Sheffield! (part two)

Our next destination is over the river. And up a dirty great hill. Luckily only halfway up it. The Forest, an unlikely brewpub.

The cask Mild is very tempting, but instead I opt for the Stout. An even rare style to find in cask form. It’s nice and roasty. As a Stout should be.

Dann and I discuss a new beer project. He fancies a WW II beer, but is worried that means something watery.

I reassure him: “There were still some pretty strong beers in the early war years. Then there’s the session Russian Stout.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Dann gets talking to the brewer at the bar. And they both come over to our table. The brewer seems a nice bloke.

I’m relieved that we won’t need to climb any further up the hill. As we’re headed back down it to the Gardeners Rest. It’s another pub with an impressive pork pie offering. In which we, naturally, indulge.

We sit in the garden at the rear, perched above the River Don. A much more pleasant prospect than it would have been a couple of decades ago. “It used to be orange.” One of Dann’s friends remarks.

A bit more climbing is involved getting to the next pub, the Crow. A slightly cavernous and rather spartan space. I’m starting to tire. What do I mean, starting? My knackerdness began a good few pubs back. I blame the hills.

“The posts about your travel with the kids are hilarious.” Dann says. “But I’m sure 95% of it isn’t true.”

“It’s the other way around. 95% is true.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Just the odd ‘improvement’ here and there.”

We exit the Crow about 25 minutes before our train is due to leave, Martha leading the way. Google Maps says it’s a 17-minute walk. We should have plenty of time. But does that take into account the gradients? Sheffield is very hilly.

It starts off downhill. Not for long, mind. Soon we’re toiling up a hill and I start lagging behind. Before we get to the final downhill run to the station, we’ve been over a few hills. I’m knacked. Being built for an Amsterdam-level of hilliness.

We’re getting the Transpennine Express. So, inevitably, it’s late. We’ve enough time to nip into a shop for provisions. A cheese and onion sarnie for me. Lager and cider for the kids.

The train finally rolls up.

A rather drunk young woman almost falls out. Followed by another. We move to step in, but another merry girl appears. We attempt entering a few times, with another tottering lass appearing each time. How many of them are there?

It’s just a short dash to Doncaster. But, as we’re in a crappy DMU, it’s not a particularly quick dash. We arrive in Doncaster, just in time to miss our connecting train. How often did that happen to me in the past?

“This is absolutely typical. I was always having to hang around in Doncaster station.”

“Are you about to tell us one of your boring stories about the oldie times?” Alexei interrupts. “Because we don’t want to hear it.”

“When I was studying . . .”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Read you magazine and shut up.”

OK, you miserable git. I’ll tell my readers instead.

When I was studying in Leeds, there were no direct trains from Newark. Despite trains between London to Leeds passing through Newark. To get back to Newark, I needed to get a crappy little DMU to Doncaster, where I changed to a mainline service.

All very good. But the train from Leeds was scheduled to arrive five minutes after the departure of an express to Newark. With an 80-minute wait until the next connection. Sometimes the connection was delayed and I could catch it. But not always.

The buffet in the station was crap. So, I’d wander into town, where a fairly decent Tetley’s pub awaited me. A couple of pints there, and then back to the station.

Not much of a story, I know. But it did include me drinking some Tetley’s Mild.

The train we’re getting is the last we can get. Best make sure we get on it.

I’m feeling quite sleepy by the time it screeches to a halt.

A confused young man without luggage stumbles off the train and asks:

“Is this Doncaster?”

“Yes.” Alexei replies, before we get on. He wanders off, legs stuttering. I guess that was the answer he wanted.

When we’re seated, Alexei says: “We should have told him it was Grantham.”

“That’s mean, Lexie.”

“It would have been funny, though, watching him panic.”

I was slightly concerned about what the taxi situation would be at Newark Northgate. Luckily there’s one there. But just the one. Lucky that we were first off the train.

Dave is still up. Though not for that long. The kids are still smashing their slab of cider when I trail upstairs to my bed.




The Forest
Rutland Street,
Sheffield S3 9PA.


Gardeners Rest
105 Neepsend Ln,
Neepsend,
Sheffield S3 8AT.
https://www.thegardenersrest.co.uk/


The Crow Inn
33 Scotland St,
Sheffield S3 7BS.
https://www.thecrowinn.co.uk/