By
Rob
One
can't help but wonder if, when Guy Fawkes was being dragged to the
Old Palace Yard at Westminster to be hanged, he gave any thought to
his legacy. Did he, perhaps, imagine a time – over four centuries
later – in which two young adventurers would head out into the
wilderness of High Bradfield to celebrate his capture and
subsequent execution by drinking in front of a roaring fire?
Either
way, that's precisely what happened, as Andy and myself donned our
winter coats and headed for the far-flung reaches of Sheffield's
outer limits, ready and raring to tick off some distant pubs.
Just
days earlier, we'd received word that The Old Horns Inn would be
playing host to some Bonfire Night festivities, which included hot
pies and plenty of fireworks. Confronted by the promise of pints,
pastry and explosions, we made the decision to attend.
The
first thing we discovered about The Old Horns Inn was just how
difficult it was to actually get there. Situated out towards
the countryside, the venue wasn't easy to reach via public transport.
Complicating matters further was the fact that we couldn't drive to
the pub, as we would both be drinking.
There
was also the fact that we didn't own a car.
And
we couldn't drive.
Faced
with few options, I did the one thing that any self-respecting 24-year-old man does: I asked my dad for a lift. While the initial
response was "f*** off", he eventually came around to the
idea – on the strict condition that I demonstrated some brotherly
love and took my two sisters, Rebecca and Reanna, along with me.
However, it was a decision he'd soon come to regret, as we quickly
found ourselves stuck in a long line of traffic on a narrow country
lane.
After
sitting in one spot for about 15 minutes, we thanked my dad and
hopped out of the car, deciding to walk the rest of the way. This was
partly to speed up the journey, and partly to put some distance
between myself and my increasingly angry father, who wasn't overly
enthused about being immobilised in the middle of nowhere thanks to
his lazy, beer-swigging son.
The
four of us (me, Andy, and my sisters) arrived to find The Old Horns
Inn packed to the rafters with revellers. The interior of the pub was
pretty much filled to capacity, with punters spilling out into the
cold night air, standing as close as possible to the billowing flames
of the bonfire. Cleverly, a small, portable bar had been set up
outside. Unfortunately, this temporary service station sold only a
couple of lagers – which would have satisfied most people, but not Pubquest.
However,
getting inside the pub – the place you needed to be in order to
access the main beer selection – was difficult. Fighting your way through
the doorway was a tough challenge in its own right. Reaching the bar,
getting served, and not spilling your pint on the way back out was
another matter altogether.
The
solution was obvious, though far from ideal.
We
would wait until the fireworks began. The crowds would move outdoors,
hoping to catch sight of the skyward spectacle, leaving us free to
approach the bar. Of course, as my sisters were quick to point out,
it wouldn't be much of a Bonfire Night celebration if we missed the
fireworks.
With
Andy's supportive, enthusiastic nodding in the background, I quickly
explained to my siblings that Bonfire Night, which hadn't even been
running for 500 years, was a flash in the pan compared to Sheffield
Pubquest. Time would tell, but there was little doubt in my mind
that, ultimately, history would remember Pubquest more clearly than
that time when somebody failed to blow up a building. If we had to
sacrifice a few brightly coloured flashes in order to successfully
cross The Old Horns Inn off the list, then that's what we would do.
Sure
enough, the fuses were lit and the rockets launched into the sky.
Almost all of the punters shuffled out into the night to watch the
visual delights unfold. Meanwhile, Andy and myself – along with two
reluctant sisters – moved into the virtually empty pub and got served
at the bar almost instantly.
Looking
around at the pub, we were impressed by its blend of clean, modern
decor and countryside warmth – a hard balance to pull off! The beer
selection was perfectly good, and the food on offer looked decent
too. We each ordered a pint of Damflask, a reasonably dark bitter
with a nice clean finish from Thwaites.
Pints
in hands, we made our way back outside to enjoy the spectacle. Not
for the first time, I was struck by the remarkable extent to which
firework displays fail to impress me. It wasn't that The Old Horns
Inn didn't put on a good show – they did! I'm sure that anybody who
enjoys fireworks would have thoroughly appreciated it. But something
about splodges of bright colour appearing and disappearing in the
night sky, over and over again, leaves me utterly bereft of joy. No,
it turns out that I only enjoy the truly exciting things in life,
like reaching the final of a Connect 4 tournament, or discovering that a
rough-looking pub actually sells seventeen different types of craft
beer.
Andy
and I soon found another reason to ignore the fireworks, which came
in the form of a stall selling pies, peas, and gravy. Please believe
me when I say that you have never looked upon the face of true
happiness until you've seen Andy holding a pie.
Once
the pints and pies were put away, we headed off to the next Bonfire Night stop along the way, at The Plough.
Pub: The Old Horns Inn (Jane Street, S6 6LG)
Rating:
8.5/10
Pint: Damflask
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