When I think back to how I first became enthusiastic about real ale, I fondly remember two distinct experiences.
When I was aged about 21, just over two decades ago, I had returned home from university to Scothern, the Lincolnshire village where I grew up. Here, I joined my dad and one of his friends for a trip to the local. I knew the Bottle and Glass well, having worked there for a few months before leaving home. It was the only pub in the village and not particularly well-regarded for its selection of draught beer.
On this trip, however, dad approached the bar and exclaimed “Landlord!” before ordering us each a pint. These soon disappeared and were replaced with three more, a trend that continued until closing time. It dispelled previous experiences I’d had with other cask beers, such as John Smith’s, which I found to be foisty and difficult. Here was a beer that was snappy, refreshing and characterful without ever being complicated. As a young man, drinking my first Timothy Taylor’s beer instilled in me both the confidence and enthusiasm to try more brews on cask.
A couple of years later I was visiting my then-girlfriend’s hometown of Totnes, Devon. One evening she and her brothers took me to one of the town’s many pubs (you’ll have to forgive me, I’m hazy on which one) where we ordered our first beer based on its name alone. Although it had been in production in nearby Cornwall since 1994, this was the first time I had encountered Doom Bar, and I must admit I remember it very favourably. By now I had begun to notice the differences between ales and even now, as I cast my mind back, I can recall this particular beer’s biscuity quality and undertones of blackberries. We sessioned it all night and it became a firm favourite. At least until these distinctive characteristics I enjoyed so much began to disappear into shadow.
When multinational beer producer Molson Coors acquired Sharp’s – producer of Doom Bar – outright in 2011, it was the first time I experienced the sensation of a brewery I loved selling out to one of the big guys. Not really knowing how to respond, I continued to drink it, which was simple enough, because as a Londoner at the time it started appearing in pubs across the city. Something about its charm, however, slowly began to fade. While the beer was still brewed at its home in Rock, Cornwall (the production of the bottled version has been made by Coors in Burton on Trent since 2013) it just stopped tasting the same. Maybe it was because of the dramatic upscaling of its production? Perhaps the recipe was changed to cut production costs? I don’t have the answer, but I do trust my own tastebuds implicitly.
Despite losing my fondness for it, by 2013 Doom Bar had grown to become the best-selling cask beer in the UK by both value and volume supplanting the previous incumbent, Greene King IPA. It became ubiquitous and by default became a standard bearer for the overall quality of cask beer in the UK. By coincidence, sales of cask beer have been in double digit decline for more than a decade. Much of this is due to the slow death of once-dominant brands like Marston’s Pedigree. I also consider, however, that if the country’s flagship beer in the category it invented isn’t up to scratch, then surely that sector suffers in return.
Despite holding this title for more than a decade in 2025 another beer finally topped Doom Bar as the UK’s bestseller – by value, at least. By coincidence, that beer was Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.
I was lucky enough to visit the brewery in Keighley, West Yorkshire back in 2024. Then CEO Tim Dewey – an American who launched brands like Smirnoff Ice throughout a long career in the drinks trade – was generous enough to give me and fellow drinks writer Rachel Hendry a tour of the production facility. I snapped away with my camera in admiration as I watched voluminous buckets of Fuggles and Goldings hops being administered to a fresh batch of Landlord, but that didn’t prepare me for what came next. When it came to fermentation I expected to be met with a row of towering, modern, stainless-steel cylindroconical vessels. What I instead found were open fermenters, similar but not identical to Yorkshire squares, where beer was fermented in the traditional way – a way that this beer deserves.
A pint of Landlord has never tasted the same to me since that visit, broken down as it was into its separate parts, each of them which I now experience again with every sip. Instead of it becoming something I drink less of, however, I find myself drifting towards it with increasing frequency. For me it’s the perfect first/lunchtime/I-only-have-time-for-a-quick-one pint that fills a very specific need in my life and where I choose to drink it always ticks the boxes in terms of depth of flavour and satisfaction.
I also consider that if Landlord – an independently owned beer that is, on evidence of my recent visit, brewed with great care and attention to detail – is the bestselling by value in the UK, then it is also representative of the category's renewed strength. If other drinkers are turning to this beer and having experiences as good as I was lucky enough to have 20 years ago, then maybe they, like me, will become cask drinkers for life also.
Returning to the Bottle and Glass recently for a solo, mid-afternoon scoop, I noticed the distinct green and gold of the Landlord pump clip and duly ordered myself a pint. What I received was perfectly conditioned, cellar cool, and packed with the distinctive yet balanced character that have combined to make this beer the leader in its category. Every sip was as enjoyable as the last. Perhaps, I thought to myself as I drained the last drops before making my table available in the packed-out pub, this is the start of something exciting. This might just be a sign of the cask category’s return to form.
