Thursday 26th September 2024
A Rotherham council hi-vis jacket draped over a mobility scooter outside a Wetherspoons in Mexborough heralds the opening day of the official Good Beer Ticking Season 2024/25. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Following the #CruelChurn and selection of #SecretTicks, I could start counting again here at Old Market Hall, Mexborough (2706 / 5193) - the same town I finished South Yorkshire in at the Gorilla Tap eleven months ago. As on that occasion, I was lucky enough to have guest chauffeuring from RetiredMartin to give me the morale booster I needed. No sooner have I located Sheffield's favourite adopted son since Kid Acne, he's off! Anyone who's met Martin will know (a) he has ants in his pants, and (b) plonk him in a town like Mexborough, and he'll immediately be on a quest to snap the horrible beauty it possesses. An above average 'Spoons, unsurprising from this motivated part of the UK (Bawtry was my favourite 'Spoons experience of all time) , bookcases and plants create natural partitions, I'd like to see more of that. A toddler loses her Peppa Pig. An old bloke offers to help look. But turns out this particular Peppa was electronic so all Mummy has to do is reload YouTube. Game has gone. Shame my beer is weirdly fizzy and with floaty bits in it or I might've declared this a low-key classic.
My 27.5 minutes is up, Martin returns to collect me and after pointing out some fish stalls which gives me a brief Leigh-on-Sea flashback, next stop is Thrybergh which has me rubbing my thyroid but thankfully for Martin, not my thighs. Again, Martin wants to explore and as he takes the below photo, gives me strict instructions on how to handle to transaction at the bar ......
In a peculiar inconsequential sort of complex, bit like Smeeth in Kent with more rust and honesty, I see an antiques centre which may explain the Antic-levels of mismatched seating at Deer Park Tap, Thrybergh (2707 / 5194). As instructed, I ask our iconic ginger host if she wants me to pay by card or cash. Apparently, she then says "I'm easy .... haha, not like that!" but she's not read the RM script today and barks "CASH!" which floors me and I'm suddenly scrabbling around for coins. To bide myself time, I deadpan ask where the deer and the deer park are located, but this isn't Thorpe Market in Norfolk and she confesses it'd be cruel to keep deer here, and I can't keep my straight face any longer. Not a bad little spot to drink in, though a heater and more customers would've done wonders. Main issue, a DREADFUL pint of Little Critters. A brewery eternally unlucky for me. Never seem to get even a half decent pint by them. Infuriating type of 'off', not vinegar or murky but that cleaning lines style off which I suffered in the Cavens Arms and Riverside Bar at Dumfries recently. Plus it was 5.5%. Finally a bloke comes in, he's just arrived back from Scotland, does a terrible Scottish accent to try and make our host laugh, and I realise my 27.5 mins is up.
Martin has been waylaid by the delights of Thrybergh so I wander around the complex, wave at people in a Vape shop, smile at a cafe, sit on a wall, nod at a lorry and have some quiche.
Our hero returns and up next is the season's first club ..... a golf one at that.
The cavernous club room at Sitwell Park Golf Club, Whiston (2708 / 5195) is easily accessible (i.e. we just walk straight in) but the sheer amount of suited folk suggest one thing, wedding or funeral. And judging by the underlying sombreness, plus the average age, I'm 80% certain it is the latter. Still, we purposefully stride in a barwards direction. Martin stands silently hidden off to one side, leaving me to order drinks (cheers mate!) Barman : "Are you here for the wake?" 'Uh oh, here we go' I think, Altarnun flashbacks, I confess I'm not but visiting GBG entries. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He spins around, and pulls me a pint, and no more words are exchanged. I return to Martin and confirm it is as we feared, and sit in a corner of the room trying to look like we belong. What a brilliant pint of something Citra, after two duds, I'm very thankful. Less thankful to my rubbish bladder, extra awkwardness follows as I fight my way back through the elderly gloomsters to the bogs, and on the way back, a squawking lady announces 'grub is up'. Ferrero Rocher style peaked platters of bacon sandwiches. Crispy streaky bacon at that. They look delicious. But I'd better not. Even though it might be what he/she/they would've wanted. And Martin has promised Christine to make sure I eat something. Oh yeah, we could've blamed her! So an experience that didn't fully 'sitwell' with me (thanks), just relieved I wasn't here alone.
Martin points out that what made today such a good 'un was the variation of tick types. 'Spoons, Micro, Club, and now we were on to a cheap n cheerful chain pub of the 'Sizzling' variety.
Seemed an incredibly random GBG entry, but in spite of my early pre-conceptions, my pub of the day was Homestead, Broom, Rotherham (2709 / 5196). We walk in with Martin telling me he's determined to fulfil his obligation to 'make sure I'm fed' and although I try to tell him my quiche will suffice, our shared beige platter ends up being a great move. Such a funny place. Swirly carpets, funky tiling, at least TWO of those grabber machines you find in fairgrounds selling tacky mascot wannabees, not fit to lace Colin's florets but I appreciate their presence. One beer on, a well kept Old Peculiar, probably the moment I realise a warm sturdy meal IS in fact a great idea. Food/beer pairing your local sommelier would never write about in the Sunday Times supplement. Staff incredible, so bright and passionate - running it like a freehouse. Main guy senses our approval of beer and food and is waving TripAdvisor review cards at us when we leave. Made 'Spoons look posh. Made Ember and Brunning & Price look dull and up themselves - still, we knew that already, right?
One to go then, today's late opener (well 2pm) and still within widdling distance of Rotherham.
And a strong ending at the Wilton, Kimberworth (2710 / 5197) where I'd been only last year to tick off the lively Steptoe's micro. Now, with this being pub 5 and following an Old Peculiar (remember I'd had a disgusting 5.5% earlier too), my memories are hazy but a colourful and very strokable knitted blanket lining the benches being my main recollection. Landlady is very 'ey up' and everyone who walks in has obviously gone to South Yorkshire Finishing School. The New York Pale by Chantry must be one of the best pale ales on god's earth and was perfection here, and exactly the neckable nectar I needed in the circs. Thanks to Martin for a fun day, and I'll continue to hope he moves to Chatteris / outer Thetford / West Wales / Stornaway where we can plan our next adventure together.
See you same time tomorrow where the first official Saturday of the season takes us to Cheshire with a bit of bonus Sale & Alty.
Si
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