Derby is a city people go to because they have a meeting at Rolls-Royce or they missed their connection to Sheffield. Nobody wakes up on a Tuesday in London or Bristol and thinks, “You know what? I need to breathe in that fresh East Midlands bus exhaust for a weekend.” It just doesn’t happen. But I went anyway, mostly because I’m trying to see every city in the UK that people usually ignore, and partly because I found a hotel deal that was so cheap it felt like a clerical error.
The train station is a lie. When you arrive, you think you’re in the city. You aren’t. You’re in a weird liminal space of car parks and industrial units that feels like the set of a low-budget police procedural. I decided to walk to the center because I’m stubborn and I like to “get the lay of the land.” That was my first mistake. I spent twenty-four minutes navigating a series of underpasses that smelled like damp concrete and regret. My fitness tracker told me I did 3,102 steps before I even saw a shop. It was a bad start.
The Museum of Making is actually good (I’m shocked too)
I used to think industrial museums were just places for retired engineers to go and weep over steam engines. I was completely wrong. The Museum of Making—which is built on the site of the world’s first factory, the Silk Mill—is genuinely brilliant. It’s not just a collection of old junk; it’s a massive, open-access workshop where you can actually see people building things. I spent four hours here. Four. I only planned for forty-five minutes.
They have a Rolls-Royce Trent 1000 engine hanging from the ceiling. It’s massive. It looks like something fallen from a starship. I stood under it for ten minutes wondering if the bolts would hold (they did). What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s the only place in the city that feels like it knows exactly what it is. It’s proud of making stuff. It doesn’t try to be trendy or “boutique.” It just says, “Here is a giant engine and some silk looms. Deal with it.”
The museum is free, but they suggest a donation. I gave them £10 because I felt guilty about how much time I spent looking at a display of 30,000 different types of buttons.
I did have one embarrassing moment there, though. They have these interactive screens where you can “design” your own product. I tried to make a simple wooden stool and somehow managed to glitch the software so badly the screen turned bright red and froze. An eight-year-old boy behind me sighed audibly. I just walked away. I didn’t even look back. I just left the building and went to find a sandwich. Total failure.
The Ring Road is a design crime
I know people will disagree with me, especially the people who live there and have developed a sort of Stockholm Syndrome with their infrastructure, but the inner ring road in Derby is an abomination. It’s like a moat designed to keep pedestrians out of the nice bits. To get from the Cathedral Quarter to the revamped riverside, you have to play a high-stakes game of Frogger or find a bridge that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned since the 1970s.
I might be wrong about this, but I’m convinced the city planners in the 60s actually hated people who walk. They must have. There’s no other explanation for why a 200-meter journey requires three crossings and a detour through a multi-storey car park. It kills the vibe. You’re walking past these beautiful old brick buildings and then—BAM—six lanes of traffic and a KFC. It’s jarring. It’s frustrating. It’s just ugly.
Anyway, I ended up at the Cathedral. It’s fine. It has a very tall tower. I paid £5 to climb the 212 steps because I hate myself. The view from the top is… well, you can see the ring road from a higher angle. And the roof of the Derbion shopping center. Which brings me to my next point.
The Derbion is a soul-sucker
I refuse to recommend the Derbion (it used to be Westfield, then Intu, now whatever this is) even though everyone there seems to love it. It’s just a giant, climate-controlled box that looks like every other giant, climate-controlled box in the country. If you’ve been to a shopping mall in Manchester or Leeds, you’ve been here. I hate that it’s the gravity center of the city. It sucks the life out of the high street. I walked through it for ten minutes and felt my blood pressure rising. I saw a Zizzi, a JD Sports, and a Pandora. Groundbreaking. I left immediately. Never again.
Instead, go to Sadler Gate. It’s narrow, it’s old, and the shops are actually interesting. I found a place called The Bookcase (I think?) that smelled like old paper and tea. That’s where the soul of the city is hiding. It’s just a shame it feels like it’s fighting for air against the massive concrete mall next door.
The real reason to visit is the beer
Derby claims to be the real ale capital of England. I don’t know if that’s statistically true—I’m sure Sheffield or Norwich would have something to say about it—but the pubs are legit. I tested four pubs over six hours and tracked the quality of the head on my pint like a nerd.
- The Brunswick: Right by the station. It’s a round building. The beer is brewed on-site. I had a pint of something called ‘Triple Hop’ for £4.10. It was perfect.
- The Exeter Arms: This place feels like a hobbit hole in the best way possible. Low ceilings, weird corners, and incredible food.
- The Silk Mill Ale & Cider House: Good for a sunny afternoon, but the service was a bit slow when I went.
I’ve bought the same £4.50 pint of Pedigree three times now in different cities, but it tastes better here. I don’t care if that makes no sense. It’s a local thing. The water or the pipes or the atmosphere—whatever it is, it works. If you like old men in flat caps discussing the merits of a pale ale versus a bitter, you will be in heaven. I personally loved it. It’s the most honest part of the city. No pretense. Just beer and wood paneling.
I did have a weirdly emotional moment in The Brunswick. I was sitting by the fire, and this old guy started telling me about how he used to work at the locomotive works. He talked for twenty minutes about the weight of steel. I didn’t understand half of it, but he was so passionate that I almost cried. Or maybe it was just the third pint. Hard to say.
A quick word on the accent
Everyone calls you “duck.” At first, I thought it was a joke. Then I thought it was condescending. By the end of the weekend, I was devastated if a shopkeeper didn’t call me duck. It’s a warm, weirdly comforting term of endearment. “Ay up, duck.” It’s better than “mate” or “sir.” It levels the playing field. We are all just ducks in this giant, confusing pond of a city.
My trip was messy. I got lost twice, I ate a very dry sausage roll near the bus station, and I spent way too much money on old books I’ll never read. But there’s something about Derby that sticks. It’s not trying to be London. It’s not even trying to be Nottingham (thank god). It’s just a place that builds things and drinks beer. It’s rough around the edges, and the ring road is a nightmare, and the weather was grey for 47 of the 48 hours I was there.
Would I go back? I don’t know. Maybe in five years to see if they’ve finally knocked down that hideous car park near the river. Or maybe I’ll just go back for the beer. Actually, yeah. Definitely for the beer.
Is a city worth visiting if the best thing about it is the exit from the motorway and a pint of bitter? I genuinely don’t know the answer to that.
Go for the museum. Stay for the pubs. Avoid the mall. That’s it.
