting sweet and sour fruity mash that was refreshing and surprising in equal measure.

I stopped off at the Doctors Orders, better known (surely?) as the West End, next. I had a pint of the Little Critters C Bomb Citra at 6.5% and £3.70 a pint which is probably not a bad price for its strength. I somehow managed to squeeze between tables to get a seat and, one assumes, my hex boot frighetened off the assembled customers who went outside to eat. Nothing to do with warm sunshine!

My next stop for the first time in a considerable while was at Interval Bar. They had about 6 cask beers on at £2.90 a pint and I had two halves,  one of which was equinox pale, or similar, and a red IPA from Three Castles brewery. All were well kept and I enjoyed them sat in sunshine outside, listening in with some amusement at the oft melodramatic musings of the students sat nearby.

I skipped the Uni Arms and Bath and went next to the Harley next. They had four casks of Saltaire on and I had a half of the Onyx black IPA sat in a comfy sofa in the front. Its not a pub I go in often at all, although te food looks good.

My next stop was Harrisons 1854 where I bumped into the owners Bob and Linda and chatted to them for some time. I had a half of Bradfield Yorkshire Ale on cask which is, I understand, their rebrannding of Yorkshire bitter. Its strange to see this since other than some brewers calling their mild's dark most northern brewers would assumedly be happy to produce a bitter?

The next stop nearby was the Cavendish. A range of kegs and cask was available but nothing really tempted me so in the end, before the slew of Ingurrlearnt fans arrived, I had a quick and very enjoyable can of Elvis Juice.

The penultimate stop was the Grapes where we got sat outside in the beer garden. I met Tash and Matt in here as well as Trev and Bill and had "a number" of further pints of Abbeydale Moonshine, as always kept impeccably. The time flew by and we were there for some time before I went for a last one in the Tap and Tankard. Truth be told, I don't recall what I had to drink in here. Sorry Dylan.

The other crawl was a post overtime loosener last Sunday. I started in Shakespeares and had a half of the Time and Tide All in Jim Sorachi Ace APA on keg, as well as a pint of the hoppy North Riding and Totally Brewed A slap up North IPA on cask, and repaired as always to the clock room to consume.  The best part of overtime, apart from erm...pay, is the ales afterwards.

 I was meant to be meeting Tash and we arranged to meet at the Rutland at 17.00 so I headed off and got off behind Atkinsons to find Tash was running a little late. I decided to head to the nearby Devonshire Cat for a wee and a half. I ended up asking which was cheapest beer and got a half of Abbeydale Daily Bread on cask for £1.60. It was on good form but isn't my first choice I have to say.

From here I headed to a cash machine and then popped in the Washington. They had four cask ales on and as always, I went for a half of the Moonshine. It tasted beautiful in here. I sat in splendid isolation in the left hand bar in bright sunshine listening to an excellent selection of ska tunes. Ace.

I headed to the Beer Engine next and had a third of the Mikkeller Nuclear Hop Assault and an interesting beer whose identity has escaped me in the miasma of alcohol since. The beer as always was impeccably kept and it was good to bump into the Man of Ash - assuming I did....

From here I jetted across town to meet Tash in the Bankers, finally meeting up about 20.30 and we had a quick drink before she headed to the Dove and I went to meet Mr E down at Shakespeares to finish a rather lengthy but highly enjoyable crawl. Am not 100% clear on what we had but it possibly ended with a can or two of Cloudwater before I ran to catch the last 52 home in a refreshed state.

Two crawls showcasing a number of pubs and a wide range of different but equally enjoyable beer styles shows, once again, how lucky we are live and sup in sunny, shiny Sheffield.

Your very good health

Wee Beefy

A crapulence of Wanderiains

Hello again,

               as previously mentioned (possibly?), the primary reason for my self enforced abstinence this week is recognition that I have somewhat overdone May so far. Having been out almost every night for two weeks even I had the remaining brain power to surmise that actually I'd been very silly. Not that I hadn't enjoyed  being very silly. Its rather fun, I tend to find.

Anyhoo, this shaky procession of dry hours gives me the chance to catch up on some news about said events, which I hope to accurately convey hereafter.

Wednesday (not today, keep up!) was Wanderiains day, and since it was switching between sunshine and pouring rain so it seemed only sensible to walk to the Gardeners Rest. This time we broke with tradition and settled in the snug on the left, taking with us pints of Long Itch Light relief for me and a weaker offering of theirs for Mr P. Neither were exactly accomplished beers, but were refreshing, so we quickly dispatched them and moved onto a pint of Pennine Test match for Mr P and a pint of Blue Bee Brown Ball for me. And yes, it really is the bitterest brown beer in Sheffield.

A quick walk round to the Ship followed but in our haste we had arrived early so decamped to the Wellington for halves of Little Ale Cart Sir William something with an A in it (my notes offer Blake, Sage and Gage - chances are its none). Then we nipped back over the road to find the footy on in the Ship, where I had a pint and a half of the Deception and Mr P a surprisingly palatable Bradfield Rhubarb bitter. It was nice to sit in the left hand side watching the sun stream through the windows, and it was a shame to leave to be honest.

I finished in Shakespeares where I chatted to Keith and big Ron about pubs and supped a pint of Rat Brewery Light Mild and Hop Studio Black IPA, both of which were in good nick.

Thursday was supposed to be my "day off" but a wall of brain achingly complex work and a weird text from Christingpher about 16.00 heralded another reckless night of refreshments. We met at Shakespeares and I started with a pint of Mallinsons Bramling, which was every bit as good as I'd expected, and went to sit with Christingpher in the beer yard. Alas, the warm sunshine had deserted the area hours ago and before long it was raining so we headed inside, where we both had pints of the same.

Next we traveled to Commonside to visit the Closed Shop where we bumped into Mr Stephens (hardly surprising) and also Dave, AKA Closed Shop Kate. As you know, I;m a big fan of humour by repetition, so in only two years I'll definitely have tired of referring to Dave as Dave. Instead of Kate....

Here there was more glorious beer talk as well as a decent smattering of noise on the jukebox. Christingpher was very sensibly on the Raw Majjic Mild whilst I had two pints of the also excellent Welbeck Abbey Cavendish, before we undertook the rather lengthy but downhill walk to the Ship at Shalesmoor.

So began my second ever proper session in here, ensconced near the jukebox and putting away an ominous number of pints of the Bradfield Rhubarb Bitter. Three hours passed with conversation ranging from random events from our childhood, to classic arguments we'd had with friends. In some ways, a drinking session with some one you've known 35  years is hard to beat. In the end, it was only my ongoing employment that brought this festival of slaking to an end.

Friday I was going out with my dear friend Middlemarch but alas she caught a debilitating illness that meant she didn't even want to go out drinking. So, instead of leaving early for pints I diligently stayed at work til late - then caved in and ran away to the Closed Shop for beer and solace. Luckily, I bumped into Vinnie and Daniel who I'd met at Pete Green's birthday the other day and so ended up gatecrashing their get together.

Here I was on a mixture of Raw Dark Peak Stout, and Blue Bee Blue Ball (not in the same glass you understand) as we got through many hours of chat and numerous pints. It was great getting to know Vinnie and Daniel, along with Mark, Leila, and Steve, and catching up with Father O'Matic and Kiri, but eventually, and unfortunately, it became something past one and I had to go home.

My last night out of this post (there will be a separate one about another Manchester area crawl to come) saw me out for the unofficial Carlos' birthday night out. To be quite honest  by this time I was starting to sense that I was pushing my luck living-wise so decreed to meet as late as possible and leave at a sensible time. In the end everyone was late, as befits a Carlos do, and I made the last bus.

We started in the Hop and I had a pint of Green Jack Trawler Boys, which tasted fine but by the end had developed a detectable compost bin nose, so I moved onto Abbeydale Devotion next. We sat upstairs with Jambon (for a bit), Carlos, Mole, Angie, Wee Keefy and Toastie, before the band started playing, and the situation with the blocked men's urinal started to tell. One final pint was supped in here, Ossett Challenger, which was the best so far, before we headed to the Washington.

The Washington is the default later on destination of virtually everyone my age. Its always had a place in my heart and I've had many fab nights there. Plus, the eclectic crowd and somehow always palatable cloudy Moonshine wins it many plaudits. However, it seems to be fast securing a place in my mind as one of the stranger pubs in Sheffield. Its like it was 50 when I first visited 20 years ago (it actually opened in 1839, but lets not confuse my metaphor) and now its a much loved, slightly doddery place where flashbacks and confusion abound.

On Saturday we got in about 22.00 and it was not too busy (I mean, no-one goes in before midnight, right?) and having secured our pint of surprisingly ace Moonshine we ventured into the "Deep End" i.e the two rooms to the right with the glitter balls and DJ in. The room was virtually empty and it was easy to imagine why.

It smelled like urine and cat food. A man who thought he was Bez shambled ambidextrously between the bar and an imaginary cliff edge near the seating, while a selection of weird but oft enjoyable surf rock and other poorly recorded oddities blasted distortedly out of the straining speakers. Yep. This was to be our night mapped out. Significantly more Moonshine would be required....

Wherein lies, of course, the trick, since before I knew it I was having a bloody great time as I should have remembered I always do in the Washie. Great friends, great beer and the amusing irregularity of its disheveled features made this, and continues to make this, an excellent venue.

So concludes my round up of a thirsty week. Not a plan of action I recommend you try and copy, but on the other hand, if you are going to take 5 days off the grog, it may as well be for a good reason.

Your very best health

WB

Sounds good to me?

Evening,

    I was reading Tandleman's post about background music in pubs yesterday here and it reminded me of quite a few pub music experiences, not all of them good. So as not to post the longest ever comment I thought I'd paint a few aural pictures for you ont blog instead.

Springfield, not Illinois

On Broomspring Lane in Sheffield, surprisingly near my first pre eighteen drinking haunt the West End, was a small traditional Kimberley pub called the Springfield Tavern. Strangely empty at times you'd expect it to heave, this was a proper locals pub with pool and darts on the left and, well, erm, I can't really say, as I only ever went to the bar, and then in the room on the left.

This is because the left hand side housed the pool table, the jukebox, and was the perfect space to fit in a gaggle of (now mostly not underage) teenage drinkers who had fallen out with the West End. We didn't really mingle, we had nothing to share and likely very little to convey other than our involved and over emotional trauma's and stories of gigs played by obscure bands that we had been to or could never hope to afford to attend. We looked alien in this environment. We may as well have spoken alien, and we probably smelled like aliens. Were there a less suitable hostelry to essentially "adopt" as our new home, I can't really imagine what it would be in that area. Except maybe the Hanover.

Anyhoo, the Springfield no doubt got on with its business quite happily for the hours following and preceding 8 til 11PM on a Friday, but in that short window of opportunity, normal service was disrupted by a skulking dishevelled mass that would appear and divide the pub into two strictly delineated halves. And we had the jukebox.

Of course, having something that offers you precisely nothing that you want is no prize I can assure you. Whether by accident or design the Springfield had managed to assemble a bank of musical archaeology that was too old to be ironic, or too recent mainstream to be tolerable. We had the desire to stamp our sandalwood and death metal (odd combo I know) footprint on the pub though, and plans to oust us using poor music choice were to  backfire.

Every Friday night for about a year, we played just two tracks. Manic Street Preachers "Suicide is Painless" (Theme from M.A.S.H), and Iron Lion Zion by Ziggy Marley. Two opposites of style and taste, not particularly to anyone's liking, but better than the reams of Jim Reeves and Neil Diamond which seemed to be the only other choices. We were happy in our group, eking out minute quantities of alcohol and clubbing small change together to get drinks for those who were in danger of being asked to leave for not having a drink, and steadfastly never using the pool table (we needed the change for the jukebox see).

In the end this protracted war of music ownership fizzled out as we moved on to pastures new and the group slowly grew apart. No doubt throughout that time the same regulars continued to take their usual seats at the bar and round the tables to the right, and afterwards raised a toast to a Friday night without reggae or film theme rock. Hopefully, but not necessarily, they enjoyed the warm irony of a song about suicide played so frequently that you wanted to take your own life.

Sadly I read on the Internet where everything is true, that the pub had cosed down and been converted into flats. Ironically, flats probably built to house the students who swarming around the nearby streets must have stared down Broomspring Lane from Glossop Road, and spotted, without I suspect ever venturing into, the Springfield Tavern.

 Washington, neither in Washington State nor Tyne and Wear

In a time long long ago the Washington on Wellington Street used to open during the day. It was certainly always open around 5 or 6 o clock when I left work. As such it was, as well as one of my favourite dinnertime haunts, being so close to Charter Row, also one of my favourite meeting places for a night out. One night in the cold early months of the year I was meeting Rox for a few beers.

Rox was always late. It was just how the passage of time worked when our lives overlapped. So I was keen not to get there early, but I have this innate fear that I will be late on the only occasion when someone has gone to the trouble, (quite significant trouble it would be in this case) to arrive on time. So I strode in at 17.25 to meet her at 17.30. In reality I expected her for 18.00, and got myself a pint of disconcertingly nice yellow Moonshine.

One of the reasons I think the Washy started closing in the afternoon was painfully obvious as I sat supping my pint. The lass behind the bar had her I-Pod on, so bored was she with the lack of bar action, and I was the only one in until five minutes before I expected my drinking partner to arrive, when, as if to mock me, a procession of single visitors arrived, noisily letting the door close behind them to prick my interest, only to congregate one by one into a joyous throng.

Even if you mentioned to people that you intended meeting them at the Washy at something like 6 o clock they refused to believe it would be open, so there was no chance this would ever catch on. That evening, one of the last times I remember it opening in the late afternoon, it seemed a fitting dirge would be played to signal the demise of its frivolous all day opening.

Prior to the commotion I was trying hard to not pay attention to the music. The Washington has a good reputation in this respect, but usually when its blasting out at full volume sometime around 2 in the morning. At this time, all I could hear were the dulcet, depressing and wearyingly uninspiring tones of Dido.

In the room on the right it was moodily lit, and cold. It was raining outside, and the scene I found myself in was like a rubbish but very long music video featuring a lonely man drinking by himself, amidst a miasma of mounting unhappiness. Most of my pint (which I was trying to drink slowly) and three tracks in I couldn't cope anymore. I sprang from my seat and went to the bar to implore the lass to change the music.

Having explained that the music choice was forcing me to perform an unpaid role in a maudlin backlit advert for being stood up, she flicked a switch and a new track came on. It was quite upbeat, it seemed far less morose, and so I sat back down a little happier. Alas, this was just the end of one album. The last track. Next, it was Portishead.

Now I like Portishead, but this was becoming a bad joke. I seemed to have somehow teased the most depressing music available out of the Washington's collection and was now worrying that my mood would start reflecting the music and vice versa. When I explained my predicament the lass behind the bar laughed in a kind of half sympathetic half mocking way and put on something so jangly jolly and non descript that I almost laughed back, then sat down with my pint once again to await the arrival, at 18.20, of Rox.

It seems that the background music plays an important role in pubs, whether you want it on at all or not. If you are running a pub, whether or not the pub is busy or empty, you've got to think about the mood you wish to convey - and that applies to the horrors that may lurk in your jukebox.

If only they'd had a copy of "Tired of Waiting" by No Meanz No to play in the Washy that night....

Wee Beefy

Wee Beefy's beer crawl bites

Hello all,

    as threatened yesterday, here are some of the details of my second night out with friends over this last weekend, supping in some decent, and less than decent venues (but all of which sold real ale....)

Tarlequin

This was our agreed meeting place for the evening and it was completely rammed a good 2 thick at the bar as we entered. Our progress to the pub had been retarded by a surfeit of peasant waggons, my injuring my shins on a black bottle box left on our dark street, and a lack of cash machines in working order. These may all have been contributory factors to my lacking patience on an epic scale at the bar.

Once at the front I ordered a half of Paulaner for Chala, and spied an SWB logo on a pump clip. Knowing that I was furthest from it, I asked the barman for a pint of the Summer Wine brewery beer. He did not know which this was, but did not attempt to spin the clips round for a peek. Without time to explain that i can hardly see I simply pointed impatiently at it, but still to no avail, in fact it was only a half remembered half recognised word that enabled me to purchase the beer at all - I thought it was called Diablo, which it was. Jesus wept, what a chuffin rigmarole!

Anyhoo, seated at the bottom end of the pub were John, Steve from the night before, Fluff, and Trudi and Paul. Here we were all at different stages of drink, and chaos reigned early on as those all important rules on leaving and reordering were not in place. Plus, annoyingly, the Diablo was at the end of its life and heading for diabolic.

Unperturbed we went back to the bar, John had a half of Rock or Bock (we weren't sure), and me a pint of Spire Porter, which had a little tang, and wasn't as good as it had been at the Ship.



KAT

We were off across the dual carriageway next to go into the Fat Cat, which being perhaps the second smallest venue on our route was rammed as well. Mind you, that we found this in every venue is surely notice of a burgeoning drinking scene, which can only be applauded.


Out back were Miss Wish, Angela, Mr C and Si, and we were soon joined by Saul and Dan. Here I happened across my favourite and most peoples favourite beer of the night. Finally now able to name the bugger, I had a number of pints of Spire Candleriggs 1909 Porter. This was in excellent condition, and clears up the mystery from earlier posts on the subject of what I had in Tarlequin.

We stayed here for a while in the beer garden, where I enjoyed a fabulous pork pie to be washed down by my excellent beer (didn't try the Black Iris bitter alas) before moving inside and getting our ordering and drinking speeds all wrong - it doesn't matter though, when you are only going round the corner next...

K.I.T

And so it was we reconvened in the Kelham round the corner. Here recollections become a little interpretive, and this I am sure is in no way connected to my having a pint of Gorlovka Stout. And surely, there is no suggestion that I had more than one, even though it was delicious..... To be fair we all ended up on something strong in here, and I know we had at least 2 each, before last orders was called. Below is a helpful picture of the pub, at the time. Sort of.

The beer in here seemed to be appreciated by everybody; it seemed every one of our motley band of cider, real ale, lager and spirits drinkers managed to find something to suit their tastes, which is maybe why the KIT has won so many awards. By this time however, fatigue was setting in and the company had started to unravel. In a last musician on the Titanic scenario, first Fluff, John and Steve headed off home, whilst others went straight to the Washington in a beer carriage, leaving me and Chala, Mr C and Miss Wish to find our own way.

West Street Live

 Music was the main draw, well, for't young uns any roared, as Wee Beefy is a slow moving hairy object, as opposed to a slick dance move machine. Here we were joined by the last of our party Chris, who showed the dancers how to do it whilst I stood awkwardly but not unenjoyingly (is that even a word?) on the sidelines. Beer in here was Wychwood Hobgoblin, which I had a pint of, and, undoubtedly, tasted of beer. I can't confirm that though.

Washington BC (before catatonia)

Our last stop at gone half one was the Wash, which was a seething mass of sweaty thirsty people and music played too loud for the speakers. We didn't care though, at our venerable age me and Chala were just pleased to be somewhere interesting, her with half a Staropramen and me with a pint of yellow cloudy Moonshine which tastes like it only does in the Washington, but somehow alright. We lost track of a few of the clan in here alas, and despite fleeting glimpses of Si, Wish and Dan we were awaah by 2.15 and off for the night bus, the timetable for which helpfully reads "last bus 23.44", which, at the risk of losing some journalistic kudos here, I have to say is just downright fucking stupid.

All in all this was a fab night out with great people and fantastic real ale for the most part, and ironically, this time, despite not being a beer crawl as such, I did have an excellent beer, the Spire 1909 porter in the Fat Cat.

Now for a week without alcohol methinks...

Wee Beefy.

Miniature morsels of bowz neeowz....

Good tidings,

    I have just a few snippets of finely trimmed beer strands for you tonight.

Deda da da

I seem to have accidentally ensconced mi sen in the Dee Dah (Dada, if you insist) three nights running. Thursday's visit was a mission to reappraise but made all the more enjoyable by the staff so I had no reservations in bringing Waaaaarf and Thangor the Motherinlaw there on Friday, especially with the "Pub Scrawl" do being on.

That said I confess I didn't see much art apart from a penis themed scribble on the wall on the left, so perhaps I missed something. Either way, beer was the main feature as always and didn't disappoint. Thangor had a half of unfiltered Bernard Pilsner, Chala a half of Thornbridge Mechelen ( I and her thought at the time it was a Mikkeller which was a very interesting scenario given his brewing pedigree, but I concede that the malty Belgian ale style should have rung alarm bells...). It was not.

Nevermind though, I had a pint of Fyne Highlander to start then as Chala grabbed a Timmermans I ordered halves of Tzara and Versa. The Versa was far less hoppy and much more banana weighted than I recalled and the Tzara was cloudy and perhaps relatedly so, unrecognisable, yet still nice. Perhaps it was the bottom of the key-keg - no beer dispense is infallible after all....

Alas we had time only for these drinks here on Friday.

Interestingly some gents who rolled up at the bar Saturday claimed that Dee-dah was a word used to describe folks from Barnsley but I felt sure it was a Barnsley term for us -  at the risk of igniting a storm here, which one is it? 

Harrisons 1854

After a brief sojourn to have very expensive but delicious wine in the Leopold Hotel we parted company and I headed to the 1854. Here I had more wine and a delicious pint of Farmers Blonde, given that the Deception was a trifle cloudy. Much good conversation was had, including Dave showing his excellence at ice smashing, as the photo below attempts to report....

I had a goodly stint here before leaving with the intention of returning to Dada but popped in the Red Deer again instead - almost as if to welcome me, the beer range had changed again, and I had a delicious pint of Inveralmond Lia Fail, whilst talking to Jose who had been so helpful the night before. An enjoyable stop off.

Closed pubs and the Wash

It was about now that I noticed a surfeit of options. To my surprise the Beehive and Old House were closed so I headed to the Washington, via a queue at the Forum, which I decided was a step too far. Odd but enjoyable cloud fest of Moonshine in my hand I enjoyed a brief sojourn round the pub before the night bus called me.  An ever reliable fall back once again, the Washington.

Saturday.

I also ended back up in Harrisons on  Saturday having left an important personal item behind the bar.  This warranted another pint, this time a more enjoyable Deception, mainly because it was so lively that Dave agreed to serve it without a sparkler.

I also revisited Dada for a catch up, and tried the palatable Pub Scrawl from Thornbridge, along with a Kill Your Darlings Vienna style lager, and even retried the Holly Daze that I had disliked previously. The star was probably the Scrawl, hoppy and with an interesting malt flavour which suggested they had been careful to create an uncomplicated yet highly refreshing beer. The Holly Daze I concede was less horrifying than I recall.

Finally

I must metion that I have had a Dunham Massey Gold tonight. I intended to leave it for a full review but ploughed on regardless anyway. I feel the need to comment on its hoppy and sweet malt flavour and nose, making it very Belgian in style, and more than a match for some renowned Belgian Blondes. That said, it peters out a little in the long haul but is still an interesting beer.

That's all for now folks, keep supping!

Wee Beefy