Number Seventy News

Considering that the last place visited by this log was Paris, Doncaster is up against strong competition – and comes nowhere.  The Frenchgate centre in the evening is like visiting a world where all human life has evaporated – and it hasn’t gone to the pubs.  White Swan closed, Great Northern closed, The Plough a little gem with some nice Vermuyden ale.  The Leopard somewhat deserted though beer acceptable, the Corner Pin had an eccentric clientele and, considering it had got the Doncaster CAMRA award for a town pub recently, didn’t seem to have kept the beer in top form.

Streets of Doncaster deserted – all rather sinister.

This time, by bus, with the Portland Street Pedestrians, on the closing tour of the winter season.  First pub was the Black Bull, crowded but only John Smiths cask and a mediocre Bass in the drinkable category. Digitised Juke Box had a vast selection but only gave part of the title and the singer’s name, which led to some oddities.  Better entertainment would have been had at the Arts Centre nearby, where Martin Simpson was appearing.

The Feathers Hotel was much more like it – a wide selection of beers, Caledonian Over the Bar was excellent.  At the next, almost deserted pub, just round the corner, they had Copper Dragon, from Skipton, and then at the last, which seemed a bit like someone’s rather untidy house, some Courage Directors went down very well.

We had our bus back to York to ourselves – it runs to bring revellers back to Pock after a night out, rather than the reverse, but it gave us time to contemplate the summer season of pedal-powered excursions – of which more, no doubt, anon.

A meander round the inner suburb, starting for me at the Bay Horse on Blossom Street. Always a very local pub, except on race days, and quite cosy. The Deuchars was off but the Black Sheep was superbly kept, one of the best pints of Sheep I’ve had in a long while. Nearly opposite, the Mount was closed and advertising for a new manager, but nobody felt deprived as it was never a favourite. The Crystal Palace has a rather bright lounge bar, a bit like a 1950s living room with 150w bulbs, and full of well-dressed old people of both sexes chatting quietly. Our group was perhaps an atypical intrusion. But as it’s a Sam Smiths pub, the beer was extremely cheap. Finally, to the Fox, which has had its ups and downs but retains the two nice back snugs. Not quite as comfy a feel as it used to be, but OK.

In all the Portland Street Pedestrians merry wanderings, I doubt there is one which has ever covered so little ground as this – all within the military HQ of the Roman Army of the North – about as far as the average legionary had to walk from his barracks to the latrines.

Starting at the would-be-ancient but actually rather new Lamb and the Lion, in the shadow of Bootham Bar. One of those hard wood pubs, and kept rather dim, but with several separate rooms, some quite snug. On a few modest yards, to the Hole in the Wall, where there was a nice pint of Jennings. The food menu looked good too but there’s something unhomely about it. We escaped before the quiz and headed for the Guy Fawkes, omitting the Three Legged Mare and the York Arms on the way – nothing wrong with them except being well-known already. The Guy Fawkes, long established as Young’s Hotel, had found a new popularity, aided no doubt by late-night Christmas shopping, so we headed past the Minster and the upside down column from the old HQ to the Cross Keys.

There’s a school of public house management that believes that the brightest possible lighting is an encouragement to discerning topers. This school also finds the hand-pump a bit of an intrusion, preferring shiny pipework and illuminated lettering rearing up over the bar. At the Cross Keys both these misconceptions were in evidence, though the one draught beer on offer, Santa’s Tipple, was acceptable enough, with just a hint of what may have been reindeer droppings.

We were on safer ground at the Golden Slipper, which was keeping its Deuchars bitter exceptionally well. We might well have settled down for another were it not for the juke box, which had some regrettably loud offerings, so, having sent a scout ahead to see what room there was at the Royal Oak, we ended up in the back bar by the fire, very cosy and with the lighting level just right for the first time all evening. A nice glass of Jennings Cumberland Ale finished off the evening most acceptably.

One important discovery of the evening was that the originator of the ponzi fraud was our very own George Hudson, the Railway King, back in the 19th century. So Mr Madoff has York to thank for his (until recent) success !

The Portland Street pedestrians have completed their winter programme, apart from the final stroll, where we play away. Northallerton, this year.  Missed a few outings, but there were some highlights and lowlights to record on the ones I managed.

Lowlights first. As ever, the Groves have little to recommend them, both the Independent and the Castle Howard Ox seeming to find customers quite a surprise, not quite sure what to do with them, and how do you keep this beer stuff anyway ?  Over on North Street, the First Hussar, if that’s what it’s currently called, had installed a huge shiny chrome dispenser of fizzy lagers in its back bar, though real beer could be brought through from the front.  I hadn’t been in the King’s Arms for about 20 years, and shan’t do so again until old age has made me forget how awful it is.  The Fox on Holgate Road used to be quite smart, just after its redesignation as a heritage pub, but it badly needs refurbishing again.

Highlights ?  Well, I had the best pint of the season in the Bay Horse on Blossom Street, Deuchars, but somehow even better there than it usually is.  The Maltings is always worth a visit , though I’ve known comfier seating. Bizarrely, we found the Three Cranes a real treat – a few dedicated elderly locals shifting their pints – just a cosy sort of spot, and with the sort of 60s music you could sing along to as you were leaving.  So different from the Hansom CAb where most of us were 40 years older than most of them.

Thursday night is hazardous – it’s a popular one for pub quizzes. We escaped from the Brigadier Gerard just in time but hit the one at the Trafalgar Bay fair and square. As it turned out, we would have won it if we had entered.

And we finished, washed up and weary, in the York Arms, with a coal fire on a warm evening – we just couldn’t summon the energy to cross the road to the Three Legged Mare.

So we’ll have to start there next year !

The Portland Street Pedestrians like to end the winter season, before they metamorphose into the PS Pedallers, with an outing beyond York and its vast range of cosy hostelries. In the past we have visited Malton, and the Stalybridge, Huddersfield, Dewsbury rail trail; last Thursday it was Tadcaster, home of the Smiths (Sam and John) and the less sung Bass brewery round the back. Yorkshire Coastliner delivered us there and we were soon roasting in the snug of the Angel and White Horse, where a real coal fire was imitating Hades. So, on to The Falcon, where the locals cluster round the door to inspect you thoroughly as you come and go and the contraceptive machine in the gents includes Nurofen amongst its preventative measures. Finally, the low chocolate-ceilinged Howden Arms, where the fire had just been put out by an over-enthusiastic application of rubbish but the smoke detectors weren’t being fooled as we swam in through the murk and refused to sound the alarm. As the temperature dropped we soldiered on to 11.20, leaving by the back door in time to get the 11.32 bus back to York. We did observe that most pubs in Tad didn’t seem very busy and, apart from the massed ranks of the PSP, were being kept going by the same half-dozen locals diligently circulating. I’d go back to the Angel and the Howden – not sure I’d bother with the Falcon. After all, there are several others we should try next time.