Bringing my passion and my addiction together is something that naturally appeals to me.
After all, if you're going to spend hours running around the countryside, there should really be a reward at the end. Over the years I've developed a fairly reliable system: run to a brewery, build a substantial thirst, arrive looking like you've narrowly escaped some kind of endurance challenge, then immediately order a beer while offending anyone unfortunate enough to be standing downwind.
It's worked remarkably well so far.
There was the birthday run to Wetherby Brewery, numerous outings to Copper Beech in Worcester, a few pilgrimages to Glasshouse in Stirchley, and of course the infamous expedition to Nothing Bound, hidden away in the Worcestershire countryside. That adventure involved running much further than intended, becoming increasingly tired, and eventually completing what could generously be described as a partial run back towards civilisation to catch a train home.
As plans go, it was flawless.
I've also lost count of the number of times I've bribed myself with a pint at the end of a long run. Some runners use medals. Others use personal bests. I use cask ale.
Whatever works.
Heading for York
So, on a glorious Saturday in mid-June, one that turned out considerably warmer than forecast, I set off on my latest running-and-beer adventure.
The destination was York.
In reality, York is only about eleven miles from home as the crow flies. However, eleven miles barely qualifies as a Saturday run these days, and taking the direct route would have involved more busy roads than I fancied.
The obvious solution was therefore to make the route significantly longer.
Naturally.
The final route came in at somewhere around eighteen miles, heading north through the Yorkshire countryside before crossing the winding River Nidd, passing over the main railway line, negotiating the unavoidable A-road crossings and eventually connecting with the River Ouse for the final approach into the city.
It was exactly the sort of run I'm growing increasingly fond of living in the Vale of York.
Long stretches without another person in sight.
Huge skies.
Quiet trails.
The occasional tractor.
A lot of wildlife.
The usual suspects were all present: rabbits darting across tracks, deer disappearing into distant fields, countless hares and more red kites than I've seen anywhere else I've lived. Sometimes it feels as though every telegraph pole in Yorkshire has one perched on top of it.
The funny thing is that you can almost pinpoint the exact moment you approach York.
For mile after mile there had been nobody around.
Then suddenly:
Dog walkers.
Cyclists.
More dog walkers.
People seemingly appearing from nowhere.
Before long I'd reached the ring road.
Then the suburbs.
Then proper signs of civilisation.
By the time I reached the riverside near the Museum Gardens, the city was already buzzing despite it only being a little after eleven in the morning. There were tourists, locals, cyclists, families and what appeared to be an unusually large number of hen parties already several drinks ahead of schedule.
House of Trembling Madness
The main objective of the day was always the same.
The House of Trembling Madness.
For craft beer enthusiasts, it's somewhere between a legendary bottle shop, a pub and a religious pilgrimage site.
I've spent enough money through their online shop over the years, so actually visiting felt long overdue.
The building itself is brilliant.
It's housed inside one of York's historic buildings and somehow manages to feel simultaneously chaotic and charming. Narrow staircases, multiple floors, low beams and rooms stuffed with beer give it an atmosphere that's entirely its own.
Walking through the door, I was greeted by several hand pulls, an excellent selection of keg lines and, behind the bar, the sort of heavily tattooed younger staff who instantly make you realise you're no longer remotely fashionable.
The beer selection was exactly as good as expected.
Northern Monk.
DEYA.
Kernel.
Vault City.
Verdant.
And plenty more besides.
Faced with this embarrassment of riches, I made what was probably a questionable opening decision.
A hefty Verdant hazy IPA north of 6.5%. After eighteen miles. In warm weather. While mildly dehydrated.
In my defence, it looked like orange juice. Practically a health drink.
A Steady Decision
What particularly caught my eye were two fresh releases from DEYA's excellent "Steady" series:
- Steady Rolling Nelson
- Steady Rolling Motueka
The barmaid kindly poured generous samples of both.
Choosing between them was difficult, but ultimately I opted for the Nelson version.
A very good decision.
Punchy, aromatic and exactly what I wanted after a long run.
As a companion piece, I spotted something I'd never encountered before: The Kernel Best Bitter on cask.
I absolutely love The Kernel and couldn't resist. The beer was fascinating. Wonderfully fruity. Possibly too fruity for what my Yorkshire-conditioned brain expects from a Best Bitter. Still, they're a London brewery. I'll forgive them their interpretation of the style.
Just this once.
The Wonder That Is York Tap
Unfortunately, I couldn't linger at Trembling Madness for too long.
Partly because I needed to catch a train.
Partly because there was one more destination to visit.
York Tap.
What a place.
Seriously.
What.
A.
Place.
I've heard people rave about it for years and now I understand why.
On one side of the bar there appeared to be eight cask beers.
On the other side there appeared to be another eight.
Different ones.
Then there were the keg lines.
Everywhere I looked there was another beer I wanted to try.
Timothy Taylor dominated a good section of the offering, which is never a bad thing, but eventually I settled on a cask blonde from Little Brewing Company.
Mainly because I have fond memories of drunkenly chatting with them at a Birmingham beer festival and somehow leaving with a branded T-shirt.
I can't fully remember the details.
I suspect neither can they.
The beer itself was excellent.
Exactly what a post-run, post-beer, pre-train beer should be.
The Longest Day
The reason I'd chosen this particular Saturday for the run wasn't entirely accidental.
The following day happened to be:
- Father's Day
- The Summer Solstice
- The day I'd agreed to drive the girls to the airport at 2am
A truly magnificent piece of scheduling.
Drinking into the evening was clearly off the cards.
The original plan had been to wake before dawn on the longest day and head out into the Yorkshire countryside to watch the sunrise.
I just hadn't expected to be awake quite so early.
First light arrived not long after 2am and as we drove home from the airport I was treated to one of the most spectacular dawn skies I've ever seen. The horizon glowed with brilliant pinks, oranges and golds while the countryside slowly emerged from darkness.
By the time I got home, I wasn't remotely tired enough to sleep.
So I did the obvious thing.
I went for a run.
Chasing the Sunrise
The run itself wasn't particularly long by my standards.
Around ten miles.
But it took considerably longer than usual because I kept stopping.
Every few minutes I'd notice another view.
Another church.
Another field glowing in the early morning light.
Another skyline worth photographing.
My poor WhatsApp contacts were subsequently subjected to approximately forty-seven photographs of sunrise-related content.
It's become a problem.
By the time the official sunrise occurred, it genuinely felt as though the day had already been underway for hours. The gradual transition from darkness to daylight is such a slow process that your eyes adjust almost without noticing.
One minute it's dawn.
The next it feels like midday.
It was a wonderful way to spend the longest day of the year.
A Quiet Father's Day
Despite it being Father's Day, the combination of two consecutive early starts and very little sleep left me absolutely exhausted.
I don't nap.
More accurately, I can't nap.
I've never mastered the art.
So the remainder of the day involved sitting outside in the shade, enjoying the cooler evening air with a pipe and a single beer.
Just one.
I know.
Remarkably restrained.
Don't feel too sorry for me though.
The following Monday I somehow managed to find myself in Boston Spa Tap, quietly enjoying an outstanding pint of Ossett Blonde.
As always, balance was restored.
Rock and roll.
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