BRAPA : A LORRA HASLAND (TALES FROM OUTER CHESTERFIELD)
From the moment I first saw the Hasland entry in the 2024 GBG, I knew I'd have to visit just so I could shoehorn in a tribute to one of the leading #PubWomen out there. Made it with three months to spare. Warning today's blog is a longish one, even by BRAPA standards.
Time to get North Derbyshire bottomed out for year with a trip to Chesterfield, where I had five ticks on Summer Saturday wk #4 with Daddy BRAPA. Ivor Panda deputised for Colin the Cauliflower who is feeling his age.
One of the most legendary pioneers of our times .... and George Stephenson
It had been a slow morning. 50 minutes wandering around a chilly grey Sheffield and eating malt loaf & cheese in a waiting room. And although we had to hop on a Stagecoach Gold to the village of Hasland .....
.... we still had over half an hour more to kill in a chilly grey park before our first tick opened at noon.
Micropubs getting flimsier
Even at 11:57am with the outer door wide open, and three men encouraging us to go in, our lack of a club swipe card meant we had to be patient, tailgating some snooker bound players. The GBG club entrance, always fraught with social awkwardness.
The snooker players disappear behind one of those smoky, frosted inner doors never to be seen again, and we're first inside the large bar room at the Hasland Club, Hasland (2825 / 4985) - and what a lovely room it is. Wallpaper with more than an element of the William Morris, and you can't beat the smell of a freshly laid carpet. The problem we have, is that the carpet is considerably fresher than the beer. And for this reason alone, on a high quality day, this place comes fifth out of five. Our host is the most Derbyshire man ever, setting a world record for the number of times he calls us duck / ducky in a 27.5 minute period. More duckies than an Anne Boleyn jazz mag. He vaguely recalls being told something last night about the 'Ey Up' (which Dad wants) having gone off last night, and as he pulls our replacement from man-hating Thornbridge through, he mumbles something about this 'being near the end' too. Dishwater! Mine has bonus floaty bits in. Oh well, bus is imminent so we must scoot. Nice place, if you can get a decent pint.
In other news, Dad struggles to find the loo due to unmarked door controversy
Despite a scary smackhead busman having a fake phone conversation with himself about not telling the police which bus you are on, and following it up with a dollop of paranoid aggression, the helpful lady we'd seen at the stop holds her nerves and gives us clear concise directions to our connecting bus up to Whittington Moor.
Quick rant to say how poor I find North Derbyshire from a CAMRA GBG perspective. If this was a school report, I'd be saying 'C- : Must do better!' New Mills and Chesterfield have, for two consecutive years, included pubs which have failed to last the pace. We know what a banter pub town Buxton is. And year on year, Chesterfield cannot decide whether to include Whittington Moor and Brampton under Chesterfield, or give them their own place names. WM especially switches it up yearly.
Right, off my soapbox high horse, and time for pub two. And to be fair to North Derbys, from this point onwards, it would pull back any GBG malaise with hit after hit.
Opposite the new football ground (I've only ever seen Hull City play at Saltygate), I have to chuckle when I see the 'Brampton Ales' sign because I've just spent the last five minutes explaining to Daddy B. that we aren't on the Brampton Mile yet. This didn't help his poor fragile pub brain. It is a lively ole' place, and in a theme that would last all day, not the Micro that the name Glassworks, Whittington Moor, Chesterfield (2826 / 4986) suggests. The volume of suits and floral patterned dresses much like the Hasland wallpaper make us realise a wedding is imminent. "Ho ho, it'd be rude not to go for a Brampton ale!" I exclaim, trying to impress the unimpressed staff (zip it Si, whaddya want, a medal?) and Daddy B gets us on this 5% Wasp Nest which tastes double the strength after our pint of water in the club. When I return from the loo where I'd had to coerce some 20 year old suit blockers from the entrance, Daddy B is back at the bar getting the snax in. Mini Cheddars and more significantly, cos I had to go back to Halifax Big Six January 2002 for my last, a Ploughman's Lunch in a bag, and that sure helped with this strong beer. Three tiny pickled onions in a separate bag, two fake Jacob's Cream Crackers (more on them later), a fake Dairylea triangle (Laughing Cow or something), it really was an 'event'. To add to the good time feel, a group of oldsters ask if I can take a group photo of them on the way out - something I'd been itching to do since THAT Newton Abbot maudlin Hen Do fiasco.
Time to scowl at Chesterfield FC as we walk to the temporary bus stop. My dislike of the football team goes back to the turn of the Millennium when we had a vague shot at automatic promotion going into May. The high flying Spirerites were found do have been dodgy by the FA due to the dodgy transfer of top scorer Luke Beckett - transfer money resting in a Jacob's Cream Cracker tin I heard, Father - and we went down to Roots Hall for a midweek game knowing that if they were punished sufficiently, we could still get top 3. But as we pulled into the Little Chef halfway down the A1, the news came through on Faarv Larrv (5 Live for Hull folk) they'd only been deducted nine points. Just enough to NOT impact them. How blimmin' convenient! Cheaterfiddle. It was the most disconsolate dunkin' doughnuts and hot chocolate on the way to Southend session I'd ever had, and I've had plenty. Only the brilliant shopping centre based Cork 'n Cheese could save me after that!
But cheer up lads, we'd hit the Brampton Mile for real this time and I rate the Tramway Tavern, Brampton, Chesterfield (2827 / 4987). It looked promising on the approach with its leafy traditional backdrop, the tiled green bar is the first thing you notice, and it reminded me slightly of the wonderful Rose & Crown, my first ever Brampton Mile tick achieved on 13th July 2017 - I promised some excited TwXtter follower I'd get the exact number (1193 - see below) so blame him. We studiously swerve a second Wasp Nest in favour of an IPA called 'God Bless The Absentee'. I liked the name, Daddy B liked the fact it sounded lighter, but it blew our sox off. Dad's eyes are fixed on a section of the bar beyond me .... what had he seen? PORK PIES! From a local butcher dude. He (Dad, not the butcher dude) orders a large one to share, and flippin' eck, large is the word. Could be used as a cosh. Part of the theatre is trying to cut it into slices with the wooden cutlery. Chainsaw would be more apt. Three sachets of non-Coleman's English mustard , I had to wrap some of mine up for later. The only downside of this fine place was the total lack of customers .... disappointing for 2-3pm on a sunny Saturday on a pub mile, deserves better. I went to ask the guv'nor for the WiFi code, just so he didn't feel too bored.
Only comment from RetiredMartin, asking how come I was back on the beer already!
And just a few steps along the Brampton Mile, we come to pub four .....
Once again, we are pleasantly surprised to find that despite the name, Tap House, Brampton, Chesterfield (2828 / 4988) is your archetypal boozehole. What is it with bland pub naming conventions around here? Have they outsourced the task to the Fylde & District Micropub Naming Committee? The printed word equivalent of painting your pub grey. This pub was more a Wellington, Waggon & Horses or Cat & Cushion. Or perhaps a Wickingman Tavern, for Bass is on the bar, and after two really ooofty pints of Brampton, a welcome sight. Shame it tastes 10% like Bass Premium DIPA, but I can only assume Dad's never ending pub snack quest had effed up my tastebuds. Much of the entertainment here is unwittingly provided by Mummy BRAPA, who WhatsApp's Dad having bought six bottle of white wine on his credit card! And so desperate is she NOT sound like a scammer, she sounds like a scammer. The wording used was so not her. Alarmed, we ring her to check she isn't dead or taken hostage. Relieved to hear it is all genuine. Ivor Panda makes his finest impact in a BRAPA shirt yet, and all's well that ends well.
A short bus ride to the 'end of the line' takes us to our fifth and final tick of the day.
5pm opening, even on a Saturday, which seems kinda mean, but when we approach the outside is full of well-oiled sounding drinkers. "I hope you're going to ask them about that!" says Daddy B. "Don't worry Dad, I sure will!" I reply.
What an exchange. I bet you feel like you were there.
Oh yes, we'd proper Bisto Gravy'd it (saved the best for last ..... please try to keep up!) at the Lamb Inn, Holymoorside (2829 / 4989). "Yes, 5pm is usually correct ...." says the barmaid. "....but today we have the group outside doing the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest and they asked if we'd open at 12 for them". Hmmm, note to BRAPA self, I must try that excuse one day! Wasn't convinced how wholesome this challenge was, as they stagger in regularly for top ups. As I quipped to Dad "these lot are more Chris Boddington than Chris Bonington!" I say 'quipped', I had to check with Dad that Chris Bonington was a mountaineer, by which time it had lost all sense of quippage. Anyway, a decent effort by me and a beautiful village pub with a lived-in atmosphere and the aptly named Peak ales were proper frothy delights, most I'd got on with my beer all day!
After last week's train fiasco coming back from King's Cross, we deserved a bit of transport luck today and the bus got us back into Chesterfield just nicely timed for a train which took us directly to York. Justice.
But there was a funny little epilogue to what had been a quite gentle BRAPA day as Dad decides to join me in the York Tap after some slight reluctance, but one sup of that Titanic Raspberry and he knew he'd made a wise decision.
I then give Dad a lesson in 'pub opening times' as he plans an impromptu ladz trip to Rugby for him and his mates.
A scary Geordie with the eyes of Steven Taylor, mouth of Lee Clark and neck of Brian Kilcline nicks a chair, then a whimsical Hugh Dennis gives me his undrunk keg Thornbridge Green Mountain on account of having to rush for a train. Why do folk always leave their undrunk beers with me? Do I look like a desperate alki? Don't answer that.
Dad advises against drinking it, but it seems a lot fresher than my Thornbridge in Hasland all those hours ago. Dad says farewell, shortly followed by the Geordies who insist on shaking my hand one by one although their train is due in one minute.
Geordie dregs (but I didn't drink them)
I put my headphones in, bit of Ramones, and sup up that Green Mountain but then a chap called Mike Taylor who I'd once met briefly in the Fox beer garden arrives with his wife Mummy Taylor (no kids with them this time). In my haste to move my bag, make room, I send a glass crashing to the floor!
Uh oh. If you are going to smash a glass anywhere, York Tap is the place (apart from the dreadful acoustics). Staff are soon on hand with dustpan, brush and mop, they don't bat an eyelid. I'd wager York Tap has more smashed glass incidents than any other British boozer. Main thing is, I don't think any serious beer was harmed, and I do a decent job of convincing the Taylor's I'm sober.
Mike then helps me resolve a Poppleton Beer Festival ticket query in the greatest stroke of luck all day, before they too have to depart - Mummy Taylor gifting me her undrunk half of local Pils. Yes, I drink this too.
What a sick sesh this had been! KFC way home, job done, epic blog this one but we made it to the end.
