The paralysis of choice

Earlier this month, I returned to my university city, Nottingham, for an afternoon and evening of wandering between the local watering holes and reminiscing the good ol’ student days.

Anyone who has been to Nottingham will know that what the city lacks in sprawl, it makes up for in sheer pub density. It’s hard to walk for five minutes without happening upon several different places which would be lovely spots to spend an afternoon with a pint and a newspaper. For this reason, planning my Nottingham pub crawl required forward thinking and commitment to a plan. I narrowed the shortlist of my favourite pubs down to just eight. Drinking half pints would become necessary closer to the end of the evening.

We began the afternoon at Canal House, a pub operated by the Castle Rock brewery, set in a charming grade II industrial building next to the canal, complete with two resident narrowboats. As I stepped inside, many happy memories from my student days immediately flooded back. I headed to the bar, and my eyes were drawn immediately to the hand pull ale choices. I scoured the pumps for my old favourite, Castle Rock’s Screech Owl. I couldn’t find it, but I settled on a different pale ale from the same brewery instead.

As the bartender poured our drinks, I took a closer look at the various options on offer. The once small-but-perfectly-formed keg choice of stylish European lagers had exploded into a choice of more than 10 craft beers. Behind these, a tall fridge was well stocked with Belgian beers. Beside this, another fridge was filled to the brim with cans. I started to feel relieved that I’d made a snap decision on what to order, or else I might have been reading the menu for most of the afternoon.

“Is it like you remember?” my husband asked me.
My brow furrowed. I struggled to articulate how it felt to me like something had been lost from the place, even though all that had really happened was that more options had been added. I’d loved the pub for precisely its niche; the reliability of excellently kept Castle Rock ales, the chance to try the brewery’s seasonal ranges, and guest ales from other small local breweries, such as the fantastic Springhead. But now there was a smorgasbord of choice that was almost dizzying. I quickly realised the problem; were it not for the recognisable brick walls and beams lovingly decorated with pump labels, I could be anywhere. The pub had retained its charm, but the bar choice had lost its accent.

Afterwards, we walked to Canning Circus (via an obligatory photo opportunity with the Robin Hood statue) to the Hand and Heart. It’s easily the best cave pub in the city; wonderful ambiance and music, plus far less touristy than Ye Olde Trip. Here, there was a much smaller selection than back at Canal House, and I felt more relaxed for it. Although we’d already eaten, I glanced at the menu out of curiosity. It was short and perfectly formed, just like the cask and keg range.

As we sipped our beers, we talked about how we felt that choice paralysis can be detrimental to a great pub. The places I like best are curators as well as distributors. Changing taps and rotating bottles are great, but I really don’t need a year’s worth of drinking possibilities thrown at me all in one pub visit.

Next, we decided to visit a couple of the places that had sprung up since I last lived in the city Рlest I allow my yearning for the past to get the better of me. We stopped for a fantastic oatmeal stout at The Overdraught, a taproom for Totally Brewed. Wittily named too, since the bar occupies a former bank. We also loved The Barrel Drop, a Magpie Brewery micropub nestled in an alleyway. We were lucky enough to catch the opening session of an open mic night, and the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.

We ended the night at the Lincolnshire Poacher, another Castle Rock pub a short stumble away up Mansfield Road, to the north of the city centre. Despite the pouring rain, it was bustling. In the corner, musicians were setting up for a session. The cask range offered a fantastic choice from both long-standing and new local breweries. Lining the walls behind the bar, the whisk(e)y selection was as great as ever. We sat in the back room, where the wooden tables and leather armchairs looked as battered and as loved and as lived in as I recalled.

“This place is just how I remember it” I told my husband, beaming with fuzzy, nostalgic joy. Finally, I felt like I was home.