Some judging

I rise at 7:15. And have a shower. I need a good clean after all that travelling yesterday.

I breakfast with Claudia, Sandy Cockerham and Gabi Demozzi. It's an OK buffet. Scrambled eggs, but no bacon. I have cheese instead. And fruit, obviously. I wouldn’t want to drop dead from lack of vitamins.

The breakfast room fronts onto the rather pretty garden, with many bright flowers and a small swimming pool. The small terrace is rather pleasant in the early morning sun. And sun is what you get every morning.

We take a taxi to the judging location, where we hang around for an hour before judging kicks off. Which is quicker than usual. If judging in South America has taught me one thing it’s patience. And to always have your laptop powered up.

Diego Perrotta hasn't turned up, so I'm just judging with Gabi. Which is fine by me, as we're old mates.

First category is Grape Ales and Fruit beers. A five-beer flight. Two pretty good ones and a couple of quite bad ones. Tasting pretty weird. We do manage to award three medals. These are homebrew, incidentally. 

We're done before 11:30 and have a free hour before lunch. Which I use to write this rubbish. Well, some of it. I’ll add loads of lies when I get home. (That’s what the kids believe I do.)

The judging location Restaurante Sillustani, is right next to the river. Which is, er, rather fierce. Not that wide, but very swift. Maybe we'll go rafting later.

I have lunch with Sandy, Gabi and Dan Calzaretta, an American judge. We have to wait quite a while for our food. Which is pretty decent: a large chicken filet with chips and boiled veg. We sit outside, next to the raging river. Which is quite noisy.

Ignacio Lomeli is judging with us after lunch. We start with American Pale ales, a set of six. These are commercial brews. Mostly OK.

Followed by British styles. I hate them all. It's fun finding ones to award medals to.

Because we've been quite quick, we're given a bonus round of a homebrew medal flight. They’re various types of IPA. Including some pretty good ones. Awarding medals really is fun this time.

Thankfully, it’s been a quite light judging day. Fewer than thirty beers. We're done by 17:15. Which is great. I'm back in my room by 17:45. And I'm free until 20:00. What could I possibly do? I know: fiddle around on the internet, as I always do.

I ask for a cup at reception and they point me to the bar. Where I pick up two thick plastic glasses. Now I can drink like a civilised person, not straight from the bottle. How can you have no glasses in a hotel room?

I set off for Servus just before 20:00. I bump into Gabi outside reception and we walk down together. Via Plaza de Armas, which is beautiful.

It’s a typical colonial square, with an impressively large cathedral filling one side and two-storey colonnades occupying the other three. All built of the pale grey volcanic stone. Massive palm trees dominate the gardens at the centre of the square. 

People bustle around, all dressed in overcoats on account of the evening chill. The lights lend it a magical, fairytale atmosphere. It’s hard to believe that we’re in the southern hemisphere.

I should mention the unusual climate here. The temperature is the same every day: 23º C maximum, 7º C minimum. And when I say every day, I mean all 365 days of the year. That’s what you get for being in the tropics, but in a desert at 2,300 metres. The difference between summer and winter? In the summer it occasionally rains.

Our destination isn’t far from the square: Servus. A brewpub in a rambling old building also built from the local grey volcanic stone. We're barely through the door when Silvia gives us a beer from her brewery. Which is quite nice. Both the gesture and the beer.

When I've finished that, I go to the bar to get another beer. It takes a while as they're very busy. Eventually, I get an IPA. Which is OK. A bit lacking in aroma, though.

There's no sign of the promised pizzas. Gabi gets fed up of waiting and heads off in search of food. I finish my beer and get an Uber back to the hotel. I can’t be arsed to look for a restaurant.

Not having had any pizza, I pick up a sandwich and a bag of cheese and onion crisps in reception. That will be my tea. I’m glad I got the crisps, as they liven up a very bland sandwich.

I go to the hotel bar in search of a pisco sour nightcap. Unfortunately, they're just closing. It's only 22:00. Instead, I go to my room where Jura is waiting for me. We take a stroll together down the sleepy-town path.



Restaurante Sillustani 
JF97+2W2, Puente Chilina Magnopata Yanahuara, 
Cercado De Arequipa 04017.


Servus
C. Palacio Viejo 325, 
Arequipa 04001.
https://www.atom.bio/servusaqp 

Arequipa bound

It's a pretty early start. My flight is at 9:55 and I don't want to rush at the airport. I’ll get in some lounge time, too. I wake just after six with Dolores wishing me happy birthday.

I don't bother with breakfast. I can get that in the lounge. I order an Uber at 7:00. It takes a little while to come.

The motorway isn't too bad. But there's a long queue in the approach to the drop-off point at Schiphol. We wait more than 5 minutes there.

I pick the wrong check-in desk and have to wait a while as someone makes weird inquiries about a wheelchair. It’s a woman in her early twenties who seems perfectly mobile.

Security is always a doddle with priority. And the queue isn't too bad for passport control. I'm through in 10 minutes and headed for the duty free. Where I get a Jura white oak cask. That being the cheapest single malt.

The lounge is reasonably crowded. But I can still find a table. First destination is the bar for my habitual brace of whiskies. Both doubles. They seem to have changed their policy on doubles. Which is cool.

Next stop is the hot food counter. I'm here at the best time: breakfast. I get an omelette, scrambled egg, mushrooms and two rostis. I know they’re dead good.

I don't have a huge amount of lounge time. About 40 minutes. I need to make the best of it. Which means another three rostis and two more whiskies.

I head to the gate about an hour before departure time. I know it's going to take about 15 minutes to walk there. My flight is at D47: about as far from the lounge as you can get.

Zone 1 starts boarding just about when I arrive. I only need to wait a couple of minutes before it’s my turn.

The flight is pretty full. Despite that boarding is completed in plenty of time. It's just the 10-minute taxi to the polderbaan that delays us.

I get stuck into the films straight away. Starting with The Incredibles 2. Which is pretty good.

I actually finish all the first meal: chicken, green beans and spuds. Along with a red wine, of course.

Next is a long German film with a weird title. I don't bother with English subtitles and can understand it perfectly well. Othe than a brief appearance by someone with a thick Bavarian accent.

About halfway, we're served a sandwich. A not particularly inspiring one. With which I drink a red wine.

My Daughter is a Zombie is a Korean film. For which I do need subtitles. It's not bad. And a change from all the American films. Like The Proposal, which is so fucking predictable. I finish with sitcom The Mick. Which is just about OK.

The last meal is a small pizza. I manage two bites. It isn't very appetising. I only finish the chocolate pudding.

We land about on time. Immigration is quick, as I join the oldie people queue. As always in South America, oldies like me get priority. I pick up my bag and head landside. Where I check in my bag again. So much fun.

Joining the priority queue, there's no waiting at security. And soon I'm airside again.

I have to wait a while before the gate is announced for my flight. I sit in a large food court area. First having bought few miniatures of pisco and a bottle of cola. Which I combine into one of my “special” drinks. Which I proceed to drink. What else would you do with a drink? Especially a “special” one.

When my gate is announced, I troll out there. It's C17. Also, about as far away as you can get. All the seats are taken when I get there. I have to stand around for a while. Before boarding first with my oldie advantage.

Not much to report about the flight. It lasts just an hour. And there's no drinks service.

My bag comes out almost as soon as I get to the carousel. In a jiffy, I'm outside and wondering where my lift is. I message Silvia and she arranges an Uber for me.

The only problem now is working out where the pickup point is. A helpful traffic policeman finds my Uber for me. And off I go.

The ride is so bouncy, that I think the road is cobbled. It isn't.

I'm not taken to the hotel but the location of the judges' reception. Well, not exactly to it. I'm dropped on a square and the driver tells me "It's over there." Pointing vaguely at a restaurant. I message Silvia and she comes to fetch me. The actual location is just around the corner.

Lots of judges are there. Several whom I met in Medellin a couple of weeks ago. a pisco sour is thrust into my hand. And everyone sings Happy Birthday, which is slightly embarrassing.

After another pisco sour, I get an Uber to the hotel with a Columbian judge.

I'm happy to be in my room. It's 22:00. I left home 21 hours go.

After a little Jura and some internet fiddling, I get my head down. 

Anothre new country: Peru

Just about done here in Peru. Been a great time. Met some really cool new people, reconnected with some old friends. Drank far too much pisco.

As I've already bored you with, one of the reasons I do all this crazy travelling (that's a quote from Dolores) is all the social aspects. In this trip didn't disappoint in that respect. 

The high altitude that I feared didn't work out as bad as I feared. As long as I didn't walk up any hills or carry any weight. The alien landscapes,  amazing food and lots of pisco more than made up for that.

I'm going to travel as long as I have those few last breaths in my body. 

Can't write any longer. About to go out to drench my stomach in a few last pisco sours. 

Back to Amsterdam

I rise at 7:30. I start packing and write up notes for the last two days. I couldn’t be arsed yesterday and am now rather behind. Bad Ronald.

I breakfast with Chris at 9:00. Just for a change, I go for a bowl of fruit. Getting a bit bored with the bacon and egg sandwich.

A car to take me to the airport is scheduled at 10:00. I pack my stuff and check out at 9:45. I wait at one of the outdoor tables with Chris.

It’s quite a long drive to the airport. Up into the hills again. The weather isn’t great: cloudy with intermittent rain.

I roll up at the Copa Air check-in desk.

“Have you paid for a check-in bag?” The nice lady at the desk asks.

“I get one for free.” I reply.

She doesn’t argue. For which I’m very grateful. 

At immigration, another nice young lady grabs hold of me, leads to an automatic gate and shown how to use it. They treat us oldies really well in South America.

I go to the duty free and get a bottle of Medellin 8. Andrew will kill me if I don’t bring any Medellin rum back. Some chocolate seems a good idea, too. I also get some coffee.

Great. I’m feeling crap. It feels like I might be catching Chris’s cold. Seeing a chemists, I get some cold medicine. Hopefully, that will make me feel better.

Still having some time, I get myself a coffee and find a seat. Feel better after a while. Is it the medicine or is it the coffee? I don’t really give a shit, as long as I don’t feel so crap.

Or maybe I’m just getting used to the altitude. Here at the airport, it’s over 2,000 metres. Perhaps that’s the reason I was feeling crap.

I’m in boarding group 4. When I troll up at the gate, they’ve already boarded zone 1. But, as an oldie person, I can walk straight on. I really could get used to being old in South America.

The flight is full, but thankfully short. Just as well, given the lack of legroom. Anything much over a hour would start to be agony.

I can’t see any signs for the lounge in Panama City airport. But I spot something on the first floor that looks like a lounge. And it is. Two lounges, to be precise. I have access to the Copa Air one.

It takes a while to get in, as my boarding pass doesn’t have ”Gold” printed on it. Thankfully, I check out. 

A group of women with “Girls weekend away“ T-shirts sits next to me. I wonder where they’re off to? Probably not Amsterdam.

At the bar, there’s Flor de Cana 18 year. That’ll do nicely. 

There’s no hot food, but lots of small sandwiches. And lots of seating. Obviously, I take advantage of the rum. Where the measures are decent, after I ask for just a little ice. I grab a few sandwiches, too.

The gate isn’t too far. Though, I have to wait there standing for longer than I’d like before boarding. My oldie legs can’t do with too much standing.

The flight is packed. As fucking always.

The first meal isn’t too shit. Chicken with mashed spuds. Washed down with red wine.  I get my head down straight after eating. And get a reasonable-ish sleep for a few hours.

  

When the lights come back on ninety or so minutes out of Amsterdam, I watch sone episodes of the Simpsons.

The breakfast is, er, indescribable. Quite literally. It looks like rounds of beef in gravy. Brown. I bite into one round and it’s sweet and doughy. I think it must be pancakes, but I’m not totally sure. I just eat the fruit. And drink orange juice and coffee.

We’re quite a way from passport control “next toilet 250 m” a sign says. Never seen a sign like that in Schiphol before. I wonder if there have been some “accidents”, which prompted the sign.

There’s not much of a queue at the automatic gates. And my bag comes out pretty quickly. I’m soon bouncing along the motorway in a cab.

Dolores, as always, is ready with tea.
 

More congressing

I rise at 7:00 as usual. And head downstairs for brekkie just before 8:00.

It's a bacon and egg sandwich again. I’m so boring. With a flat white, the coffee with milk having far too little caffeine. And a bottle of water. I'm worried about getting dehydrated. It was so fucking hot in the congress yesterday.

I'm on third this morning. After Noelle Philips, who's talking about women in UK brewing. Mostly late medieval/early modern. Pretty good stuff. Mostly new for me as

I talk about Irish Porter and Stout. It's not my best performance, as it's so fucking hot. Sweat is running off me. But the audience seems to like it. Or, at least, clap reasonably enthusiastically at the end. I’m quite glad that there are no questions. “Somewhere cooler as soon as possible” is all I can think.

Not having much luck shifting books today. Everyone who wanted the Home Brewer’s Guide bought it yesterday. I’m sure it would be a different story, if I had my other books.

Which are still in customs. Current ETA: soon. I’ll believe that when I have the fuckers in my sweaty hands. And my hands are very sweaty today. Always good to have an extra worry while travelling. If something has to go wrong, I prefer financial worry to breaking a bone.

Lunch is rice and stuff (meat and vegetables), which I eat with Chris, Markus and very little enthusiasm. They’re always fun to chat with. The social contact is why I do all this travelling. Certainly not for the culinary experience.

In the afternoon, Chris and I nip to a nearby offie. Up the hill, but not too far. (Thank fuck. I’m getting well fed up with the hills here.) He asks about the Medellin solera rum. They do stock it. In a beautiful package, but hideously expensive. Far too rich for me. I get a half bottle of Medelin 3 year. Not sure why I don’t buy more. They have a wonderful selection.

This evening's event is in Estación Central 3 Cordilleras, a former brewery. Where the tanks have been converted into seating. Pretty funky. Let’s see how things go.

We’re given some beer tickets. Not going to waste those. I get myself an IPA. Chris leads me to a seat upstairs in one of the fermenters. Which aren’t quite as spacious as the massive London Porter vats. In which they sometimes held dinners parties.

We move to a dance area, where we sit with Michael and John Palmer. The salsa being played is pretty good It almost has me up and dancing. Almost. Then they start playing some dull pop music and the desire to dance disappears. Just as well, probably. Nothing more embarrassing than a geriatric dad on the dancefloor.

Around 22:00 John gets an Uber for him, me and Chris. It's pissing it down. And we get in the wrong car. Which we realise when the driver tries to drop us off in totally the wrong part of town. 

John explains the mistake to the driver and we head off again. This time, in the right direction. It’s quite a way. Through some pretty dodgy-looking areas. I’m glad I’m in a car. Not just because it’s pissing it down still.

I don't stay up long. And don't even have a rum eye-closer. I'm that knacked from a day in the sauna. At least there’s samba again to lull me to sleep.



Estación Central 3 Cordilleras
Cl. 30 #44 176, 
La Candelaria, 
Medellín, 
Antioquia. 

Congressing

I rise at 7:00. And try to shower. Except there's no hot water. I have a very brief cold shower. What a great way to start the day.

It's egg and bacon sandwich time again for breakfast. It's OK and not too big. I get a flat white as it has much more coffee in it than the milky coffee.

I set up with the few books I have at the back of the congress room. Let's see how many I can flog. The other books still haven't cleared fucking customs.

It's hot in the congress room. Fucking hot. The glass roof and lack of ac don't help. For some reason it's much worse than during judging.

Inbetween sweating cobs, I sell a few books. But only a few. I'm sure that I would have shifted more, had more titles been on offer. Oh well. It's only money. At least I have my health. Sort of.

Lunch is in the hotel again. Pasta and mince with toast. I don't eat all of it. I make a rather feeble attempt.

After lunch, it's back to the sauna. This is so much fun. Luckily there's an afternoon excursion. To the Medellin distillery. I'm dead excited, as I love their rum. Andrew will be so jealous.

We're going on a party bus. One with no glass in the windows, seats around the edge and dancing poles. Except It's gone by the time Chris and I get upstairs. Chris rings someone up and the bus returns for us. Phew! I would have hated to miss out.

The distillery is a large industrial complex. Mostly consisting of large warehouses stuffed full of wooden barrels. Oddly, stacked vertically rather than horizontally. There are also some vats which are being used as a sort of solera.

It’s the master blender that shows us around. He’s clearly very proud of the distillery’s products. And with good reason: they are excellent.

140,000 barrels they have, evidently. That’s quite a few. Though, given that they’re ageing the rum for at least three years, they’re going to need a lot.

We're invited to climb some stairs to the top of a large metal vessel to get rum samples. Just scooped directly from the tank. I don't fancy the climb so Chris gets a sample for me.

Samples of the solera rum are also given out. All I can say is “Wow.” Easily one of the best rums I’ve drunk. Just incredibly rich and complex. I wonder how much a bottle costs?

Surprisingly, there’s no gift shop. I was planning on getting a couple of interesting bottles. There is a reason for that. They don’t usually have tours. I realise how lucky I am to have got a glimpse inside the distillery.

Tonight's activity is the party bus to a couple of breweries. I'm feeling knacked and decide to give it a miss. Staying in my room with rum for company.

When I feel peckish, I nip down to the taqueria again. The tacos are dead good. And exactly what I’m craving.

 More rum helps me off to sleep a treat. As I samba silently in my bed.


Fábrica de Licores y Alcoholes de Antioquia
Cra. 50 #12 Sur - 149, 
San Fernando, 
Itagüí, 
Medellín, 
Antioquia.
https://fla.com.co/
 

Best of Show

I rise at 8:00 after a good night's kip. I’m getting used to the disco lullaby.

As every morning, I write up notes about yesterday. Not because I’m a diligent little bunny. Because I’m a forgetful fuck. If I wait until I’m home, this trip will just be one long bedtime disco in my memory.

After pottering around in my room for a while, and fiddling with my new phone, I flop downstairs for breakfast at 9:00. Without a great deal of enthusiasm. A standard buffet is so much better. Letting me pretend to be healthy while eating bacon by adding a dash of fruit.

I get an egg and bacon sandwich again. And a milky coffee. Most of the judges are already downstairs judging. I sit by John Palmer and Noelle. We have a pleasant chat. Which is why I do these trips. The social aspects. Meeting people whose eyes don’t glaze over when I blab about 19th-century UK beer taxes. Or are at least polite enough to feign interest.

Waiting for the little shop around the corner to open, I return to my room for a while. Filling the time with fiddling on the internet. I don't have any judging this morning, which is nice. Just Best of Show in the afternoon.

I try to install apps on my new phone. It’s a very frustrating experience. I try to log into my Google account. But it won’t let me, because my phone number is different. I trail through multiple verification levels without ever fucking getting in. I eventually give up.

Modern life can be so fucking rubbish. Why is everything so fucking complicated?

Calm down. I hate getting agitated. Especially when there’s no fucking air-conditioning. I know what can restore me to a state of rest. A rum. A big, fuck-off slug of rum. 

That works. For a while.

Calmed, I pick at my other open sore of worry: the status of my books. Are they out of customs yet? Of course, they fucking aren’t.

At 11:20, I nip down the shop. Where I pick up rum, water and cola. All the essentials. Then return to my room for more internet fiddling. Much less interesting than the filthy-minded amongst you might suppose. I’m just watching crap YouTubes.

Around 13:00, I go downstairs for lunch, sitting with Chris and Mike Hall. It's a bowl of fried rice. Rather dry. I don’t manage to force it all down. I’m starting to long for the ubiquitous buffets of Brazil. Where, at least, you get to choose what you’re eating. Three, four or five carbs.

I roll downstairs afterwards for Best of Show judging. Into the greenhouse. Hoping not to poach in my own sweat.

I'm on the Lager table. We have twelve samples. Which is pretty manageable. I’ve sat on BOS tables with over fifty beers. A fucking nightmare. And why I’ve tended to dodge judging BOS. I’ve literally run away in the past.

Unsurprisingly, as they're all gold medal winners, the twelve beers are pretty decent. We don't have a super-long discussion as we're in fairly general agreement about which are the best beers. An American Light Lager wins. Not my personal favourite, but it was in my top three. An excellent beer and a worthy winner.

I leave the judging room pretty much immediately after we've had the judges' photo taken. It's just too damn hot down here. If I’m going to die of heatstroke, I’d prefer it to be in the comfort and privacy of my own room.

Returning to my room around 15:30, I drink a little rum. Well, quite a lot of rum. I decide to have a bit of a nap.

When I wake up, it's dark. Fuck. We were meant to be getting a bus to the Lardi brewery at 17:30. Bum. I guess I've missed that bus. A bit annoying, as Lardi’s beers, which I sampled at Metropole, are dead good. 

It’s another reminder of how deserved I am of the oldie-people’s special queues. In your early sixties, it’s quite amusing to be given preferential treatment. Given your own delusional self-image of relative youth. When you’re pushing seventy, your knees remind you how very welcome that special treatment is.

Woken and getting peckish, I fetch a taco from the taqueria next door. A beef one. It's pretty good. And only cost a couple of euros. Yum.

After some more leisurely internetting, I turn in just after 22:00. With Colombian rum my slumber companion.
 

Quiet Monday judging

I rise at 6:45 and shower. Then wander downstairs for brekkie.

It was much quieter overnight. And the noise stopped at 1:00. I guess because it was a Sunday.

I am a little hungry and get an egg and bacon sandwich. This being Colombia, the egg is hard fried. The only other time I visited in Colombia, I spent most of the trip in search of a fried egg with a liquid yolk.

I'm judging with Chris Flaskamp and Panamanian Cesar Sanchez. It’s the first time I’ve judged with Chris. Should be fun.

This morning, we're judging homebrewed beers. Starting with American Amber Ale. The first beer is really nice. Unlike the ones that follow.

I check on the status of my books. Still in customs. I hope that they’re released by tomorrow when the congress starts. That’s when I’m supposed to be selling them. This is so frustrating.

We're done at 11:50. The last beer, with honey and ginger, is the pick of the bunch.

We quickly have lunch and then I go with Chris and Markus to Exito, a massive shop that sells everything. Sort of the local equivalent of Asda. Where I pick up a new phone. With a Columbian SIM. Brilliant. Now I can take photos again. I am a few hundred euros light, though. I try to convince myself that I needed a new phone, anyway. I’m almost successful.

The afternoon is all professionally-brewed Belgian styles. It's by far the best flight so far. We award two gold medals, to a couple of very good beers.

We're quick again. Finishing at 16:15. Luckily were not punished for finishing early by being given extra flights. Giving me a little time to chill in my room. Not literally, obviously, there being no aircon. Sweat in my room would be more accurate.

The group photo is scheduled for 17:30. I get down at 17:25 and they've already started. That's weird: starting early in South America. Chris, who arrives on time, misses it completely.

Buses leave for tonight's destination - Torrealta brewery - just before 18:00.  It's quite a drive, up into the hills around Medellin. I'm sure that it's very scenic. not that we can tell, as it's dark.

It takes almost an hour of winding roads to get there.  Mostly uphill. We climb around 1,000 metres, then drop down a few hundred. The brewery lies at around 2,100 metres.

I get myself a Tripel, as the brewery is known for Belgian styles. It’s pretty nice. 

I stare through the huge windows at the brewhouse, drooling slightly. As us nerds are supposed to. Judging by the number of fermenters, they must brew quite a lot of beer.

I sit outside. Then Chris invites me over to what he calls the “gringo table”. (Is it OK to say that?) With Scott, Markus, Shweta, Noelle, Eugene and John Palmer. And Chris, of course. It's all quite jolly.

I'm glad that we were warned to bring warm clothes. It's distinctly chilly up here. Even with the outdoor heaters. It is pretty high up.

Pizza is being served. I'm not too hungry, but force myself to eat a couple of slices. It’s quite nice. And will keep me fuelled for a while.

The plan for buses back at 21:00 and 22:00 falls through when too few want to take the earlier bus. (Obviously, miserable, old twat that I am, I was down for the earlier bus.)  Meaning I won't be back in the hotel before 23:00.

Chris persuades us to move inside. After a while Laeddy comes up to tell me and Scott that we won't be required to judge tomorrow morning. Just for the Best of Show, starting at 14:00. Yippee! The whole morning off.

I'm pretty knacked when we tip onto the bus. Despite only having drunk the one beer. The return journey is a little quicker, as there's less traffic. And we get the splendid sight of Medellin’s sparkling bowl at night.

As I don't have to be up early tomorrow, I stay up watching YouTube a little. Before the Jura gently eases me to slumber.



TorreAlta Cervecería
Don Diego - La Ceja, 
Don Diego, 
Retiro, 
Antioquia. 

Judging begins

I rise at 7:00. And have a shower to wake myself up properly. Then an eye-opener of rum. The perfect breakfast drink. With enough cola to really kickstart the day.

I slept surprisingly well. Seeing as the disco went on until about 4:00.

Not feeling hungry, I just have a coffee for breakfast. I sit with Chris and Noelle Phillips, a Canadian judge. We have a pleasant chat. That gets me in the mood for some heavy-duty judging.

My judging partners today Carlos Estrada and David Montes, both Columbians. I’m table captain.

We kick off with English Porter/Stout and American Porter/Stout A couple of good ones and some real stinkers. Nothing new there.

Irish Red Ale/Scottish Export comes next. Now here’s a first. One of the Irish Reds isn’t rubbish. Unlike all the other ones I've judged. And I’ve judged dozens of them. The Exports are all shit. I'm guessing none of the brewers has tried a Scottish-brewed version. Now surprise there, really. Most people in the UK haven’t either.

We’re getting through the beers at a reasonable pace. Always a plus, that.

I’ve had some of my Lulu books sent over to sell. I was worried about them arriving on time. No need. They got to Medellin last Friday. But haven’t been delivered yet. Currently stuck in customs. Brilliant.

We're quite late going for lunch. I don't eat that much of mine. And it’s not even that big a meal. I do eat most of the soup but almost none of the rice. 

We had twelve beers this morning and have another twelve this afternoon. Which isn't too crazy. We finish at 17:20. Quite late, considering the small number of beers.

We're supposed to be walking to the Barrica brewpub at 17:30. That's too early for me.  Seeing as I’ve only just finished judging. And no-one will be there on time, this being South America.

Chris messages me and suggests leaving at 18:40. Sounds good to me. Should be about when everyone else goes.

I don't take my wallet with me after yesterday's experience. I just take my credit card in one of my lower shorts' pockets.

On the way down, some bloke starts pestering me with football shirts. I tell him to fuck off. Rather rudely. Which is unlike me. I’m usually very nice. Saturday’s experience has changed me.

Unexpectedly, lots of judges are already in Barrica when we arrive. So much so, that we have trouble finding seats. It's also loud. Very loud. Far too fucking loud. Quite pleasant salsa music, but the volume makes conversation all but impossible. We move outside where conversing is less of a struggle.

I have an American Pale Ale. Which is fine. The food is tortilla chips with various gunk on the top. I eat it very unenthusiastically. And leave a good chunk of it for Chris.

The owner comes around with his favourite rum and pours us a shot each. It's very good. Man, I love Colombian rum. I get a second shot. 

The DJ and another are accompanying the recorded music with percussion. Unfortunately, the bloke on the cowbell can’t keep time. I find his continual missing of the beat irritating almost to the point of physical pain.

Chris suggests that we decant to Metropole, which is just down the street. Where I get myself a rather nice Double IPA. Wonderfully hoppy and not cloying at all. It’s much quieter, too. Without music, other than that drifting down the street from Barrica.

Around 22:00, Chris suggests we have a nightcap on the way back. The uphill walk makes me realise that it's time for bed. I skip the nightcap and return to the hotel. Only pausing to buy a bottle of rum.

I have a shot or two of hotel whisky and then crash out. It's only just 23:00. Meaning I can get a good 8 hours kip.



Barrica Cervecería
Cl. 9 #43B 22, 
El Poblado, 
Medellín, 
Antioquia.
https://www.barricacerveceria.com/


Metropole Beer Lab
Cra 43C #9 - 03, 
El Poblado, 
Medellín, 
Antioquia.
 

Medellin rambling

I rise just after 7. No trouble getting up in the morning when you travel west.

I head to reception before breakfast. I have an important request.

“Can you move me to a quieter room?”

“Which room are you in?”

“402.”

“You’re already on the quiet side of the hotel.”

Fuck me. I wonder what the noisy side is like?

Quite a different breakfast. No buffet, for once. There are five options. At least, for free. I go for a bowl of fruit, healthy bastard that I am. With a milky coffee. Which sets me up nicely for the day.

After breakfast I bump into Chris. Always good to see him. we arrange to go to Barrica brewpub at 13:00.

I drop by the nearest convenience store. But it's shut. Fuck. I'll have to go back later. The walk back up the hill, though short, is steep enough to be quite annoying. I hate hills so much.

Back in my room, I see on the internet that the convenience store opens at 11:00. I was there at 10:50. I laze in my room for a while before returning to the shop. Where they have what I was looking for: Medellin rum. Which I know from my time in Cartagena is dead good. I get a bottle of the 8-year-old. What luck that they sell it here in Medellin.

I bump into Chris on the way back. He's still waiting to check in. He suggests that we go to the Barrica brewpub in 15 minutes. Which is fine by me. 

It's about a 10-minute walk there. All downhill. Several people pester us on the way. One bloke trying to flog a Colombian football shirt gets right in my face. It takes ages to brush him off. A couple of minutes later, when Chris asks me to check the route on my phone, I realise why he was so close and persistent: he nicked my phone. The cunt.

Before drinking, we drop by a nearby restaurant to get some food to eat in the brewpub. It's a flat bread with a lump of cheese in it. Quite nice. Chris tells me that it’s typically Colombian.

Not the best start to my stay. Though a nice 9% ABV Stout makes me feel a little better. As it always does. I’d take a photo of it. Except some cunt nicked my phone.

There was supposed to be a judges’ event here. No-one else has come. So far. Until we are leaving and a group of four other judges arrive. How’s that for timing?

The walk back isn’t much fun. Not just on account of the vibes. It’s all uphill. Not all that steep, at the start. But a good kilometre, all uphill. A rise of 60 metres. I take it pretty slowly.

I laze around in my room for a while. With some Medellin rum for company. It makes me feel a little better. I try not to get too annoyed about the phone. It was pretty old and, realistically, pretty much worthless. It’s just the inconvenience and the loss of photographs.

The welcome dinner is downstairs in the hotel. Which is pretty handy. Me being a lazy git and all. I don’t really feel like walking around the streets of Medellin just now.

They have a decent IPA on draught. Into which I get stuck. Chatting with Shweta, Chris and others. There are plenty of judges that I know. Mike Hall I only saw a couple of weeks ago in Brussels.

There isn't really a meal. Just snacky bits of food. Which I can't be arsed to eat. Maybe stress is affecting my appetite. Or I’m just knacked. It could be that.

I don't stay up too late. It's a fairly early start tomorrow. And it’s been quite an annoying day.

Outside the disco is in full swing. They’re playing some cumbia today. Dead cool music. Fuck me, I recognise this number. A really good one. Though I would prefer to be lying here in silence.

Medellin rum is my sleepy-time chum. With a musical accompaniment of salsa.


Barrica Cervecería
Cl. 9 #43B 22, 
El Poblado, 
Medellín, 
Antioquia.
https://www.barricacerveceria.com/
 

South America bound

The start of the day isn't too rushed. My flight isn't until 13:00.

The airport is quite busy. The normal security queue is pretty long. Thankfully, I don’t have to go through that. Rather surprisingly, there's no queue at all at passport control. I breeze straight through. 

Once airside, I go to the duty free and get the cheapest malt whisky I can find: Jura white oak cask. Then it's on to the KLM lounge.

The good news is that they're serving doubles today.  Hooray. Soon I have a pair of doubles. The warm food looks a bit crap. It really is a total lottery, really, what warm food they’ll have I just get some cheese, French bread and bits and bobs.

The lounge is packed and I have trouble finding a seat. Then, 30 minutes later, almost everyone has left. How odd. I have a few more whiskies then head to the gate. Where I don't have to wait long.

The first meal isn't too bad. Chicken and mashed spuds. Along with some red wine. I also grab a couple of extra red wines from the galley. Just to keep myself hydrated, you know.

I watch a few films, as usual. Nothing particularly earth-shattering. Just stuff to pass the time. The Mandelorian and Gogu, Am I OK. And finish off with some Simpson’s episodes.

Despite leaving 10 minutes late, we arrive in Panama City about 20 minutes early. I've about two hours until my connecting flight to Medellin. Most of which I spend walking from terminal 1 to terminal 2. At least it’s well air-conditioned.

I don’t bother looking for a lounge. I haven’t that long to wait. I’m not hungry, either. And I don’t really need any more booze. What have I become?

At the gate, it’s pretty crowded. Though I do manage to find a seat. Thankfully. I really couldn’t be doing with standing up for too long. That’s what being an oldie does to you. I read some Private Eye to entertain myself.

It’s only a short hop to Medellin. Just an hour. The formalities go pretty quickly after landing. When I realise that priority bags have been stacked next to the carousel. And I get into the oldie person queue for immigration.

Landside, I bump into Claudia from Uruguay. We've judged together a couple of times before. We're getting the same lift to the judges’ hotel.

It's quite a drive, a lot of it through long tunnels. When we do emerge, we can gaze down on the bowl of Medellin and its lights. An impressive sight. I wonder what it looks like in daylight?

Once checked in, I go to my room. Which is quite noisy as there seems to be a disco going on just outside my window. It’s also weirdly laid out. With all the lighting close to one of the walls. And no TV. Or air-conditioning.

The disco outside lasts until after 2:00.  Luckily, I'm so knacked that I sleep anyway. A Jura nightcap helps.
 

Medellin September 2026

 A sort video report of my trip to Medellin last week. Very eventful. As you'll soon discover.

 

Breakfasts in Medellin

Still feeling a bit knacked from my trip. So a cheating picture post today.

I know how fascinated you all are about my breakfasts. And I don't like to disappoint. Not a complete set of breakfasts, for reasons you'll discover later.

Medellin was cooler than I expected  Which was just as well, given the lack of air-conditioning. A couple of small problems on the trip. But at least I din't break any bones.

 Note the hard-fried egg, typical of Colombia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doing my talking thing

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

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

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

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

Surprise, surprise: they're running late.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I turn in around 23:00.



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

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Best of Show

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

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

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

The family’s response is rather dispiriting.

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

“You find my breakfasts boring?”

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

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

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

“Excuse me.”

“Send some more interesting photos.”

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

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

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

“You always have an excuse.”

“It’s called a reason>”

“Yeah, whatever.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so negative, Dad.”

“Just realistic.”

“Cynical, more like.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s so sweet.

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

At least it won’t be an early start.



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

  

You can fins a video report of my trip here: 

Hanging around

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

 

You can fins a video report of my trip here: