retiredmartin

July 2023. Attercliffe. Sheffield.

I have a little section called “Notes” on my phone and for 2 years there’s been a note saying “St Mars of the Desert”.

If Pastore is the trendy centre of Greater Waterbeach’s brewery centre, St Mars is the heart of hip Sheffield. Or something.

During lockdown I had a fair few of their cans, whose design makes Tiny Rebel look like Donnington (do Donnington do cans ?).

And they were great. But I’d never fancied wasting a Friday or Saturday afternoon at their Attercliffe tap when the rest of the world was on my doorstep.

But on Saturday I suddenly got bored with blogging (happens) and caught the yellow tram towards Meadowhall so I could finally delete that irritating note (another note says “do the garden”).

Attercliffe is the first really culturally diverse bit of Sheffield heading east.

The shops sell spices and models of the Burj Khalifa (I’ve been to Dubai, it’s a beer desert),

and repair your car.

And sell you IPAs and sours and weird stuff if you press their bell.

If you press the wrong bell, you get bear hugs,

or Laura, Laura Wilks.

You can guess my views on brewery taps. We already HAVE a brewery in Wolverhampton, why do we need more ?

But SMOD, as the kidz know it is very pastoral and calming,

and has table service inside.

I HATE table service, but the SMOD folk are just SO nice I do what I’m told and sit down and order a couple of beers. A Treetops and a Crumbling Splendour, I think.

I’m sat on the edge of a trestle table occupied by folk who drink slowly, which makes me drink too fast.

So I ignore the intermittent drizzle and go and sit outside and savour the sour.

Because I can never lie, SMOD is one of the nicest places (and busiest) I’ve drunk in, but I find the beer a little thin.

Which is my excuse of drinking an 8.5% sour too fast.

There’s what could be a stag party in the shed to my right singing “Bread of Heaven” badly and encouraging the future groom to drink a pint of Clamp in 10 seconds.

The Clamp is so popular the nice lady tells me I’ll have to wait for that, and since I’m impatient I have the Old Grimboldian instead.

Three beers in 30 minutes and my tummy is telling me it’s time to go home.

And no, this isn’s a plant pot, it’s a tomato plant.

Honestly, a sensational place.