I left the Old Boys in the Smithfield to their talk of “interesting” beers and Francis Lee’s gold Mercedes and crowds of 7,000 at Stamford Bridge, and wobbled back towards the station.

Blimey, those cobbles look big.

The Alex and the Brunswick lie over those cobbles, but I was headed for a re-opened classic with a Carling sign.

The Station Inn is the Stockton Sun of the Midlands. A workingmen’s pub, with Bass a side draw rather than the reason visit.

It had just that month been re-opened by a great chatty couple who had seemingly managed to keep all the character of an unfussy boozer. An album by The Nolans on the wall is A Good Sign.

I’ll be honest. I feared for the Bass; no longer from the jug, four pumps on the bar, and served in a Pedigree glass in a pub that was too quiet.

But it was nectar, the Bass of the day (NBSS 3.5/4), and if it hadn’t been my fifth pint I’d have stayed for more. But it’s best to leave, wanting to come back.


  1. Had an inebriated nutter latch on to me in this pub, the pain was lessend by the fact I’d just returned from a thirteen pub crawl in Nurton, I reckon he’d had more than me that day.


  2. I had a house in Long Eaton 1977-1992, nine miles from Derby.

    I never once visited it in that time, always going to Nottingham – ten miles away – or elsewhere.

    I wonder why now, with hindsight?

    Liked by 1 person

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