Posts Tagged ‘Adrian Tierney-Jones’

Late Monday morning, and after a walk through the washed out January streets of the Vinohrady district of Prague, past patches of dirty snow and skeletal droppings of ice, it’s early doors at the Vinohradský Pivovar restaurant. Tables are already occupied with diners, including one where a chef in whites looks like he’s studying the…

My pint of Purple Moose’s ruby-red, malt-accented Dark Side of the Moose was rich in its symphonic harmony on the palate and a perfect Bach-like counterpoint to the serene and tranquil atmosphere of The Albion Ale House on a Friday afternoon in November. I was in a pub in the castellated town of Conwy, which…

‘Go to The Globe. It’s Liverpool encapsulated in one pub.’ I was off to the city where my grandmother was born in 1906 to research its pubs for my latest book. Twitter had been consulted. Amongst the blizzard of suggestions quite a few mentioned The Globe, but it was the above tweet that really stood…

I am a romantic when it comes to writing about the pub, of the many moods each pub I visit seems to cloak itself in, the people who come and go, the beers that I drink and the home from home feeling that a good pub always seems to possess (though most pub front rooms…

The stories of pub life are replete with the absence of sea serpents, fearsome giants and mysterious big cats. Instead, when we imagine the tales that surround and seethe around and within the pub, it’s about community, laughter, the night we went to Tilbury by way of Southend Pier and the beers that weave the…

There is a glorious dichotomy about beer. On one hand it is an agricultural product, and we can imagine fields of golden barley swaying in a gentle breeze and serried rows of lime-green hops in regimented lines somewhere in rural England. On the other hand, the process in which beer is made is firmly industrial,…

As ever, when I start on this column, I haven’t got a clue what I am going to write about without repeating myself or getting caught in a cul-de-sac of unreason, where no beer does sing. And then it becomes obvious, what I want to write about is the infinite and indivisible appeal of beer,…

I have been travelling once more in search of beer and pubs and it seems as if I have thrown on a cloak of strangeness. Used to my own pubs, which I have visited regularly since April, on coming to somewhere new there is hesitation at the door, a where-do-I-sit and do-I-need-a-mask and is-it-table-or-bar-service kind…

I belong to a Facebook group whose members post old photos of my home town — school pics whose young and eager-looking pupils are now in care homes, the beach on whose promenade stroll carefree Edwardians unaware of the express train of war coming their way, and various other nostalgic shots guaranteed to make most…