There is a particular joy in the microbrewery and/or pop-up pub. A fleeting miracle of hops and optimism that appears in a small town industrial unit, or old shop promises artisanal enlightenment, and dares you to pronounce half the taps without embarrassing yourself.
And half the adventure is getting there.
I’ve been rediscovering the joys of alternative transport. First it was the bike — heroic little expeditions out to Llanfairfechan or Felinheli — but lately the trains have become the chariot of choice. Trains, it turns out, are the perfect vehicle for microbrewery exploration because they remove the tedious burden of responsibility. If you’re not driving, you can drink with the carefree abandon of a Victorian aristocrat. Even better if you don’t have to pay; but I always pay (in case the fascist railway police are reading this).
Recent excursions have included the noble towns of Rhyl, Llandudno and Colwyn Bay, all of which now play host to the modern phenomenon of the microbrewery taproom: part pub, part laboratory, part optimistic social experiment.
I used to work in the Bay, and my memories mostly involved daytime scenes that resembled a nature documentary narrated by someone deeply concerned about society. Watching junkies and chavs arguing in broad daylight does tend to colour your expectations of what an evening out might entail. But microbrewery pubs have a strange superpower: they can make an industrial estate or an old shop feel like a cultural destination simply by installing fairy lights and charging £5.80 a pint.
Inside, the atmosphere is always the same in the best possible way: small, busy, slightly chaotic, and spilling out onto the pavement because the concept of “capacity” is more of a philosophical suggestion. You’ll find people earnestly discussing yeast strains while standing next to someone who just wants “a normal lager please” and has accidentally wandered into a dissertation.
Then comes the tasting.
Rows of taps with names that sound like rejected indie bands: Hazy Comet, Angry Otter, Post-Industrial Sunrise. Every beer has a paragraph attached. Every paragraph contains the words citrus, notes, and finish. Suddenly you’re expected to have opinions about mouthfeel.
We tried the Czech lagers first, hoping for something familiar. A comforting baseline. A linguistic safe space.
Instead, we discovered that our senses are either broken or have quietly resigned from service. Pint after pint arrived with indecipherable names and subtle differences we were assured absolutely existed. If we were proper connoisseurs, we’d be detecting delicate fragrances and poetic undertones. We’d swirl the glass thoughtfully and murmur about balance and body.
In reality, the tasting notes sounded more like this:
Instead, we nodded gravely and said, “Yeah, that’s nice,” before ordering another one we couldn’t pronounce.
And that’s the joy of the microbrewery pub. It’s not really about refinement. It’s about the journey. About trains rattling through the dark to towns you wouldn’t normally visit. About discovering a tiny room full of people who have collectively decided that this industrial unit is, for tonight, the centre of civilisation.
Because the best nights out don’t always happen in famous places. Sometimes they happen in converted warehouses, down side streets, under fairy lights, surrounded by tanks full of experimental liquid and people pretending they understand it.
And by the end of the evening, whether you’ve tasted citrus, pine, grapefruit, or absolutely nothing at all, you’ll agree on one thing: you definitely need another one. 🍺
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