The road to Bridlington

After a three night stopover in Bingley, it was time to head east and make for the Yorkshire coast. We had booked a night’s accommodation in the seaside town of Bridlington; a place none of us had been to before, but before we set off, a word or two about breakfast.  

The Premier Inn we stayed in was charging £9.75 for a full English breakfast, which Mrs PBT’s and I thought was rather steep. On the first two mornings, son Matthew had had other ideas, and had taken himself down to the attached Dalesway Brewer’s Fayre pub to eat his fill. He even managed to drag himself out of bed at a sensible hour in order to do so!

Matt informed us that for £9.75 you could help yourself to as much as you liked. Even so, that seemed like a poor deal – stuffing yourself silly just to get your “money’s worth” doesn’t seem a sensible option, so us parents decided to look elsewhere. A quick check on Google revealed that L&S Village Bakery, just down the road, offered a range of breakfast butties and other goodies to take away. The reviews were good too, so we jumped into the car and sped off, eager to grab a bite to eat.

We soon found the place, fronting onto the road, and with plenty of parking space outside. The fillings for the “butties” were cooked to order, so we both ordered bacon and sausage.  Once served we drove back to the hotel, parked outside and sat in the car eating our purchases, whilst waiting for young Matthew to appear. The bacon and sausage used for the filling, were plentiful, of a high standard and good value as well.

The quality and value of our breakfast “barm cakes”  - I know you mustn’t use that term east of the Pennines, persuaded our son to skip the Premier Inn’s breakfast offering on that final morning, which is why I before checking out, I nipped out early to pick up an order of breakfast butties for us all.

Suitably full, we checked out, loaded up the car, and set off for Yorkshire’s east coast. Mrs PBT’s had expressed her desire for a drive across the moors, and the technology obliged, as the Sat-Nav led us up a narrow road, more or less opposite the hotel, and straight up onto said moors.

It was a lovely sunny day and with hardly a cloud in the sky, the moors were looking their early autumnal best. The roads were narrow and winding, and fringed either side by dry-stone walls. I hadn’t seen such scenery since my student days in Manchester, when we would take a trip up into the Pennines.

Our route eventually took us onto some wider roads, and from what I could make out the navigation aid was taking us to the north of Bingley and then Bradford, whilst keeping us heading in an easterly direction. We skirted the town of Otley, before descending from the hills and onto roads which followed the river valley towards Tadcaster, and the Vale of York.

We skirted the latter and then took the A64 to the south of York, before turning onto the A166 which runs virtually all the way to Bridlington. We reached the village of Stamford Bridge, about five miles to the  east of York, where the bridge from which the village gets it name, crosses the River Derwent.

It looked a really attractive place and, had we not been in a queue of traffic, I would have pulled off the road and stopped for a look around. Writing this, I am now wishing we had pulled over, but we seemed to enter, and then leave Stamford Bridge so quickly, that all we got was a glimpse of the village square, tucked away just the other side of the bridge.

The family unfortunately were unaware of Stamford Bridge’s role in early English history, and of the famous battle which took place there on 25th September 1066. In this battle King Harold, repelled an invading Norwegian force led by his brother Tostig Godwinson  and King Harald Hardrada of Norway. This defeat of the Norwegian forces is said to mark the traditional end of the Viking era in Britain.

Harold’s victory was short lived, as just three weeks later, having marched his forces nearly 200 miles back to southern England, he was defeated at the Battle of Hastings, by an invasion force led by Duke William of Normandy.

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One can only speculate as to how much two forced marches, in the space of a few weeks, contributed to Harold’s defeat, but either way the battle which took place at Stamford Bridge  had a major effect on the course of English history. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to teach this stuff in schools any more, as my family’s lack of knowledge about what happened at this quiet and quintessentially English village, showed only too well.

Moving steadily eastwards, we could see a line of hills looming in the distance. These were the Yorkshire Wolds; an area of gentle rolling hills and dry chalk-land valleys, which run from Filey in the north, to the Humber Estuary in the south. The road ascended the escarpment at Garrowby Hill and we then found ourselves driving through this pleasant and relatively unknown area of Yorkshire’s East Riding.

We turned off the A166 at the quaintly named village of Fridaythorpe, following what was signposted as a “Quieter route to Bridlington”. We arrived in the seaside town at around 2pm, which was just the right time to check into the Premier Inn, right on the seafront.

We grabbed a welcome coffee in the adjoining Cookhouse & Kitchen, before going for a stroll along the seafront. We walked down to the harbour, pausing to take in the view northwards along the coast, to the chalk cliffs of Flamborough Head. The harbour area was especially interesting as Bridlington is still a working fishing port, which claims to land one of the largest  quotas of shellfish in the UK.

Wife and son headed for the amusement arcades, for a bit of fun with the “Penny Falls” machines. They actually take 2p pieces, but for a couple of quid, you can have half hour or so worth's of amusement of trying to beat the machine, even though you inevitably lose.

Being out of season, the arcades closed at 5pm, much to Matthew’s annoyance, but with each of us, a pound or so lighter, it was time to grab something to eat. Jeromes Pavillion Bar & Café, right on the seafront, fitted the bill, and with views out to sea, it was the perfect place to enjoy our haddock and chips, complete with mushy peas, bread & butter and pot of tea.

Cheap and cheerful, and with a glass roof supported by cast-iron columns which looked as if they’d been rescued from an old railway station, it was very pleasant indeed. The food arrived hot, and freshly cooked, and although the place was fairly quiet, you could imagine it being packed out at the height of the summer season.

We took a drive up into the Old Town afterwards, but the family didn’t fancy getting out of the car. To be fair, it was getting dark, but I liked what I saw of this historic area of Bridlington, so much so that I was wishing we’d booked another night.

As it happened, that was out of the question, as BBC Radio 2 were hosting an All Star Party, at the Bridlington Spa the following evening, and accommodation in the town was either sold out, or astronomically priced. I made a mental note to return, at some future date (along with a visit to Stamford Bridge).

We finished our evening with a few beers at the Cookhouse & Kitchen. The hand-pulled Jennings Cumberland was on good form at 3.0 NBSS, but the pub itself was slightly lacking in atmosphere.

The following morning, we headed for home. Don’t ever travel on a Friday, unless you absolutely have to. According to the AA, the 245 mile journey should have taken four hours and 40 minutes. We left Bridlington just after 10am and finally arrived home at 6:15pm.

We did however, stop for something to eat at another American-style OK Diner. This was on the opposite carriageway of the A1, and quite a way further south than the one we called into on the outward journey. The menu and food were of the same high quality, so it made a very welcome break to what was a rather lengthy journey.

A significant milestone

There was something rather special  concerning my recent  post about Haworth; the one where I claimed we were avoiding all things Brontë. The item I am referring to, and the thing which makes the Brontë post special, isn’t glaringly obvious, and I must admit it slipped my attention, despite being vaguely aware of its approaching imminence.

I could keep you guessing for a while, but that would be unkind, so whilst I appreciate what I’m about to reveal, may not mean much to some people, it does to me; even though my realisation  of the event's significance only dawned on me yesterday.

So without further ado, I can reveal that the article posted on 27^th September, represents the 1,000^th article posted on Paul’s Beer & Travel Blog!

This is a real milestone for a blog which I started writing in my spare time, and the real exciting news is that next month will see a further milestone reached, as Paul’s Beer & Travel Blog will be celebrating its 10^th birthday.

There aren’t any photos to share from that initial November 2008 post, but the one at the top shows yours truly, in familiar pose, enjoying a well-earned beer.

Random ramblings about Yorkshire and holidaying at home

Last week’s trip up to Yorkshire was the first holiday in the UK, of more than a few days, that the Bailey family have had in years. It was my dear lady wife who said this to me at the start of the long drive back from Bridlington last Friday, and looking back, she was right.

For the past few years we’ve holidayed as a family, in foreign parts, and probably would have done so this year, had it not been for Mrs PBT’s hospitalisation, earlier in the year. But having just done so, I have to admit it was much easier to just jump in the car and drive direct to our holiday destination without the hassle of airports and buses.

My wife certainly thought so, particularly as she didn’t fancy lugging suitcases around and dealing with the queues at security and passport control. Then there’s the bit when you re herded around like cattle, as you wait for the bus to take you from the car park to the terminal, and sometimes there’s another bus to take you to and from the plane.

Being relatively fit, these inconveniences don’t bother me that much; although my recent trip to the US involved five flights and no doubt seriously increased my carbon footprint for the year. It therefore made sense to take a holiday on home turf, and with Mrs PBT’s still recuperating after a nasty, and very nearly fatal  illness, these facts had to be weighed up and taken very seriously.

Of course, airports provide assistance with  both boarding and disembarkation, and this is an option we may well look at for next year, but as I said at the beginning, it was much easier to travel by car, as it was literally door to door.

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Travelling by car isn’t totally stress free of course; the drive home proved that only too well. A combination of road works and heavy traffic (to be expected on a Friday), added a couple of hours to what was already a lengthy journey, but it was not without its compensations in the form of the changing scenery and the sense of discovery which comes from seeing new places and experiencing new things for the first time.

First and foremost was crossing the Humber Bridge, between Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, whilst marvelling at both the stunning views and the incredible engineering which went into the bridge’s construction.

This was followed, some time afterwards by glimpsing the huge bulk of Lincoln Cathedral, striking an imposing silhouette against the horizon. I’m no stranger to Lincoln, having been a frequent visitor to the city back in the early 1980’s, but views like that still inspire, and instill a sense of awe when one takes into account the primitive tools and equipment the builders of these structures had at their disposal.

Apart from a brief business trip eight years ago, last week’s jaunt to Yorkshire was my first visit to the county in 36 years. So had the place changed much? The simple answer is yes it has changed, but only as much as the rest of the country has, and to confuse the issue further, the parts of Yorkshire we visited were different from those I’d been to before.

The fact that Mrs PBT’s has relatives in the county added to our visit, as local knowledge is always welcome, and it was also good to see how the other half live. I should add that I mean that in a positive, rather than a disparaging way.

I’ve already written about our visit to Haworth, and how that was enhanced by having someone who’d lived there acting as our guide, but it was also good to go out and do a bit of exploring on our own. This we did in the form of our visit to Saltaire, but for reasons of expediency, our evening drinking tended to take place at the pub attached to the Premier Inn, where we were staying.

Fortunately the single choice of Doom Bar at the Dalesway Brewer’s Fayre outlet on our first night, was supplemented by some very drinkable Black Sheep Best Bitter on subsequent evenings;, although I would still have preferred my pint NOT to have been pulled through a sparkler!

As is so often the case, we found the best pub on the last evening of our stay. The Airedale Heifer, situated in the village of Sandbeds, between Crossflatts and Riddlesden, was only 15 minutes walk from our hotel, so it was doubly annoying to have been so close to good beer and a good pub without realising it. (Actually I did spot it on WhatPub, but that’s another story).

On Wednesday evening we’d arranged to meet up with Mrs PBT’s relatives for a meal at the pub, and being a good and supportive husband, I drove us there. This substantial roadside pub is named after the famous Airedale Heifer, which was recorded  as the heaviest cow in the UK during the early 1800s.

The  Airedale Heifer is run by the Bridgehouse Brewery, and with the brew-house situated in an outbuilding behind the pub, serves as the brewery tap. With a good food offering and a number of different Bridgehouse Ales on tap, the Heifer is understandably popular with locals and visitors alike.

We enjoyed an excellent and reasonably priced roast dinner at the pub, washed down with a very quaffable pint of Bridgehouse Blonde. NBSS 3.0, and I would definitely recommend calling in, if you ever find yourself in the Crossflats – Riddlesden area of West Yorkshire.

The following morning, we left for Bridlington via the moors, the Vale of York and the Wolds, and that is worthy of another post.

Saltaire Brewery

I managed to squeeze in a couple of brewery visits during our recent trip to Yorkshire. They were visits, rather than tours; the difference being we visited the brewery premises to buy bottles of beer to take away with us, rather than undertaking a guided tour of the brewing plant.

Saltaire Brewery was the first place we visited, and whilst it took a bit of finding, it was well worth the effort. The brewery is situated not far from the centre of Shipley; a small town to the north of Bradford, which has now been absorbed by its larger neighbour to form a continuous urban conurbation.

The brewery is named after the nearby model village of Saltaire, a development planned and built in the mid 19^th Century, by Sir Titus Salt, who was one of the leading industrialists associated with the woollen industry in Yorkshire.

As well as the large complex of woollen mills built alongside the Leeds & Liverpool canal, Salt built neat stone houses for his workers. These were a huge improvement  on the slums of Bradford, as they were provided with wash-houses and bath-houses with tap water. The village also included a hospital, an institute for recreation and education,  a library, a reading room, a concert hall, a billiard room, a science laboratory and a gymnasium.

In addition the village had a school for the children of the workers, almshouses, allotments, a park and a boathouse. The name Saltaire is a combination of the founder's surname and the name of the nearby river – the River Aire.  The village has survived remarkably complete, and in 2001, Saltaire was designated a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. The buildings belonging to the model village are individually listed. 

Salt’s Mill closed as a textile concern in February 1986, and was purchased the following year by local businessman and entrepreneur, Jonathan Silver. The new owner set about renovating the splendid looking, stone-built, former mill buildings and today the complex is home to a variety of businesses and commercial ventures, with other parts used for leisure and residential purposes.

Strangely enough, the converted mill buildings do not house the Saltaire Brewery, which instead is situated a short distance away on a former industrial site, close to the Leeds & Liverpool canal. 

The brewery was founded in 2006, and since that time has gone from strength to strength. It now produces 56,000 litres of beer each week, delivering all over Yorkshire, the North West, the North East, Cumbria and beyond. Bottled beers are available from all major supermarkets as well as selected independent wine and beer retailers.

In August this year, the brewery carried out a major re-branding exercise and at the same time launched a new range of beers, with the aim of “bridging the gap between cask and craft”. The revamped range includes a session IPA, a citrus pale ale, a black IPA and an Australian and New Zealand pale ale. The recipes have a focus on flavour with hop forward, unfiltered and easy drinking beers, which are available in 33cl bottles and kegs.  

After parking in the brewery yard, we made our way to the Brewery Tap Room, which is housed in a single storey building on the other side of the yard. The interior is laid out like a pub, with seating and a bar-counter adorned with hand-pulls and keg fonts, dispensing a range of Saltaire beers. Chilled bottled beers are available from a fridge, with the full range of Saltaire bottled beers available to take away, by the bottle or by the case.

My wife and son sat themselves down at one of the tables, whilst I grabbed us some drinks. I opted for the cask Citra and ordered the same beer for Matt. He was impressed as to how good the beer was, as was I; the only trouble was I was driving so had to limit myself to just the one beer.

I made up for this by buying a selection of different bottles, all at brewery prices, and I shall enjoy drinking them later. The Tap Room was quiet, with only one other customer (and his dog), present, but the barman assured me the place would liven up later. He also told me hat business was going well and that Saltaire had been helped by having had a presence in the area’s pubs and bar for the past 12 years.

So much like the brewery bars I visited, whilst over in the United States, it pays to have a guaranteed outlet for your beers, where you can showcase them to the world whilst encouraging people to buy them. I would certainly be a regular customer, if I lived in the area. 

After drinking up and loading the beers into the back of the car, we left, with no clear purpose in mind, apart from filling the car up with cheap northern diesel. This entailed a drive into Keighley, just five miles down the road.

After re-fuelling, we failed to find the town’s most famous brewery – Timothy Taylor’s,  although the previous day we drove past the Cross Roads Inn, on our way to Haworth. The latter was displaying the livery of the Copper Dragon Brewery; a concern which has had several changes of ownership and also moved site a number of times. The brewery is currently based in Keighley.

Instead we took a drive out towards the town of Skipton, known as the “Gateway to the Dales”. On the way, we called in at the Naylor’s Brewery and Beer Emporium, at Cross Hills. I will write a brief piece about this enterprising establishment next time, so for the time being, it’s bye for now. 

Footnote: Saltaire are in the process of re-vamping their website, so for this reason I haven't included any links to the brewery site. It is worth bearing in mind that Saltaire beers can often be found in bottled form, in major supermarkets, and are well worth seeking out.

Dodging the Brontë sisters in Haworth

On Tuesday we visited the village of Haworth; a small village roughly 3 miles south-west of Keighley, and 10 miles west of Bradford. Haworth is  perched high up in the Pennines, and due to its literary connections as the home of the Brontë sisters (Charlotte, Emily and Anne), is a popular tourist destination. (Some might say it's too popular with tourists - more of that later.)

We drove up to Haworth with Mrs PBT's cousin and her husband. Cousin Kathleen was born in the village, and spent her formative years there, so not only was she able to act as our guide, but she could tell us what the place was like before it was overrun by tourists.

She told us that back in the sixties, Haworth was still a working village and was pretty much self-contained, with plenty of local shops (including several bakers and grocers, plus a Co-Op), a couple of banks, village schools, a garage and doctor's surgery. The only thing Haworth didn't have, was an opticians.

Now, as can be imagined, the village is a collection of tea shops, souvenir outlets, art galleries and establishments offering alternative lifestyles (New Age sort of stuff). In short, Haworth is no longer the working and "lived-in" village it once was, as even most of the remaining cottages have been turned into second homes, or holiday lets.

Drinkers will be pleased to know there are still a fair number of pubs; most of course catering for visitors rather than the few remaining locals. We didn't visit any, as neither Kathleen and her husband are drinkers, and I was driving anyway, but I would like to go back and try a few. It is possible to reach Haworth by a combination of public transport and the Keighley & Worth Valley Heritage Railway.

Despite the "dry" day, we had a really enjoyable look round. The weather was kind and, although a cold wind was blowing, we were blessed with wall-to-wall sunshine. It was especially good to have been shown round by someone who had lived in the village and could recount at first and what it had been like to have grown up there.

Before going any further, here's a  quick few words about how Mrs PBT's came to have family connections with "God's Own Country". WWII is to blame, as during that conflict her mother's brother was posted for a while to Keighley. He met a local lass there and after returning safely from the war, married her and settled down in the area.

I'm not quite sure how they ended up living in Haworth, but they spent the first two decades of married life there. The couple moved from the village when it started to become overrun with tourists. We met my wife's' aunt earlier this week, she is 95 years old and still quite sprightly, even accompanying us for a walk along the famous Bingley Five Rise locks, on the Leeds-Liverpool canal.

Returning to Haworth, we enjoyed a spot of lunch in one of the many cafés - the Cookhouse, before returning to the top of the village. Our visit was particularly good for Mrs PBT's continued recuperation, as she accomplished more walking than she has done since her discharge from hospital.

The fact that for much of the time she was walking along chatting to her relatives, meant she didn't really notice we'd descended from the top of Haworth, almost to the station at the bottom of the hill, before climbing all the way up again. This was without any encouragement from me, which had to be a plus!

So an excellent day out, made all the more enjoyable by the services of a local guide. As for Haworth's famous former residents, I'll leave you to make your own minds up about them. I'm certain though that the sisters never imagined quite how famous they and their works would be in years to come. Whatever their thoughts though, I think they'd be horrified by what happened to their village during the late 20th Century.

If you ARE interested in those Brontë girls, then buy a £9.00 ticket and queue up with all the other tourists, for a tour around the Brontë Parsonage Museum. If you think I did this, then you are wrong, but back in the late 1970's, and in a different life, I confess that I actually did step inside the place.

Sentimental journey

We had an interesting journey from Norfolk up to Yorkshire, travelling in a north-westerly direction, across the flatlands of Lincolnshire and across into Nottinghamshire. It was a journey I have only once undertaken, but for my wife and son this was the first time either had crossed such an interesting area of England.

We had all been to Yorkshire on several previous occasions, but the journey up from Kent is relatively straight forward - M25, M11, A14, A1 and then the more local bits, depending on which part of the county we are visiting, so for all of the route we followed on Monday provided the perfect example of just how varied  and contrasting our country can be.

The route was quite simple, A47 from Dereham to Kings Lynn, and then the A17 all the way to just south of Newark, where we joined the A1. The Yorkshire section involved turning onto the M62 at Knottingley, and then the M606 towards Bradford. I didn't time the journey, or even clock the mileage, but we left Norfolk  just after 10am, and arrived at our hotel in Bingley some time after 3pm. This included a brunch stop, at a rather interesting place on the A1.

The initial stage of the journey along the A47 to Kings Lynn, was quite a familiar one, as just south of the town is the impressive Beers of Europe warehouse. This enterprise offers one of the largest selections of bottled beers in the country, and has therefore been a fairly regular stop on numerous visits to Norfolk. But once we had crossed the bridge over the Great Ouse, and turned onto the A17, we were straight into the flatlands of the Fens, and on unfamiliar territory for the other members of the Bailey family.

It was an immediate and quite dramatic contrast to Norfolk, a county which is nowhere near as flat as many people think, and this was brought home to is as we  headed out across the Lincolnshire flatlands. Apart from the fields of cabbages and brussel sprouts, the majority of the harvest had been gathered in, leaving the landscape looking quite bleak and bare. What seemed to be missing was the almost jet-black soil I associate with the Fens from previous visits travelling south towards Ely.

The A17 is a major north west-south east highway, and if ever a road needs to be upgraded to dual-carriageway, then this is one of them. There was a substantial amount of freight moving in both directions and this, coupled with the inevitable agricultural traffic, restricted our speed to an average 50 mph. With few villages or other signs of human habitation, the totally flat landscape seemed to go on forever,

I have to admit that there was some more pure nostalgia  behind this trip, as it was not the first time I have made this journey. Thirty four years ago I travelled the same road in reverse. I was a twenty-something student at the time, living in Manchester, and was on my way to Norwich, to spend the weekend with an old school friend.

My pal was studying at the University of East Anglia (UEA) in the city, and was expecting me sometime that Friday. We had purposely left the arrangements loose, as our only form of communication back then was by letter. There were obviously no mobile phones in those days, and furthermore, neither of us had access to a landline, so we relied on an element of trust that everything would run to plan.

On a whim, I decided I would hitch-hike for as much of the journey as possible, so on a bright and sunny, but rather cold early spring morning, carrying a rucksack and armed with just a Bartholomew's Road Atlas and my thumb, I set off, bound for Norwich.

My journey took me across the Pennines, via the M62, and then in a southerly direction. I can't remember the exact route, but I do recall travelling via both Chesterfield and Worksop. I also travelled in a variety of vehicles, including a couple of lorries and the odd van, but it was the final leg of the journey, along the A17 and A47 trunk roads which relates to our recent trip.

This section was also the most memorable, as I hitched a lift all the way from the outskirts of the town of Sleaford in Lincolnshire, to the section of the Norwich Ring Road, where UEA was situated. This was all thanks to a gentleman in a sports car, who was travelling in the same direction as me and kindly took me all the way.

As we sped across the flatlands of Lincolnshire and into Norfolk, we passed through a number of picturesque villages, and even a few towns, as the A47 hadn't been improved at all back in those days. This was not only my first trip along this route, but my first visit to Norwich.

Now, 34 years later, I was travelling along that very same route; albeit in the opposite direction. To crown it all, and in a moment of real serendipity, as we approached the outskirts of Sleaford, I recognised that very same roundabout where all those years ago, I had thumbed that lift to Norwich.

I have perhaps spent a little too long on this diversion from the main narrative, but I wanted to include that piece of serendipity, so last Monday, by the time we reached Sleaford, the flatlands of the Fens had already given way to more hilly country, and this contrast only increased as we approached the town of Newark.

It was just north of here that we turned on to the A1 and headed more or less directly north. We were feeling hungry by this time and were on the look out for a suitable place to eat. Both wife and son remembered an American Diner style establishment somewhere along the Great North Road, and sure enough it wasn't long before son Matthew spotted a sign for the OK Diner.

We turned off the road and pulled in to the retro-styled  restaurant. It was great inside and we were soon seated at a table and contemplating the menu. I went for a brunch type bloomer of fried egg, bacon, sausage and hash brown, Mrs PBT's opted for a bacon sandwich, whilst son Matthew, hungry as ever, chose the mixed grill.

Suitably fed and watered we continued on our way. The traffic was heavy in places, with rather too many lorries for my liking, but we still made good progress, thanks in part to the fine weather.

I won't go into too much detail of the last leg of our journey, but we turned off the A1 at Knottingley, and headed in an easterly direction along the M62. As we approached Bradford, the terrain became increasingly more hilly, and once we'd navigated the city's "delights", we headed towards Shipley;  finally arriving at the Premier Inn, Bradford North Bingley. 

This has been our base for the past few days, but tomorrow morning we will be travelling across North Yorkshire, for an overnight, coastal stop at Bridlington. 

A brief halt in Norfolk

Our current trip to Yorkshire involved a stopover in Norfolk, in order to call in and see my father. It had been a while since I'd last seen him so I managed to book us into a hotel, close to dad's care home. It was rather ironic to have chosen the King's Head Hotel at North Elmham, as it was one of mum and dad's favourite dining places.

It is only a short drive from where they lived in Swanton Morley, and a visit to the hotel's Sunday lunchtime carvery was a regular way of celebrating family get-togethers and other special occasions. Although our one night stay there brought back some bitter-sweet memories, they were on the whole good ones, and it was encouraging to see the improvements that have been made there.

 

A look around shows that a lot of money has been spent on the King's Head, bringing this traditional, country hotel, slap bang up to date. The hotel is sited on a prominent crossroads on the edge of North Elmham, which itself is a small village on the banks of the River Wensum, five miles to the north of Dereham.

The hotel is an attractive red-brick  building, constructed in typical East Anglian style, with that unmistakable Flemish influence of ornate gables and characteristic curved roof tiles. We had a couple of rooms in the former stable block, which has now been converted to provide comfortable and well appointed overnight accommodation. I say "couple of rooms" as son Matthew accompanied us on the trip.

Mrs PBT's has a number of relatives in the Bingley area of Yorkshire, and we'd been meaning to take a trip up to "God's own country" for some time. Matthew decided to come along for the ride as well, so with the large number of bags which wife and son deemed necessary to bring, we had a full car for the journey up.

Returning to Norfolk and the King's Head for a moment, after calling in to see dad, we enjoyed a hearty evening meal in the restaurant. I opted for the steak, kidney and mushroom pie, correctly guessing that it wouldn't be a "proper pie". It was still good, although why do chefs insist on using puff pastry which disintegrates the moment your cutlery gets anywhere near it, leaving flakes of the stuff all over the place.

There were three cask ales on tap in the bar, but regrettably their quality did not match that of the food. The beers were Southwold and Ghost Ship from Adnam's, plus that rarest of sights, Draught Bass; surely a beer to gladden the heart of a certain well-know devotee and prolific blogger!  The Bass was on better form than the Southwold,  but it was still a little tired. Yet again this demonstrates the complete lottery associated with cask beer.

On the plus side, the King's Head provided us with a quiet and comfortable night's sleep, and I will certainly stay there again, the next time I go to see my father. Speaking of which, although dad is starting to look rather frail, he was in good spirits, even though he wasn't talking a lot of sense.

He is in his late eighties now, so his appearance isn't exactly surprising.  It was good to see him and good also to renew our acquaintance with north Norfolk and the King's Head.