A Very Mixed Bag in Todmorden

Following on from the recent cutting articles by Martyn Cornell and Pub Curmudgeon about poor quality cask, I had the opportunity to run my own test in an area I rarely drink in and that I don't really know.  Step up Todmorden, which is in Yorkshire - though not by much - and has the benefit of being served by the 590 bus from Rochdale, a First Manchester service, therefore allowing me to use my First Day ticket.  In fact it goes all the way to Hebden Bridge and indeed Halifax, both pretty good drinking towns.  Going that far does involve quite a long bus journey though and was vetoed by a dubious E, worried by either losing valuable drinking time (doubtful) or needing a pee on the way back (more likely).

Now Todmorden is somewhat of a poor man's Hebden Bridge. It is, shall we say, a bit more rough and ready and isn't really immediately that attractive, apart from the very impressive Victorian Town Hall which hints at past glories.  After a quick walk round which revealed little of interest, we skirted the Town Hall and round the back, near the rather sad market is The Pub, a neat little one roomed micropub which Retired Martin advises is in the Good Beer Guide 2019.  Inside it is bright, cheerful, spotlessly clean and shiny. Very attractive. One denizen was sitting at one window and we settled underneath the other. Another and only other drinker, lounged against the wall. Amiable greetings were exchanged and the welcome from the young woman behind the bar was equally appealing.  Six handpumps were present.  I only knew one brewery - Brewsmith - but this was 6% - a bit much for a first drink. E chose a golden coloured half, while I at the barmaid's suggestion, ordered three different thirds. The stout was sour and exchanged and the beer withdrawn from sale. The beers were cool but not exactly on top form. The banter though was great as the discussion of imperial versus metric wandered off down maze like alleys before returning inconclusively to its starting point, not helped by everyone having a different idea of what we were discussing. This and further chats as we supped kind of proved the inclusivity of the micropub genre.  All in all enjoyable, but the jury is out on the beer. I may well have had the first drinks pulled and the pumpclips on display indicated that we may just have been unlucky with the range. I'd go back.

Next up was the Golden Lion.  Black walls and a kind of grungy feel didn't warm us to the place which was almost empty at 2.30 or so in the afternoon. The welcome though was excellent with a very friendly woman serving. Both Saltaire beers (Gold and Citra) were a tad tired and flabby, as was the local Tod brewed beer, Pale Eagle from Eagle's Crag Brewery. This is clearly a night time destination though. It serves as a music forward venue and has Thai food. Quite a lot to like, but not on a quiet Saturday afternoon clearly.

Tor Beers, round the corner, is attached to the Golden Lion, but seemingly rented from it in some way.  It boasts one keg beer on tap (something from Wiper and True) which was fine and a chatty young man who runs the offy, which seems to be the main business.  A large selection of very decently priced craft in cans and bottles is available, and while nobody came in while we were there, a couple of hardy souls sat outside in the autumnal sunshine.

Wetherspoons' White Hart was next. This is quite small and rather pubby, with a relaxed feel. It was fairly busy.  Service was swift and cheerful from the female barperson, while the bearded barman, who looked as though he had tumbled unexpectedly from a much finer craft establishment in a parallel universe and somehow ended up here, didn't seem to be viewing life from the sunny side. Win some, lose some. Here the cask stout from a guest American brewer (forgotten the details) was the pint of the day. Cool, conditioned and tasty.

Last up, by the bus station was The Alehouse, another micro pub with an extensive pavement with tables in front of it and one room inside. I opted for Salopian Lemon Dream which wasn't that cool or well conditioned and had slipped over an invisible dividing line, from beer into lemon furniture polish.  (I recall Hornbeam Lemon Blossom had the same tendency). Disappointing.

So four cask pubs and only one pint I'd call very good. Not a great result, but clearly reflecting that you aren't going to get top cask beer from empty pubs.

I rather think this little unscientific venture proves a few of Mudgie's points.  There are other pubs though, but we'd had enough of the place by the time we left.

Next time pee or not we'll go to Hebden Bridge. I think we'll find better there and of course, squeeze more value out of our First Day bus ticket.

The Thirties Revisited

There's always something new and unexpected in the pub game, no matter how long you have been involved in it. Having said that, you don't really expect the unexpected in a Sam Smith's pub. OK, there may be a set of bizarre promulgations adorning the walls, advising you in polite but specific terms as to what you can or can't do and what will or will not be tolerated. Trust me though, in Sam's that's a norm - scarcely to be remarked upon at all, but rather, to be embraced as part of the ambiance - a kind of par for the course and an odd but somehow comforting enhancement to the overall experience.  What is not expected though, especially in Milnrow suburban Rochdale, which, and I'm being kind here, just isn't that sort of place, is to be accosted with, as you walk through the door and into the pub, "Table for two is it?".

The Kingsway Hotel is a very imposing building, more or less isolated on its own off a main road with an industrial estate behind it and little housing around it. It does though have a Hungry Horse more or less opposite it, so at least there is passing trade and the potential to attract it, though judging by the emptiness of the Kingsway, too much of it is doing passing and not enough doing stopping. I took the lovely E with me my for this bank holiday outing, in what can best and accurately be described, as pissing rain.  The car park is pretty big and was more or less empty as we emerged, dripping onto the parquet floor, into a rather fetching, but decidedly bare 1930's room, with a bar to left - which most unSamslike - was illuminated by only two keg fonts, one dispensing Old Brewery Bitter and the other Taddy Lager. There is a well appointed dining room straight ahead, with, on this visit, one table silently occupied by three people. The owner of the enquiring voice turned out to be the landlady, a rather charming Scots lass from South Glasgow, who seemed rather taken aback by me being taken aback by her greeting.  The confusion was sorted out when I explained we only wanted a drink. Chattily she explained that the emphasis was now on food, hence the paucity of the draught offering.  I expressed my surprise at this as it seemed at odds with Humphrey Smith's usual policy and was advised in turn that it was his idea and her partner , a chef of 17 years standing had been encouraged to up the food offering which is all cooked on the premises. Well I never.

I observed that the place was, shall we say, empty other than the disconsolate lone diners who were quite possibly enjoying Brown Windsor soup followed by Woolton Pie or some such. Our chatty host explained that it was Humph's policy to open on Bank Holidays, so open they were - until six. Looking around the pub interior and building are superb. Built in 1938, it is a fantastic example of inter war pub design. Totally unspoilt, it has a plethora of original features, such as the aforementioned parquet floor, a working revolving door, panelled walls, proper fireplaces, as as well as the rather grand lamps of the time. A bit of a worm hole to the past in fact. An overspill dining room was again tastefully decorated in the same comfortable 1930s manner. Local photos enhanced the experience, but the eerie quiet must have made dining a rather soulless experience and one which I was glad I hadn't signed up to.

As I looked around and E chatted to the boss woman, the chef, bored shitless no doubt, joined us for a chat while I perused the rather unambitious menu. Oddly given the ambition, it was mostly standard British pub grub, though E approvingly noted the inclusion of liver and onions.  In addition to the two keg offerings, there was a full range of Sam's bottles available at under a fiver each and even the revered Yorkshire Stingo was on sale at a modest - for this beer - £9 a pop. 

You know, somehow I liked this place a lot. The landlady was a delight, the building was superb, but I can't help but thinking they'd be better off trying to attract drinkers, re-open the closed vault and if dining really is the game, up the offering a bit.  I'd love to be here when it is going like a fair, but I've an idea a time machine might well be needed to achieve this.

I usually poke a bit of gentle fun at the Sam's pubs I review, but this time it just seems right to wish it well, as to lose such an architectural gem would be a great shame.

Apparently the pub only opens Wednesday to Sunday, bank holidays excepted.  

The landlady was a big fan of Humph who she thought rather a hard working and nice fellow. You can only speak as you find I suppose.

You Can't Sit There

A few weeks ago in London, in Craft Islington to be precise, a few of us encountered that most annoying and anti social of things in a public house.  There, in the middle of the afternoon, in a fairly quiet pub - well it was until we arrived - was a sign on a table -  more than one table in fact - "Reserved" it said.

Now I can understand it a bit.  Well just about if it was a gastropub where drinkers are a bloody nuisance, but this is a wet led beer emporium.  Food there is scotch eggs and exotic cold pies. As it happened there was lots of other tables, so it didn't matter.  The sign did though sensibly say that it was reserved from a certain time and that customers could feel free to use it up until that time, but it warned, ominously, that the chairs were part of the reservation.  No nicking them then!   I suppose it is a sign of the times and how middle class pub going in some places has become and is in this case a reflection of just that, as well as time and place. I'm guessing Craft Islington gets busy with hipsters of a Saturday night.  Still seems wrong to me though.  A pub is first come first served in my book.

And so to Prague.  Following up Mr Dredge's recommendation we hoofed out to Restaurace Kulovy Blesk.  It wasn't that hard to find once we'd nicked a wifi signal from Starbucks and as Mark mentioned to me, an unusual place.  The outside beer garden was empty and the bar abandoned, but we went on downstairs to find a neat little old fashioned bar.  We looked around. It was empty, though a barman leapt out from nowhere and ushered us into and through a second room, empty again apart from from two Czech guys talking gloomily over a beer.  All tables except theirs had reserved signs on them.  We were taken into another room with two more beer scoffing denizens.  It wasn't big.  Maybe six tables.  All except one had a reserved sign on it.  E remarked (no English was spoken) that this table for two must be our destination and headed to it. With incredible fleetness of foot, our guide headed her off at the pass and with a triumphant flourish, furnished the only unreserved table with a reserved sign.

Now I could say Dear Reader that I knocked him out at this point and he may be lying there still, but with great forbearance, I didn't.  He turned and went to a closed door.  It was a further small room, with about four tables.  You are ahead of me now aren't you?  All had reserved signs on them, but one tiny table by the door was indicated and the sign removed.  We'd made it.

As Dredgie says, the beers were good and interesting:  Matuška Raptor, Kocour Sumeček, and lagers from Chotiviny and Konrad.  We stayed for a hour and a half, along with the other guys. Well they were there.  The waiter/barman having dealt with the reserved situation to his complete satisfaction, was very pleasant and if the till receipt is to believed, was called Veronika.
 
Nobody else came in the whole time we were there.

We also took up Mr D's other suggestion of Nota Bene, where we ate. Modern, pleasant, good beer, no oddball behaviour. That was the only disappointment.  The bar had been set high by Kulovy Blesk. Both were blessedly non smoking.

The X Factor

Chatting to the landlady after our beer tasting, we mused about how the trade is doing. We talked about PubCos, Breweries, beers, pricing, the smoking ban and all the usual stuff that comes up when you talk to publicans about their business, as I often do. Then she took me by surprise; "You know what I wish had never happened?" "Go on" I said. "The bloody X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing etc." Her view is that these have ruined Saturday nights in lots of pubs. Saturday used to be couples night, so now, the landlady propounds, it is hard to get the female of the species particularly, to get her arse off the couch and come to the pub with hubby. Sometimes, it might be the other way round, but either way it has vastly affected trade. It leads to more drinking at home, as couples sit on the settee with varying degrees of reluctance, supping bottles of wine or cans of lager.

Now I have to say, I'd never considered that, as I never watch either. All in all though it had a ring of truth to it and is yet another indication of how changing social and leisure attitudes have affected the on trade in the UK.

Putting it on in the pub isn't the answer either it seems, as it alienates as much as attracts.

Jumping!

I mentioned here about one of our better pubs not doing so well. As E had a work appointment in Manchester and was therefore at home earlier, we found ourselves walking up there again. We got there about seven and the pub was quite busy. When we left around a quarter to ten it was very busy indeed, with a celebration of some sort going on in the function room and the bar packed with ordinary drinkers. The smokers outside seemed to be plentiful too, a beautiful evening making up for their banishment outside. But let's not dwell on that.

Ironically the aforementioned landlady had a night off, but no doubt she enjoyed counting the takings later.

All by Myself

It pissed down as I passed by Lees' Lancashire Fold, so I popped in. It was just about 2 p.m. The Coronation St Ale was undrinkable, but the Bitter was in top form.

Every picture tells a story.