Let's Brew - 1960 Youngs XXX Ale

Here’s a special treat. A Burton Ale that was called Burton Ale. As this is before Youngs changed the name of theirs to Winter Warmer.

Given that this example was brewed in July, it seems obvious that it was still a year-round beer at this point and not a winter seasonal, as it later became.

It’s a bit different to 1990s recipes. As Youngs were still brewing a Mild Ale and could parti-gyle their Burton Ale with that. Which is exactly what happened in this case. Meaning that this is effectively a strong Mild. Much like the Old Ales brewed in the South of England. For example, Adnams or Harveys.

As was typical for Dark Mild, the darkest malt is crystal. With the majority of colour coming from No. 3 invert and caramel. The latter being in the form of CDM (Caramelised Dextro-Maltose). Does anyone still manufacture that?

Two types of English hops, one from the 1958 harvest and one from 1959. Pretty much the same as in all their other beers. 

1960 Youngs XXX Ale
mild malt	7.25 lb	67.25%
crystal malt 150 L	1.00 lb	9.28%
flaked maize	1.50 lb	13.91%
pale malt extract	0.33 lb	3.06%
No. 3 invert	0.50 lb	4.64%
caramel 500 SRM	0.200 lb	1.86%
Fuggles 105 min	1.00 oz
Goldings 30 min	1.00 oz
OG	1050
FG	1014
ABV	4.76
Apparent attenuation	72.00%
IBU	24
SRM	17
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	105 minutes
pitching temp	58º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

 

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Wandering back

No need to get up very early. Breakfast lasts until 10. And Peter is picking us up at 11.

We enter the breakfast room at 8:30. There aren’t many others there.

I give the spread a look over. Surprisingly, there is some warm food. Which is a plus. No bacon. There is scrambled egg. And baked beans. Not bad.

I get some cheese to go with my scrambled egg. Recreating a South American breakfast. I’m so imaginative.

Dolores gets herself a boiled egg and some beans. The egg is rock hard all the way through. And cold. And rather green. She doesn’t eat it. I don’t blame her.

“Are your scrambled eggs warm?” She asks.

“Not really.”

“My beans are cold, too.”

The tea and coffee are warm. Which is something.

We don’t rush. Hanging around until 10, drinking coffee and generally chilling.

Back in our room, we prepare for the train. I create one of my “special” drinks by decanting the remainder of my expensive whisky into a half-emptied cols bottle. 

“That should keep me warm inside.”

“Don’t go crazy, Ronald.”

“When do I ever go crazy?”

“Let’s not have this conversation again.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just don’t go crazy with the whisky on the train.”

Peter van der Meer picks us up at 11 on the dot. And is soon setting us down at Essen Hauptbahnhof.

It’s surprisingly busy for a Sunday morning. I notice that the sandwiches are way cheaper than in Düsseldorf Hauptbahnhof. I wonder why that is? I suppose they just charge what they can get away with.

I just hang around guarding our luggage and taking in the vibes, while Dolores does some shopping.

The train to Viersen is pretty full. We’re lucky to get seats. Where we’re jammed in with our luggage. This is fun. 

An awful lot of people get off at Viersen with us. That’s not a good sign. As they don’t leave the station. Looks like they’re all headed for Holland, too. Bum.

When the Venlo train pulls in, it looks full. Very full. Triple bum. We have trouble squeezing ourselves in. Looks like we’ll be standing all the way to Venlo. I think that serves a: fuck!

A bloke has his bag on one of the fold-down seats. He takes pity on me and shifts his bag so I can sit down. Brilliant!! I might make it back to Amsterdam alive.

Everyone is bound for Holland. For King’s Day, which is tomorrow. There’s another stampede at Venlo, as everyone rushes to the platform where the Amsterdam train is.

Fortunately, it’s a much larger train than the one from Viersen. We manage to find a coach that’s pretty empty. With no need to use Dolores’s train elbows. Honed on many a Deutsche Reichsbahn journey, when she was a student. 

Now there’s enough space for me to enjoy my “special drink”, which I haven’t touched so far.

“Don’t go crazy with the whisky, Ronald.”

“No need to worry. You know me.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m asking you to not go crazy.”

“You don’t have much faith in me.”

“I’m just realistic.”

“Cynical, more like.”

The train starts to fill up the further we get into Holland. All going to Amsterdam for King’s Day. The centre is going to be packed. As usual. Luckily, I don’t have to go there.

Fortunately, this train isn’t going to Amsterdam Centraal. Just Amsterdam Zuid and Schiphol. Loads of people get off in Utrecht to switch to a train headed for Centraal. Emptying our carriage out nicely.

“Why are you filming fields again?”

“It’s for a video.”

“One of those that forces people to listen to your horrible music?”

“It isn’t horrible music.”

“Then why will no-one listen to it voluntarily?”

Dolores can be very cruel.

The last part of the journey is nice and quiet. Which is how I like my journeys: quiet and uneventful.

We don’t have to wait long for a bus. Soon we’re trundling into our flat. With the children rushing up joyfully to greet us. I wish. Andrew is absorbed by his laptop. And Alexei is upstairs in his room.

“Is the tea ready, Andrew?” I ask.

“Very funny, Dad. Make it yourself if you want some.”

How charming.

“I suppose you don’t want a cup then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

It’s great to be home. 

 

 

A couple of videos about our trip to Essen.

 

 

 

Me talking about the history of IPA

Excerpts from my talk on the history of IPA at Fronhauser Sudwerkstatt. Fairly short excerpts, as the talk was 150 minutes. I hard to stop once I get started.

 

Away we go

“Do you fancy coming to Essen, Dolores?”

“Why are you going there?”

“I’m giving a talk.”

“Are you getting paid?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good. Maybe.”

Such enthusiasm.

Dolores had already agreed to come, when she discovered that the trains to Germany were buggered up on the relevant weekend. Some sort of works on the rails. Normally, we could get a train to Duisburg – under two hours – and then have a short hop on the S-Bahn to Essen.

Except the ICE service to Düsseldorf and Cologne is diverted via Venlo. Using that, getting to Essen would involve changing a couple of times. And take getting on for four hours, rather than two and a bit.

“How will we get there?” Dolores asked.

“Good question.”

“An answer would be nice.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Business as usual, then.”

“Haha.”

“Just sort it out.”

“OK.”

Not wanting to invoke the wrath of Dolores, I did some poking around on the internet. And found an alternative route. Taking an NS train to Venlo and then changing to a couple of regional German trains. Not just quicker, but also more convenient. As the tickets would be valid for every train, not just specific ones.

Problem solved. Dolores happy. Me happy.

We leave home around 10:30 bound for Amsterdam Zuid. Now there’s another advantage of this route: we don’t have to go to Amsterdam Centraal. Through the tourist hell of the city centre.

Amsterdam Zuid is more of a commuter station. Currently undergoing a massive rebuilding programme. Sometime in the not-too-distant future the motorway will disappear underground. Currently, cars whizz past just a few metres away from the platforms. Lovely.

The service to Venlo is one of the longest train journeys you can take from Amsterdam, without running of the edge of the country. Lasting around two hours. We settle in for the ride.

I’m so used to stupidly long flights that a couple of hours seems like fuck all. Especially in the comfort of a train. Dolores is playing with her new MP3 player. While I read the latest Viz. I’m feeling quite relaxed. And A true intellectual.

I take some video of the fields.

“People like cows.” I say, defensively.

“You’re weird. No-ne wants to see boring fields.”

“With cows in them. “

“Right. A few cows suddenly make fields interesting.”

“More interesting.”

“Than what?”

“A field without cows.”

“You’re weird and stupid.”

There’s a bit of a stampede in Venlo as pretty well everyone on our train rushes to get onto the German one. We’re lucky enough to get seats. Rather crammed in mind, as the carriages weren’t built with luggage in mind.

Everything ran perfectly smoothly while we were in Holland. Virtually as soon as we cross the border, things start going wrong. With our train stopping to wait foe freight trains. We miss our planned connection in Viersen. The train service in Germany has turned to total shit. It makes the Dutch railways look like those of Japan.

It’s a rather desolate station. With half a dozen windswept platforms and not much else. 

“Would you fancy moving here, Dolores?”

“No. I’d rather move back to Eisenach?”

“You’d be up for that then?”

“No. There’s nothing to do there. I just wouldn’t want to move here. It looks shit.”

“Far enough. I wouldn’t want to move back to Newark, either.”

Not unless the only other option was Grantham. Newark’s evil twin. I’d rather move to hell. Or Newark. Not much difference, really.

Luckily, we don’t have to wait very long. Just 15 minutes for the next Essen-bound train. Which is also pretty crowded. We do find seats, though.

We’re being collected at Essen Hauptbahnhof by Peter van der Meer. Owner and brewer of Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt. A tiny brewery in an inner-city suburb of Essen. I send him a message to let him know that we’re running a little late.

We don’t have to wait long for Peter to pick us up and whisk us off to our hotel. My talk not being scheduled to start for a few hours, we have a chance to relax in our room. Though there’s only space for one of us to stand at a time. And getting onto the toilet requires some contortion.

We drop by Lidl for supplies. 

All the essentials. Rolls, cheese and ham for the journey back to Amsterdam. And a bottle of the cheapest whisky. Under 7 euros on special offer. Fuck me, that’s cheap. It would be stupid not to buy a bottle. And I pride myself on not being an idiot. (Not that the kids would agree with me on that.)

“I hope you’re not going to drink all that whisky tonight.”

“No, that’s a sipping whisky.”

“At under 7 euros a bottle?”

“Yes, I’ll last all of today and tomorrow.”

“That’s “sipping”? Drinking a bottle of whisky in two days?”

“Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Fuck off, Ronald. Just drink yourself to death.”

“Sounds like a . . .”

“Fuck off.”

We marvel at bottles of organic wine for under two euros a pop. Almost as good value as the whisky. Wondering why Dutch cheese is cheaper here than at home. And why eggs increase 50% in price when they cross the border into Holland.

A tear comes to my eye when I get to the checkout and see 100 ml bottles of Chantré next to the sweets. It’s the classic impulse Schnapps. Heartwarming to see the tradition alive and well.

We wander down to the brewery around 17:30. And get stuck into some beer. Just to get my throat lubricated for all the talking I’ll be doing. Which is quite a lot.

My talk is on the history of IPA. And Peter has brewed five historic beers to go along with it. 1838 Combe IPA, 1877 Truman P1, 1911 Whitbread IPA, 1939 Barclay Perkins IPA and 1991 West Coast IPA.

The beers are served at appropriate points in the talk. And I actually get to properly drink them this time. Very nice they are, too.

It’s a pretty relaxed talk. With me digressing on wild tangents a few times. With a short break in the middle, I talk for 2.5 hours. Plenty of laughs. And interesting questions. When it goes well, I really love talking. 

Though, let’s be honest, I love talking even when it isn’t going great. Like with my audience of one in Brazil a couple of years back. I just like talking when no-one is allowed to interrupt me. Unlike in most of my life.

I feel pretty knackered when I’m done. But happy. Time for more beer.

A bottle of 1980s DDR Berliner Weisse appears. Such wonderful stuff, even after all these years.

I don’t stay up too late. I’m too old for that nonsense. And I want to be human for the train back to Amsterdam. With Deutsche Bahn, you never know what might happen.



Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt 
Pollerbergstrasse 3
45145 Essen
https://www.frohnhauser-sudwerkstatt.de/

 

A couple of videos about the trip.

 

 

 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1960 Youngs PA

Next, we have Young’s original Pale Ale. Which, by 1960, had become Ordinary Bitter. Such a great name for a beer, I’ve always thought.

Though this isn’t going to be a huge, long description. This being parti-gyled with the PAB we’ve already seen. Obviously, there’s just a little bit more of everything in this. Not a huge amount more, as the gravities aren’t that different.

Ordinary was a smaller part of Young’s output than it was later to become. It says much of the different beer landscape in 1960 that the batches of X Ale were much bigger than of PA: 250 barrels to 150 barrels. The situation would be very different a decade later, as Mild’s popularity in London collapsed. By the middle of the 1970s, few London pubs sold cask Mild. Many sold no Mild at all.

It’s a shame that this period of Young’s records doesn’t record the bitterness level. My guess is, based on later versions where it is given, that it was around 35 EBU.

1960 Youngs PA
pale malt	6.75 lb	79.82%
flaked maize	1.00 lb	11.82%
pale malt extract	0.33 lb	3.90%
No. 1 invert sugar	0.375 lb	4.43%
caramel 500 SRM	0.002 lb	0.02%
Fuggles 120 min	1.00 oz
Goldings 30 min	1.00 oz
OG	1038
FG	1003.3
ABV	4.59
Apparent attenuation	91.32%
IBU	26
SRM	4.5
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	174º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

 

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Youngs beers in 1990-1991

I've published all the recipes so here's an overview of Young's beers in the early 1990s.

Did I drink any of these beers? Not exactly. As I was living in Australia for some of the period. I did drink some of them slightly later iterations. I definitely tried the Porter once. And probably Special Bitter, too.

First, an explanation of some of the brew-house names. JYLL is John Young's London Lager, PA is Ordinary Bitter and SPA is Special Bitter. Simple, isn't it?

There are ten beers in total. Eleven, really, as in this verion Ram Rod was the same beer as Special, just in bottled form rather than draught. Quite a broad range, covering quite a range of strengths and styles. Though the bulk of the beer they produced was one or other type of Pale Ale. Some of the beers - such as Porter, Oatmeal Stout, Winbter Warmer and Old Nick - were only brewed in small quantities.

Note that all the gravities, other than for Light Ale, end in .8. That's not a coincidence. It's the highest they could get away with rounding it down. Ah, the joys of the old tax system, based on the gravity of the beer before fermentation. 

Weakest of the set is Light Ale at a tad under 1030º and 3% ABV. Which is about typical for the style. Next up the strength tree is John Young's London Lager at around 3.5% ABV. Which is reasonably strong for a UK Lager.

Top of the tree is Old Nick at 1089º and just over 7% ABV. Which was pretty strong for an English beer at the time.

The rate of the attenuation is pretty varied. It's under 70% for two of the stronger beers, Winter Warmer and Old Nick. Not sure if that tells us anything in particular. Special Bitter has the highest degree, at just over 80%. Leaving it at exactly 5% ABV. That's powerful for a post-war UK Bitter. Though I always preferred Ordinary, myself. Not sure why.

All the Pale Ales are reasonably well attenuated, at 75% to 80%. Which is about where you would expect a Bitter to be.

Moving on, there's a large variation in the hopping rates. I'm going here on hops per quarter of malt, which takes the strength of the beer out of the equation. Bottom of the pile is Porter, at just over 2 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt. Top of the pile is Old Nick, at 5.62 lbs. The hopping rate for Porter was much higher in pre-WW II, being 7lbs per quarter (336 lbs) compare to 8 lbs for the Pale Ales.

One of the things I like about this period of Young's records is that they include the bitterness level. And a real one, as it was measured in their lab, not calculated. Interestingly, not only does the bitterness level vary per batch, but also across the different fermenters for the same batch. Which I find fascinating. 

Least bitter are Porter and the Light Ale. While at the other end are Export Pale Ale and Old Nick, at 51 and 61 EBU, respectively. Which are pretty high for UK beers. Though, given the relatively low rate of attenuation, Old Nick probably wasn't as subjectively bitter as some of Young's other beers.

Colour also shows a big variation. Obviously, palest in the two Lagers. And darkest in Winter Warmer, Oatmeal Stout and Porter. Interestingly, Porter was the darkest of the bunch, darker even than Oatmeal Stout.

Notice which type of beer is missing? Mild Ale. Best Malt Ale, Young's Mild, was dropped in the 1980s. 

Youngs beers in 1990-1991
Year	Beer	Style	OG	FG	ABV	App. Atten-uation	lbs hops/ qtr	hops lb/brl	colour (EBC)	EBU
1990	JYLL	Lager	1037.8	1011.0	3.55	70.90%	4.20	0.63	8	32.5
1991	Premium Lager	Pilsner	1047.8	1011.0	4.87	76.99%	3.94	0.67	9	30
1990	Light Ale	Pale Ale	1029.5	1007.5	2.91	74.58%	5.00	0.58	15	29
1990	PA	Pale Ale	1036.8	1007.5	3.88	79.62%	4.70	0.67	16.5	36
1990	SPA	Pale Ale	1046.8	1009.0	5.00	80.77%	5.39	1.87	21.5	40
1990	Export	Pale Ale	1066.8	1016.5	6.65	75.30%	4.89	1.29	32	51
1990	Porter	Porter	1040.8	1012.0	3.81	70.59%	2.10	0.38	135	29
1991	Oatmeal Stout	Stout	1055.8	1014.0	5.53	74.91%	3.02	0.69	120	33
1991	Winter Warmer	Strong Ale	1055.8	1018.0	5.00	67.74%	2.50	0.58	85	31
1990	Old Nick	Barley Wine	1086.8	1032.5	7.18	62.56%	5.62	2.18	120	61
Source:
Young's brewing record held at Battersea Library, document number YO/RE/1/59.

 

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

I travel to Essen

My trip to Essen to speak at Frohnhauser Sudwerkstatt to talk about the history of IPA.

 

Doing my talking thing

No rush today. I rise at 8:00 and go for brekkie.

As there's no bacon, it's back to scrambled egg and cheese. With fruit for pudding. I sit with Michael Helzer, one of the American judges. We have a good chat.

I send the family a picture of my breakfast. It looks rather pretty, with the sunlight shining across it. Let’s see the bastards complain about that.

After breakfast, I go back to my room to chill for a while. Today there are the talks. Mine is scheduled for 14:00. As the morning ones are all in Spanish, I don't go there until midday.

Surprise, surprise: they're running late.

Hernán Testa, the Argentinian hops bloke is talking about . . . Argentinian hops. The bits I can understand are pretty interesting.

The next talk is by some people who make a hop oil. There's some beer to go with this one. Three different versions of the same beer. One dry hopped with 100% pellets, one 65% pellets and 35% hop oil and one with 35% pellets and 65% hop oil. At least it gives me something to drink.

For my talk, I speak a couple of sentences and then the interpreter translates them into Spanish. It interrupts my flow a bit. But does give me a chance to drink some beer while the interpreter is taking.

My talk is about Irish Porter and Stout. I should probably update it. I wrote it a while ago and have since got hold of a lot more Irish brewing records. In particular, examples of heading, the sort of Kräusen used in Ireland.

I get through my beer so quickly, I have to request a refill. That’s a first. Just making sure my throat doesn’t get too dry. Wouldn’t want to get hoarse. Usually, I only get to take a sip or two, as I keep rattling away.

When I'm done, I sell a few more books. Which is good. I'm nicely building up dosh in my PayPal account. Dolores will be so happy. Why have I never brought books with me to sell before? Because I’m an idiot. That’s why.

There are three talks after me, two of which are in English. One from Martin Zuber about creating Lager recipes for craft brewers. And another by Mike Hall about Bathtub Row, the cooperative brewery he helped.

I stand around and chat a bit when the last talk is done. And drink some beer. Before heading back to the hotel in an Uber with a couple of other judges.

Tonight, there's a visit to Hasta Pronto, another brewery. But I'm too tired for that. Especially as it's a 40-minute ride away. Instead, I drop by the supermarket again. For bread, milk, cheese and pisco. As my hotel whisky is all drunk. And some biscuit things for Lexxie.

On the way back to the hotel, someone says hi. It's John, an American brewer who brews further south in Chile, whom I met in Temuco a couple of years ago.

I watch some YouTube and eat a little. All very quiet and restful. Which is exactly what I need.

I turn in around 23:00.



Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommodation, some meals and some beer. 

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Best of Show

It’s an early start. I rise at 6:45. And go upstairs for breakfast.

The good news: they have bacon. And mango juice. A win-win. I slurp down coffee and mango juice with my food. I have fruit for my pudding.

I remember to send the family a snap of the glorious scrambled egg and bacon. And a second of my fruit pudding.

The family’s response is rather dispiriting.

“Why do you just send photos of boring plates of food?” Alexei messages me.

“You find my breakfasts boring?”

“Yes, it’s just the same scrambled egg and bacon.”

“That’s not true. Most days it’s been scrambled egg and cheese.”

“That’s even more boring. Just yellow stuff.”

“Excuse me.”

“Send some more interesting photos.”

“OK. I’ll send you some photos of buildings.”

“That’s not much better. Isn’t it autumn down there? Can’t you take pictures of that?”

“The trees haven’t started to change colour yet. And I’m in the middle of the city.”

“You always have an excuse.”

“It’s called a reason>”

“Yeah, whatever.”

The view from the breakfast room is pretty spectacular. That’s what you get for being on the twelfth floor. In the background, behind the high rises of the city, lurk the snow-topped Andes. 

I send my family a photo of the view. Maybe that’ll stop the fuckers complaining.

I get outside around 8:00. A few judges are chatting there. But no-one is going anywhere. It's pushing 9:00 when we get to the judging site. Where they aren't ready. Again. Partly because the local judges are all stuck in traffic. You have to get used to things starting late when you’re in South America.

It's 10:15 by the tine judging kicks off. We have four beers left over from yesterday: Three Robust Porters and one Old Ale.

Once we've got those out of the way, it's time for some homebrew judging. Weirdly, none of the homebrew beers have bad faults. Unlike quite a few of the professional beers. A couple of the Stouts are really rather good. Judging is full of surprises.

We're done by 12:45. Nothing more to do until lunch at 14:00. Which is why I'm writing this. Got to keep myself occupied. I wouldn’t like to get bored.

In the meantime, I'm shifting quite a few books. Which will please Dolores. With any luck, I'll sell all of the ones I've brought.

Lunch is a steak again. Quite a small one this time. But enough for me. I have a fascinating chat with Hernán Testa, the Argentinian hops bloke while I’m eating. And Michael Helzer, an American. Two pretty engaging and informed conversation partners.

In the afternoon, I'm judging the Best of Show. We have to wait quite a while for the stewards to sort out the beers. But I’ve had worse. I try to keep positive. No matter what my family say.

“You’re so negative, Dad.”

“Just realistic.”

“Cynical, more like.”

I’ve had some bad experiences with judging BOS in the past. Hopefully this won’t be another. 

There are five of us. And 29 beers. Which is quite a lot. Nothing I judged earlier, as we didn't award any gold medals on my table. The table is large but there’s only just about room for all the beers.

There are some excellent ones, which makes the process more difficult. Luckily, there are no opinionated twats on the panel. And we can come to an agreement on the medal winners reasonably quickly. Without any unpleasantness.

I send the family a snap of the table full of beers. It isn’t a plate of food and it isn’t all yellow. Let’s see them complain about that.

In the evening there's a pub crawl, finishing at Intrinsical. But I'm feeling totally knacked and just go back to the hotel. Only venturing out to visit the supermarket for some milk, bread and cheese. Even that 100 metre walk is a struggle. I’m so fucking exhausted.

I send the family a picture of the spirits shelves in the supermarket. Specifically, the Havana Club. I know Andrew will enjoy that.

“Looks just like how I remember it.” He replies.

He’s so sweet.

I watch some stuff on Ziggo and sip my hotel whisky. Before turning in pretty early. A good long rest is what I need. As I’ll be giving a talk tomorrow. I need to be at my best for that.

At least it won’t be an early start.



Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommodation, some meals and some beer. 

  

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Let's Brew - 1960 Youngs PAB

PAB is the lower-strength Bitter that Youngs introduced in the interwar period. With a gravity of 1039º. Obviously, WW II knocked down the gravity somewhat.

Given the rather low gravity, this is more like a Light Ale, or a Boy’s Bitter, rather than an Ordinary Bitter. Looking back at the brewing records, it looks like it was renamed Light Ale in the 1980s. I assume this was a bottled beer, as it doesn’t appear in the Good Beer Guide.

The recipe is pretty much classic English Pale Ale. Consisting of pale malt, flaked maize and sugar, With the latter in three forms: malt extract, No. 1 invert and caramel. 

Not that the boil, at 120 minutes, is much longer than in the 1990s. Presumably, it was shortened to save energy.

There were two types of hops, both English and both from the 1959 harvest.
 

1960 Youngs PAB
pale malt	5.500 lb	79.05%
flaked maize	0.876 lb	12.59%
pale malt extract	0.25 lb	3.59%
No. 1 invert sugar	0.33 lb	4.74%
caramel 500 SRM	0.002 lb	0.03%
Fuggles 120 min	0.75 oz
Goldings 30 min	0.75 oz
OG	1032
FG	1005.5
ABV	3.51
Apparent attenuation	82.81%
IBU	21
SRM	4
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	174º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

 

Listen to brewer John Hatch explain how they brewed at Youngs in the 1990s.  

Hanging around

I'm up early. At 7:20. Feeling fairly crap. After a shower, I feel a bit better. 

Judging is due to start at 9 AM. Right. No way that will happen. 10:30 AM is guess. At the earliest.

I go upstairs for breakfast. No bacon, sadly. There are both scrambled and fried eggs, mind. I go for the former and cheese. Followed by fruit. It’s not a bad spread. With boiled eggs, too. Pastries, cheese, salami. Not bad at all. It almost makes up for the lack of bacon. Almost.

I send the family a picture of my breakfast. I know they’re fascinated by what I eat when I’m away. And I don’t want to disappoint them. 

Surprise, surprise. The start of judging is delayed. First to 10. Then to 12:30. We are in South America, after all. At least we aren’t just hanging around at the judging venue.

I spend the time laying around in my room. Only punctuated by a quick trip to the supermarket around the corner. Where I buy bananas and milk.

At the judging location – the restaurant La Parrilla del Guatón Jerez – there’s some more hanging around. At first outside, then inside.

At 13;30, they still aren’t ready. And we have lunch. Which is a steak and potato salad. A pretty nice steak. I order a beer to go with it. A half litre. Normally, I’d never drink beer during a judging day. Just feel like a beer.

I don’t forget to send the family a picture of my steak. I’m sure that they’ll love to see what I’m eating. 

While eating, I have a chance to talk to some of the other judges. Who are a sociable bunch.

Judging is in the same place. Finally kicking off at around 15:00. Only six hours late. A record, I think. Luckily, 3.5 hours of the wait were in my hotel room. Though I could have got up 90 minutes later. Which would have been nice.

I’m table captain. With Valeria, a local I’ve judged with before, and Columbian Jose. Not sure if being the captain is a good thing. Will it mean more work? I hope not. I hate work. That’s why I retired at 63.

We start with five non-alcoholic beers. That's always fun. They’re surprisingly good. Well, surprisingly non-horrible. Mostly.

After that, it’s pretty much all UK styles. Which is par for the course, when I’m the table captain. Not sure it it’s a good or a bad thing, 

At least Irish Red isn’t on the list. A style I’ve judged six or seven times. And never had an even vaguely decent beer. It’s not just a matter of personal taste. They were technically bad beers, with serious faults. My heart always drops when I see the style on my schedule.

Most of the flights are pretty small, just a couple of beers. Which I like. Other than Scottish Export, of which there are nine examples. Probably about as many as are brewed in Scotland nowadays.

The captaincy doesn’t involve much extra work. Thankfully. Other than clicking a couple of buttons. And, after my career in IT, I’m rather good at clicking buttons.

There’s only one beer with butyric acid – baby sick – across all the flights. Which is a plus. 

Some of our scores are quite far apart. But we manage to come to a consensus without too much arguing. And keep up a pretty decent pace.

We don’t award a huge number of medals. Just a silver and a couple of bronzes.

It's getting late and we still aren't done. We finish at 20:00, with four beers unjudged. We'll do them tomorrow. Despite only judging for five hours, I feel knacked. It’s been an odd and slightly frustrating day.

The plan is to go to brewpub Mango. I decide to give it a miss and go back to the hotel. It’s just getting too late. Even if I just have a couple of beers, with travelling time, I’ll be lucky to be back in the hotel by 23:00.

I buy a sandwich in the hotel, feeling to knackered to walk around the corner to the supermarket. I watch Champions League quarter final highlights on Ziggo. While sipping a little hotel whisky. Just for medicinal purposes, obviously.

When I’ve finished my sandwich, I realise that I haven’t sent the family a photo of it. Hopefully they don’t notice. I’d hate to let them down.

I turn in at 23:00. It's an early start tomorrow. We're being picked up at 7:45. Well, that's the plan. Let's see if that actually happens.

Just a couple of sips of whisky. I’m too desperate for sleep to drink more. Andrew would be so disappointed in me.



La Parrilla del Guatón Jerez
Av. Padre Hurtado 1460, 
Vitacura,
Santiago.
http://www.laparrilladelguatonjerez.cl/


Disclaimer: Copa ACI paid for my accommadation, some meals and some beer. 

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Long journey south

 It's a late start. My flight is at 21:10. I get a cab at 18:00.

“How much Spanish do you know, Dad?” Alexei asked yesterday.

“Not quite as much as Portuguese.”

“Practically none, then”

“I know some words. Banos. Gracias.Por favor.”

“As I said, practically none”

“It’s all I really need.”

“Old people like you always need to know where the toilets are.”

“Exactly.”

“I was taking the piss, Dad.”

“I know.”

“You’re weird.”

“I know.”

The airport isn't too busy, as it's getting late. It's not long before I'm in the lounge grabbing whisky. and a little something to eat. Though I do drop by the duty free to get some hotel whisky. I’m amazed to be able to afford an Islay whisky: Bunnahabhain

I don't go crazy. As I've a long flight. A very long flight. 18 hours, all told. Too long to turn up smashed. Being deeply cynical about the food I’ll be served on the flight, I get down some food ballast.

The flight is pretty full. Almost every seat taken. Just before we take off, a flight attendant comes along and says something to the woman next to me. Who then disappears off somewhere. I assume she's been upgraded. Just after take-off, she returns. Which is a bummer. Where has she been? 

After an hour or so they feed us some slop. It's just about edible. Especially after I sharpen up my wine with some illicit whisky miniatures.

Eating done, I have a good kip. A long kip. Like seven hours. Then I doze for another couple of hours. Which is the best way to handle such a long flight. The first leg to Buenos Aires is 13.5 hours. I don't even watch anything until the last couple of hours. When we're served a breakfast. Of which I just eat the fruit.

We have the fun of deplaning in Buenos Aires. And going through security again. Before hanging around at the gate for a while. Such a joy, early in the morning.

The plane is much emptier on the second leg, with both the seats to my left empty. Which would give me a great view if the Andes. If the wing weren't in the way.

We’re served a warm, savoury pastry. I eat some of it. My stomach is playing up a bit. Just what I need.

As we start to descend into Santiago, there's a cloud layer completely obscuring the city. Or is it smog? It's hard to tell from up here. Let’s hope it’s the former. For the sake of my lungs.

I dodge the long queue for immigration with my oldie priority. Of which I'm very thankful.

All the time gained is lost as I wait ages for my bag to pop out. I thought it was supposed to have priority?

My lift is waiting for me. Thankfully. I had a couple of airport transfers not show up recently. Which was dead fucking annoying. 

We rumble along the motorway for a while. Past light industrial units and dusty hills. My hotel is on the other side of town. But tunnels makes the journey relatively short.

Soon I'm checking into my hotel. Unfortunately, my room isn't free. Luckly, Chris arranges for me to use the room of a couple of German judges while they're out exploring the city.

I'm just starting to get nicely relaxed when the phone rings. It's reception telling me that my room is ready. Great!

Despite kipping on the plane, I'm knacked. And spend most of the day dozing on the bed vaguely watching NHK English service.

My stomach isn't feeling great. Nor is my left side, where there’s a throbbing pain. And I can't get properly to sleep. I don’t even feel like drinking any of my duty-free whisky. Oh, the joys of growing old!

Chris is supposed to pick me up at 18:45 to take me to the judges' dinner at Flannery’s Irish Geo Pub. He hasn't turned up by 19:20 and I take an Uber with Mike Hall.

With my stomach turning somersaults, I can't eat or drink much. I manage a token chip and a few mouthfuls of beer before heading back to the hotel. Where I turn in almost immediately. It's only 22:00. I don’t even have a sip of hotel whisky.

With my stomach still feeling shit and the pain in my side, I have a disturbed sleep. Waking multiple times. Bum.



Flannery’s Irish Geo Pub
Encomenderos 379, 
Las Condes,
Santiago.

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: