May 2023.
The last Tuesday of May, a great day to have responsibility for keeping the in-laws out of the house while Mrs RM worked. A great day to visit Sheffield’s free gardens.
I was discussing with Mrs RM how little of Sheffield smart southern suburbs we’d actually visited since we’d moved 2 years ago (bar an almost permanent occupation of Phoenix Carpets in early 2021).
Loads of interest, even before you find yourself in the Peak, including this early protoptype Brunning & Price disguised as a Bishops Palace on the top of Meersbrook Park,
the place where Turner painted those pictures of Sheffield’s micropubs 200 years ago.
The in-laws were impressed with the stone housing on the roads west towards the golf clubs around Beauchief Abbey and the abbey itself is worth a stop.
Of course, as any of you who are old (59+) will know, the important thing with gentlefolk is not to overstretch them and build in regular loo stops.
And so it was that I made a first visit to the Castle in Bradway in 20 years. A regular for many years, and still a solid dining pub.
The day after the Bank Holiday, and with some “Road Closed” signs we ignored to deter the casual visitor, it was a wee bit quiet. Two ladies came in and asked for Black Sheep, interestingly, which confirms my suspicion that that’s a brand worth preserving.
From a Black Sheep glass they might have spotted, I had a sip (or was it a “nip”) of the Little Critters Pale from up our way, and while you can’t judge a beer from a nip, I reckoned 3.5.
So good I was tempted to shout love your beer at the delivery van that greeted our departure.
We could have had decent pub grub in the Castle, but Mrs RM had developed a reputation for her famous picnics, which we gorged on in Whirlow Brook Park, which I’m sure everyone in Sheffield had heard of except me.
A gorgeous combination of arboretum, sunken gardens and picnic grounds around a lake, the sort of place the National Trust would charge you a tenner to walk round in, say, Stourhead.
And then, after a quick break on the way back in the Botanic Gardens, bear pit and all,
I’d warn the octagenarians out completely. I may offer a gentlefolk wearing-out service on request.
retiredmartin 