There’s 4,522 pubs in the Beer Guide to visit, and they all have a story to tell, except the Ember Inns of course.
I have mixed feelings that the Old Forge is out of the Guide at the moment; a pub only accessible by ferry or a giant trek would have something for Mrs RM to plan for months. I’m sure that Pubmeister has this one safely in the bag.
Obviously some pubs require a journey that can’t be done in a weekend – the Highland and Islands and Croydon spring to mind. But it’s the places with weird opening hours that are bound to frustrate us most. That and giant walls;
I was reassured that my failure to conquer Saltburn Cricket Club wasn’t down to abject laziness on my part when I realised BRAPA hadn’t either, and Simon lives an hour way (assuming his father drives at 77mph along the A19).
We’ve been to Saltburn a couple of times; it’s a classic low-key resort with this exciting toboggan ride (Summer only).
Our boys were equally impressed with the steam train and tat shops; I don’t recall their disappointment that the GBG entry was closed during their visits. 8pm opening on Saturday – that’s just weird. Many micros are tucked up in bed by then.
For some years I’ve been ticking off the other North Yorkshire coast entries (Cleveland to normal people) around Saltburn, leaving the Cricket Club entry to laugh at the big hole in my page of pink marker pen.
But now it’s done. A short hop from the frankly scary Middlesbrough station accompanied by some very drunk folk seemingly on their way to Redcar’s Ember Inn, shouting “Lisa give us a wave” down the phone the whole journey. Dump him, Lisa.
Simon had no problem getting in last Sunday; I actually walked round that fence in the dark for ten minutes, contemplating a Victoria Park style clamber. Luckily the internet returned in time to recover the WhatPub page with proper directions.
If you’ve ever been in a sports club before, you’ll know what Saltburn CC looks like. For better or worse, I caught it on the last night of a small but “awesomely curated” beer festival.
It really was. Three Brothers, Geeves, Bridestone and a small microbrewery called Jennings who are so craft they hand-write their own pumpclips.
All the beers were £3.05 (cheaper for members) so I went for the first of those, a silky Stout served from a squeaky handpump into a lined glass (NBSS 3.5).
But you don’t make epic journeys like this for beer. The company was superb, a constrant stream of laughter from both sides of the bar. No TV to disrupt the chat, and the noise of a competitive pool match dominated.
“Did you used to come here” – “I did, but I never got in”
Lovely people, who thanked me for coming and drinking their beer.
With 25 minutes till the return journey, I had the choice of a pre-emptive tick in a new micro, or a walk round the promenade in the dark.
I clearly made the right decision, though stumbling across the bizarre statue of a local dignitary in the dark made me question it.
Not a soul about, but plenty of Middlesbrough’s middle classes in the smart bistros in the pleasant Victorian terraces. A pleasant small seaside resort, the St Annes of the North-East perhaps (awaits arguments).
I expect I’ll be back in Saltburn for the micro, if not to finally see the Victoria’s famous parrot,but for now, job done.