Thursday 18th July 2024, 11:30am
The classic 'game of two halves' took me to within six pubs of Derbyshire completion on a sunny summer Thursday a couple of weeks ago.
A curious bus ride in a Swadlincote direction ('Swadders' to its mates) kicks things off early. Sitting on the wheel-arch, my favourite position, all seems innocuous until we reach Chellaston when the first of a small army of 'clubby ladz' hop aboard. By Swarkestone, happy hardcore is booming out. At Stanton by Bridge, poppers to loosen the bum hole as bus struggles down tight passage. By King's Newton, glowsticks and dropping acid. By Melbourne, everyone's sorted for E's and Whizz.
"Oi Jack, where d'we push the button?" chirrup our floppy haired collective Josh, Alfie and Olly. Jack doesn't have the answers like BRAPA does, and I'm delighted they don't 'alight' at the same stop as me.
Such dystopian beginnings continue throughout my time at Spirit Vaults, Melbourne (2912 / 5072) as I hurdle the above beer delivery, nod at two old blokes sunning themselves on the patio, and find myself inside this multi-styled place. You might well conclude 'suffering from an identity crisis', I couldn't possibly comment, but to be THIS stuck midway between 'micropub' and 'dining pub' is some sort of achievement in my eyes. "I'll bring your beer over for you" says barmaid. Nice touch. Five mins later, memories of those difficult 2020/21 pub days flooding back, it finally arrives. A pale from Pentrich sounded a safe bet, but it was wishy washy watery. Death defying staircase leads me to the gents, trying to be a 'Spoons too now are we?? I get lost coming down. Such a myriad of distinct areas (not sure you'd call them 'rooms') is not as interesting as it sounds. If this place is haunted by the 'spirit' which gives the pub its name, I hope it can walk through walls like all good ghosts. Two blokes arrive with suitcases and additional bags and pose the barmaid a series of 'transport logistic' conundrums. 'Uber' seems to be the solution. Which gets a thought flittering around my mind....
My next pub is in Willington, also south of Derby, yet to get there by bus from here, I'd have to go right back into the town (oooops, sorry, city since 1977) and back out at a different angle. Time consuming. Makes no sense. So with our suitcase chums continuing to procrastinate, I jump on the App and less than 10 minutes later, old matey bloke Sheryar (not a missing horse) is here.
I'm boosted further by the news that a rare train from Willington to Derby is delayed by 39 minutes, perfect arrival + BRAPA pint drinking + walk to station time, plus it not only goes to Derby but through to Long Eaton where pub three is! Well I feel I've really lucked in at this stage.....
But no luckier on the pub front, as the Dragon, Willington (2913 / 5073) provides another sub-par experience. Though I feel this was as much an unlucky set of circs than a 'pub' with any long-standing issues. I use the inverted commas because let's be honest, it is at least two-parts restaurant. The Bass was dreadful. Not often I should say this, but again it seems watered down, muted for sure. Exactly what those who dislike Bass think every pint of it tastes like! Building has cooling inner stone walls (perfect for resting a hot face) pleasing low beams, but the clientele is a mish mash of 'management' types wandering around with laptops, smart casual and tight trousers, and leathery skinned old blokes who are from the generation 'Don't Believe in Suncream' blocking the floor, waiting for their wives to finish widdling so they can head into the unseen garden for Madri and salmon steaks.
In tone, it wasn't unlike the Boot at Repton I did all those years ago which reminds me my friend Emily's parents live at nearby Findern - wonder if her Mum has some profiteroles defrosting like last time I went over? Or even if Findern has a good pub yet?
Back at the station, I admire a flower tub sponsored by the pub which would've been perfect for plant potting / flower tubbing that Bass ......
Not overly concerned that the train is a few minutes further delayed ... but then it disappears off the board altogether! I check Trainline on my phone ..... NOOOOOO!
But this train uniformed man arrives just as I'm at my most despondent and assures me the train is arriving, Derby bound, it just isn't going beyond.
Phew, not to worry then, and only 9 minutes until a connection Long Eaton service. Okay, so my ticket isn't TECHNICALLY valid on this service, but if anyone says anything, I'll plead bad luck and ignorance. No one did.
Once at Long Eaton, a bloke with tatty blonde bum fluff growing from a cavity in his neck jumps out in front of me to flag down a bus, so I take the opportunity to hop on it which saves me another 20 minute walk in this searing (for the UK) heat.
I was due a change of pub fortune, and I got it in droves at the excellent Rowells Drinking Emporium, Long Eaton (2914 / 5074). It hadn't looked promising from the outside, but it has depth and style. Thought has obviously gone into it, and it hasn't been done on the cheap. And the people care. That is how to make a Micro successful. I unwittingly sit next to one the few remaining wooden mangles in humanity, I hear the guv'nor telling an interested visitor, so I lean back so my big fat head isn't blocking their mangle view. Former Draper's shop this. I'm draining this Python Porter at a rate of knots, you appreciate good beer when it has been in short supply! The pork scratchings accentuate it further. And it opens crazily generous hours. When I go to the loo, a friendly little cat is lurking like one of those club dudes who offer you a squirt of Tusk or splash of Davidoff. A local curmudgeon meanwhile is critcising the barmaid's artwork - she is busy updating the colourful crafty chalkboard. One minus point is when cat enters the main bar, and it becomes clear it isn't their #PubCat. Guv'nor edges the poor thing outside with his foot! But on the whole, BRAPA was back on track.
And even better, my next pub is literally a two minute walk away across the road ..... or so I thought ....
Shut Pub Alert. But if I was ever going to get an SPA, better here than the Bush at Morwenstow. Perfect circumstances really.
I return to Rowell's where a combination of a gnarly bloke sat outside and the staff inside tell me it has been struggling for a while, owner has been increasingly AWOL, it might be being turned into a furniture shop, and that news has only come out in last 2-3 days which explains why all social media has it as 'open'. And my fellow TwXtters confirm I'm not missing much based on recent experiences.
And the nice five minute chat at Rowell's bar about BRAPA and stuff just made me forgive them for cat shooing.
With a warm wind picking up, like one of those that blows across the arid Atacama around teatime (I'm being dramatic, it was about 23 degrees), I power walk up to Sawley which is actually just outside Long Eaton station, unlike the Long Eaton pubs. MAKE IT MAKE SENSE DERBYS!
Recommended by a mad street urchin as a pre-emptive on the day I first finished ticking Derbys (five years ago this week actually), I'm glad to see the Sawley Junction, Sawley (2915 / 5075) make the GBG and "kickin' these kinda goals" because it was a pub to rival Rowell's for genius microisms. This little sliver of East Derbys / West Notts must be the most heavily populated micropub area outside of the Kentish coast, and like Kent, it does them properly. AND it supplements them with old skool pub quality - for every Artillery Ramsgate, you have a Dew Drop Ilkeston. Barmaid / motivated business owner / landlady is quick to approve of my 'brave' beer choice, a Strawberries and Cream stout by Wilde Child. The kinda beer that Blackpool Jane could do a Ted Talk on. "Been meaning to try that for a while now .... right, I'm off down to the cellar for a bit!" chuckles BM when she's finished pulling my pint. "If we don't see you in half an hour, we'll send a search party ho ho ho" I reply, thinking what a good pub raconteur would say in this situation. In the serene red cosy surrounds, I sup gently, smiling at a kind-faced father and son duo just beyond me, and I do love seeing a good father & son drinking duo. Lifts my heart. I must admit, as the style may suggest, the pint starts amazingly but is a struggle second half, it would be the perfect festival beer where you can just have half ... nay, a third! Just as I'm done, our BM returns burping strawberry bubbles and pogoing to a punk version of Strawberry Fields Forever which only she can hear (joking! probably) so we say our goodbyes and I pop round the corner to Long Eaton station.
Back in Derby and I COULD rush three minutes across the bridge for the next York bound train, OR I could go for a leisurely 50 minute pint somewhere near the station? Guess which I chose ....
Yes, of late I'd been giving the Brunswick the sort of love I normally only reserve for King's Cross Parcel Yard, so I decided to head back to my (slightly) favoured choice of the Alexandra, Derby. I just love this pub so much. Main bar with train themes, always lively and friendly. Mystery #PubRabbits might or might not be spotted (I only ever tend to see them when I'm on the Oakham Green Devil .... coincidence??) but my favourite part of the pub is the back lounge. Entirely empty apart from me today. Bliss! Drink it in.
I'm away at the end of this week so I'll try and bang out another blog tomorrow or Wednesday to keep it ticking over. I'm not doing lots of pubs at present but still catching up from that Devon epic.
Thanks for reading, Si
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