Britain may no longer
rule the world but it is safe to say that Britain did go about
inventing most of it. Not just the obvious stuff either, you know,
rule of law, parliamentary democracy, gunboat diplomacy, cricket.
Britain also invented railways, the jet engine, the pub,
concentration camps, ale, the deep fried Mars bar and the myth of
Welsh nationalism. All of which came about by taking something which
already existed and making it actually work well – or in the case
of the Mars bar, turning it into a precision guided killing machine.
In batter. I mean, the ancient Greeks invented the steam engine but
it took a slightly odd Cornishman and the allure of obscene amounts
of money to make it actually do anything worthwhile.
As to this, allow me to
return to this site's new apparent purpose; ale. Bit of a misnomer at
the top of the page, but let's ignore that. Right. As I was saying
about British inventions, they're all built on previous ideas made
better. And what's better than taking a bunch of good ideas and
mashing them together? Thermodynamics says you can never get out more
than you put in but, in this case, frankly, I disagree. Take four of
the best things to come out of Britain – trains, pubs, ale
(obviously), and architecture. Architecture? I hear you cry, but this
is the country that glorified Brutalism! To which I say, basically,
shut up. Add to this mix the beauty of the Pennines and, with a
stroke of maniacal genius, you have just invented the Trans-Pennine
Ale Trail.
Running through the
northern reaches of the Peaks from Manchester in the west through to
the outer environs of Leeds in the east the trail comprises most of
the stations between Stalybridge and Dewsbury. Charmingly, most of
the pubs and bars in question are actually within the stations
themselves. This is a throwback to a bygone age of rail travel, where
most of the larger stations would have had a general tea-room which
occasionally served something a little stronger. Now, with the
exception of the detestable franchises selling unrecognisable
styrofoam cups of grey, scummy liquid, upsettingly few remain. Those
that do are often in some of the most ostentatious Victorian
stations; most of which are located in the northern counties where
new industrial money produced some truly remarkable examples of
architecture.
First, the Dewsbury, at
the easternmost end of the trail, is a town located about halfway
between Hudderfield and Leeds. Here, nestled below the typical
wrought iron gridding, is a pleasant bar of time-darkened wood named
the West Riding Refreshment Rooms. The beer here appears to tend
towards heavy, full headed varieties, which I wasn't quite sure we'd
be able to cope with. This concern was not helped when two pints of
white foam were deposited before our slightly concerned eyes. Given
time and patience these coalesced into a surprisingly clear and light
pint, perfect to take the remaining sharp edges off a hangover.
However Dewsbury is not a place where one can spend a day; the bar is
fairly small, chaotic and perpetually crowded, and so on to
Huddersfield.
'Uddersfield, as the
man on the train called it, proved to be a revelation. I was
expecting a slightly decayed post-industrial town (shameful southern
bias, I'm afraid). In contrast I found a huge station of pale stone,
which opened up onto a similarly large esplanade of very impressive
civic buildings. I mean, the one opposite the facade of
Doric-columned stone which forms the station's entrance had a very
large reclining Brittania placed on its roof. Its neighbour settling
for the slightly less showy but always classic lions. The better of
the two bars in this station is the Head of Steam, a slightly
incongrously '50's diner-themed bar divided into four sections; in
principle for dining and accommodating children and the like. The
beer here is impressively varied in character and locality, with
ciders being fairly well represented in addition. Having been amused
by the name I settled in to a good few, very pleasant, pints of
Copper Dragon, which I would recommend to all and sundry. My
compatriot, clearly possessed of a more varied palate, sampled far
more widely – even venturing so far as to try a beer from South
Yorkshire.
And then...
Well, and then we went
home. This is the inherent flaw of the Ale Trail; there are nine
stops. Train services, while regular, and not as often as would be
ideal and so it is very difficult to do all nine stops (or even more
than two) in a given day unless you are starting in Manchester or
Leeds. The train times/opening hours/point at which the sun has
crossed the yardarm get into a bit of a snare otherwise. Starting
late, with a hangover, was probably not the best approach to take. We
do apologise.
Perhaps the most
difficult part of the day was the slightly arduous journey back to
the the relatively tame southern Peaks from the wilds of the
Pennines, which caused some complaints. It is apparently very
difficult to get around in the north. Not sure I agree. I mean, we
managed to cover nearly two hundred hungover and drunken miles with
fairly little fuss, confusion or tears. By contrast the very next day
I managed to get in a bit of a muddle over the three stations in West
Hampstead and, let's face it, that's just a road, a few houses and
some grass. For all their complaining these northern jessies don't
even know they're born.
James