retiredmartin

March 2025. Sheffield.

Back home from foreign fields, a man’s thoughts must inevitably turn to foamy beer in cosy English pubs.

Let’s take a hike over the iron bridge to a Kelham gem,

except the iron bridge doesn’t go anywhere and the Harlequin is more Wicker than Kelham.

I’ve always liked the place, but it seemed to go up a notch on last year’s reopening by the Rutland/Crow team,

going full on ale shrine (not a term you’d find in that 1976 GBG I was reading here) and adding the sort of simply written menu you can only dream of in 2025.

I sit down with an Old Boy nursing a pint of cider while he waits for his mates and start up conversation.

He eyes my pint of Mobberley Oatmeal Stout (NBSS 4).

“Are ya one of them beer tickers ?”.

He’s referring to the crowd staring intently at the pumps and walking away with two halves.

I assure him I’m strictly a pint man, me, though by now I’m looking intently at a bottle menu with numbers like 9.99 and 14.4.

We find common ground reminiscing about the pubs of his native Tyneside, and the merits of Newky Brown, and I pop up for a pint of a North Riding collaboration that is impressive (3.5) but hard work to finish. Lacings never lie.

The Harlequin has a rather different crowd to opening weekend, but by 4pm there’s a dozen in, not bad for Thursday.

I admire the ambient soundtrack and train diagrams in the Gents,

and realise that all midweek visits must by law include 2 pints of cask and a half of strong keg, in this case something inadvisably strong and Belgian.

And then I realise that the Old Boy next to me is still nursing that lone pint of cider, while I’ve whizzed through three.

And it’s definitely time to leave.