Hand-pulled prose about Northern beers and breweries by Damon Fairclough
Bury is baking. On this Wednesday morning in late July, the sun has nudged aside the ever-present threat of showers and is doing its best to bring the red roses into bloom and give the town’s famous black pudding an even deeper tan.Read the full story..
I’m sitting at a long wooden table nursing a half pint of something pungent. There are belly laughs, there’s banter, there are black pudding scotch eggs – all the essential beer accompanying paraphernalia is intact. In fact it seems the only things missing are morris dancers.Read the full story..
God knows how much time has passed since I last saw a gooseberry. It seems to me that nations have risen, civilisations have collapsed and entire continents have drifted apart since I last set eyes on any of those translucent little fellows in their furry phlegm-coloured jackets.Read the full story..
I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now. Drink a beer and write about it I mean. But time and again, as sip followed sip, I found that the bottle was sunk well before I was ever able to reach for my pen.Read the full story..
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