But survive the swooning approach and there sits a fine pub to be snowed in at: good beer, warm hearths and food fit for kings.

The pub is infected with sunny Sunday smiles. Gregarious family laughter shrieks, hoots and squeals around the dining room and through the thick bricked chimney breast. Not that Shibden Mill Inn is loud or raucous, nor large or imposing (though it does look expensive from the outside, which it is). It’s because it’s a place not just for meeting but rather gathering.

The inn sits east of Halifax’s strange topographically imposed footprint – the town;s urban area flares north-westerly like an Olympic flame from the shelf of Southowram. Hidden in the folds of the Shibden Valley it’s a sublime and homely setting for a country pub.

Shibden Brook runs through the garden, an unlikely source of geological carpentry. Its slow lapping pace complements the green and pleasant dale, but once it powered not only nature’s moulding of the valley but the corn mill that stood here before there was a pub (a mill which burned down long before it was rescued by (now deceased) local brewer Webster’s and turned into an eighteenth century inn).

Shibden Valley by Tim Green

Tucked in a little nook with all the charm and decor of a rural cottage, three candle lit tables are served by a hidden corner of the bar. The laughter is a distant and comforting hum, and we dine here sharing our bar with a clutch of other lunchtime visitors and a map-wielding drinker.

A local West Yorkshire bitter helps wash down a stodgy bread starter – four types of interesting nano-loaves with various homemade pickles and dips (a mini meal in itself, perhaps requiring a full two pints to wash it down).

Service is impeccable (all staff are suited and booted with smart aprons and pressed shirts or little black dresses); the food served is equally sophisticated – pan fried Cornish mackerel in oyster sauce melts at the sight of a mouth, pan fried scallops with artichoke the best scallop pairing since sliced black pudding. The staple fish and chips are completely unpretentious – chunky cuts of potato, a smashing big piece of haddock and generous pot of velvety mushy peas.

Perhaps I should have pushed the boat out and had the venison or Barnsley Chop? Only to raise fork to mouth again and wonder at how the chef made mackerel taste this good?

Mackerel

Fish & chips

Shibden Mill Inn

Country dining

Full, immensely satisfied, wallet subdued, we still can’t help but acquiesce to the dessert menu and find something sweet to finish our meal off. Perhaps by the time we’ve picked from the luxurious chalkboard a serendipitous snowstorm might have blocked the winding single lane ascent towards home?

The snow doesn’t come, and when we eventually rise to leave the pink-cheeked chap at whose expense the laughter erupted gets his revenge, via a red-faced gusty rendition of ‘For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow’ that announces the triumphantly arrival of birthday-sized dessert under a candle salute. And more people arrive to gather.

Nothing made going there enjoyable. Defeat hung in the air, fighting for headroom amongst depression and drink problems. The lights and jingles from the slots an unnerving theme tune to a nicotine stained prison.

Unfair perhaps, as I only ventured there a handful of times in the four years it competed to be my local. The Commercial that overlooks the same t-junction was a lively, friendlier place to spend time. (It was easy to choose Carling and karaoke at The Commerical over empirical research into a less salubrious side of pub going at The White Horse. And a cheerful bar manager helped too). Not that karaoke would have helped The White Horse survive.

Now the wooden boards are down from the windows, light once more hits the columns that used to block the view of the bar. It’s a Friday night and The White Horse is heaving again.

The mucky sign still hangs over the door, but it no longer lead to sticky carpets and dingy rooms. Instead the building is refreshed as a family run Italian restaurant, bustling with chatter and brimming with customers.

White walls are banded with travertine tiles, not a yellow stain in sight. Decaying lounge furniture is long gone in place of treated wooden tables and chairs with intricate iron cast finishing. Immaculate floors, a wood burning stove, walls covered in frames of family snaps, all the family, and it’s a big family, celebrating their communal efforts. The kitchen, somewhat oddly, looks out onto the street, as pizza bases fly in the air and vegetables disappear under the knife.

But it’s the noise and smell that have changed the most. The vibrancy of cooking rushes through what was a dank and musty chamber. The clatter, clash and splash of pans; a symphony of oil, ingredients, spice and chefs gesticulations; even the lick of a flame, silent but somehow resonating aurally – wispy and crackling against metal.

And cook these guys can. Chorizo – with those fatty bits that perturb me and my mediocre flash frying skills – is no trouble for the chefs at Kasa Rosa, and served with garden peas and shallots the salty meat lifts penne pasta and a tomato sauce from something you could attempt at home to something there’s no point trying.

What more could you want from a local restaurant?

And what more could you want from a broken and finished pub building, long since a lost cause to the local community?

A better pub in its place perhaps? Of course, but on this occasion I, along with many other local people, am counting my blessings.

So to accompany this feast and herald a climax to the Yuletide festivities, I brought a centuries old recipe back to life in the form of wassail.

This winter warmer is a heady concoction of dark ale and spices fortified with a splash of something a little stronger. It’s a bit like mulled wine for real men.

Various versions of this traditional English beverage are described, many based on cider, some on wine, others on ale. Many recipes involve mixing raw eggs with hot beer rendering a rather bizarre form of eggnog, but I fancied something a little more palatable.

Thankfully – and somewhat miraculously – I still had a third of a barrel of home-brewed stout left over from Christmas. The perfect base for my wassail was at hand!

Wassail and toast

First off, I threw a couple of apples into a moderate oven for about half an hour. Once these sweet and shrivelled beauties were cooked and cooling, I carefully warmed a couple of pints of stout on the hob, adding some sugar, ground ginger and nutmeg, a cinnamon stick and glug of port (brandy, sherry, Madeira or whisky would also do).

I whacked a slice of brown bread in the toaster as the resinous mixture heated through, its enticing aromas wafting around the kitchen, and stirred until the sugar had dissolved and spices fully infused.

When all was ready, I popped one of the oozing baked apples into a suitably wide glass and poured over a hearty measure of the fragrant warmed ale. I stacked a couple of chunky wedges of toast atop the glass and voila, welcome to the 16th century!

A lovely, warming combination of sweetness and spice with a tart edge from the bobbing apple certainly made me feel all festive. And the toast ‘sops’ dipped into the mulled ale worked a treat, though strangely they seemed to soak up only the tannic elements of the beer.

Definitely one to try throughout the winter months…or as an accompaniment to lasagne!

Wassail made with homebrewed stout

Unsuspecting wassail guinea pig (my sister!)

For a ginger beer Robinson’s Ginger (brewed for M&S) is a dark and syrupy affair, quite different from a can of Barr’s or Old Jamaica. It’s strong with a treacly bitterness, but it’s sprightly too, cutting through the runny honey, the chargrilled corn and complementing the rustic spice of nutmeg.

Everything comes together bringing something different to the dish – the rocket and natural yoghurt cleanses and calms, the rice a fragrant bedrock. The beer simply wraps everything up in a tongue tingling finale.

The beer on its own is quite a ride, but with food it’s elevated to an essential role where it fulfils more than it does individually. The recipe calls for rum (which isn’t a staple of our cupboard, therefore omitted) but perhaps next time a dash of strong ginger beer might be called for in the pan, to ruffle the feathers and add a ginger tang to the fiery kick of the chillies.

Killer jerk chicken with a killer beer combo = lots of finger licking and a sticky glass!

Frederic Robinson's Ginger Beer brewed for M&S

Bone Knawin' Finger Lickin' Ginger Beerin' Good!

Sides of corn, rice & peas, and lime & coriander dressing

The original recipe is from Jamie’s 30 Minute Meals and you can find other examples of the recipe at The Little Welsh and Recipe Rifle

It has everything: the tourism factor, rural charm, traditional appeal and just a dash (ok, a mighty big dollop) of implied family strife, backstabbing and conspiracy theory.

And there’s no doubt that the Masham Sheep Brewery was never going to have quite the same ring to it, was it?

The birth of the Black Sheep was the best part of 20 years ago and now the brewery stands proudly at the gateway to ancient Yorkshire market town of Masham, where it hides from view it’s Scottish & Newcastle owned rival, Theakston’s, the brewery which still bears the family name of Black Sheep founder Paul, husband of the woman who named his new venture back in the early 90s.

As the car bumps its way along the A1 to Masham, I’m unaware of Mrs Theakston’s role in the birth of Black Sheep’s brand identity, but I’m very aware of Black Sheep. My perception – a charming, rural, traditional brewery that make pleasant but unexciting beers. A brewery that adopts a bit too much humour from their ruminant mammal brand advocates for my liking.

Generally, I just see Black Sheep as a bit, well, sheepish.

I’m mulling over these perceptions and a recent discussion about innovation in beer as we sit down to start a 5 course beer and food pairing meal organised by Black Sheep at their Baar & Bistro, a notably modern and successful concept. 80 people are hunched over Welsh rarebit and Black Sheep Best Bitter, a simple and tasty dish to kick of the evening’s proceedings.

It’s fair to say that Black Sheep Brewery aren’t seen as innovators in the brewing world, but sat in the contemporary surroundings of their visitor centre there’s something of a paradox going on – despite their roots in Yorkshire tradition and simple, honest ales their home is dominated by marketing-led commercial strategies. The shop is filled to the rafters with Black Sheep branded rugby shirts and chutneys; the bistro, reminiscent of a ski chalet, serves contemporary dishes more akin to high street bars like Slug & Lettuce than a local pub. There are real ale baseball caps with sheep for logos. Pete Doherty would not be impressed.

Once the rarebit nibbles are gobbled up it’s a starter of Tempura Prawns, a staple of the high street bars and grills. The pairing with Golden Sheep was obvious but equally successful (in fact later in the evening it’s voted the best beer) and seemed to have particular favour with the female of the species.

Black Sheep beer tasting

Tempura Prawns with Golden Ale

Lamb shank braised in Black Sheep Ale

Chewing the cud with Head Brewer Alan

We tuck in, and perceptions of the brewery are challenged as head brewer Alan Dunn tells us about the imperial Russian stout that is conditioning somewhere beneath our feet in the depths of the brew house. Brewed for the Grand Baltic Adventure, a recreation of the sea journey suffered by stouts back in the 18th and 19th centuries on their way to the courts of the Russian aristocracy, the stout is one of 12 competing to be crowned tsar of stout by judges awaiting in St Petersburg.

An imperial stout is a far cry from Black Sheep’s usual cask ales, and next up in our showcase meal is the famous Black Sheep Ale to wash down melt-in-your-mouth lamb shank braised with the same beer. Arguably the most appropriate beer in the range for this course, but perhaps not the most appropriate beer in the world for it (something with just a bit more of a spicy herb twist or sweet, soft-fleshed fruit punch might have lifted the combination to greater heights). But we shouldn’t complain, as the lamb was magnificent, not in a Michelin-star way, but in a “How-the-hell-did-they-cook-it-that-well-for-so-many-people?!” way.

I’m wondering how Black Sheep brew so much beer for so many people too, with their beers found throughout pubs and supermarkets all over the north of England and beyond and the answer is in the huge brewing kit that populates the rest of the building. The houses not only Black Sheep’s original Yorkshire squares - cuboid fermentation vessels made from sandstone or slate – but also Black Sheep’s 21st century ‘squares’ – stainless steel cylinders that adopt the time honoured yeast trough and rousing technique  from the original designs, but that make it a darn sight easier to clean the equipment after use!

Chocolate tart arrives: it’s March and Ruddy Ram should really accompany the toasting of marshmallows over a winter fire. It’s a a fine friend to a bitter chocolate tart, palpably laced with liquorice and hints of molasses and smoky dairy milk, without quite the voluptuous mouth feel that stronger stouts might demand. Fundamentally, this is still a pub beer to keep regulars warm on those wet and windy walks home in the winter months.

Around the table conversation touches on the facilities at Black Sheep and the consensus is unanimously positive. Tradition, pub drinking and local character seem to form the basis of the brewery’s values and what could be more in tune with those values than a meal ended with local produce to share around a table?

“5.6%!” exclaims the chap sitting opposite me as the trio of Yorkshire cheeses arrives at the tables, accompanied with Riggwelter, Black Sheep’s strong ale. From the Norse-derived Yorkshire term for an upended sheep (“rygg” meaning back, and “velte” = “rigwelted”) the sheer mention of the ABV of Riggwelter almost knocked some drinkers off their chairs. It knocks the socks off the pairings so far too, without ever having to try too hard. Strong beer, strong cheese, voilà. Boozy, rich, yet distinctly Black Sheep. It a kind of  muted, Yorkshire decadence within dry-stone walled boundaries.

And that’s probably a good way to sum up the night, and Black Sheep. Good food, good beer, good company.

It’s not rock ‘n’ roll, it’s not ostentatious, but it’s certainly not what I’d call sheepish.

Black Sheep Brewery, Masham. So far the exterior of the brewery is free of sheep puns and we hope it stays that way...

The Black Sheep dinner was hosted at the brewery in Masham and they plan to put on similar events (we think they make a great surprise present for a real ale lover!) We were lucky enough to be invited by the brewery, and splendid hosts they are, so thank you to all the team. Ands thanks to Beer Reviews and Dave Lozman for saving the day with photos after ours were lost. And a big cheers to Will, Ian and Andy & co for an evening of mildly intoxicated conversation!

Rhodesian seafood on the rooftops of Lindos

I love mussels almost as much as I love alliteration. Ever since my first taste I’ve wanted to try them in as many different guises as possible. The best dish I ever had was sat on a rooftop in Lindos on the Greek Island of Rhodes – cooked in a hot and spicy tomato sauce, and not those small shrimp-like examples you buy in Morrison’s, but large, juicy, succulent mullusca in giant iridescent shells harvested earlier that day.

Seafood isn’t something I find particularly easy to cook at home, and Monday through Thursday it’s all about ease of cooking in our household (it’s a different story at the weekend though!). Enter our nearest supermarket and ready prepared mussels: cardboard-packed and shrink-wrapped in a garlic and white wine sauce.

These are really easy in an evening. We boil some tagliatelle to our preferred softness whilst frying some large farmhouse mushrooms and onions, throwing the mussels and sauce in a pan, and stirring the lot together. Voila.

Martsons Oyster stout with mussels

If you’re lucky enough to have a better half who will cook for you (because, 1) you can only cook within geological time frames as opposed to minutes and 2) you have an instinctive need to dirty every last utensil and pan in creating gastronomic delights) then I’d recommend spending the 10 minute cooking time selecting a nice porterstout from your beer cupboard to accompany the tasty morsels.

Marston’s Oyster stout is a pretty typical partner for this meal – it’s easily available in supermarkets and tasty to boot. It’s  dark with a thick, off-white head. It’s usually creamy yet dry to finish, with hints of burnt wood sitting next to (often) slightly spicy fruit and sometimes molasses. The finish makes me think of dirty tyres, at least when it washes down our bivalved fruits de mer. It’s not bursting with flavour, it’s far the blandest stout, it won’t break the bank. And it goes well with mussels (and I guess oysters too!)

Potted Cheese with Toast

Like me, you are probably more familiar with the phrases Potted Beef or Potted Shrimp than Potted Cheese. ‘Potting’ ingredients is a traditional way of stretching ingredients with butter while adding flavours and it can be  done with a good cheese in the same way as it can with meat or fish. These days it is a great way of doing  something different with your cheeseboard and also linking the beer you’re drinking to the food you’re eating.

Ingredients

350g Yorkshire Blue cheese (Stilton or any other strong, crumbly cheese can be used)
75g unsalted butter (at room temperature and cut into cubes)
½ teaspoon ground mace
3 tablespoons Beer

Method

Ingredients

Crumble the cheese in a mixing bowl before adding the butter and spices and creaming with a spoon until the mixture is fairly smooth. Gradually add the beer, beating in each addition, until the mixture has the texture of a thick paste. This paste should be spooned into your serving/storage pot and smoothed off. The mixture needs to be left for a good few hours in the fridge before being served. The longer you leave it the more the beer will infuse with the cheese and the flavour will develop. It can be stored for a couple of weeks by sealing the top of the pot with some melted butter although these days there’s little reason to do this and making it with fresh ingredients on the day is probably the best course of action.

Mixing it up

I originally used Chimay Red in making this dish but did further tests with Old Hooky and Orval. I do think it lends itself quite well to Trappist beers and the Orval was the best in my opinion. You could equally use your own favourite ale and see how it goes, another one that I would like to try would be Badger’s Poacher’s Choice.

Serve by placing the pot in the middle of the table with some plain crackers, toast (as pictured) or some crusty bread and of course a glass of whichever beer you have chosen to make it with.

The menu offers seasonal stews using locally sourced produce, a large bowl with crusty bread being £5.50, Bruschetta, Anti pastas (including a Cheese Board or cold Meat Selection). Obviously Oysters were available, £1.50 for a single portion. There were also sweets and hot drinks available but in the main the menu was short and fairly uncomplicated. I cannot imagine Gordon Ramsey coming in and levelling his favourite ‘pretentious’ allegations at this menu. In a rather innovative twist you can also get a pot of stew and some chunky bread to take away for four quid, which I think is rather a bargain, and 5.50 to sit in doesn’t seem too bad either.  can’t vouch for the quality of the food but hope to be able to shortly, if anyone reading has eaten here please add comments and let me know how the food is.

Turning to the beers their are currently three cask ales available, Theakstons, Deuchars IPA and Mr Scrooge which I assume is a guest left over from the Christmas period. Amstell, Sagres, Guiness, Leifmans Fruit Beer and Bulmers were all also available by the pint. Turning to the fridge bottles of Broolyn EIPA, Vedette, Duval and Aspall’s Cider. Basically the selection is now what ‘beeries’ are increasingly able to expect from decent mainstream bars in Leeds. Very reminiscent of the selection available at Baby Jupiter Bar but in a very different setting. Personally I think that this shows an continuing trend towards different types of bar looking to stock a greater variety of beers that was once merely the preserve of North Bar.

A nice cool bottle of Chimay Red in front of my parents open fire

This 7% Trappist beer was the initial choice for making my Potted Cheese recipe but, after a couple of taste tests, I reverted to Orval. As I find with most of the Trappist beers, this was quite lively in the bottle and the carbonisation was a lot of small bubbles which fill the mouth with a silky smoothness. The appearance of the beer in the glass is dark and cloudy.

The initial taste has the fruity undertones of a good wheat beer but the darker malts push through as a bitter taste develops in the mouth. This bitterness lingers in the mouth along with the distinctive taste of alcohol, a reflection of the 7% content. The combination brings to mind a reminiscence of the smell left in the glass by a good whiskey.

In an attempt to be somehow faithful to the medieval tradition of the Trappist brewers I cooed this bottle outside by parents back door, just perfect for preserving fridge space in this cold spell.