retiredmartin

July 2026. Midhopestones. Sheffield.

The Number 57 from the bottom of our hill (doesn’t really narrow it down) terminates at Unsliven Bridge 49 minutes later.

I had no idea what Unsliven Bridge was, apart from a sense it was beyond the darkest recesses of Stocksbridge, a Sheffield suburb I’ve barely touched and for good reason. Jamie Vardy started his career there. I’m surprised Tuchel didn’t play Vardy as a centre-back last night.

That Number 57 will bring you to the edge of Underbank, one of the procession of attractive reservoirs that mark that transition from steely South Yorkshire to bucolic Barnsley, and I’m not even joking.

The drought means there’s a bit more bank to Underbank at the moment. The drought also means the introduction of beer rationing, though obviously CAMRA will be campaigning for an exemption for nice independent breweries.

I’m not certain whether the two breweries that supply Ye Olde Mustard Pot, in a tiny village (great church) just off the A616 to Manchester at Midhopestones, are exciting independent enough for CAMRA these days.

I mean, Tim Taylor’s is SO ubiquitous (except in Keighley, where it’s all Inch’s and Cruzcampo) it’s virtually a monopoly, surely ?

That Boltmaker is GOOD, the Blonde from down the road past Wigtwizzle (honest) in Bradfield is stunning.

I’m not sure if we’d ever stopped at the Mustard Pot before, but it’s a destination diner for gentlefolk with a car park bigger than the reservoir. And if Dave from Chicago ever comes back he’ll want to eat here, it’s an exemplar rural English dining pub, the Texas burger one of the best things I’ll eat all year*.

But do not, repeat DO NOT, attempt to walk after eating that mountain of food and finishing off your wife’s liver and onions.

*_{Mustard in a plastic sachet, mind, loses a point for that}