Let's Brew Wednesday - 1970 Youngs Special Bitter (SPA)

Big brother to Ordinary Bitter, and parti-gyled with it, was Special Bitter.

Special was introduced in 1949, when the restrictions on brewing in WW II were starting to be relaxed.  It was at around the same gravity as PA had been before WW II.  Other London brewers – for example, Watney and Fullers (SPA was the original name of London Pride) – also introduced Special Bitters at around the same time.

For such a strong Bitter, Youngs were brewing considerable quantities of it. With Special often being the senior partner in parti-gyles with Ordinary. This particular brew, for example, consisted of 201 barrels of Special and 145 barrels of Ordinary.

Obviously, the ingredients were identical to those in the Ordinary Bitter recipe above. 

1970 Youngs Special Bitter (SPA)
pale malt	7.50 lb	76.84%
flaked maize	1.25 lb	12.81%
malt extract	0.50 lb	5.12%
No. 1 invert sugar	0.50 lb	5.12%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.01 lb	0.10%
Fuggles 120 min	1.50 oz
Goldings 0 min	0.50 oz
OG	1045
FG	1009
ABV	4.76
Apparent attenuation	80.00%
IBU	23
SRM	5.5
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	62º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

Young's beers in 1975

Let’s take a look Young’s beers in the middle of the grooviest of all decades.

There are quite a lot of them. Though a couple are just variants off other beers. SPA (Special Bitter) appears twice because there was an increase in its gravity in 1975. A change which then made it identical to Ram Rod.

I’m not sure what YPV was. It was a slightly weaker version of PA (Ordinary Bitter) that was occasionally made in small quantities. EXPA is Export Pale Ale or Special London Ale. Usually parti-gyled with a couple of other Pale Ales. PAB is bottling Pale Ale, which was probably marketed as Light Ale.

The rates of attenuation are all pretty high. I haven’t taken the highest or lowest but a median value for the FGs. I never realised just how strong Special was. Mostly over 5% ABV.

Rather unexpectedly, Saxon is level most hopped beer, along with Export Pale Ale, with over 7 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt. The other Pale Ales were all hopped at around 5.5 lbs per quarter of malt. And the Mild and Winter Warmer, which were parti-gyled together,

It’s always nice to have colours listed. In this case, EBC. Which shows that the Pale Ales were on the pale side. With the Light Ale barely darker than the Lager.

Young's beers in 1975
Beer	Style	OG	FG	ABV	App. Atten-uation	lbs hops/ qtr	hops lb/brl	colour
BMA	Mild	1030.5	1005.5	3.30	81.82%	3.40	0.44	76
PAB	Pale Ale	1030.5	1005.0	3.37	83.64%	5.49	0.67	14
YPV	Pale Ale	1035.5	1007.2	3.74	79.69%	5.49	0.74	18
PA	Pale Ale	1036.6	1005.5	4.10	84.85%	5.87	0.88	14
SPA	Pale Ale	1044.9	1006.6	5.06	85.19%	5.50	1.00
SPA	Pale Ale	1047.6	1007.2	5.35	84.88%	5.99	1.20	22
Ram Rod	Pale Ale	1047.6	1009.4	5.06	80.23%	5.53	1.08	23
EXPA	Pale Ale	1062.6	1017.2	6.01	72.57%	7.38	1.83	27
Winter Warmer	Strong Ale	1055.4	1011.6	5.79	79.00%	3.48	0.72	68
Old Nick	Barley Wine	1084.2	1023.8	7.99	71.71%	5.26	1.87	51
Saxon	Lager	1032.7	1005.0	3.66	84.75%	7.29	1.00	12
Source:
Young's brewing record held at Battersea Library, document number YO/RE/1/44.

 

 

Leaving London

It’s always fun waking up Andrew in the morning.

“Get up, you lazy bastard.”

“In a minute, Dad.”

“You said that half an hour ago.”

It’s quarter to ten when we hit the breakfast room. Which is even quieter today.

I feel like something different today. Cereal and fruit, perhaps. Only joking. I have exactly the same as yesterday.

I go first again. But Andrew does eat something. A fried egg, a rasher of bacon and some beans. And a mug of tea. You can’t start the day without that.

Fed, we return to our room and have just about enough time to pack before checkout time.

On the way to the tube, we drop by the supermarket. To get some contraband: crumpets, cheese and lemon and ginger tea for Dolores.

It’ a simple journey to Heathrow. The Piccadilly Line all the way. We’re lucky that the train we catch isn’t very full. We bumble along for an hour or so. Until we pitch up at Terminal 4.

We check in Andrew’s bag, then trail airside. And go straight to the lounge. Where I was just a few weeks ago.

It’s not quite as busy as last time. We can easily find seats.

“Beer, Andrew?”

“Yes, please.”

I get myself a whisky. Only the one, as it’s a decent measure. And some cheese. You can never go wrong with cheese. It’s a good friend.

We have a couple of more rounds while we net the intersurf. Andrew on his phone, me on my laptop.

Our flight is on time. The gate just far enough away for the walk to be irritating. Boarding starts soon after we get there. Which is perfect.

It’s much emptier than the flight out. I have two empty seats next to me. This time we get a coffee in addition to the bag of cheesy biscuits.

Back on the ground, it’s a bit of a walk to passport control. It’s almost deserted. Which makes a change. Andrew’s bag is already circling around on the carousel when we get to it.

The cab ride home takes a little longer than usual, due to rush hour traffic. Once we get home, Dolores is waiting. With a pot of tea, as always.
 

Youngs!

Our appointment at Battersea Library is at 10:30. But, now here’s a surprise, I have trouble getting Andrew up at 9:00. He’s not much of a morning person. Or early afternoon one. His rhythm is more vampire.

It’s after 9:30 when we get to the breakfast room.

Not expecting Andrew to be that interested in food, I attack the buffet first. In a controlled and focused way. Two fried eggs, three rashers of bacon, some tomato and two slices of brown toast. I believe that each fried egg deserves its own slice of toast. Anything less would be disrespect.

“I’m not really a breakfast person.” Andrew told Dolores before we left. Yet he does eat a little. And have a mug of tea. As do I.

There are a gazillion ways to get to Battersea Library. Mostly involving Clapham Junction. We settle on a short walk to Euston, Victoria Line to Victoria, then a train. It only takes around 35 minutes.

Until the walk up Primrose Hill. I’m not a big fan of hills. That’s one of the reasons I live in Holland. And grew up in Newark. Leeds was just an aberration.

They’re very friendly in the library. And the nice Scottish lady already has the first six volumes out for us.

Before we kick off, I give Andrew a few pointers. Though I’m sure he’ll say I just left him to it.

There’s a sort of physical poetry to the ritual of consulting records.

Receive the document, reverentially place it on its support cushions, photograph the document number, photograph the cover, open the book. Then falling into a rhythm of turning a page, taking a snap, turning a page, taking a snap, in endless repetition. Until the volume ends.

Return the document to the counter and receive the next, reverentially place it on its support cushions, photograph the document number, photograph the cover, etc. etc. In a loop until the end of the documents. It’s easy to fall into a sort of trance. A good thing. As the process is boring as hell. And doesn’t do my back any favours.

We rattle through the records in three hours. I was very particular in the 22 brewing books I requested. A couple from the 1930s. Every year 1939 to 1047. Two years each for the 1950s and 1960s. Three for the 1970s. Because, well, I’m writing a book on the 1970s.

“Do you know John Hatch?” The Scottish lady asks.

“We’re seeing him when we’re done here.”

“He’s a lovely man.”

He is indeed.

One of my main motivations for this visit was to get some more 1970s recipes. And to just get on with things. On my last visit to London, I spoke with John Hatch about visiting the archive. Why not just do it now before I forget?

We’ve a couple of hours before we’re due in Sambrook’s taproom.

“What about ‘Spoons for some food?” I suggest.

“Sounds good.”

We had to walk past a Wetherspoons on the way from Clapham Junction. It’s called The London and Southwestern. I assume after a railway that operated the nearby station.

It’s pretty spacious inside. One large, square-ish room. With a bar along most of one side.

A pint of Red McGregor for me, a pint of Strongbow for Andrew. We grab a table and peruse the food menu at our leisure. And I peruse our fellow customers.

Many of whom are my people. By that, I mean pensioners. There’s a table of half a dozen old boys. They look like old friends meeting up for a few pints. Several old couples occupy other tables. I suppose it is prime pensioner time: early afternoon.

When I order food at the bar, I notice many are paying in cash. Handing over a fistful of coins for pints of John Smiths Smooth or Guinness.

Not feeling overly hungry, I get a small ham, egg and chips. While Andrew has a cheeseburger.

“Do you want to eat my chips, Dad?”

“I suppose I can force them down.”

Which I do. I’m such a good dad.

After a second round, we go in search of a bus. Andrew has consulted the TFL site and has a couple of bus numbers we can take. To Wandsworth Town Hall. One rolls up pretty quickly. This is fun.

We get to Sambrooks Brewery a little after 16:00, the appointed time. No sign off John Hatch or Derek Prentice. Whom I’m meeting. I mention to the barman that I’m here to meet John when I get some beer. He’s not sure where he is.

I haven’t even taken a sip of my pint when Derek arrives. With a friend. Soon after, John comes downstairs. Holding a shaggy looking folder. I know what it is. It’s the brewers’ notes. One of the reasons I’m here.

As we chat about various brewing-related topics, I photograph all the pages of notes that look interesting. Or possibly interesting. Or even vaguely possibly interesting. Always best to be on the safe side.

After a while, it’s just me, Andrew and Derek.

“Would you like to go to another pub?” Derek asks.

“Ooh, yes please.” I reply. Andrew looks keen, too.

We settle on the Eagle Ale House, which is a short bus ride away.

It’s in an odd spot. Halfway along a residential street. Not where you usually find pubs in London. Is it a former beer house? Probably not, as the street looks like it was built after 1869.

It’s pretty busy, though we manage to find a table. I’m excited when I spot they have a Mild. Moor Buckwheat Mild, to be specific. Andrew, as usual, has a cider. The Mild is pretty good. Dark and malty.

We only stay for a couple, as Derek needs to get home. Though it’s getting on for 10 PM by the time we leave.

Being lazy, we get an Uber back. It’s very reasonable at a little under twenty quid.

Back at Tavistock Square, we nip to the late-night shop. Where we get sandwiches and cider. We already have crisps.

We watch some crap on my laptop while I polish off the whisky and Andrew finishes his cider. It’s 1 AM when we turn in.




The Eagle Ale House
104 Chatham Rd,
London SW11 6HG.

Let's Brew - 1970 Youngs Ordinary Bitter (PA)

One step up from Light Ale was one of Young’s biggest sellers: Pale Ale or Ordinary Bitter as it was called down the pub.

A surprise about Young’s 1970s records, is that there’s quite a bit single-gyle brewing. Much more than at Fullers, where just about everything was parti-gyled. Which is a longwinded way of saying that this wasn’t parti-gyled with the Light Ale I've already posted. Though it was parti-gyled with Special.

There’s just pale malt, though three different lots, from two different maltsters. (Four, actually, as there’s some enzymic malt.) Accompanied by quite a bit of flaked maize and a little bit of No. 1 invert sugar. As well as malt extract, which I assume was in liquid form.

Two types of English hops were used. With no indication of variety. Or age. It’s one of the few areas where the logs are weak. Though it does mention that 25% weren’t added to the copper, but to the hop back. Hence the zero minute addition.

1970 Youngs Ordinary Bitter (PA)
pale malt	6.50 lb	79.56%
flaked maize	1.00 lb	12.24%
malt extract	0.33 lb	4.04%
No. 1 invert sugar	0.33 lb	4.04%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.01 lb	0.12%
Fuggles 120 min	1.25 oz
Goldings 0 min	0.50 oz
OG	1037
FG	1007
ABV	3.97
Apparent attenuation	81.08%
IBU	20.5
SRM	5
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	63º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

 

 

London City

It’s quite a late start, the flight being just after 17:00. Allowing me to be lazy and do some of my preparations in the morning. Like my final packing.

I also need to get Andrew organised, as he’s coming along with me. Acting as my research assistant. At least, that’s what I’m calling it. Slave labour is another term. Though he is getting all the cider he can drink. A good deal, if you’ve seen the way he knacks it back.

We jump in a cab about 14:00. Security takes longer than usual as they pull out my bag. And there’s a whole queue of them before mine waiting to be checked. This is going to take a while.

Luckily, an Italian family with a small swarm of kids has three bags in the queue. Which all get pulled out pretty much at once. We’re delayed by maybe 15 minutes.

There’s a bit of a queue for passport control. But it’s moving at a fair lick. We pop out airside pretty quickly. And head immediately for the lounge. A bit later than I’d hoped.

“What do you want to drink, Andrew?” I ask, already knowing his reply.

“A beer.” I knew that’s what it would be.

I get myself two whiskies, obviously. I’m a vulture of habit.

After we’re settled, I give the food a once over. They have the beef stew thing I tried last week. It’ll do quite nicely for lunch. Covered in cheese which I assume is really intended for the pasta dish.

I accompany my food with another pair of whiskies. And another beer for Andrew. I’m not a monster.

Another couple of whiskies perks up my appetite again. Second course is a sandwich and some pickles. Even Andrew eats a sandwich. I snap a photo of it for posterity (for Dolores, too). And he has another beer. He’s not a monster.

Not sure when or where I’ll be eating again. I get a bit more bread and cheese. And whisky.

It’s a bit later than I thought. Meaning I need to rush my food. At least the board says our gate, E21, is only 3 minutes’ walk away. Which is nothing at Schiphol. Walking times of up to 19 minutes are being shown.

Three minutes – what a joke. I assume that’s the time to gate 2. Add another 10 minutes for gate 21. Which throws our timings all off. It’s far more of a rush to the gate than I’m comfortable with.

They’re already boarding zones 1 and 2 when we arrive at the gate. We add ourselves to the end of the queue.

It’s another bus, tarmac and stairs job. As we’re flying to London City. I genuinely didn’t notice it was London City until after I booked. It doesn’t really make much difference to me. Heathrow or City.

We get a bag of cheesy biscuits and a bottle of water. In the short time that we’re in the air. Luckily, I’m not feeling very hungry. No idea why.

I’ve explained to Andrew how badly the DLR connects with the tube. And how painfully slow it is. Like a little shuttle train at an airport. Which is why I suggested that we change at West Ham to the Hammersmith line.

“It’s a bit slow.“ Andrew comments.

“I told you. Like a toy system. Not serious public transport.”

After a small false start when we get on a District Line train by mistake, we’re bouncing and grinding on our way. My god, tube trains can be noisy.

The Hammersmith line platforms aren’t quite as stupid deep as the Piccadilly Line ones. But still quite a pain in the arse to escape.

We drop by the Euston Flyer on the way to our hotel. For a beer or two. And maybe something to eat.

“Are you hungry, Andrew?”

“Maybe I’ll eat something in a while.”

“Let’s start with some beer.”

“Cider for me.”

“OK. Beer for me, cider for you.”

After a drink or two, Andrew finds some appetite.

“It’s annoying that they don’t say how big the burgers are.” Andrew complains.

He doesn’t want too large a meal. Eventually, we settle of fish and chips and a portion of onion rings. Intending to share. I would have ordered a pie, but there isn’t one on the menu.

I end up eating all of the fish and most of the chips. The fish is dead good. Proper battered fried fish.

We have another couple of drinks. Then head for our hotel, pausing only at the supermarket to stock up on essentials. Like crisps, cider and whisky.

By the time we’re checked in, it’s getting pretty late. We laze around in the room for a while. This being an economy trip, we only have the one room. We don’t leave it too late. No later than nine we need to be up. For our appointment at Battersea Library.



The Euston Flyer
83-87 Euston Rd.,
London NW1 2RA.
https://www.eustonflyer.co.uk

Homeward bound

No rush to get up this morning. I lie in until 8:30, before trailing down to the bar for breakfast.

As every other day, I get myself a traditional Irish breakfast. It’s about the perfect size for mer. Substantial enough, but sufficient to lie like a stone in my stomach all day.

At one off the other tables a Chinese woman is videoing herself eating a cooked breakfast. There’s a first. She doesn’t seem too keen on the black pudding. Me, I love the stuff. Bloody and puddingy at the same time. Yum.

Straight after breakfast, I pack up my stuff and check out. Before grabbing a cab to the airport. Terminal 1 is what I need. And where I go.

I’m not checking in a bag. Which makes the process pretty speedy. Especially with my pushy-in boarding. The only question now is: where’s the lounge?

It’s not much of a walk. Thankfully. I park my arse on a seat and then approach the bar. WTF. There’s a sign saying only two alcoholic drinks per customer. I wonder why that is? Local rules, perhaps.

That’s a bastard. No chance of getting very pissed before boarding. Just as well I won’t be here for that long. I have to nurse my drinks. Luckily, it’s a fairly decent measure.

I get myself some cheese and bits of salad to go with my whiskey. Before firing up my flip-flop and getting on with the serious business off getting angry with the internet. It’s my favourite pastime.

The flight is on time. And, with reasonable timing, arrive at the gate five minutes or so before boarding begins.

The flight is full again. But it’s just up and down, really, with a sandwich and a bottle of water for service.

Unlike on the way out, where the bus started from right at the end of D pier, we’re dumped right at its start. Saving a shitload of walking.

The stairs down to passport control are cordoned off. Though I see a couple of people let through. When I go to take the lift, a security guard asks: “What sort of passport do you have?” When I reply: “Dutch” I’m allowed to continue.

Downstairs I see why. There’s a long queue for other passports. But the machines for EU passports are empty. I just roll on straight through. I’m so glad I got myself a Dutch passport

Tea, as usual, is waiting for me when stumble through our front door.
 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1885 Thomas Usher 60/- B

Strongest of Usher’s trio of B suffix Shilling Ales was, logically enough, 60/-. Which is the only one clawing its way above 3% ABV.

This and the above 50/- were members of a five-way parti-gyle. Along with and 80/-, 100/- and 54/- M. Quite an interesting mix.

Not much more I can say about this beer. Other than that it looks like another beer for sharing with the kiddies while eating your tea.

All three of these beers are very weak for the late 19th century. You only really see beers of this strength in Scotland and more rural parts of England. 

1885 Thomas Usher 60/- B
pale malt	2.75 lb	33.33%
Munich malt	4.50 lb	54.55%
No. 2 invert sugar	1.00 lb	12.12%
Cluster 120 min	1.25 oz
Strisselspalt 30 min	0.75 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.25 oz
OG	1040
FG	1015
ABV	3.31
Apparent attenuation	62.50%
IBU	35
SRM	8.5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	175º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	WLP028 Edinburgh Ale

Another train!

A rather longer journey and earlier start today. As I’m travelling to Cork and have a morning appointment. My train is at 8:00.

No time for a ‘Spoons breakfast today. Instead, I pick up a coffee and a sandwich in the station to eat on the train.

The train is busier than the one I took yesterday. Though no-one is standing. And there are a few empty seats. The journey is much longer today, around 2 hours and 40 minutes. Which isn’t too bad for 250 km.

The approach to Cork Kent station is a bit unusual. After emerging from a long tunnel, there’s a sharp right turn and there you are.

I jump in a taxi and rumble through the centre of Cork, heading for University College. Once there, the Boole library is easy to find. It’s a pretty typical brutalist concrete lump. Just like the ones in Leeds University.

It’s slightly weird walking around a university campus with all these young people milling around. It fair takes me back to the days of my youth.

I’m headed down to the basement, where the archiyey things happen. Everything is ready for me. They pass me the books one at a time.

The first couple, which are pretty old and scribbly, are quite short. It only takes a few minutes to photograph all the pages. Not exactly sure what’s in them, as they’re hard to read. I did see the words “India” and “Pale Ale”. I’ll be giving them a closer look, when I have some time.

It was great fun working out which volumes I wanted to consult. As the brewing and fermentation records are in different books. And not always described properly in the catalogue. Meaning I had to order matching books. It makes things far more complicated.

Receiving the brewing book first, I also have to remember which dates I photograph, so I can also snap the matching fermentation records. Luckily, Murphy only brewed a couple of different beers. And regularly. By photographing all of January and half of October, I’m sure of getting multiple examples of all their beers.

It’s a lot of work. And I’m not sure I’ve got it all right. Luckily, I plan another visit. Simply because I’ve only been able to get through maybe half of the documents I want to consult.

A student group enters the research room. It seems that they're doing some archive study. Luckily, I find it easy to zone out and they don’t disturb me at all. After a while of snapping, I just go onto autopilot. Working away without really thinking about it.

At the end of four hours, I’m knacked and through everything. At least, through all the documents I’ve ordered. And there’s still time for a pint.

On my way in, I noticed a pub just opposite the station. That’ll do. And I’ll be just a couple of minutes away from my train.

It doesn’t look that promising from the outside. Inside, it’s rather bland and modern. With only a couple of customers.

They have the full set of industrial Stouts: Guinness, Murphy’s and Beamish. As I haven’t seen it for ages, I get the last.

It looks the part. But there’s something a bit weird about the flavour. Is it old? Are the lines dirty? Not sure. But something’s not right. I mange to force it down, without any pleasure. Not going to waste it, however bad it might taste.

I get myself a sandwich and Taytos for the train journey. It’s quite busy, without being totally packed. We trundle along at a decent pace. Through a sea of green fields and grey skies. Rain occasionally lashes the windows.

It’s 20:00 when we get back to Heuston station. After a short cab ride, I’m back at my hotel. Pausing only to nip into Tesco for some more scran. And the bar to get a pint for my room.

The Brehon Oatmeal Stout has finished. I get a pint of Old Peculier instead. It’s not bad.

Whisky has me tumbling down the slumber hill.



Station View Tavern
87 Lower Glanmire Rd,
Montenotte,
Cork,
T23 A265.

Train!

This is so exciting. I’m taking an Irish train for the first time. A proper express service. I have been on the DART before, but that doesn’t really count. Just being a commuter-type train.

There’s no rush. My appointment in Portlaoise is only at 14:00. I rise a little before nine and drop downstairs for breakfast. Being very unimaginative when it comes to breakfast choices, I go for the traditional Irish again. Should keep me going until after lunchtime.

My train isn’t until 13:00. Leaving me a little time to stock up on stuff to eat later.

After a short cab ride, I’m at Heuston station. A rather impressive stone edifice in a classical style. Inside, it reminds me a bit of Manchester Piccadilly. With a large concourse filled with shops in front of the platforms.

I’m quite early, leaving me time to poke around the shops a little. And pick up food and drink for the train: an egg and bacon sandwich, Taytos cheese and onion and a bottle of cola.

Soon after leaving, we’re out in the countryside. Which is surprisingly green. Well, not really. Surprising, I mean. It has been raining off and on the whole time I’ve been here. And Ireland sort of has a reputation for being, er, green.

The train rattles along at a decent pace and in 40 minutes we’re in Portlaoise. Which has another attractive stone station building. The library, where I’m headed, is just a short walk away down Main Street.

I knew that the library must be new, as it’s still under construction on streetview. It’s rather nice: airy and bright. I’m led up to the local studies room, where they already have the Perry brewing records laid out for me.

Now the fun starts. There are only ten books, which means that I can take my time. Well, not rush too crazily. I have around three hours, my train being booked for a bit after 17:00.

I sit down to do the snapping today. I stood yesterday and by the end my back was aching like crazy. Over the course of two hours, I take just shy of 500 photos. About one every 15 seconds.

I like the Perry’s records. They’re compact, easy to read and include pretty much all the information I need. Ingredients, mashing and boil details, and a fermentation record. They’re some of the easiest to process.

Cherry’s, which I photographed yesterday, records are a bit frustrating, not giving boil times and having only a partial fermentation record, finishing at what looks like cleansing.

Cairnes’ are in what I call “Scottish format”. Where there are several records spread horizontally across two pages. The upside, is that I capture multiple brews with a pair of photographs. The downside, is that they’re rather cramped and some of the writing rather small. And, in the case of Cairnes, the beer type is annoyingly on the second page.

While I’m snapping away, a couple of groups of schoolkids wander in, apparently doing some sort of local history project. It doesn’t bother me. I’m totally focussed when doing this stuff.

By 16:00, I’ve snapped all that needs snapping. Great. I’ve time for a pint before getting on the train. I noticed a suitable looking pub on the way in: Kavanaghs.

There are half a dozen or so other customers, mostly clumped around the bar. I order a pint of Guinness. The other punters are mostly drinking Lager. Other than a two who are getting stuck into Smithwicks.

A couple of TVs are showing racing. One horses, the other dogs. It reminds me very much of lunchtime in some pubs in Leeds back in the 1970s and 1980s. The Guinness isn’t bad. Drinkable, if a little low-powered on flavour.

I’ve only time for the one. Before trailing back to the station. It’s raining again. But the half-hearted type of rain that hydrates rather than soaks. I’m used to this sort of stuff. We get plenty of it in Amsterdam.

My train is on time. Which is just as well, as I’ve an early evening appointment. The legroom is much better than on most modern UK express trains. And the windows match the seating layout.

Back in Heuston, I’ve no time to lose. As I’ve an early evening appointment. I nip back to my hotel, pick up my USB drive and books to flog, then head off again. To Underdog, where I’ll be giving a talk tonight.

I get there a little after 19:00. Which isn’t too bad going. I immediately bump into John Duffy. Who recommends a super-strong, barrel-aged Stout. Well, that should get me in the mood.

The talk compares the beers of an Irish brewery (Cairnes) with those of an English brewery (Rose of Malton) and a Scottish brewery (Usher). There are lots of questions as I trundle along. Which I rather like. As it offers me plenty of opportunity to digress.

When the talk is done, it’s time for some talking. I chat with various people, before ending up with Lisa Grimm and John Duffy. It’s good to see both of them again. Though I end up staying rather longer than I’d intended. It’s past midnight by the time I jump into a cab.

I’ve an early start tomorrow. I go to bed almost as soon as I get back to my room. Pausing only to briefly reacquaint myself with Mr. Whisky.




Kavanaghs
28 Main St,
Portlaoise,
Co. Laois,
R32 EP2K.
http://www.kavanaghsportlaoise.com/


Underdog
199 King St N,
Rotunda,
Dublin 1,
D07 PR5X.

Archiving!

I rise a little after eight. Then trapse downstairs to the bar for brekkie.

The big question is: should I get the traditional or the large Irish breakfast? Good sense prevails, and I plump for the large. Only joking. I’m not a total pig.

Is a description necessary? It’s a Wetherspoons breakfast. Functional, is the word that comes to mind. A way to efficiently load up on calories for the day. Two mugs of tea, too. Proper tea. Strong and milky.

I have to ask at the Storehouse information desk for Eibhlin Colgan, the archivist. And soon she’s leading me up to the reading room. Where she already has the volumes I’m going to consult.

There are eight in total: two Cherry, two Perry and four Cairnes. Covering a pretty decent span of years, between them. 1876 to 1966. Lots to get my teeth stuck into.

I wouldn’t describe the work of photographing brewing records as fun. It isn’t. Tedious. Repetitive. Filthy, sometimes. Backbreaking. Mostly just boring.

Pages are turned, photos are taken. Occasionally, I’ll pause to take a look. More so at the start than at the end of the session.

At lunch, I notice that my phone is down to 38% battery. Which is a bit worrying. I ask about charging it while I eat. Unfortunately, I’ve only brought a USB cable. Damn.

It makes the afternoon session even more frantic than usual. I start to regret how much time I spent on some of the Cairnes records this morning.

When I finish, I’ve still a little battery left. But that was much more stressful than it needed to be. Stress is the last thing I need.

1,000 snaps snapped, I head back to my hotel. Where I recharge my phone and copy all those valuable photos to my laptop. After all the effort it took to take them, I wouldn’t want to lose them by dropping my phone or having it nicked.

In one taxi, I explained to the driver what type of pub I like. Old men’s pubs, basically. One he recommended was Cassidy’s, just over the road from my hotel. After nipping into Tesco Express to pick up a couple of sandwiches (and Taytos cheese and onion crisps) for my tea, I drop by there.

It is, as advertised, and old-fashioned sort of pub. The perfect place to try out the Guinness.

I’m not expecting a sensory overload. Let’s be honest: Draught Guinness is pretty bland. But this pint is smooth and easy to drink. With the vaguest flicker of roast lurking somewhere in its shadows.

I quite like quiet times in pubs. Though his one is by no means empty, there’s plenty of space for me to fill with my fat arse. But still enough fellow customers to observe to keep things interesting.

Only the one pint. I’m not made of fucking money. I retreat back to the ‘Spoons. And the warm embrace off cheap cask beer. I enjoyed the Brehon Black Hills so much yesterday, I get myself another. Which I take to my room. Where whisky I don’t need to pay for (again) is waiting for me.

This isn’t going to be a very pubby trip. I’ve a busy schedule and don’t want to knack myself just hanging around in pubs. Much as I love doing that.

Instead, I hang around my room a bit. Nibbling on my Tesco sarnies and sipping my hotel whisky. While watching some shit TV on my laptop.

It’s me chasing the whisky to sleep today.



Cassidys
42 Camden Street Lower,
Saint Kevin's,
Dublin 2,
D02 YP57.

 

Let's Brew - 1970 Youngs PAB

One of the things I was particularly interested in getting from the Young's archive were brewing records from the 1970's. Because of the book I'm working on about that period. This specific record is one that my son Andrew photographed. He made the whole process of harvesting so much quicker. I should probably always take him along.

I’ll kick off by explaining the name PAB. I’m pretty sure it stands for “Pale Ale Bottling”, I’m guessing that it dates from around WW I. When brewers introduced a weaker version of their Pals Ales for bottling. Though I can’t say for certain, as Young’s records only go back to 1932. By 1970, I’m sure that this was marketed as Light Ale.

The recipe looks pretty typical of Pale Ales of the period: pale malt, flaked maize and invert sugar. Note that there’s no crystal malt. Which, along with the sugar and maize, is why the colour is so pale. And would have been even paler without the small amount of caramel.

There aren’t many details about the hops. About all that I can deduce is that there were two types, both English. I’ve guessed Fuggles and Goldings. 

1970 Youngs PAB
pale malt	4.25 lb	67.89%
flaked maize	0.75 lb	11.98%
No. 1 invert sugar	1.25 lb	19.97%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.01 lb	0.16%
Fuggles 160 min	0.75 oz
Goldings 15 min	0.75 oz
OG	1031
FG	1005.5
ABV	3.37
Apparent attenuation	82.26%
IBU	18
SRM	5.5
Mash at	148º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	160 minutes
pitching temp	62.5º F
Yeast	WLP002 English Ale

Dublin bound

As with most trips, it begins with a taxi ride to the airport. I’m such a lazy git, there being loads of public transport alternatives. I do, at least, have the excuse of being old.

The airport is busier than I’d expected. The taxi struggles to find a spot to dump me. This is slightly concerning. Security won’t be a problem with my pushing-in status. The trouble is likely to be at passport control. Where I don’t get any priority.

It turns out that the queue at passport control isn’t that bad. I’m through in fewer than ten minutes. And sail on immediately to duty free. Where I pick up some hotel whisky. Not Islay, I’m afraid. That’s all way out of my price range now.

After that small diversion, it’s straight to the lounge. Where I kick off with a brace of whiskies. My server must be new, as she pours very generously. At least a double for each. Much better than the usual stingy single measures.

They’re still serving the breakfast food. Hurray! I get scrambled egg, sausage, mushrooms and spuds. I pass on the chicken bacon. I believe that bacon only grows on pigs. I’ve yet to be proven wrong.

I collect another pair of whiskies – sadly, stingy singles – before heading back to the buffet for my second course. This time, it’s bread, cheese and some salad.

I’m just thinking of heading to the gate, when I notice that my flight has been delayed. Time for more whisky, then.

It’s a City Hopper service. Which means no air bridge. It’s a bus and then climbing up stairs from the tarmac. The flight is full. But at least it only lasts a bit over an hour.

Having no checked in bag, I’m quickly through the airport and searching for the taxi rank. In no time I’m bouncing along the road with a very chatty taxi driver. Who makes all sorts of food recommendations. Before telling me that he can’t eat any more after having throat cancer.

When I booked my hotel, I had no idea it was a Wetherspoons. Honestly, I genuinely didn’t. It is handy, though.

I’ve a little time until my evening appointment in Dún Laoghaire. Time for a pint downstairs. I’m tempted by the Old Puke. But I plan having some of that in London next week. And there’s an Irish Stout: Brehon Black Hills Oatmeal Stout.

It’s rather nice. In pretty good condition and only 2.60 euros a pint. What the fuck? How can Wetherspoons knock out beer at less than half the price of the other pubs in Dublin?

Feeling a bit peckish, I order an all-day breakfast to go with my pint. It fills the considerable hole in my belly wholly fully. I won’t need to eat again for a couple of days. At least, that’s what it feels like at the moment.

My destination tonight is Dunphy’s, a traditional type of pub. Where I’m meeting Oscar O’Sullivan, a reader of my blog.

He’s waiting for me at the bar. Once I have a pint of Sullivan’s Red in my hand, we start chatting about beer in general and Irish beer in particular. Things I can bullshit away about for hours. And hours. I should really win an award for my ability to talk about beer, uninterrupted, for hours. I’m sure my family think I deserve something for it. Probably a long prison sentence. Without the prospect of an early release.

Sullivan’s Red isn’t very red. More like dark brown. A typical Dark Mild colour, really. It tastes quite like a keg Mild, too.

I don’t stay out too late. I only have the three pints.  I need to be up reasonably early, as I have an appointment at 9:30. And I wouldn’t want to face a day off hard archiving without the fuel of a Wetherspoons breakfast.

Whisky pursues me to sleep.


Keavans Port
1 Camden Street Upper,
Dublin,
D02 K854.


Dunphys
41 George's Street Lower,
Dún Laoghaire,
Co. Dublin, A96 YR23.

 

 

Bass Charrington

The company was formed in 1967 by the merger of Charrington United Breweries and Bass Mitchells & Butlers.  Creating the largest brewing group in the UK. A position it would retain until it eventually sold up.

They started the decade with a bewildering array of breweries, some quite small and many in close proximity to each other. For example, in the West Midlands and Northwest England. Heavy pruning ensued.

Who knows what Bass Charrington could have achieved, if they hadn’t been led by H Alan Walker, a domineering lunatic with no knowledge of the brewing industry? Despite his best efforts, the company became the biggest brewer in the UK and one of the largest in the world. In the hands of someone more competent, they could only have been more successful.

The chairman’s insane plan was to have just two breweries, Cape Hill in Birmingham and the new brewery in Runcorn serving the whole of the UK.  Which led them to closing most of their breweries. Though, when they discovered Runcorn couldn’t brew acceptable versions of some of their Northern brands, breweries such as Stones in Sheffield and the Tower Brewery in Tadcaster were reprieved.

They were one of the worst in terms of pub vandalism. When there was a pub swap in the 1980s, they took over the Little Park from Tetley. It was a lovely little pub, with two distinct rooms. Bass almost immediately fucked it up, knocking it through into a single room. Totally ruining the atmosphere.


Bass
The renowned Burton Pale Ale brewery of the 19th century, the glory days of Bass were well over after WW II. Once the largest brewery in England, its beers remained nationally available, making it a tempting target for the ambitious M&B. Even though their tied house estate was quite small.

Despite coming first in the company name, Bass had never been one of the driving forces of the conglomerate. Having lost their independence before the formation of Bass Charrington. Their name remained prominent on account of its historic resonance. Though the company could have promoted the brand better

Charrington
A classic London Ale brewery, Charrington’s directors seem to have been naïve about what joining the Bass Charrington collective entailed. Hoping for a shiny new plant just outside London, they were greatly disappointed when the replacement for their East End brewery was Cape Hill in Birmingham.

Cape Hill
The original Mitchell & Butler brewery in Birmingham. And, for a while, the largest cask brewery in the world. I can’t say I was that keen on their cask beer. Brew XI was a crap, sweet excuse of a Bitter. The Mild was OK. But no better than that. When in Birmingham, I much preferred Ansells Mild.

Springfield
One of the group’s three breweries in the West Midlands. They brewed Dunkirk Pale Ale and Springfield Bitter. Both lovely, delicate Bitters. Way better than Brew XI. So, obviously, it was closed and the beers discontinued, though Springfield Bitter was brewed at Cape Hill for a while.

Highgate
Bass Charrington had a weird variation in the size of their breweries. Highgate in Walsall being very much at the small end. And even weirder, as their only product was a Mild Ale.

It had been scheduled for closure around the start of WW II, but was kept open as each brewery was allocated a certain quantity of materials based on their pre-war usage. Had the brewery closed, M & B would have missed out on the ingredients. In the end, it outlasted all the other former M & B breweries, including Cape Hill.

Tadcaster
It’s really odd how all three Tadcaster breweries have managed to survive. There were three substantial breweries in the town in the 1970s. And there are still three now. Back then, they were Sam Smiths, John Smiths and what was the former Tower Brewery, owned by Bass.

I can’t say that I cared for its beers. What was the Bitter? Brew X? Yes, that was it. Can’t ever remember trying it. I usually stuck to Mild, which came in the form of XXXX. A bit thin and insipid. Not a patch on Tetley Mild.

Stones
William Stones was a successful Sheffield Brewery, but owing to the large spread in ownership of their shares, they feared a hostile takeover. For a while they managed to play their two potential suitors – Charrington United and Bass M & B – off against each other. Until the two merged in 1967 to form Bass Charrington. And gobbled up Stones.

Their Bitter, which was very pale, along the lines of Boddington, had a strong local following and was a pretty decent pint. At least in the early years. It caused the company lots of problems. They wanted to close it, but attempts to replicate it at Runcorn were a dismal failure and the Sheffield brewery had to stay open.

Hope & Anchor
Another Sheffield brewery, but one which played a weird role in the formation of Bass Charrington.

In the 1950s, they were trying to market their Jubilee Stout to Canada. They came to an agreement with Canadian brewery owner Eddie Taylor. He would brew Jubilee Stout and in return Hope & Anchor would brew Black Label in the UK.   It was a deal which, eventually, gifted one of the UK’s most popular Lagers to Bass Charrington.

This transaction prompted Taylor to take a closer look at the UK brewing industry. And soon he was in the UK trying to put together a national brewery group. Just as he had done in Canada. And eventually led to the creation of the UK’s largest brewing company, Bass Charrington.

In 1960, it merged with Hammonds United Breweries and had started on one of the paths which would lead to Bass Charrington. Surprisingly, given the company’s rigorous pruning of its breweries, it didn’t close until 1994.

Tennent
Home of Glasgow’s – and Scotland’s – favourite Lager. Tennent got into the Lager game very early, in 1885, importing Germans to build them a suitable brew house, which opened in 1889. Unlike most who got into the Lager game in the 19th century, they were able to make a fist of it.

The brewery was lucky that Lager took off much earlier in Scotland than in England. Despite only being available in Scotland and Northern Ireland, by 1970 Tennents was one of the best-selling Lagers in the UK. Only Harp, a cooperative beer of several large brewers, outsold it.

Welsh Brewers
Formerly Hancock, which was a major player in South Wales before falling into Bass Charrington’s hands.