retiredmartin

June 2026. Sheffield.

From the Park Hill flats we followed the path of the tram toward town, with the UK’s scruffiest tourist sign at the Park Square roundabout.

Much of central Sheffield has been modernised beyond recognition in recent years; heck, we’ve even got a Pret a Manger* !

There’s a big building site where the castle used to be that will leave us with (another) public park, and possibly a more obvious route to Victoria Quays.

Sheffield seems upset that Leeds and Manchester have flashier canal basins, and it can’t help that Victoria Quays seems hidden from view.

That rather hindered the famous music venue Dorothy Pax (RIP), which has just been replaced under the arches by the Lock Inn.

It reminds me of those little waterside bars in Ramsgate, cheery and independent,

and although the promised cask is off there’s a couple of kegs from Little Mesters, the Attercliffe brewer that’s not SMOD.

“What’s a little mester, RM ?“. Wiki says “The origins of the term are uncertain“, and it’s too late at night to disturb ChatGPT.

Chatty staff, Moldovan wine, and a seat by the canal. I wish them luck.

By coincidence, the next day we popped up to Ruskin Park (the one opposite the Blake) for the Walkley festival and they’d got Little Mester on, too.

And largers, a Yorkshire speciality (or is it specialty).

Nice to see an indie festival at a local event, and their two cask beers had run out by the time the first strains of a bloke covering “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” hurried our departure as soon as we’d scoffed the bhajis.

But, with you being observant, you’ll see the problem. Cask in plastic cups makes all real ale taste the same.

So my track record with Little Mesters hadn’t been a great success, a small brewery looking for a foothold by supplying festivals and marginal cask outlets. But tonight in the Blind Monkey their Roy’d Bitter was a delight. If only CAMRA allowed quarter point scoring.

*^{No, we really have. It was front page news}