retiredmartin

February 2025. Kiveton Park. Rotherham.

Without the pressure of attempting to complete the Beer Guide by mid-September (a doddle compared to probate/house clearance/Powers of Attorney) I’ve been able to enjoy what we used to call pub crawls before CAMRA outlawed the term in favour of “Curated, Cultured Tour of Notable Hostelries“.

This means that YOU, my loyal readers, get lots of posts on famous heritage pubs rather than pokey micros, which sounds like win-win.

But, due to a medical condition called “Itchyfeetitis” I also need to find a different town to explore at least thrice weekly, and last Tuesday it was Kiveton Park that bore the brunt of my wanderlust.

“Kiveton Park lays claim to being in Rotherham Borough Council, has a Sheffield postcode, a Worksop telephone code, and has the Chesterfield Canal running through it” says Wiki, excitingly.

A thrilling station footbridge, too.

It also has those scary children frozen in time last seen in Newstead, another venerable mining village.

The closed buildings look the pick of the bunch,

(Gossip is a hair salon),

until you get to the Saxon Hotel.

You knew it was a Sam Smiths, didn’t you ?

In which case you’ll know that my opportunity to record the Saxon for posterity disappeared as I approach the door of this mini classic. So here’s one Ian Close took 8 years ago.

Hopefully Sir Humphrey’s successor will bring back mobile devices, loud music and Sky TV.

Or perhaps let’s hope not. The Saxon is a real throwback to bygone times where retired gentlefolk talked about books, brail and brothels. And the Blades. It was a like a sketch on an X-rated “Last Of The Summer Wine” episode.

I sat there with a pint of the frankly wondrous Stout (no cask OBB), agog. There was SO much I wanted to jot down I’ve now forgotten.

One thing about Sam’s pubs, the tables are set too far apart for easy chat.

“I’LL talk to you, even if they won’t” says the closest Old Boy.

No idea about, should have taken a jotting pad and pen, but I recall his mate ridiculing my pronunciation of Penistone and use of “Scots” to describe the people, not the whisky. It made no sense at the time.

The stout was SO good a sensible person would have stayed for another, but frankly I was getting irritable. That’s what not being able to look at your phone for 20 minutes does for you.