Busy, busy, busy

That’s what my life has been like lately. So busy that I haven’t had time to write up most of my recent travels.

Like the Kerstbierfestival last month. Maybe I should get on with it now.

Of course my daily posts take up a fair amount of my time. Especially as I have to research the buggers, too. And did I mention that I was assembling another book? It’s a bit short at the moment, just 120 pages. But I’ll soon sort that out. Bit early yet to tell you the title. I’ll save that until it’s closer to being finished.

Right. Kerstbierfestival. Dolores liked it so much in 2013 that she’s come along again. Though with the chaos caused to the Dutch-Belgian train connections by the Fyra fiasco, it’s a trickier (and slower) journey than it used to be. We’ve cheap Kruidvat tickets meaning we’ve only paid 14 euros for the Dutch part of the journey. The couple of hundred metres of the trip that’s in Belgium cost another 6.50. What a rip off.

In one way the journey has improved: our train connects better with the slow train to Antwerp. Just a few minutes to wait. Once we’ve found where to check out.

We pick up some food from the butchers on the way. The festival is just far enough away from the station for the walk to be a bit annoying. We’ve planned to get there just after opening time, but when we arrive at the hall there’s an enormous queue outside. Which is worrying. Will we get in?

It turns out that the festival starts later than I’d thought and the doors aren’t open yet. But there are still hundreds of people in front of us. How long will it take to get in and will we get seats. That’s an important point. I hate standing at festivals. I blame my half-century old legs. I should really invest in a new pair.

Everything is really well organised at the entrance and we’re soon inside. I get the glasses and tokens while Dolores heads to bag some seats. “As close to bar as possible, Dolores.” I hate walking to fetch beer at festivals, too.

Dolores has done a good job. I can almost touch the bar from my seat. I don’t even bother looking at the programme. I know which beer I’ll start with.

St. Bernardus Xmas is a tweaked version of my favourite Abt. A few extra spices or summink. It is indeed spicy. And lovely.

A group of twenty-something Belgians sit next to us. They’ve an, er, interesting accent. But at least I recognise it’s Dutch they’re speaking. I’ve had experiences with Belgian accents that were so weird, I didn’t twig that it was Dutch for twenty minutes.

I go for a change of pace with my next beer: Dupont Avec les Bons Voeux. A strange one, this. Quite funky and bitter. But weirdly sugary, too. Quite odd, but drinkable.

I’m surprised I haven’t spotted anyone I know yet. I’m usually tripping over acquaintances.

Next up is a St. Bernardus Xmas. Just checking it’s OK.

Pretty much all the seats are now gone. But we’ve a nice spot so what do I care?

Being a big fan of Het Anker, I try Gouden Carolus Kerst. And the matching beer mat is on the table in front of me. It’s nice and dark with the perfume/spice aroma that you’d expect from their yeast. A bit burnt and nastily bitter at the end. Bit vegetably. Not nice. I drink it out of spite.

Dolores is opting for the weaker options. Which are trickier to find than the huge beasts I’m choosing.

I need to wash my mouth out after that nasty Gouden Carolus. I return to St. Bernardus Xmas and am lucky enough to get a freshly-opened bottle. It’s still lovely.

Next, a total change of pace as I opt for a draught St. Bernardus Xmas. Maybe not quite as lovely as the bottled version. But lovely still.

I realise that I’m being all Beer Nutty for once, writing notes for each beer I drink. Though obviously not quite of the same quality. Just one step up from “full of beery goodness” really.

I randomly choose Rebelle Winter. That it’s 10.5% ABV probably has something to do with my selection. That and it’s on the same page as St. Bernardus Xmas in the programme. Very liquoricy . Sweet/bitter. OK, actually.

It’s 15:50 and getting crowded. I’m glad it’s getting close to effing off time.

Not long left. Best get something special. Like a St. Bernardus Xmas. Nice.

I’m just saying “I’d expect to see Tim Skelton here.” When I do indeed see Tim. Not that it’s been long since we last met. He was on the same table at the beer hacks’ dinner two weeks ago. I congratulate him on the prize for Beer in the Netherlands he won that night.

I try draught St. Bernardus Xmas just to make sure the bottled version really is slightly better. It is.

So I have a bottled St. Bernardus Xmas next.

It’s just about time to go. It’s packed and I’m getting tired. I end with a Netebuk Winter 8. Spicy aroma. Bit of vegetable in there. Liquorice.

And that’s it. As we leave there's a queue of people outside waiting for someone to leave so they can get in. We stroll back to the station and jump on a train.

On the train, I look back through my notes and marvel at how many different beers I've tried: Five. Six if you count draught and bottled versions as separate beers. Way more than I got through at Borefts.

When I get home I crack open a St Bernardus Abt to celebrate.

Kerstbierfestival

It's that time of year again. Just before Santa is due to call, comes my annual pilgrimage to Essen for the Kerstbierfestival.

I love the Kerstbierfestival. One of my absulute favourites. Not too much time wasted trudging around a hall to fetch beer - the one bar design is a great idea for the old and slightly infirm such as I. A reasonable number of seats - a great idea for the old and slightly infirm such as I.And they have all the Belgian winter seasonals in one convenient spot - a great idea for the old and slightly infirm such as I.

Give me a yell if you spot me there tomorrow. There's no prize, other than have me slobber over your jacket. Not really a prize that, is it?

As Dolores is coming along, I may even remember some of the event this year. She tends to make sure we leave at a sensible time.

Essen Kerstbierfestival 2009

I'm a creature of habit. I go to the Kerstbierfestival every year. This year was no exception.

Andrew didn't fancy it this time. He preferred spending the day rotting away his brain with some game or other. Bloody youth of today. Lexie volunteering to come took me aback. Didn't think he cared much for beer festivals.

I soon twigged why Lexie was so keen. He wanted an excuse to watch the Simpsons episodes he'd just loaded onto his ipod. Perhaps he wouldn't be quite as good company as I had hoped. Bloody youth of today, always got their faces glued to a screen. It wasn't like that in my day. We spent our days running wild across streams and fields, at one with nature. Yes, really. Apart from when the telly was on. Or it was raining. Or Sunday.

Where was I? Bloody youth of today.

Mike always works at the festival. Everyone has to work sometime. It could be worse than one Saturday in December. He'd tried to persuade me to take the 08:37 train from Amsterdam Centraal. "Too bloody early." was my succinct reply. I managed to persuade him to go an hour later. It's alright for Mike. He just has a few minutes stroll to the station. I'm a tram ride away.

Once seated on the train, I took out my special treat for the trip. Beckbräu Bierschnapps (thanks Gunnar). A nice little eye-opener. The cloudy, urine-like hue didn't put Mike off. Nor me. Though he showed admirable restraint. Saving himself for work, I guess. I found it went very nicely with the St. Bernardus Abt I'd decanted into plastic bottles. No point dying of thirst en route.

Lexie and Mike we soon getting on disturbingly well. Now they had a Mac device in common. While tried to interest myself in polders and cows, they checked out each other apps (whatever they are). Very entertaining. For them. Bloody youth of today. Am I the only person without my face permanently glued to a screen? Even Mike was up to it. Bloody old of today.

The Dutch high speed train line is just getting up to speed. A scheduled passenger train exceeded 300 kph for the first time at the weekend. I think that's why went via Den Bosch to Rosendaal. Where we had the traditional half hour wait for the local train that pootles over the border. Just enough time for a nose warmer in the station bar.


Mike's even more habitual than me. I knew he'd have a stop planned at the bakery between Essen station and the festival site. I bought some ham and two chocolate baked things for Lexie.

As we neared the hall Mike unexpectedly said: "The festival doesn't start for another hour. I can get into the hall, but you'll have to wait outside." Thanks Mike. It's freezing cold, all the pubs are shut and I'm dying for a wee. You total, total, total bastard. Bloody old of today.

I soon realised I wasn't going to find a toilet in time. Thank god for bushes, that's all I say. I was within a minute of a very embarrassing trouser moment.

There was only one place to wait out the cold hour ahead of us. The chippie. That was open. We went in. What to have? Grey lumps, pretending to be meat, filled the chilled display. Maybe just stick to chips. And beer, obviously. Even Jupiler was better than going thirsty. The wait was long enough to justify two.

We joined a fairly long queue, Lexie and I, outside the hall. Luckily, it was moving reasonably quickly. Soon we were inside, warm and I had a glass and ten tokens in my hand. What to try first?

I didn't even open the programme. I walked straight up to Mike and said "A St. Bernardus Kerstbier, please. And make it snappy. I've spent the last hour freezing my bollocks off." That's what I wanted to say. Being polite, I stopped after the first sentence.

The afternoon passed quickly. We found the Washington mob and soon beer had faded into the background, lubricating, not driving, the talk. We enjoyed a few of those happy hours, where nothing exists but the here and the now, the company and the conversation, trapped in an amber moment.

Tim Webb wandered by with a film crew. Lexie gave an interview. He was annoyingly charming. Bloody youth of today, always taking over.

Before I knew it, there was Mike saying "time for bed". Where the hell had the hours gone?

Our route back was almost 100% different from the one we'd taken in the morning. But at least there was only one change. Jumping off at Woerden and heading for Bodegraven crossed my mind. But, as I've told you many times, I'm lazier than a sloth on valium.

Lexie got himself a shoarma before we got the tram home. Isn't it Mike who's supposed to do that? Bloody whatever of today.

my notebook

Great news. I didn't leave my notebook on the train. Not the notebook. I did have a train loss, but I won't discuss that here. It's too painful. Perhaps next year when the wounds have healed.

It's packed with fascinating details I just have to share with you. (My notebook, in case you were confused. I know I am. ) Here it is:



"Quite lightly smoked", "Like Beecham's Powders", "Infected" That's all I can make out. Not that there's much more.

Beer affects the memory in mysterious ways. I was convinced that I had compiled extensive notes. Despite the taxi ride to Roosendaal not having left a single trace in my mind. You could call me an optimist.

Here's a joke from Alexei.

"Knock , knock."
"Who's there."
"Chocolate."
"Chocolate who?"
"Orange juice."

And another:

"Breaking news. . . . I've broken my nail."



I'm looking forward to christmas. Two days without work.

Treasure that. It's the only reference I'm ever going to make to my job.

Talking of treasure, Wildeman is a real treasure. They've had cask Fuller's Vintage Ale for more than a week. (I know, I know - a cask shouldn't last that long. But believe me, there wasn't the slightest whiff of vinegar.) Dark Star Espresso Stout confused me. But conquered me. I had a second. That was cask, too. The best coffee Stout I've had. But I'm still not convinced by the concept. Stout already has lots of roast flavours. Coffee just adds more of the same. Give me the subdued cofffee/chocolate tang of brown malt any day.

Some may get pissed off by the ubiquity of London Pride, but Fullers still make a couple of spanking beers. It may be the archive-creeper in me speaking here. 1845 epitomises the British ale taste - biscuity malt and earthy hops. Fuller's Porter. How pleased was I to finally taste it from the cask. Authentic is a dangerous word. So I won't call it an authentic Porter. But it has a London character. Brown malt. That's what makes a London Porter or Stout well, London.

Let me talk for an hour and I'll always get around to Porter.

Essen

I would tell you about The Essen Kerstbierfestival. But I left my notebook on the train. Oh dear.

St. Bernardus Christmas Ale. That's all I can remember. Very nice. Very, very nice. I had six or seven of them.

Met lots of people. Hi, everyone. Nice to have seen you again.

Many thanks to Reinhard, who gave me a bottle of Narke Kaggen Stormakts Porter. I'm looking forward to that.

No, I haven't forgotten. Brettanomyces: the musical will follow. Tomorrow. Probably. It depends if I finish typing in the details of Guinness ouptut 1800-1960 into a spreadsheet. Loads and loads of numbers. Perfect for a blog post. The varying fortunes of Guinness Porter. That's a likely theme. Can't wait, can you?