The compiled list below has few of the total press appearances, but never-the-less offers a few blasts from the past and aids you in some conceptualisation of where the Trafford has come from and to.  We have had many mentions in the local press since this site was first designed and we hope to update it soon.

Thank you to ECN and the Licensee for allowing us to use the following material.
 
 

The Trafford Arms was the first pub in Norwich to be awarded this industry accolade in recognition of consistant quality in its dispensing of Cask Conditioned Beer.

 
 

Price Watch

We may not be the cheapest, but our aim is to offer
competitively priced and excellent quality ale.
 Barley Boy Page
 
 

Scottish Beer Festival - Picture

 

Beer Festival - Article

 

Picasso's Palette. An article which appeared in the EEN

Temptation comes in many guises and can sometimes prove an irresistible force.

For me it is seldom more alluring than when it takes the shape of a polished pint glass filled to the brim with delicious foaming ale

Enjoyed in sensible quantities and a measure of common sense, beer cheers.

Give me thirst quenching temptation rather than temperance any day and top it off with a mellow cigar, good company and the cosiest corner of the pub.

Make no mistake, conditions must be just right for the perfect pint.

Screaming brats running amok and squabbling over the family menu do nothing but sour the beer.

Fruit machines that flicker and bleep madly to themselves and giant satellite TV screens showing repeats of Lebanese volleyball highlights are needless modern distractions.

Don't get the wrong idea, I'm only an occasional drinker: once a week at most.

Maybe that's why I savour the experience so much more than many regular pub punters.

When those occasions arise, however, the thought of tasting that golden nectar suddenly becomes all consuming.

Walking past a pub and through the inevitable intoxicating aroma of tobacco smoke and beer that lingers outside is like a cruel test of willpower.

Resistance is often difficult. Booze becomes an obsession. Ale is all. You see life not through rose tinted spectacles but beer glasses.

Fortunately stopping for just a half" and a chicken sandwich is sometimes all it takes to prevent feelings of cold turkey. But there's a time and place for everything and slipping away for a passionate rendezvous with a pint is not easy when you're a family man with a home and responsibilities.

Such was the case on a recent Saturday when my desperate desire for alcoholic refreshment was repeatedly thwarted. First baby Gregory needed to be taken for his daily walk around the block a route which passes tantalisingly close to the Trafford Arms our local" in this part of Norwich and a particularly fine ale house.

I insisted that we kept on the other side of the roadas we pushed the pram past the pub to avoid even the slightest whiff of ale so near and yet so far.

Back home I was immediately dispatched outside to tackle a triffid that started life as a pretty clematis trained above the front door but was swallowing up the entire porch and had even snapped its support wires due to sheer bulk.

Easier said than done of course if a) you are totally incompetent at any DIY type project and b) don't have a ladder wire wire cutters or a clue about what you are doing. I borrowed a ladder from next door and was just about being enveloped by the twigs and tendrils tentacles indeed) of our wild plant when a passing neighbour John offered to help.

He also nipped home and came back with the tools and wire we needed for taming the mighty triffid. Thirty minutes later and the job was done. "I was just on my way to the pub for a quick beer," John informed me and wandered off into the distance as I cleared up the debris and quietly suffered another attack of Traffordtrauma.

Then my pal Howard from across the road turned up and mentioned something about us meeting later for a pint. But we couldn't come up with a convenient time and so reluctantly abandoned the idea, my tastebuds by this stage longing for the flavour of real ale.

J ulie summoned me back indoors to relieve her from Gregory duty for an hour. I was running out of time and there was no alternative but to hatch a cunning plan.

As the distressed little chap was having one of his bouts of bawling I said casually I reckon that a breath of fresh air might calm him down. I'm happy to take him out."

And it worked Dutiful Dad strolled through the darkness with Gregory in his pram and a fiver hidden under the blankets. First stop was the Trafford Arms. But there was a slight hitch I had to sit outside hoping someone would take pity on me and fetch a pint if I gave them the money. I wanted a glass of my favourite ale Picasso's Palette. It's a curious name but is presumably a reference to when the great artist Pablo followed his blue period" with his rather attractive golden beery brown kind of period".

And I've no doubt that after a night of too many Picasso's Palettes you wake up feeling like one of those bizarre folk in his masterpieces, eyes and ears in all the wrong places. Eventually I found a kindly gentleman who popped inside and returned minutes later with the beer.

Oh happy day. Gregory snoozed peacefully as I sipped my long awaited pint. It was his first ever trip to a pub not bad for eight weeks old!) and maybe it was just as well he slept through the occasion Besides he'd have only pestered me for a half of lemonade shandy and some crisps