Railway museum

We need to be up relatively early today. Or at least Andrew does. As we need to check out at 11. I rise just after 9. Andrew gets up somewhat later. In his usual zombified state.

We check out at 11 on the dot. And dump our bags. Then jump in an Uber and head for Port Adelaide. And the National Railway Museum.

The man selling tickets very nicely gives me the pensioner discount. Another victory for us oldies.

The museum is spread over a couple of sheds and full, as you would expect, of old rolling stock. Big, muscular steam engines and elegant dining cars and sleepers. Though some of the beds are tiny.

"You'd need to fold double to fit into that, Andrew."

“Triple almost.” 

There are exhibitions of every aspect of the railways. And pretty well done. We spend the best part of two hours there.

On the way in, I spotted somewhere called the Railway Hotel at the end of the street.

"That seems the logical place to go now, Andrew."

“Except it it’s not a pub anymore.”

“Aah. I didn’t notice that.”

“Like lots of things.”

“What about that other old hotel over there?”

“That’s a wool shop now.”

“Oh. How annoying.”

“Maybe we should just go to Pirate Life?”

“OK.”

“Like I suggested in the first place?”

“Yes, as you suggested earlier.”

“Thank you.”

“Isn’t it me who says that?”

“Usually. Always at the wrong time. And don’t you dare say it now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good.”

Pirate Life is right next to the station. Handy for day-trippers, that. And for us.

The weather is turning filthy as we walk there. Yet there are still a few brave souls in the beer garden. Smokers. The hardiest tribe of all. Prepared to suffer the most extreme hardships to feed their addiction. You have to admire the commitment.

Inside, it’s huge. Truly industrial. With a brewing kit that's outsized, even for a place this big. It makes the Pirate Life in Perth look like a tiny Amsterdam brown café.

It's a Lager for Andrew and an XPA for me. I do love me an XPA. Whatever it is. But let’s not worry about little details like that. The Pirate Life version is what I would describe as a light drinking beer. A sort of AK for the modern age.

We have trouble finding seats that aren't either occupied or reserved. It's full of families. We soon realise why: kids eat for free on Saturday. Unfortunately, my kid is far too old to count as a kid anymore.

“Do you want some food, Andrew?”

“I don’t think we’ll have time for food.”

“Really?”

“Yes, there’s just time for a couple of pints.”

“Always time for beer, eh?”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t really pints, though.”

“Now who’s being a pedant, Dad?”

“Me.”

“That wasn’t a question requiring an answer.”

“I know.”

He’s probably right, though. As we need to get back to the hotel, then get to the airport, we don't have long. Just time for Andrew to have three "pints" and me two.

Nosing around, I see that there's a second brewhouse. One that's about the right size for the brewpub. Curious.

The weather has turned really nasty when we leave. Blowing a gale and pissing it down. Not that we care, safely ensconced in our Uber.

Only pausing to pick up our bags and have a piss, soon we're in another Uber for the fairly short ride to the airport.

When we're checking in, the lady says:

"The lounge is opposite gate 21."

"I can use the lounge?"

"Yes, both of you, with your gold status."

“I wish I'd known that in Perth, Andrew.”

“Me, too.”.

Obviously, we tip down the lounge. Which is massive and almost deserted. I get a whisky and Andrew a beer. Plus, I get some food: tuna salad and beetroot sandwich. Which I assemble myself.

“Are you going to get any food, Andrew?”

“Maybe later.”

“I doubt we’ll get a meal on the plane.”

“I said: maybe later.”

Alright, little Mr. Sensitive. I don’t say that out loud. I wouldn’t want to make him angry.

We have a few rounds before it's time to board. Obviously, Andrew hasn’t eaten anything. Our gate is nearby, which is cool.

It's not a long flight. But we get a drink and a snack. And free wifi. Which I use to check on the cricket.

Our taxi takes forever to get downtown. Has he gone the right way? It takes the best part of an hour.  Pretty sure Brunswick isn’t on the direct route from the airport to the CBD. It's getting on for 10 when we hit our hotel. And immediately go out for supplies.

The Total Liquor is just closing when we get there. But, on the way in, I noticed that the Exford Hotel bottle shop had a sign stating that it was open until 4 AM every day. So, there we go. Andrew has to show ID to get in.

I get a bottle of Jim Beam. Andrew gets some cider and industrial Australian beer. Over the road in the 7 Eleven, I get a roast beef sandwich and Andrew a sausage roll. We’re truly living the high life.

“It’s much livelier here, Dad.”

“Maybe a bit too lively”

A shouty-outy crazy person is just ahead of us. Belting out an incoherent torrent of words. And banging his hand things.

“I see what you mean.”

The street is dead busy, Full of young people having a night out. It’s quite a contrast with Perth and Adelaide. Total night and day.

“Much more fun than the last two towns, though, Dad.”

“I won’t argue you with you there.”

“That makes a change.”

Back in our room, we can’t get the TV to switch on. Oh, well. There’s always my laptop.

We watch YouTube for a while. Then slip off into slumber.




Pirate Life Brewing
18 Baker St, 
Port Adelaide SA 5015.
https://piratelife.com.au/
 

Adelaide brewery crawl

 I rise a little before 10. And feel much better after a nice cup of tea. Always the best way to start the day, a nice cup of tea.

Wow. Andrew gets up at 11:20! Oh, it's just to plug his phone in to charge. He's now gone back to bed. It's more like one when he actually gets up.

I make myself a cup of tea and do some writing. Ummm. That's the way to start the day: with a nice cup of tea.

Today's plan is simple. Go on a brewery crawl. There are three fairly close to each other within walking distance. According to Andrew.

"It's not as far as yesterday, Dad"

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. It’s much closer.”

“Let’s walk, then.”

Not totally sure I believe Andrew.

As we set off for the first brewery, Crafty Robot, it's raining. Not too heavily, thankfully. And it really isn’t that far. He wasn’t lying. This time.

The brewery is an area that's mostly light industrial. And is itself a light industrial shed. With the stripped-down look so common in these places. It looks pretty new, too.

There are ten beers on tap. 

“What do I want?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Yes, Mr. Alzheimer.”

“Very funny. I think I'll plump for the hazy IPA.”

"Going for the strongest beer again, eh, Dad."

"I just happen to fancy an IPA. And, anyway, the Stout is a bit stronger."

"But that's on nitro. I know you don't like that."

“Work of the devil. As I’ve often told you.”

“Making the IPA the strongest beer you’d drink.”

“Well done Mr. Logic.” That leaves him speechless. It’s a gift, I know. Or he might just not be very chatty today.  Like most other days, come to think of it.

Andrew gets an amber Czech Lager. That’s his sort of thing.

It's not very full. Only about half a dozen people. And four of those are staff.

My beer isn't too bad. Not too sludgy and with some nice hop character. Andrew seems happy with his, too. Though, at the speed he’s knocking it back, he may not be getting all the nuances of its flavour. 

The rain is getting heavier. The beer garden is totally waterlogged.

"I'm surprised there's no-one in the beer garden."

"Very funny, Dad."

“It’s a gift, I know.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I’m perfectly well aware of that.”

It's 3 PM and I realise that I haven't eaten anything. We order some cheesy fingers to share. Which fills a bit of a hole. Amazingly, Andrew eats half of the fingers.

I quite like this place and its stripped-down style. Bright and inviting.

Andrew has a Pale Lager, before switching to Witbier. While I stick to the sludge. The other two customers leave. 

"Is it always this quiet?" I ask one of the staff.

"No. It's because of the weather."

That sounds believable. It's now pissing it down. Just as well it's not far to the next brewery, Silver Brewing.

As we approach, Andrew says: "I think it's that building with the smoke coming out of it."

And, indeed, it is. They’re barbecuing meat.

It's laid out slightly oddly, with booths running down one wall. And one table almost in the brewery area. While there’s a more restauranty bit next to the kitchen.

"Stocks are quite low and we've only two beers on tap." The barman says. A bit strange for a brewpub to run out of its own beers. Though it seems to be concentrating on being a restaurant more than a brewery.

We both get Pacific Ales. Not that I drink much of mine, as I suddenly feel exhausted.

"Why don't you get a cola, Dad? That will perk you up."

“Good suggestion. “

And after a while I do, indeed, feel a bit better.

The place seems to be Serbian owned. At least, that's what all the food is and I hear the old lady who's cooking speaking a Slavonic language. A group of middle-aged men orders a round of raki shots.

“Maybe a raki would liven me up?”

“Right, Dad. Feeling better?”

“Probably after a raki. Or two.”

“Just a coincidence that you need something highly alcoholic.”

“Yes. It’s just a weird intuition of mine. That raki will help.”

“You’re like a medieval peasant.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“Not taken as one, either.”

After a couple of apple rakis, I am, indeed, feeling much better. 

“I’m feeling much better now.”

“More pissed, you mean.”

“’Cheered up’, is how I’d describe my state.”

“There’s a new euphemism for ‘pissed’.”

As it's already after 6 PM, we decide to skip Mismatch, the last of the three breweries.

The place is starting to fill up with diners. Who order big platters of meat. Which looks nice, but would be enough for a whole sumo wrestling school. Way too much for me and Andrew.

“Fancy meat, Andrew?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Just being polite.”

“There’s a first.”

“Fuck off. I’m Mr. Polite, me. You cunt.”

“Point proved.”

“Fuck off.”

“Running out of swear words, Dad?”

“Piss off.”

When we climb into an Uber to head back to our hotel, it's pissing it down. Andrew bravely heads to Woollies for some food while I go to our room.

We end the day watching TV and sipping whiskey. Before turning in pretty early. Have to be up to check out at 11.



Crafty Robot Brewing
180/188 Grote St, 
Adelaide SA 5000.
https://craftyrobot.beer/


Silver Brewing Co
200-206 Gouger St, 
Adelaide SA 5000'
https://www.silverbrewingco.com.au/

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. L5 R

Now we start getting into confusing territory. As No. 5 has both Runner and Stock versions. Which means that it’s possible that the two were blended at some point. But it’s also possible that the Runner was sold straight in its mild form.

Any guesses what the recipe is? Yes, it’s a mix of four pale malts and an unknown type of sugar. Exactly the same as all the Mild Ales. With the one difference that the proportion of sugar is slightly higher.

Slightly different hops this time. Three English types all from the 1899 season. Along with a tiny amount of Hallertau from 1900.

No ageing for this beer. Though it may well have been blended with an aged beer. 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. L5 R
pale malt	15.75 lb	95.45%
No. 2 sugar	0.75 lb	4.55%
Fuggles 150 mins	2.00 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	2.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.875 oz
Hallertau 30 mins	0.125 oz
OG	1074
FG	1020.5
ABV	7.08
Apparent attenuation	72.30%
IBU	63
SRM	7
Mash at	151º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	56º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

Great News!

While Dolores was tidying up today, she found a box of books. Thirty copes of "The Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer" that I'd forgotten I had.

Dead useful, as I was about to order more copies. Thinking I was down to just two.

Meaning I've got plenty of copies to sell. For the moment. Why not get a copy now? Who knows how much longer you'll be able to get a copy autographed. I won't be around forever.

 

Buy a signed paperback edition of the Homebrewer's Guide to Vintage Beer. For locations inside Europe.

 

Buy a signed paperback edition of the Homebrewer's Guide to Vintage Beer. For the USA, Canada, Australia and other locations outside Europe.

 

 

Rainy Adelaide

I rise around 10:30. Feeling much better than yesterday. And even better after a shower and an English breakfast tea.

Getting Andrew up is a bit of a struggle. I woke at 3 AM and he wasn't asleep. I do some pottering around for a couple of hours. While he snores on. He finally surfaces around 12:30. Looking dazed and confused. As always.

We rock down to Woollies once Andrew is looking human. I get some more fruit salad. And some English cheddar. And a small quiche lorraine. That should keep me going. Oh, and a litre of milk. 

“Don’t you want to get any food, Andrew?”

“Not really.”

“You mean ‘Let’s just go to the BWS.’.”

“I suppose we could go there.”

“That’s a ‘yes’, then.”

In the BWS he gets six packs of Asahi and some Japanese alcopop. I get a litre of the cheapest bourbon. I don't want to hang around. My stomach is feeling a bit weird. I don't want to shit myself.

Back in our room, I give the toilet a visit. And the shit flows like piss. Now that could have been embarrassing. At least I had the foresight to bring a change of kecks, should the worst happen.

Our room was tidied while we were out. Leaving me fully supplied with English breakfast tea. I celebrate by having another cup. A nice cup of tea really does work wonders. Just like Double Diamond.

Around 4 PM we head out for today's destination: Cooper's Original Ale House. I wasn't going to come to Adelaide and not drop by. Andrew persuades me to walk there.

"It's only about a mile."

"OK, then."

“That was easy.”

“You sound disappointed.”

It gives us a chance to see a bit more of the city. Some of which has quite a North American feel with 8- and 10-storey buildings. Mostly insurance company offices. At least, originally. And some classical stone buildings. All very handsome, with quite the big city feel. Much more so than Perth. Which, ironically, is a good bit larger.

As we get closer to our destination, the scale drops to just two storeys. And there are some classic balconied Australian houses. The cast-iron structures shielding the interior from harsh direct sunlight.

The Alehouse is quite empty when we arrive. And it's happy hour. Thatchers cider for Andrew. Cooper's Pacific Pale Ale for me. It's not bad. Is that tropical tang from US hops? Or are they more local?

Quite a few breweries have beers called Pacific Ale or XPA. No idea what exactly those names mean. Other than Pale Ales of some sort. Among the vast range of Cooper’s beers on draught here, there’s also an XPA. 

I order a second Pacific Pale Ale before the end of happy hour. Well before I've finished my first. And find myself doing what I did when I lived in Australia. Being a drink ahead so that, while I'm drinking one, I've got another warming up. In a vain attempt to combat the freezing serving temperature.

It's an impressive choice of beers on tap. Around a dozen of their own. Including Mild Ale at 3.5% ABV and aged versions of both Sparkling Ale and Best Extra Stout. Just a shame that they don't have a couple on cask. 

I go for Mild Ale next. Which, surprisingly, is rather pale and thin. And a bit underwhelming,

"This must be the most southerly-brewed Mild in the world, Andrew."

"Well, you can't get much further south than this. At least, and be on land. Other than Tasmania or Patagonia.”

“Finally taking an interest in Mild Ale-brewing?”

“No, just being geographically accurate.”

“That’s close enough.”

“You’re pathetic, Dad.”

“Thank you.”

“What did I tell you about saying that inappropriately?”

“That you find it endearing?”

“Shut up, Dad.”

The Dark Ale that I have next is more like my idea of a Mild. Dark and malty. We're ordering what they call "pints", but are maybe two-thirds of a pint.  They don’t seem to do Imperial pints here in South Australia.

The pub is really filing up. Though most punters are eating and leaving after their food and one beer. In most cases a schnitzel. As it’s schnitzel night.

My back is absolutely killing me. I blame the backless high stool. 

“Have you noticed that there’s no comfortable seating in here, Andrew?”

“You mean seats for oldies like you.”

“Sensible people who don’t want to fuck their spines.”

“Oldies like you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what I heard.”

There's footie on the telly. Richmond against Carlton at the MCG. I'm supporting Carlton, obviously. As I used to live there. They concede a few early goals and trail by 30 points most of the game.

When I go to the bogs, I notice that there's a massive restaurant section at the rear. With a large pizza oven. I’d show you a picture, but I don’t take my phone to the bog with me. I’m not a fucking animal.

I finish with the Best Extra Stout. Which is excellent, as always. 

“This was my favourite beer, when I lived in Melbourne. All those years ago.”

“1950s was it, Dad?”

“Very amusing. Early 1990s. It’s still a cracking beer.”

“You won’t be letting me ‘finish’ that one, will you?”

“No fucking way.”

We leave just before half time.

"We're taking an Uber back." I say, putting my foot down.

“OK, dad.”

“I was expecting an argument.”

“You’ll be disappointed, then.”

“What’s your game.”

“Nothing. I don’t fancy walking in the rain.”

The devious bastard.

I found the walk down really tiring. I'm still not fully recovered from the pneumonia I caught in Argentina. Though I can now breathe fairly normally.

Back in the hotel, I nibble on my food and sip on my whiskey while watching the rest of the game. Carlton loses. Never in it, really.

When I turn in just after midnight, Andrew has already dozed off. Maybe he'll manage to get up before noon tomorrow. Maybe.



Cooper's Original Ale House
316 Pulteney St, 
Adelaide SA 5000.
https://coopersalehouse.pub/
 

Across to Adelaide

An early start today, as checkout is at 10:30. I'm up at 9. I manage to rouse Andrew at 10. Luckily, he mostly packed yesterday. He looks like zombie with insomnia. But with crazier hair.

Straight after checking out, we get a taxi to the airport. Arriving at the airport 3.5 hours before our flight. Checking in and security only take a few minutes, leaving us with stacks of time.

"Fancy a pint, Dad?"

"Not sure about a pint. I wouldn't mind a drink, though."

Andrew has obviously woken up a bit.

"What about this place, Coffee Quarter? Despite the name, it seems to be licensed."

We park our arses and Andrew fetches himself a pint of Swan and me a cola zero.

I'm feeling totally exhausted. Not sure why.

"The cola should perk you up, Dad."

"I hope so."

“You must be feeling bad if you aren’t drinking beer.”

Loads of people are wearing hi-vis jackets.

"I'm guessing that they're miners. Mining is really big in West Australia." Andrew remarks. "I always take my hi-vis off as soon as I leave Schiphol."

A bloke sitting next to me has what appears to be a bacon sandwich. It looks really good Consulting the menu, it seems to be a breakfast bun. I ask Andrew to get me one, without ketchup, when he goes for his next pint.

"They can't do the buns without ketchup. They come ready done." Bugger. I get myself an egg sarnie instead.

Andrew has moved onto Stone & Wood. He works his way through four pints before it's time to board.

Which is very early. 45 minutes before departure. The flight isn't that full and soon everyone is on board. We leave 20 minutes early.

We're flying Qantas so it's full service. We get a fairly decent pasta dish and an alcoholic drink, should you so wish. I just go for a cola. Andrew has a beer.

“Still feeling bad, Dad?”

“Yes, how do you know?”

“You didn’t get a wine.”

There's free wifi. Which is pretty cool. I browse the Guardian website a bit. As well as dozing.

It doesn't take us long to get our bags and be in a taxi rumbling towards the centre of Adelaide. 

“There are pubs here, Andrew.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?”

“Er, yes.”

“How surprising.”

“You must have noticed all the pubs I dragged you around when you were a kid.”

“I was taking the piss.”

Not much later we're ensconced in our rather nice hotel room. easily the best of the trip so far.

"Can you go to the shop, Andrew? I'm feeling totally knacked."

"It's literally just over the road."

“Really? Because I’m a poor, weak old man.”

“Yes, really.”

"OK then."

Turns out that it's not "literally just over the road". It's a good few hundred metres. And much further than I feel like walking.

To another Woollies and BWS. I get a fruit salad and a sarnie. And some Kentucky whiskey. Andrew opts for Coopers Sparkling Ale and Japanese alcopops. He does like his Japanese alcopops. Especially Strong Zero. He drank gallons of the stuff in Japan.

It’s much busier than Perth. Tough that’s not difficult. And has much more of a big-city feel.

“This is more like it. With a bit of life.”

“Unlike you, Dad.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Yes, ‘tired’.”

“I haven’t drunk a drop yet today.”

We spend the remainder of the evening watching TV in our room. Including a rather amusing Aussie Rules programme called the Front Bar. 

They keep showing this horrendous collision from a game the previous weekend. Where a player, running at full tilt, smashed his shoulder into an opponent’s face, knocking him out cold, breaking his nose and sending a tooth flying. It would be a straight red card in any other sport. Not in Aussie Rules, though. As there’s no sending off in the game.

We have a side order of snacks and drinks with the TV. They match perfectly.

I turn in just before 1 AM. Andrew is still up. As always. 

Pirate time

No rush to get up today. I drag my lazy arse out of bed at around 11. Andrew is still away with the fairies, obviously.

I make myself a cheese sandwich while I fiddle with my fliptop. Writing up yesterday. I’m being so diligent.

What are we going to do today? Visit a brewery. I look up where the ones that have been recommended to me are. All well out of town. A quick search reveals that there's one at the other end of Murray Street: Pirate Life. That'll do. It's about a 10-minute walk.

It's raining again. It's barely stopped since we arrived.

"Ooh look - there's another brewery over the road." I remark.

"We can maybe drop by there later."

"Seems like there are more breweries than pubs. Weird."

Pirate Life is pretty empty. Given its enormous size, it looks deserted with just half a dozen punters. A bit of a strange name for a brewery. Makes it sound like some sort of weird pirate-themed place. Which it isn’t.

There’s a long bar along one wall. With the shiny brewing stuff along the wall opposite, sunken down a level. It’s not enormous kit. About what you’d expect for a place of this size. 

We begin with a Bright IPA for me, Pilsner for Andrew. My beer is pretty decent. Andrew is drinking his so enthusiastically, I assume he likes it. Or just very thirsty. Or a pisshead. You decide.

I'm drinking a bit slowly and I'm only halfway through my pint when Anrew is ready for another. He gets a different Lager. He does like his Lagery stuff.

There's an Aussie rules programme on the TV. Which makes a change from the football continually on TV in South America.

For my second beer I get an IIPA.

"The strongest beer on tap, I see." Andrew says. "What a coincidence."

“Totally.”

“Yeah, right.” 

At 5 it's happy hour. With some beers at $10. Yippee. We take advantage. Obviously.

A few more customers have wandered in. But it’s still pretty empty. I suppose it is early on a Tuesday evening.

On the way to the bogs, I get some idea of how big the place is, stretching far to the back. With one section set up for eating and at the very rear a games room.

After happy hour is done, we decant over the road, to the Generous Squire. It's slightly weird inside. More like a burger joint than a brewery. Not exactly comfortable or atmospheric.Soulless is the word.

Andrew gets a Pilsner and I get a Juicy Lucy. It isn't very good. I’m now thinking that we should have stayed over the road and got food there. All the beers I tried there were pretty decent.

We order some food. Chips for Andrew, crispy pork bites for me. They're pretty good. Unlike my beer. Which is total shit.

“Do you want to finish my beer, Andrew?”

“It tastes that bad?”

“What do you mean?”

“You wouldn’t be giving away a good beer.”

He’s a cynical bastard, Andrew. Don’t know where he got that from.

“Bugger off.” I’m still as sharp as a pin.

There’s cricket on the TV. Some weird competition with veteran players. England vs West Indies. From Northampton. With about 20 spectators. Real high-power stuff.

We leave at 20:15. Stopping by Woollies on the way back to get some more cola and crisps. The streets are pretty empty. Again. No-one is about. Apart from in Woollies. Oh, and it’s raining again. Or should I say, it’s still raining. I don’t recall it stopping at any point today.

“Where the fuck is everyone? And don’t say that they’re avoiding me.”

“Dodging the rain?”

“That’s better.”

“Happy to oblige.”

Andrew can be a sarcastic git.

Back in our room, we vibe together as we drink some Bundaberg rum and watch YouTube. 



Pirate Life Perth
TOMA/440 Murray St, 
Perth WA 6000.


The Generous Squire
397 Murray St, 
Perth WA 6000.
https://thegeneroussquire.com.au/ 

My tacky merchandise

Just a reminder that you can purchase my wonderful tacky merchandise at Zazzle.Such as the lovely Eisenacher Hell mug pictured below. 

There's lots of other good stuff, mostly DDR-themed. Well, I have to do something with all those DDR labels I bought. And the one depicted below is one of my favourites. Wouldn't it look lovely, filled to the bream with tea, sitting on your coffee table?

Buy some of my tacky merchandise now.

 

Let's Brew - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. 6 R

You may be wondering why Truman brewed quite so many Mild Ales in Burton. As they are very similar beers and aren’t all that different in strength. Maybe they were just mirroring what Bass did.

The recipe is the same as all the other Mild Ales so far. A mix of pale malt from English and Californian barley. Along with a sugar of unspecified type. It is, in fact, identical to the Ale recipe as the two were parti-gyled together.

Er, um, what more can I say?  The hops. Two English types from 1899 and one from 1900. Just like in most of the other Mild Ales.

As a Mild, this was definitely not aged. And drunk within a week or two. 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. 6 R
pale malt	14.75 lb	96.72%
No. 2 sugar	0.50 lb	3.28%
Fuggles 150 mins	1.75 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.75 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.75 oz
OG	1067
FG	1021
ABV	6.09
Apparent attenuation	68.66%
IBU	57
SRM	6.5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

The Doom of the Small Cask

Sounds like the title of a horror story, doesn't it? Really, it concerns the change in packaging of take-home beer.

What they're really talking about is the new type of non-deposit bottled beer. Which, being force-carbonated, was always in sparkling condition. Unlike beer in small casks, which would always tend to be flat when the cask was nearly empty.

The Doom of the Small Cask.
We consider that the small cask is doomed, for since the abandonment of cleansing and the introduction of dropping plant and racking vessels, the over-refined contents of a small trading vessel are generally flat during ullage. The doom of such a vessel, is sealed by the appearance of beer of Lager appearance and natural gaseous condition, that can be distributed in flagons, jars, quart, bottle crates, and other measures in brilliant sparkling fobbing and palatable condition. These beers are sure to become known, and judging from limited experience the demand for them may prove boundless. We note that all over the country energetic firms are making careful preparations for the change, from casks to flagon, jar, and crate. We welcome the innovation in the interests of brewers, the needs of householders, and the demands of educated artizans, so the 4.5-cask or pin will soon be a vessel of the past, and in two or three years we may contemplate tho departure even of the firkin.
The Brewers' Journal vol. 36 1900, March 15th 1900, page 187.

And they were right. Cask beer for home use was starting to die out. Because it was much more fuss than bottled beer. 

Pubs didn't generally use casks as small as pins or firkins. Beer was mostly delivered to pubs in barrels and hogsheads. Unlike today, when even a kilderkin is considered a large cask.

The change to bottles sometimes also meant a change in the beer. As special versions of beers were sometimes brewed for bottling. Usually weaker than draught versions. That sold in crates of four quarts could be quite a bit weaker than the versions sold in pubs.

There were also special types of beer brewed specifically for bottling, such as Light Dinner Ale and Luncheon Stout. These were low-gravity beers, weaker than those served on draught. 

 

 

 

Ghost town

At nine I notice Andrew is asleep in a chair. I rise around 10:30. And write up the first three days of the trip. What a good boy I am.

At 13:30 I give Andrew a kick. He mumbles something and falls straight back to sleep. I try him again 30 minutes later. With more success.

“What have you been writing?”

“Just notes about the trip.”

“Putting words into my mouth again?”

“No, I do that later. When we get back.”

“So, you admit that you make things up?”

“Not at all. You’ve said all the words I attribute to you. Just not necessarily in the same order.”

“Nothing I actually said, then.”

“It’s in the spirit of what you say.”

“Next, you’ll be telling me that it’s an ‘homage’.”

“That’s it exactly.”

“Fuck off, Dad. Homage is just a euphemism for plagiarism.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

He should be more grateful for me immortalising him in print. The git.

What's the plan for today? Go to Woollies to stock up on food. At least to start with. It's only just down the road.

It's fascinating to look at the prices. Meat is still dirt cheap. It's frustrating to see all the lovely, cheap roasting joints. If only I had access to that meat in Amsterdam. They even have instant roasts. Hot roast chicken and roast pork in a bag.

We can’t find any sandwiches so ask a member of staff. The relevant shelves turn out to be empty. That’s why we couldn’t find sandwiches in the first place. We go for go-it-yourself, buying some rolls, sliced cheese and ham.

The prices aren't quite so cheap in the attached BWS (offie). Andrew gets some Swan Draught and cider. While I pick up a bottle of Kentucky whiskey and one of Bundaberg rum. It comes to an eye-watering $175. Ouch.

We chill in our room for a while and make sandwiches.

There seem to be very few pubs in the city centre. I’ve spotted some former pubs while walking around. But no live ones. 

“Where are the pubs?”

“I’ve found one, Dad.” 

“Where?”

“On the internet.”

“Very funny. You know what I mean.”

“Not far. A 19th-century pub.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Exactly. Your sort of old man pub.”

“Traditional boozer.”

“Yes, old man pub.”

“Not coming, then?”

“Of course, I’m coming. I like old man pubs. You’ve taken me to enough of them.”

“I’ve been such a good father.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Around 4 PM we head to the Royal Hotel. By pure coincidence, it's happy hour and pints are $10. Which sounds like a bargain to me. Especially as that applies to craft beer as well as industrial swill.

The Royal is a typical big, old Aussie pub. A handsome corner building with large cast iron balconies. Sadly, the ground floor has been taken over by a pizza place and the pub relegated to the first floor. Where several rooms are served by the same long bar counter. There’s also seating outdoors. 

We sit om a balcony overlooking the main railway station. Commuters bustle around below us. A giant advertising screen blasts out light. It’s the busiest I’ve seen the city.

“I think I’ll try the Melbourne Bitter, Dad.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering what it’s like.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s crap. Maybe even worse than Vic Bitter.”

“I’ll find out soon.”

I have a Balter XPA. Which is fine. Unlike Andrew's beer.

“You were right, Dad. It is crap. Not as bad as Bavaria Pils, though.”

“That’s a very low bar. Nothing is as bad as Bavaria Pils.”

Surprisingly, he opts for something different for his second pint. Something that turns out to be a sludge IPA. Though it actually isn't that bad. For a sludge IPA.

We manage to get three pints in before the end of happy hour. Then stay for another round. Of $14 pints. We chat and watch the world go by as the light fades.

I'm a bit hungry when we leave. And suggest going to Arirang, a Korean place I spotted yesterday. You can’t go wrong with Korean food.

I order a street food platter, which we share. It's pretty damn good. The fried chicken, especially. Andrew has a Cass beer. And some of my soju. The thieving bastard.

“I didn’t say we were sharing the soju.”

“But they brought two glasses.”

“So, I could have one for each hand.”

“No, because soju is for sharing, Dad.”

“You would think that. But have a glass.” I say through gritted teeth.

“Cheers, Dad.”

“Cheers.” You twat. I don’t say the last bit out loud. Obviously.

By the time we're done they're closing. Even though it’s only just about 8 PM. Blooming hell, this is a quiet town.

We walk back to our hotel through pretty much deserted streets. 

“Why is it so quiet?”

“No idea, Dad.”

“It can’t be blamed on Sunday.”

“Maybe word got around that you were in town.”

“You cheeky twat.” I come back devastatingly. Andrew just looks at me in awe. At least, I think that’s awe.

Back in our room, we have more quality father and son time, drinking some drinks and watching YouTube. 

I turn in around midnight. Andrew, probably five or six hours later.



The Royal Perth
531 Wellington St, 
Perth WA 6000.
https://theroyalhotelperth.com.au/


Arirang Korean BBQ Restaurant
91-93 Barrack St, 
Perth WA 6000.
http://www.arirang.com.au/ 

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1901 Truman (Burton) No. 7 R

Truman was still brewing a large range of Mild Ales in 1901. I’ve always wondered where these beers were sold. Because I’m pretty sure that they weren’t available in Truman’s London pubs. Were they sold in the free trade or in their tied houses in the Midlands?

There’s nothing very exciting about the recipe. It’s just base pale malt and an unspecified type of sugar. Though there were four types of pale malt, two made from English barley and two from Californian. The latter making up around a quarter of the total.

All the hops were English. Two from the 1899 harvest and one from 1900. With around 80% from the earlier year.

The “R” suffix tells you that this beer received no ageing. It would have been consumed within a couple of weeks of racking. 

1901 Truman (Burton) No. 7 R
pale malt	13.50 lb	96.43%
No. 2 sugar	0.50 lb	3.57%
Fuggles 150 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.50 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.50 oz
OG	1062
FG	1018
ABV	5.82
Apparent attenuation	70.97%
IBU	51
SRM	6.5
Mash at	150º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	WLP013 London Ale (Worthington White Shield)

 

 

Perth bound

We rise at nine. Not much packing to do and by 9:30 we're in a taxi.

Once we've checked in our bags and gone airside we get on with important business. Going to the duty free. Where we get two litres of Famous Grouse.

With time left before our flight, Andrew suggests "Why don't we go to that bar for a drink?"

"Fine. Let me just check my bank account first."

Andrew gets a pint of Heineken. Which is 12 euros. I just have a coke. Which is 2 euros. Crazy pricing.

“What’s happened to you, Dad, just having a soft drink?”

“Singapore prices, that’s what. I’d like to have some money left for Australia.”

We wander over to our gate about 15 minutes before boarding. It's very busy. Lots of Australian families. Lots with small kids. Have they been on holiday in Singapore? Seems an odd place to take small children.

“It’s like that Sherlock Holmes story.”

“What do you mean, Dad?”

“The Red Headed League.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“All the people with red hair.”

“You’re weird.”

“Thank you.”

“Stop saying that at inappropriate times.”

As soon as we're airborne, the bloke in front of Andrew tries to recline his seat. Andrew tells him that he's crushing his legs. The bloke then gets into discussions with the cabin crew. I consider changing seats. But the plane is completely full. 

The crew tries to persuade Andrew to stick his legs out into the aisle. Which he, quite reasonably, refuses to do. The bloke is obviously pissed off. Eventually, the crew give him a Scoot towel to placate him a bit. I can see that he’s still fuming. The selfish twat. This is a five-hour daytime flight.

He could have changed seats with his wife, who’s in front of me. But then he would have to pay attention to his two kids, sitting to her left. Whom he’s been trying really hard to ignore. Total and utter arsehole. I feel sorry for his wife and kids. They look embarrassed by his behaviour.

Scoot being a budget carrier, you have to pay for food and drinks. Out of curiosity, I look at the prices. Fuck me, the miniatures of whisky are just 10 Singapore dollars. That's cheaper than on the land. I get two. Andrew gets a Sapporo.

We're lucky to get served. Just after we've got our drinks, we hit turbulence and the service is suspended. Never to resume.

A dad sat behind Andrew is trying to explain smoking to his 4-year-old son.

"Cigarettes have this nasty stuff in them called nicotine. Once you have it, you want more and more of. Like you with chips."

What a contrast with reclining arsehole dad.

It's electronic gates again for immigration. For some reason it doesn’t like my passport and I have to go to an immigration officer. No problem for Andrew, mind.

On the drive from the airport, I remark to Andrew:

“No sign of any pubs. This isn’t the Australia I remember.”

“I’m surprised you can remember anything from that far back.”

“Very funny.” 

Once checked into our hotel, we head to a 7 Eleven. Where we get sarnies, crips and drinks. I need some food. All I've eaten today is a banana. Andrew has only had two beers.

It’s raining. The sort of persistent drizzle you get in Amsterdam. Not the weather Andrew expected.

“I expected a desert.” He sounds quite disappointed.

Despite only being 18:45, the streets are almost deserted. 

“Where the fuck is everyone?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s the rain?”

“It’s not that heavy.”

“Or because it’s Sunday?”

“Possibly. I forgot what day it was. And where are the pubs? I haven’t seen one yet.”

“True. They must have hidden when they heard you were coming.”

“Very funny, smartarse.”

Back in our room, we notice that there are no glasses. No mugs. No drinking vessels of any description.

“Do you want to nip over the road to get some paper cups?”

“Can’t you come as well?’

“Your poor, old knackered Dad?”

“Yes.”

“You heartless bastard.”

It’s quite a weird shop, with a seemingly random assortment of goods. But they do have paper cups. Thankfully. I don’t fancy drinking the Famous Grouse straight from the bottle. Then mixing in some cola in my gob.

We’re watching a travel programme on Aussie TV.

“I’ve been on that.”

“What?”

“That near vertical railway. It’s in Katoomba.”

“When?”

“30-odd years ago.”

“You’re so old, Dad.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“It’s not a great sign that you forget how old you are.”

“Fuck off.” Master of dazzling repartee, me. 

We do some more intense empathising to while away the remainder of the evening. Sipping whisky.