ZBF 2010

I can't remember missing ZBF. And you have to go back a way to find a 24-Uur Festival (its predecessor) I didn't attend. No surprise, then, that I went this year.

Saturday. That's the day to go. Mostly because I don't want the threat of work the next day. Could limit my fun. And I wouldn't want that. I could stay at home and get bored.

I let Mike work out the travel arrangements. Amsterdam to Antwerp, then Antwerp to St. Niklaas. Une pièce d'urine, as the French say. It didn't work out quite that simple.

One of the very first things I read in Dutch, back in 1987, was an article about the HSL (Hoge Snelheids Linie or High Speed Train line). They were trying to decide whether it should go directly from Amsterdam to Rotterdam or if it should go via Den Haag. In typical Dutch fashion, it took about 10 years to come up with a decision. The line was finally finished a couple of years ago. But, inexplicably, trains have only recently started to use it.

Saturday there were no trains running on the old mainline between Amsterdam and Rotterdam. So no Amsterdam - Antwerp train. Instead, we had to take the Fyra* to Rotterdam and change there. How exciting. First time on the new high speed line. "Are we on the new track?" I asked. "Yes. Look it's got a different catenary." Andrew is very observant about stuff like that.

Despite the new line being years late, NS still hasn't got new rolling stock. Instead, they've painted some old carriages a revolting combination of pink, red and mauve. It doesn't make them go any faster.

That's enough about the journey. It wasn't that exciting.  Oh, one more thing I almost forgot. I bought a couple of cans for the train. They didn't have Gordon's Finest Gold so I had to make do with Navigator 8.6. It's a cheeky little number, perfectly suited to al fresco drinking on a park bench. It works on a train, too.

Our arrival in St. Niklaas was carefully timed. For half an hour after the doors opened. Late enough to miss the initial rush. Early enough to get a seat. I hate queueing. And standing. And waiting. I'm the impatient type.

Mike had a list of breweries to watch out for. I would tell you them all, but I wasn't paying that much attention. And, seeing as you had to pay for it, I didn't bother getting a programme. Mike had one. Waste of money getting two.

Glazen Toren. That was on his list. And the closest stand to our seats. Obvious place to start. I had a Scotch. Before we get any further, I'll warn you: don't expect any beer descriptions. I've given up on the anal geek bit, spoiling the day by obsessively making notes. Pushing my way through crowds. Yet another thing I hate. So once the place filled up a bit, my beer choices were limited to the closest stands.

The Glazen Toren Scotch was pretty nice. I don't know if it really bears much resemblance to a Scotch Ale as brewed in Scotchland, but I've given up worrying about that sort of crap. As long as my glass is half full of something pleasant, I couldn't really give a toss.

Name-dropping time. (These names probably won't mean a lot to you. It's not as if we're a bunch of celebs.) I always meet loads of people at the ZBF. Sebastian. Jim who was on a beer tour with me a couple of years ago. Mark and Sarah. Des de Moor. You might have heard of him.

My second beer was another from Glazen Toren. Their Tripel. Quite pleasant, too.  Then it was time to implement my plan. My beer drinking plan.

Randomly sampling hugely different beers sounds like fun. But it ends up just being confusing. That's why I have my plan. I call it my Stout and Lambic Plan. It's basically like this: first I drink just Stout, then switch to lambic, before returning to Stout to finish off.

I looked at Mike's programme. Bugger. Just four Stouts. And one of those was from De Dolle Brouwers. I'm not wasting my money on that again. Not after the sour, infected mess it was last year. Trying not to get too discouraged about my ruined plan, I picked a Stout off the list Troubadour Obscura, brewed at the Proefbrouwerij. Mmm. A nice enough beer. But almost completely unlike a Stout. That's when I abandonned the plan. For a new one. Tripel would replace Stout. Except when I fancied something strong and dark. Or when I couldn't be arsed to walk far. It wasn't much of a plan.

That's it for now. Part two will follow tomorrow.

* The fast train service within Holland.

My kind of festival

This weekend it's the ZBF. Belgium's national beer festival. And a favourite of mine. I go every year (just about).

Why do I like it?

- The venue is a short walk from the station.
- I can get a seat.
- It doesn't take too long to get served
- The measure is a decent size.
- The prices are reasonable
- There's the full spectrum of Belgian beer, regionals as well as micros.
- People quite often bring beer for me.
- Andrew likes the sausages.
- I can have a Stout - Lambic - Stout session.
- There are falling over beers for me to finish off with.
- I can score loads of free beers with all my memberships.
- I always meet old friends.
- The journey home isn't too long.
- A shop in Antwerp Centraal sells Guinness Special Export for that journey.

This year will be special. Both kids are coming along. Should provide loads of material of the glass-eating kind. My blog will eat off it for weeks. A bit like a buffalo carcass. But not as smelly. And definitely without maggots.

If you're there on Saturday afternoon, maybe you'll have the chance to buy me a beer. You wouldn't want Andrew and Lexie to go hungry, would you?

Hasselt Bierfestival (part one)

Me and Mike always go to the Hasselt festival. It's a sort of tradition. For several reasons. There's a museum of some sort in the city. What was it again. Cheese? was that it? With a food/drink product. Genevieve, that's it.

I was well-prepared, a neat pack of foil-wrapped sandwiches in my bag. We'd barely passed Schiphol when Mike starting discussing lunch options. We had 40 minutes between trains in Antwerp. "What about that chicken place? The one on the square in front of the station." Mike suggested. As usual, my mind was a total blank, I struggle to remember my breakfast after 10 AM.

"I've got sandwiches." I showed Mike my shiny foil pack. To rub in the superiority of my preparation, I opened it up just before Dordrecht. Mmmm. Corned beefy goodness.

The train was packed. Like some sort of pickled fish. Though, thinking about it, that's a terrible analogy. I adore preserved fish. Anchovies on toast. Sardines on toast. A kipper for breakfast. With toast. Preserved fish and toast. I adore both. A seat and sandwiches. I had everything I needed. As long as the train kept moving, life was pretty sweet.

In Antwerp, Mike led me in search of chicken. I had no intention of eating any. I had my sandwiches. As we approached, the chicken place did look vaguely familiar. Bratwurst. They had bratwurst. My sandwiches were quickly forgotten in the presence of greasy, sausagey goodness. "Een bratwurst , graag. Zonder saus." It came in a long stick-bready roll, with plenty of onions.

Mike had three chicken legs.

The sausage didn't trouble my chewing gear for long. Like Sunderland, it offered little resistance to a determined attack. "There's a supermarket with a decent range of beer not far away." Mike said. "I'm not going to hunk beer all the way home. " And Dolores has given me her opinion of the beer pile on the floor. "Don't buy any more beer, Ronald. Look at all this crap. I daren't bring anyone back to our house. They'd think we were drunks." Can't argue with that statement on any grounds.

Mike suggested we go and take a look at the beer, anyway. I love looking at beer. It's a weakness. He wanted dessert, too. We went to the supermarket, anyway. Loads of time. Forty minutes between trains.

Mike went in search of ice cream yoghurt and all things sweet and unhealthy. Did I mention my thirst? I tend to get a bit of a thirst after an hour or two on the road. I headed for the beer shelves. "Rochefort 10 is only 1.60." Mike enthused. "But they haven't got any. I could sell it for 20 cents, if I was out of stock." "Westmalle Dubbel is just 88 cents. Fucking A." He was excited. I was practical.

I wrenched a bottle free from a four-pack. Mike asks: "Maredsous, you're buying Maredsous?" That's why it's in my hand. "Why are you buying that?" "It's what I want to drink." "But they've got Rochefort 8. And Westmalle." "I feel like Maredsous 10."

The supermarket wasn't busy. Me, Mike and a girl at the cheese counter. The train to Hasselt was at 11:43. But there was still a queue at the checkout. 11:31. We had 12 minutes. Plenty of time. The pensioner at the head of the queue started to count out the cents, one by one. Plenty of time. 11:32. The bloke buying just a bottle of own brand cola, decided to pay by pin. 11:33.

When you're panicking over time, it's seems as if everyone else moves in slow motion. Fucking hurry up, you twat. There's only one train an hour to Hasselt. I didn't want to spens an extra hour in Antwerp.

11:34. It's funny what can become important in these stressful moments. Armed with an AK 47. I'd have cut down the granny, the mum, her children and the middle-aged autistic between us and freedom. Only the search for a bog when you're absolutely busting can match it.

11:35. "I tempted to just leave our stuff and go." Mike said. No. Bugger that. I'd got a beer for the train. I was looking forward to that. No effing way I was going to leave it on the belt. Not when just the autistic guy with personal hygiene issues stood between me and my first beer of the day.

11:36. I have the exact money in my hand, ready to pay. "Bedankt." No, I don't need the effing receipt.

Excursions with Mike are often characterised by time pressure. I blame him.

11:37. Back when I danced all night, my fitness levels weren't bad. Kids, lethargy, and an unquenchable thirst have transformed me. Not in a good sense. Mike took a 15 metre lead as we fast walked down the main drag. I'd ask him to slow down, but I'm out of breath.

11:40. When will they finish fiddling with Antwerpen Centraal? We entered a temporary entrance to the station. Mike was still rushing. He elbowed two Dutch couples, who had paused to admire the wonder of the new station, aside.

It's 11:41 and I relax. Just one escalator left. We've plenty of time. Mike's sprinting. Amateur. There's so much time to spare we can walk thorough two carriages looking for a seat. And sit down, before the train starts.

Just as well I have no blood-pressure issues. The Maredsous 10 entertained me as far as Diest.

Partial result.