Glastonbury beer

11

Just what beer do you take to a summer music festival?

With Glastonbury only a few days away there’s a big supermarket trip around the corner to stock up on all the liquid lunches we’ll be needing over the 5 days we spend wallowing in mud, Carlsberg cans and the reverberation of  thumping speakers.

But what is the perfect festival beer?

At Glastonbury you can take what you want. Unlike other festivals, once you’re in, you’re in, and you may freely waltz around with your chosen tipple without fear of eviction. Last year one chap had 3 cans of Stella strapped to each limb with duck tape. He was never without a beer.

The perfect drink has to be light. Multiple car trips are not good so you need to be able to pack it in a rucksack, pop it under your arm or balance it on your head for the long walk from car park to chosen pitching ground.

The perfect drink has to be refreshing. If the sun comes out it needs to revive; if the mud rises up it needs to make you feel fighting fit to grapple through the bodies and lost wellies.

This enigmatic tipple mustn’t be too strong. No-one wants to miss the single unmissable act of the day, not drink too much and earn themselves an early retirement to the tent. You want to be up from 11am until 4am, with perhaps a mid afternoon nap in a quiet folk tent near the tippees.

You need to be able to drink all day and never feel under the weather.

And this magic beer (or other alternative beverage) must be passable, nay even enjoyable when warm.  In a perfect world it will chill quickly too and never warm up, if nature or some fancy technology (aka cool box) gives you the opportunity.

We could try lager. Widely available in lightweight cans of various strengths. It’s refreshing when hot which ticks an important box, but crucially though, it’s a bit rubbish when not ice cold.

So in case of warm conditions perhaps we should take some ale. Bottled conditioned is an absolute no-no, and even simply bottles are a bad idea. Stone’s Bitter or Tanglefoot anyone? A choice between garish orange or red, unless you want to risk Smoothflow, of course.

Then there’s the alternative solution, cider. Before you conjure images of vagrants and teenagers on a park bench, just remember the criteria.

Lightweight.

Not too strong.

Easy to carry.

Drinkable warm.

Suddenly Strongbow seems more appealing than ever…

Tags: Ale, beer, Cider, festival, glastonbury, lager, summer

Horton to Hawes

1

Day Four. The last leg and the longest. No steep mountain climbs on this stretch of the Pennine Way but a long slog to the ridges above Ribblesdale.

Ribblesdale is the least forgiving of the Yorkshire dales. Shops and towns are non-existent. Cash machines and mobile signal don’t exist. Tall brown grasses and dull heathland cover the hills and much of the dale, shadowed by the dark peaks of Pen-Y-Ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside*.

The whole day could be a chapter from Lord of the Rings. You could believe that Saruman’s tower at Isengard hides behind the peak of Ingleborough or that Mordor lies on the dark side of Whernside’s vast silhouette. The track passes caves and shake holes in abundance. On a misty day you see little but glimpes of other strange twisted trees and long-abandoned stone buildings. Mid-walk the track joins the Cam High Road, the obvious place for Strider to take the conoy off-piste to avoid the chasing Nazgûl…

Imposing forests and coniferous plantations line the road and it takes forever to pass them. Even sheep become sparse as the High Road briefly joins an ancient Roman track before turning North East towards the refuge of Hawes.

The 13 miles are tough after 1) 3 days of walking and 2) a serious misjudgement in not taking a packed lunch (£7 each from the B&B was a step too far for a Yorkshireman and his son!). Sainsbury’s Be Good To Yourself fruit bars and an apple barely powered waking up let alone walking, so it was a rewarding moment to roll off the green fells of Wensleydale and book a celebratory meal at Hawes’ finest bistro (Chaste if your interested). At last the sheep-folds were behind us and we were back civilisation.

We warmed up for our posh grub with Old Peculiar of course, one in each of Hawes’ pubs (an anonymous Dent beer in the establishment that didn’t serve our preferred tipple). Old Peculiar will forever be associated with the Dales in my mind now, as well as drinking with my Dad and sharing precious moments each cradling a  Thwaites pint glass and allowing our aching feet some well deserved respite.

Until next years leg of The Way, anyway.

*If you turn the volume on the video up, the sound is purely the wind wrapping around our ears at between 1,000 and 2,000 ft above sea level.

Tags: hawes, horton, old peculiar, pennine way, ribblesdale

Malham to Horton-in-Ribblesdale

1

Day Three. After two easy days this years Pennine Way walk got tough on Day 3.

Thirteen miles including the ascension of Malham Cove, Fountains Fell and Pen-Y-Ghent. We’d be over 600m above sea level for most of the day and climb 3 times that, up hill and down dale. The remnants of neolithic farms and Anglo-Saxon stone walls would be almost as much of a wonder as the vastness of water that must have carved Malham Cove from the rock millions of years ago.

The limestone pavements of Malham and the view South across countless miles of the north of England are jaw-dropping. Norman Nicholson proclaimed that whale ribs glinted in the sun whilst Bill Bryson simply declared it might just be heaven on earth.

Beyond the glacial upheaval and the windy shore of Malham Tarn a long arduous climb to the abandoned mines of Fountains Fell got the blood pumping. A double packed lunch was devoured half way up the moorland path, before we reached the site of a disused mine right at the top of the peak. After admiring the open mine shafts that littered the moorland we hopped a stile and were presented with a 200m descent, at the bottom of which was the winding approach to Pen-Y-Ghent. We’d broken the back of the day in miles but certainly not in metres climbed. Fortunately the base of the 3rd of the 3 Peaks is well above sea and an hour later we were sat atop, peering down on Horton-in-Ribblesdale where our luxury B&B awaited.

The Pennine Way gods decided to make me work for my beer though, as the winding lanes to Horton were littered in chunky grey stones. These are a walkers hell, each step is a blunted knife in the sole of your foot, each jab a sucker punch to morale. Finally the lanes become tarmac, better only in it’s predictability, and eventually after a smart piece of navigating took us to our boardings.

A nap and then the bustling pubs. The Crown for food, who were unable to explain they did bar food as we waited patiently for a restaurant table. The Old Peculiar was faultless though, a rich, molasses and liquorice treat to sooth our weary frames. Old Peculiar is oil for the Pennine Wayer, essential engine lubrication to revive the soul. And this night it sparked a father-son heart to heart.

A swift nightcap followed in the Golden Lion, an odd pub with a quirky mint green exterior and Burnley-inspired claret and blue interior. The barman was friendly and the Old Peculiar still pleasing, so we didn’t judge the colour scheme until we’d left.

Tags: crown, horton, Malham, pennine way, ribblesdale

Thornton in Craven to Malham

7

Day Two. A coffee and a banana were the best Earby had to offer for brekkie and we set out before 9am towards Thornton in Craven, the official start of our second day walking.

Farmland dominates the Pennine Way until the path hits Yorkshire again, and despite a near miss with a quicksand mud field we made onto the Leeds-Liverpool canal hoping to hit Gargrave for noon. A mile from our lunch stop my OS Explorer ran out and we swapped for my Dad’s Landranger map.

This was significant, as Landranger’s (the pink ones) don’t go to the same level of detail, whereas Explorer’s outline the landscape down to individual fields. Within minutes we were off The Way, only a field or two out but with no idea whether the path lay East or West and not enough detail on the map to gauge our bearings. Glacial drumlins blocked the horizon in all directions so we headed aimlessly north in the hope of reacing the crest of a hill and spying Gargrave.

At the point that all the fields were protected with barbed wire we became a little uncomfortable and descended cautiously into the umpteenth trough of the umpteenth sheep-shit covered peak. Crossing the field diagonally the quiet group of cows in the corner looked up and watched us intently. Something didn’t feel right*. As we hit the half way point the herd bolted towards the gate that was our destination and when they crossed our route they rounded to face us, lining up in fighter jet formation. I’d never seen a cow run so fast. I’d certainly never seen 8 cows run so fast.

The bastards had clearly blocked us off and were now peering at us ready to charge. I scampered straight back up the hill leaving my Dad wandering bullishly towards his untimely demise. At which point he scarped after me and with the aid of a prickly thorn tree we jumped the barbed wire into the adjoining field.

A few circulars later and we stumbled on what seemed like a path. Rejoicing, we followed it, somewhat out of desperation. As we passed the herd of cows from the safe side of a thick hedge we saw their calves beyond the gate we’d been headed for and understood their aggression. Vindicated in my situation analysis we serendipitously stumbled upon another path, this one with a huge pointed cross stump hailing the Pennine Way. How did we miss that?!

A simple lunch in Gargrave and a map purchase made for a more successful afternoon and we followed the River Aire, winding through fields and villages towards Malham, our next stopover. As he heavens opened we found refuge under a gazebo in a Quaker’s graveyard at Airton, and they lived up to their friendly name offering us tea and biscuits. Hardy Yorkshire men as we are we didn’t stop long though and soldiered on through the downpour (we had to put our waterproof coats to use after all!) Eventually were within sight of our destination and the huge rocky outcrop of Malham Cove rose up in the distance. Somehow it looks even bigger from a distance than it does up close.

The Youth Hostel didn’t open until 5pm and we’d completed the 1o-ish miles by 3pm despite getting lost in fields of angry cows. The Buck Inn provided much needed refreshment exclusively from local breweries (Timothy Taylors, Thwaites and Copper Dragon) and we were half cut by the time we checked in and showered.

Lamb Henry for me and chicken curry for my Dad were provided at the pleasure of the Lister Hotel, where Old Peculiar was a revelation. A couple of hours of pool and oggling the Eurovision song contest ensued (as well as the fantastic bar girls back at the Buck).

(*though I should point out that I’m terrified of most creatures including cats and dogs, let alone farmyard animals)

Tags: Copper Dragon, Malham, old peculiar, pennine way, thwaites, timothy taylor

Stanbury to Earby

1

Day Zero. I see my Dad get off the train at Leeds station, a sore thumb amongst the suits and skirts that rushed from the Cross County carriages. We bundled onto the connecting line and stuffed our rucksacks in the ample overhead shelves (funny how local trains have better storage than the national ones).

After a Gregg’s pasty and a short walk through Keighley we got on the tiny bus to Stanbury, a Smart-car sized village near Haworth. Jimmy the bus driver steered us deep into Bronté country, stopping for the school kids to get sweets from the corner shop and saying goodbye to them by name as he dropped them at their front doors (well, front lanes). I expected Nick Berry to overtake us at any moment.

Day One. After a hearty breakfast made considerably more entertaining by an Anglo-Swiss double act who were also picking up the Pennine Way that morning, the hard work began and we set off north from the B&B, leaving behind home comforts and the original Hockney’s on the dining room wall.

Before long we’d bumped into the breakfast duo again, squabbling over a rock that may or not have contained a fossil and the Latin origins of a particular Yorkshire dialect. We marched onwards swiftly – avoiding the Barghest of Troller’s Gill – as we had a 1pm date with a pub plus one of my Dad’s friends, with no intention of being late.

At 12.30 we crossed into what could have technically been Lancashire and descended upon the Hare & Hound at Lothersdale. Two pints of Landlord in great condition were sunk before our company arrived and two more were sunk before we left. A Ploughman’s lunch soaked some of our sins but the afternoon walk quickly became more casual than the morning leg. A good bit of story telling was shared and more toilet breaks than expected took place.

The farmland that we’d ploughed through all day gave way to heathland which only let up as we hit double figures in miles and approached our first checkpoint, the indecisive town of Earby. Not quite sure whether it’s in Yorkshire or Lancashire, Earby’s architecture is a strange mix of Cotswold cottages and northern terraces, with obsolete concrete offices at the centre and a feeling of neglect eminating from the soulless brickwork of long-declined industry.

The Red Lion was recommended but the landlady didn’t have the time of day for us (literally), losing our custom within our first exchange. One pint of Wainwright (which I’dve swapped for a cool bottle instead) was swiftly sunk and we sought out the White Lion. There they couldn’t do enough to ensure we left imbibed and lubricated and that we did. The Red Lion was on the way home but we opted to save our pennies for the next day and crashed out at the Youth Hostel that we shared with no other guests.

A couple of miles into our first day on our second leg of the Pennine Way, we bumped into Tom Cording. Tom was only a day or two away from the half way point of his Lands End to John O’Groats walk and inspired both my Dad and I (whilst making us feel pretty lame for only doing 4 days walking as opposed to two months!). Tom is raising money for his local hospice, starting on the 25th April and hoping to finish by the World Cup final. You can donate a few pennies to his good cause here: http://www.justgiving.com/tom-cording

Tags: lancashire, pennine way, Timothy Taylor Landlord, wainwright, yorkshire

Oxfordshire Marshmellow

1

Oxfordshire Marshmellow

An aroma of seeds, thick and sticky. Open it up with a bit of oxygen and red berries burst in the nostrils. It tastes of marshmallows of course, with dashes of toffee, spice, poppies…

This might not be to everyone’s tastes in the same way as Theakston’s Grouse Beater whch has a similar complicated taste that cuts through the usual bitterness of British brown ales.

It’s what BrewDog’s Dogma might be like after a few months in the Priory.

I probably had to work quite hard on this beer, but underneath the initial taste, there’s much for than a hop or malt character to it – it’s interesting if not immediately ‘wow’.

Tags: dogma, marshmallow, Oxfordshire, poppy seeds, red berries, toffee

Le grand cru de Morrisons

8

This weekend I spent £10 on beer.  Two Elizabeth Fry’s. A pair of fivers.

In return Wm Morrisons Supermarkets PLC handed over 36 bottles of beer for my imbibing enjoyment, 2×18 pack boxes of Bière Continental.

Despite some taunts on twitter I stacked half of the first case in the freezer and the remaining half in the fridge, plonked myself on a chair in the garden and necked the sweet golden liquid as quickly as I sweated it out in the blistering heat.

A waste of money? Absolutely not. The same amount of branded lout or fancy bottled beer would have set me back twice or thrice as much, depending on your tipple. The chubby 275ml were just about the right size to stay cool in the blistering sun instead of turning in a tepid vial of…yeah, you know what I mean.

This wasn’t a blind, test. A 500ml bottle of Saltaire Fuggles was boiling like Eyjafjallajoekull by the time I’d got half way down it. Carlsberg Export became an insipid green bottle of water, dashed with a trace of barley.

Which kinda ruined the experience.

Morrison’s ‘French’ stubbies on the other hand were ice cold, liquid refreshment. Take them as they are – no craft brew, no care and attention. You can freeze them to smithereens and they perform even better, they hydrate you better than anything else I tried.

Plus they brought back fantastic family holiday memories of rotisserie chicken, cheese filled baguettes and Eurocamp in the Vendée?

Perfectionner de la bière?

In the specific conditions of Saturday afternoon, c’est possible…

Tags: french, morrisons, supermarket

Underbelly

5

Once upon a time Britain was an industrial nation. The population were manual workers, skilled or miners, all contributing towards the rise of the Empire.

Nowadays we work at screens, behind partitions, “in services“.

Those grey, growing gas stores, the vast warehouses, the corrugated factories; they’re alien to much of Britain; a spec on the landscape, an irritation to an otherwise green and pleasant land.

These gunmetal structures, whilst reduced in their visibililty, still make up the backbone of everything we do. Power stations are an enigma, distribution centres an eyesore and factories an unkown quantity to sneer at from incoming city-link trains.

Sneer all you want but you wouldn’t be accessing Twitter on your long-haul commute without them.

Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: burton, industry, maltings

The local is dead…long live the local

10

Tonight I went to 3 pubs I’ve never been to before. I’ve lived near them all for over 3 years, but tonight was the first time I’d ventured over their thresholds.

I’ve long believed that much more than the smoking ban has caused the British local to wither to it’s current state. I’m right as well, I know it. I don’t doubt the smoking ban has exasperated problems that some pubs faced, but there are many more issues that have led to bars, clubs and people’s living rooms beating pubs to share of wallet.

Tonight is a micro example, a tiny embodiment of how things have changed yet not changed in Britain. I will write about this another time and in greater detail, but to summarise my thoughts, the demise of British pub is finite, it’s a numbers game and it won’t end in extinction, merely a change of nomenclature and form.

The first pub we visited tonight, I will never go back to. It was rubbish. They promote local music and serve local people, which should be applauded, but it smelt and the music was shite (it may keep me up all night, up all night…) The band played Van Halen and Bon Jovi badly.

The second pub looked twice as good from the outside. It was lively: impromptu darts and possibly impromptu karaoke thrived. There was a nice lounge but a decrepit bar. The bar staff were downright ignorant. We felt completely unwelcome. Newcomers? How dare they come in here and spend money.

The third was the liveliest of the establishments, with a full on disco visible only when you hit the front porch. Remarkably, it was the most amendiable to conversation. Perhaps we’d just warmed up, lubricated with two pints previously. Or perhaps signs of human life simply woke us up. And possibly the bar staff, who were all remarkably attractive.

On a less positive note, midway through our first pint of cooking lager, my good friend was told “I’d nut you, but I can’t be arsed.” We drank two pints each there and chatted enthusiastically between us. Apparently that’s enough to piss off some of the twats that live in this country.

If you think I’m being snobby, at one point police officers were called to quell the increasingly tense mood. Just prior to this, 6 chaps had left the pub in a particularly argumentative moment, and only 3 came back. I can only presume the other three left with broken pride if not broken noses.

The British pub is alive and well in many places. Despite probably 1/3 of pubs around my area being boarded up, the ones that aren’t are doing a fine trade. There’s little in the way of cask ale, there’s little in the way of customer service, but the people love and hold dearly these locals that are their preference over heading into the city centre.

These locals won’t die out soon, but they will diminish in numbers. And the reason? They are bloody horrible places to go to. Increasingly they will serve a smaller audience, and, unfortunately, where better pubs could historically do well, the image of worse pubs will mean that the public house is an inferior alternative to the modern living room.

Tags: Local, pub

Introspective

6

I’m sitting at in front of a my flat screen monitor, head buried deep in pencil squiggles, crossings out and Excel formulas. Square eyes set in hours ago and everyone else left the office at home time. “What the hell am I doing still here?” I ruminate to myself. With that I’m running for the 20.54, a potentially mythical bus which the various timetables disagree on the existence of. It arrives, albeit a different route number. My demons always start with a bus journey like this…

Home and tired, half a pizza pings in the microwave and I’m just in time to crack open a Saltaire Cascade as Dimbleby open up the Beeb’s election proceedings. It seems like a lifetime ago since I was in the polling station before work. Sarah’s gone to bed, I’m staring straight through the TV as the country peers in on itself from little boxes and social networks.

Cascade is all lemon flavour eco-friendly washing up liquid and digestive biscuits. It disappears before Sunderland’s first ballot boxes are returned and a second beer follows quickly. The Kernel Brewery Centennial Pale Ale wows me. It’s the refreshing tonic I need, it’s Um Bongo aroma cuts through my zombie-like state. Ribena, oats, not too bitter: it’s perfect.

Little do I know it but control of the evening has long since slipped away. It was always heading this way but as always, I didn’t realise until much later. Lack of sustenance and a fragile state of mind soon lead to self-reflection, self-doubt and self-pity.

The pale ale is gone all too quick. By the end the first few seats are announced and a huge Tory swing looks likely. I’m pondering on my vote, on the country’s votes, mulling over the issues that really matter. I ponder over work, over the numbers still swirling in my head. 95% of what I’ve done won’t get used during tomorrow mornings meeting. C’est la vie!

The evaluation that began on the bus journey continues, and Moor JJJ IPA is an enthusiastic catalyst to soul searching. What am I doing sat drinking alone, how will this help me in the morning? I sniff the pungent liquid in the glass, simply to justify the drinking of it (and not admit I’m drinking to get away from the world). I jot down some token phrases – ‘fruit pudding’, ‘peaches’, ‘robust alcohol’ and even ‘aniseed’. ‘This is no IPA’ I add. Just like my job isn’t real marketing… Like my blog isn’t real writing… Like the Lib Dems popularity won’t translate to real votes…

In a flurry I scribble lots of things down. A book idea, a vision for a greener earth, a world without borders, a few illegible words on the beer I’m drinking, a song lyric that will never be put to music… The country are musing on their future, beer bloggers are looking inwards in order to start writing outside their comfort zones, I feel at a crossroads in many different aspects of my life and something is compelling me to make a change, or a difference, or a stand.

It all feels pretty insignificant. My grand designs are a fallacy. It’s hard to accept that you simply aren’t prepared to make the sacrifice needed. There’s a certain irony as MPs who’ve decided to do just that are rounded upon on the television. Democracy at it’s best and worst.

What can a man do but open a Thornbridge Halcyon and settle for life’s simple pleasures. As I do everything feels better and for the first time in 48 hours I feel relaxed. My attentions turn away from my inner sanctum, away from utopian dreams. I knock a big swig of beer back (passionfruit, pineapple, dashes of peaches and strawberries, Halcyon is an Innocent Smoothie on acid). I daydream of promotion celebrations on Saturday and smile under the weight of a happy memory. A Lib Dem seat comes in. I slump into the sofa content and let my brain turn off.

Waking up with the lights on and TV blaring at 5.05am that euphoric feeling wore off a bit. Especially as I looked at the grim blue constituency scene overlaid on the familiar map of the UK. It’s weird how all those weary, slightly inebriated thoughts disappeared too, only to come flooding back in the shower a day later. Sometimes you can look too deep, and sometimes not look inwards enough. Sometimes you just need a beer to see the wood not just the trees.