Fitch & Wilson

I was looking for something completely different. Well, same thing, a price list, but for a completely different brewery. I hate to let any discovery go to waste

I set about extracting the details to my price list spreadsheet. Which is when I noticed something odd. The Strong Ales could be "Mild or bitter, as preferred". Does that mean either young or aged? Or just that one was more heavily hopped?

The X's are used inconsistently, too. XX Very Strong is more expensive, and hence stronger, than both XXX and XXXX. And what the hell does Osborne mean?

A - a designation usually reserved for the weakest of Mild Ales - here is used for something super strong. 2 shillings and sixpence per gallon is incredibly expensive. It implies something well north of 1100º. Queens Cordial I'm guessing was their brand name for it. Unless it was some generic name for a very strong beer.

 

Alcester Chronicle - Saturday 25 June 1881 , page 1.

 The warning and the end is very revealing, too.

"All the Strong and Pale Ales are season brewed, and well matured in cask, the finest qualities of Malt and Hops alone being used in their manufacture; the Dinner Ales are intended for ordinary use, and should not be kept too long in draught if perfection is desired."

It sounds like the Strong and Pale Ales were all Stock Ales and would keep well. While the Dinner Ales you'd best drink pretty quickly.

The Dinner Ales must surely be Mild Ales. Maybe they only called them Dinner ales for their home trade. Which is whom the advert is aimed at.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1888 Hancock XX

The standard Mild Ale of Hancock which made up the bulk of their output. Obviously, the favourite of drinkers in their pubs.

It’s not a complicated beer. Three types of pale malt, all seemingly made from English barley, the suppliers named Butebock, Wilscombe and Barnard. That’s if I’m reading the handwriting correctly. Not totally sure about Wilscombe. Then there’s lots of No. 3 invert, more than a third of the grist.

Which results in a surprisingly dark beer. Pretty much the colour of a modern Dark Mild. This is a very early date for a truly dark Mild. Making this a dead interesting beer.

I've made a wild guess at the FG, which is not listed in the brewing record. With all that sugar, it could have been lower.

For the mashing temperature, I split the strike heat and the tap heat (i.e., at the end of the mash). The rest is weird, with a couple of additions of really hot water: 6 barrels at 202º F, 15 barrels at 190º F and 15 more at 192 F. Then 15 barrels unheated. All a bit odd.

There were two types of Kent hops from the 1884 and 1887 harvests and one of Sussex hops from 1887. I’ve included dry hops as pretty much all casks were "hopped down" in this period. The quantity of hops has been reduced on account of the age of some.

I wasn't really sure about the yeast. I couldn't find any from the Southwest other than Super High Gravity, which is the Thomas Hardy yeast, so Eldridge Pope. If you can get another yeast from the region, feel free to use that.
 

1888 Hancock XX
pale malt	5.75 lb	63.89%
No. 3 invert sugar	3.25 lb	36.11%
Fuggles 90 mins	0.75 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	0.75 oz
Goldings 30 mins	0.75 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.25 oz
OG	1050
FG	1013
ABV	4.89
Apparent attenuation	74.00%
IBU	27
SRM	17
Mash at	155º F
Sparge at	190º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	White Labs WLP099 Super High Gravity

Birthday recipe

Now I've shifted most of that box of books, it's time to draw your attention to another of my money-making schemes, sorry, wonderful offers. My birthday recipe service. Or any other special day recipe.

For a mere 25 euros, I'll create a bespoke recipe for any day of the year you like. As well as the recipe, there's a few hundred words of text describing the beer and its historical context and an image of the original brewing record.

All you need to do is tell me the date and I'll come back with the options. Usually that will be 20 to 30 different beers from different years and different breweries. You only need to pick the one that takes your fancy and I'll do the rest.

Just click on the button below.

Cartagena

It’s another early start. I rise at 06:30.

And that’s as far as I got with my notes on my Columbia trip. No day-by-day account this time. Which makes sense, as this wasn’t a beer trip. Well, not in the usual sense.

“You’re crazy, Ronald.” That’s become Dolores’s catchphrase when I tell her my travel plans. She did have a point this time. A mere 46 hours after getting back from Brazil I was on a plane bound for South America again.

That wasn’t the original plan. The holiday was to celebrate my mate Mikey’s 50th birthday. The intention was to go to Thailand. So at least I wouldn’t have been travelling back on myself. We’d even booked tickets.

The rules for entering Thailand were pretty strict. A test before departure, one on arrival with 24-hours quarantine, another test and 24-hours quarantine after five days and a final test just before departure. Lots of faffing around. We decided we couldn’t be arsed.

Where else could we go? There were two simple criteria: it had to be hot and cheap. While Mikey was on the KLM site, a suggestion for Cartagena popped up. Would I be interested in going there? Course I fucking would. It’s a new country and in South America.

We cancelled our Thailand tickets and rebooked for Cartagena. I sent Mikey come info I’d found about the city. Which could have been a big mistake. The bit about crime and safety freaked Mikey out a bit. I eventually talked him down by sending him even scarier information about Florianopolis, somewhere I’d visited just a couple of months earlier. And had found perfectly safe.

Nerves settled, Mikey was very enthusiastic. Found us accommodation right in the centre of town. Great! Saves me lots of trouble.

Mikey went out a couple of days before me. Leaving about when I returned from Brazil. Just before I was due to leave, I received an email. “Buy rum in the duty free. There’s an election and no alcohol is being sold.” That’s a bummer.

Being a decadent bastard, I got an Uber rather than the bus to the airport. I also wanted as much time as possible in the lounge. Where I had a mini breakfast and several whiskies. They won’t serve doubles, so I always just buy two at a time. One Scotch, one bourbon. No ice, of course.

The flight out was long. Over fourteen hours. With around four of those on account of going via Bogota. That bit was great fun. Everyone had to get off the plane, with those carrying on to Cartagena herded to one side. Someone with a clipboard crossed off the names of the connecting passengers.

But, clearly didn’t catch everyone. As after we had been herded a hundred metres or so down a corridor, they came around again with a fresh list. What was going on? I’d expected to be guided to a transit lounge. 

Every 10 minutes or so we shuffled forward 50 or 100 metres only to be stopped and held again at some random point. Eventually, we were ushered towards the security check. One of the ground crew shouted “Puerta cuarenta y cinco” and quickly fucked off. We were left to fend for ourselves.

Yes, we had the fun of going through security again. Just as well I’d kept the receipt for that duty free rum. Otherwise, it would have gone in the bin with my bottle of water.

I checked a monitor and gate 45 was indeed where our flight was. And 400 – 500 metres back in the opposite direction to which we’d just walked. Did I mention that I was gasping for breath the whole time? Bogota is at 2,600 metres. Around 1500 metres to high for my crappy lungs.

I was tempted to nip into one of the bars I passed for a quick rum. But managed to resist. Just as well, as the flight was already boarding when I got to the gate. All told, around 90 minutes of pissing around, just to get back into the same seat.

The remaining flight was pretty short, around an hour. We landed at Cartagena just before dusk. In delightful South American style, I was ushered into the priority queue and walked straight up to an immigration booth. Where a nice young lady looked at all my documents and stamped my passport. That was nice and quick.

Mikey had also arranged a taxi pick up. As we raced into town a fat red sun was just dropping into the sea. The city’s ramparts full of tourists taking in the fading glow. That was a good start.

I was boiling hot when I plonked my luggage down in my room. And set the airco immediately to Antarctica. A change of clothes later and I was banging on Mikey’s door. Duty free rum in my hand.

After a few rums we wandered down to a nearby square. Where we were able to score a couple of shots in a pub. They didn’t seem to be taking the whole dry for election day thing totally seriously.

A few more rums in Mikey’s room and I was ready for my bed.
 

Going Home

I rise a little before 7:00. Yet a-fucking-gain. Only because I really have to. I've booked an Uber for 8:00. Which will get me to Navegantes about 2 hours before my flight to Sao Paolo departs. I like to leave extra time, in case something goes wrong. Which it often does.

Avoiding stress wherever possible. That's my health plan. Having to rush and worry does my head in. Much preferable is maybe having to hang around somewhere for a few hours. So what? I've every episode of Peep Show on my laptop.

The drive to Navegantes is uneventful. As is the checkin process. There are huge queues at gate 4, from which my flight will depart. But for the earlier flight. I've still got some time.

There isn't much it the way of shopping. Long dresses and hats. Some sort of healthy-sounding food. And a bakery selling draught beer. Brahma. 18 reals (about 3 euros) for a half-litre plastic cup. I drink quickly, before it warms up. I wouldn't want to taste it properly. I get another. This is rather relaxing. Though I haven't relaxed by beer-drinking pace.

Do I have time for a third? I can see the gate and they are clearly not ready to board. Beer number 2, I accompany with a meat pasty. We had mini ones as snacks during judging. It doesn't disappoint. I finish my beer in a few gulps when I see the queues moving at the gate. 

They're just doing priority boarding. I notice that the icons of those given preferential treatment includes someone with a walking stick. Presumably meaning old person. Surely I count as that at my age?

It seems the airline staff do. As I waltz confidently through. Maybe getting old isn't 100% bad?

The flight to Sao Paolo isn't long. A bit over an hour. I pick up my bag and start the long trek to terminal 3. At least they have free baggage carts. Unlike in annoying US airports where they'll charge you $10 to use one. 

Some of the airport layout is weird. Starting at terminal 2 departures (first floor) you can't get to the terminal 3 equivalent without going up a floor. The first floor stops in a dead end.

There's a huge queue at the Air France/KLM checkin. Luckily, not for Sky Priority. There are only a couple of blokes in front of me. Everyone else is catching an Air France flight. It's almost seven hours until mine.

I'm wearing long kecks. In anticipation of arrival in Amsterdam. They're rather loose around my waist. Once the belt is off, it's hard to stop then falling to my knees. Making the security check a nightmare. I manage to retain by dignity, just about. I must remember never to wear this pair for travelling again.

The very friendly man who checked me in pointed me in the direction of the relevant lounge: American Express. I was here just a few months ago. Not bad, if I remember correctly.

A reasonable variety of food and generous servings of whisky. I get one of the latter. Without ice. Then grab some cheese and stuff. Things I can nibble on over the long hours of Peep Show I have planned. Because I'm going to be here a long time.

Being very nervous when changing planes, I leave a long time between them. At least 4 hours when one is intercontinental. Today is an extreme example at 7 hours. I need to pace myelf. No more than four whiskies per hour. I wouldn't want to get too relaxed before my flight.

I fire down Peep Show when the monitor says "go to gate". It's still quite a walk. Through the shops and right down to the end of the pier. Ten minutes for a fit man. Maybe less than that. Closer to twenty for me. Broken old thing that I am.

I've timed boarding perfectly this trip. Not one minute of waiting around at the gate.

One reason I stocked my belly in the lounge was a worry about what sort of meal KLM would serve. Those horrible fucking meatballs on the way out. Yet again. No, this time it's sliced beer in gravy. Much better. I eat most of it.

The lights going out is an unsubtle hint that it's time to sleep. Down goes my head. And out go my thoughts.

Not a bad kip at all. A good few hours fully out.

There's a big queue at the non-EU passport lane. A lot of English young blokes on stag dos. I'm so looking forward to getting my Dutch passport.

My taxi home is a Tesla.

Last full day

I've nothing on my schedule today, save for the closing dinner. And the bus to that is at 21:00.

Sorry, that's not quite true. I have a Covid test scheduled for 9:00. Travelling is so much fun nowadays.

At 8:45, just as I'm getting dressed, there's a knock on the door. It's the woman performing my Covid test. It takes the usual 5 seconds and costs around 50 euros. And that's supposedly a discount rate. Still, better than the $149 I paid in Florida.

I wend my way to breakfast. Where I go mental and have some scrambled eggs with my cheese. Only a few judges and no-one there I really know well.

At 10:00 I have a Zoom call for Sheffield Beer Week. Theme: how to become a beer historian. My 20-minute chunk is on finding and interpreting sources. I don't have slides and just do it off the top of my head. Unlike some other speakers, who appear much better prepared.

It's a bit after 12:00 when we're done. Time for some lunch. I don't fancy walking into town and look on the web for closer options. There are a couple of pizza places and Restaurante e Lanchonete R7. That'll do.

It also seems to be a pizza place, but only in the evenings. It has the classic Brazilian buffet lunch. I take a seat and order a capirinha. "Vodka or cachaca?" The waiter asks. "Cachaca." What else am I going to have. the waiter comes back and tells me they're out of cachaca. Oh, well. Vodka it is then.

I try not to go too crazy. Even though it will be a long time until my next meal.

All the other customers are clearly workers on their lunch break. The buffet is a very reasonable 20 reals - just over 3 euros.

I treat myself to another couple of capirinhas. They aren't bad. Despite containing vodka rathe than cachaca. Plenty of limes.

despite it only being a short walk, I'm as sweaty as a pig on a trip to the sun by the time I get back to the hotel. It's only 30 C, but humid as hell. This climate really does me in.

Martyn sends an email. He's off for lunch. How about 19:00 in the hotel for the old beer tasting, I ask? As that clashes with the Groziskie talk, Martyn suggests the closing dinner. I suppose I'll see everyone there. The bus is at 21:00. Which I find rather late. I need to be up at 7:00, at the very latest. I could do without a late night.

Just before 19:00, Martyn contacts me again: the dinner has been cancelled. Everyone is going to Omar's instead.

A quick search on the internet doesn't come up with anything sensible. Just doctors and other weird stuff. This isn't very good. Then I twig. It must be Oma's brewpub. Martyn has clearly spent too much time in the Middle East.

I could walk down there. In, maybe 20 minutes. 20 really unpleasant minutes. And me a sweaty mess on arrival. Bugger that. Let's do something daring. Like order an Uber. To test the process out for tomorrow. When I really need one to get to Navegantes airport.

It seems very simple. Costs fuck all and gets me there in as fragrant a form as I'll ever be. Maybe that's why all the kids use it so much. It would definitely have been handy in Florida.

Lots of judges are there. And about all the ones I know well. What's the collective noun for beer judges? A flight? There's a flight of beer judges in Oma's. Well, outside it. There isn't really any space inside at all.

As it's my last night in Brazil, I get a Catharina Sour. Very pleasant it is, too. Lots of tropical fruit flavours.

I'm sitting a a table with Martyin, Chirs, Susan and Tim Webb. The latter much morely lively than yesterday. Though that wouldn't be hard. I've soon jauntier-looking corpses than yesterday's Tim.

The only real food option is from a truck. Very meat baased. I order sliced bits of picanha. Should be nice, if don't overcook it. And chips. Haven't had more than a handful this trip. Most of those were this afternoon.

The beef isn't bad. Some of it is still pretty pink inside. Way too many chips, for me. That cheeky bastard Chris is nicking some of my meat. Can't he wait for his own meal?

I just about get through all the meat. With the "help" of Chris.

Just three old beers this year. Blame Latam for that. McEwans Strong Ale, brewed at the Guinness brewery in Jamaica in 1979 or 1980. Carlsberg Special from a cellar at Carlsberg. No idea of the age, but pretty old. Finally, a Crombé Kriekenbier. No idea, really, of the age. Probably at least 20 years old.

We start with the Carlsberg. Dark brown in colour, I assume from oxidisation. Quite pleasant in a sherry sort of way. I wouldn't want to drink a pint of it, mind.

McEwans Strong Ale is pretty flat. Despite that, it's held up pretty well. The oxidisation has added complexity. Like liquid christmas pud.

Surprisingly fresh is the cherry beer. An underlying sourness that would spoil most styles. Really quite drinkable.

Most are moving on to the Mad Dwarf Biergarden. I'm moving on to my bed. A Berazilian judges asks if I want to share his Uber. That's spared me some sweaty walking. And will get me in bed earlier.

A little cachaca smoothes the rocky path to sleep.



My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

Let's Brew - 1885 Kirkstall X

Back into rhythm with the recipe posts. I just couldn't be arsed to write one for Wednesday. I'm sure you managed to survive one week without a Wednesday recipe.

Up in Yorkshire, Leeds to be precise, brewers were still producing a selection of Milds at different strengths.

Confusingly, at Kirkstall, these didn’t run X to XXXX. No. They had to make things more complicated than that. In this brewery’s case, X was the middle-strength beer. It’s weaker than the X Ales from larger London breweries like Barclay Perkins and Whitbread, but around the same as the one from Fullers.

The grist isn’t complicated. Just pale malt and a little black malt. Though the latter didn’t really make up part of the grist as it was added in the hop back. Were they worrying about the resale values of the spent grains in not adding it to the mash tun? There’s also a wee touch of caramel, added in the copper.

Three of the four types of hops were English, two from the 1884 harvest and one from 1883. The others are simply described as “foreign” and were from the 1884 crop.

1885 Kirkstall X
pale malt	12.00 lb	98.60%
black malt	0.15 lb	1.23%
caramel 1000 SRM	0.02 lb	0.16%
Cluster 150 mins	0.50 oz
Fuggles 150 mins	0.50 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.00 oz
Goldings 30 mins	1.00 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.25 oz
OG	1052.5
FG	1013
ABV	5.23
Apparent attenuation	75.24%
IBU	41
SRM	11
Mash at	152º F
Sparge at	170º F
Boil time	150 minutes
pitching temp	58º F
Yeast	Wyeast 1469 West Yorkshire Ale Timothy Taylor

Awards dinner

The bus back from the distillery isn't quite as hot this time. Just 40 C. And it isn't far back to the hotel. Back in my room I turn the airco up to North Pole. The blessed relief. How on earth did people live here without airco? I wouldn't have lasted a summer. Let's be honest, a couple of weeks of spring would probably have done for me

For once, we're back earlier than planned. 16:60 rather than 17:00. Giving me time to cool down and clean up. The bus to the awards ceremony is at 19:30.

I fire up the VPN and watch Match of the Day.

I check out of the window several to see if the bus has arrived. Then at 19:20 I wander downstairs. That's not a good sign: no-one is here. Where the hell are they? No point pining away. I get myself a capirinha in the hotel bar. Michael Hall arrives with his and is equally confused.

The he checks his phone. There's a message saying that the bus time has been moved forward to 19:00. Fuck. Joe, an American brewer from Charlotte, turns up. I get an Uber with him.

There's a long queue outside the hall - the same place where we judged - but we just push right to the front. We're sort of VIPs. I'm glad that I brought my lanyard with me. We're given wristbands and search for the bar. Where I get a rather nice Imperial Stout.

I bump into Martyn. He points out that we should be on the balcony, except they've given us the wrong wristbands. He suggests we go outside and get the right ones. Only they've run out of the VIP ones. However, it seems our lanyards are enough to get us access to the upstairs.

A band is playing. Very loudly. Was too fucking loudly. It's almost impossible to talk. Well, it's possible to talk. Just impossible to hear what you're saying, let alone anyone else. Downstairs, it's heaving. And everyone in unmasked. Covid-tastic.

I'm rather peckish and turn to the buffet. Which, a little ham aside, consists of cheese. Very nice cheese. Not exactly a balanced meal, though.

The band has finished, Hurrah! But a DJ has taken over. Playing horrible dance cover versions of pop hits. It's still way too fucking loud. It's like the nightclub from hell. I'm enjoying myself so much.

Chris joins us and we head to the balcony railing as the DJ ends and the awards ceremony kicks off. The Blumenau mayor does some shouting for about an hour as he drags various people on stage. He seems to think he's a rock star. I wouldn't be surprised if he did some crowd surfing.

We're standing next to Tim Webb, who is dozing while leaning up against a wall. Every now and again he wakes up and takes a sip from his glass. Even while sleeping, he doesn't spill any. Quite impressive.

Eventually, after all sorts of fucking around, the awards proper begin. They're going to take quite a while. Tim now has his glass balanced on the balcony railing. That could be rather dangerous for the people below. A Begbie moment.

I try to keep an eye out for the classes where I awarded medals. But it's difficult to stay concentrated. A woman comes over and takes Tim's glass out of his hand. Probably for the best. It doesn't wake him up, and his hand remains clenched around an imaginary glass.

The bus back to the hotel is scheduled for 23:30. But, of course, it's late, as we wait for stragglers. I'm feeling almost as tired as Tim looks.

"Anyone fancy a nightcap?" Chris asks when we get back to the hotel.

The answer is an emphatic "No" from everyone. I head straight for my bed. Pausing only for a spirit sleeping aid.

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

Distillery tour

I've signed up for a brewery/distillery tour. The bus leaves at 8:00. Only 7 hours after I got off the last one.

I leave myself around 20 minutes for breakfast. I sit with Pete Slosberg, Doug Piper and a couple of Polish judges. I have my now standard cheese and sliced meat stuff. Plus a coffee and an orange juice. My stomach really doesn't want anything more.

Pete has some interesting stories about visiting Japan in the 1980s. Which pass the time while I'm wondering why the hell it's 8:10 and there's no sign of a bus.

It turns up a little later and we trail onboard.

The start is jolly enough. I'm sitting by Susan Boyle, who is a bundle of positive energy. Backed by a gaggle of lively Poles behind us. I try not to drag the part down with negative energy, my speciality.

The countryside around Blumenau is hilly and very lush. Trees pack every hillside with radiant green. This really isn't like Europe.

Susan tells me lots of fascinating stuff about wine and whiskey in Ireland. It turns out that in the 18th century, it wasn't beer or whiskey that was Ireland's favourite tipple, but wine. I would never have guessed that.

I'd been expecting a short ride, assuming we were going to the Xanadu distillery like two years ago. It's not far from the centre of Blumenau. After an hour of sliding past lush forests, I twig that we're headed for a different distillery. One much more distant. I'm pretty quick, me.

There a building with Alambique on the side. Doesn't that mean distillery? We motor past it. 10 minutes later there's another one. We don't stop there, either. Finally, we pull up outside a third. Ah, this must be it. One of the Brazilian judges has a word with the driver and we turn around. We've come to the wrong distillery.

Our real destination was Bylaardt. The second one we passed earlier.

It's quite modern and looks very efficient. Well, not totally modern. There's an ancient wood-fired boiler behind the still room. It looks a bit like a steam locomotive. (Andrew tells me it probably is the boiler from a locomotive as many were repurposed in South America.)

The fermentation room has several open vats of sugar cane juice fermenting away. Bubbling away like crazy. Unsurprisingly, as a control panel tells us that it's over 30 C. It ferments out in just 24 hours, we're told.

The barrel room is very compact. And at ambient temperature. Which is again over 30 C. At least today. The barrels are made French oak. Most of them, at least. They have a few of amburano. There are also some larger vats. Weirdly, the time spent in those doesn't count towards the age of the cachaca. Only the time in vats of 600 litres or less counts, for some weird reason. 

I'm greatly relieved that the sampling room/shop has airco. Though it's still quite early, it's bloody hot outside.

The shop is notable for having an array of small casks - filled with cachaca - for sale. When we asked earlier, we were told that, after four fills, the casks were broken up and made into smaller ones. I'm gobsmacked to see one of the judges buy one. Then realise he's one of the Argentinians who has driven here. No problem for him to get it home. Not sure what they'd say if you tried to check a cask onto a plane.

I get myself a couple of bottles. Well, not myself. They're for the kids. A 10 and an 18 year old. I'll let them fight over who gets the older one. Surprisingly. neither bottle gives its age on the label. It seems it's something to do with Brazilian law. If it claims to be 10 year old, it has to be only that. With neither younger nor older cachaca in it.

Our lunch stop, Das Bier, isn't too far. The setting is incredible. In front is a fishing lake, backed by more forested hills of glittering jade. The balcony has an amazing view. But is really hot. After snapping a couple of views, I sit inside with three of the Brazilians.

Pils is the only draught beer. Not really fancying that, I get a bottled American IPA. Which is fine.

Lunch is another buffet - what else. I get two chips, some salad to stave off scurvy, several types of meat and bit of fried fish. It's not bad. And I'm maintaining my protein intake.

Chris and Martyn trundle in while I'm eating. Along with a Brazilian brewer with whom Martyn will be brewing a collaboration beer later.

All the signs are in German. Something I'm getting used to it this part of Brazil. It is quite surreal when the view from the window is a jungle.

Would I like to look around the brewery? Sure. I start regretting that decision immediately. It's boiling hot. And I could see it through windows in the bar. Yet again, I leave early, sweat running down my arms, legs, chest and every other bit covered in skin.

I'm looking forward to getting back on the lovely cool coach. Forgetting that the driver had been sitting at another table the whole time. While the bus, power off, sat baking in the car park for 90 minutes.

It's 48 C when we get back on. I'm soon dripping with sweat again. Despite drinking quite a bit of beer and cachaca, I've had little need of the toilet today. I've been sweating everything out. A bit like back in my clubbing days.

The airco brings the temperature down fairly quickly. It's still 37 C when we arrive at our next destination. Not at the Xanadu distillery itself. Rather at the place where we switch to a minibus which can negotiate the steep narrow road to it.

Xanadu. I've been here before. Last time quite early in the day, when the pavements hadn't started melting. No such luck today.

There are only a couple of stills and a room full of barrels to show. The tour doesn't last long. Just as well, given the rivers of sweat coursing down my flesh and through my clothes. Pure torture.

The tasting is dead interesting as they have cachacas aged in a variety of different woods: American oak, European oak, amburana, balsem and a couple of others. All six years old, but amazingly different in character. The balsem aged one has zero colour, despite all the time in cask. But packed with flavour.

I'd be able to explain all this better, had I not been worried about melting into a puddle of dripping. There's no airco and I'm English. It's hard to concentrate your faculties when fearing your imminent collapse, or, worst case, demise.

Investing in more cachaca seems for myself seems wise. This time, it is for me. I suppose unless one of the kids takes a shine to it more than those from the first distillery. Now if only I can get that crap Olivia Newton-John song out of my head. I'm very susceptible to song prompts from my location. I was continually playing the Kinks' Victoria through my head when I commuted into London.





My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

Blumenau judging (day three)

Bloody hell, that was some thunderstorm yesterday. Massive bolts of lightning, one after the other. I fell asleep to its insane crackling.

It's another early start. After dragging myself out of bed as the sun rose, I drag myself some more down for breakfast. It's full of judges. I get some cheese, some sort of sliced meat product and a coffee. I really can't stomach much this early in the morning.

I've a full table today. Both fellow judges are Brazilian. Their English is pretty good, which makes life easier.

We have three mini BOS on our schedule: Classic English Pale Ale, English Barley Wine and Sweet Stout. It being a BOS, all we have to do is decide which beers, if any, get medals. No filling in electronic score sheets. This is a piece of piss. We quickly rattle off the first two categories with no real disagreement.

It takes a little while for the Sweet Stout to come out. But there are only two beers and we're quickly done.

What happens now? Will we get more Mini BOS? It's a little unclear. It's still pretty early - just 10:00. It seems we will be assigned more. Except they're having some technical problems. We sit around and twiddle our thumbs. Bu 13:00, when it's time for lunch, no more beers have appeared. So we head off for lunch.

The buffet is better than yesterday. Really tasty meat. Though obviously not as good as yesterday's barbecue.

We're told more beer will be arriving. But it takes a good 20 minutes before the Export Stouts appear. As all but one have faults, or job is pretty easy. The one clean beer is pretty damn good.

Are we finished? I finish off the Stout samples while we're waiting. It's not much after 14:00.

There follows a lot of sitting around. Some of the other tables are still getting, beers, most not. While nothing much is happening, I enquire about getting a COVID test. Not being able to use my phone to make an appointment, I'm given an email address. I hope that works.

At 16:15, we're told that our table is done for the day. I unwisely ask the steward if I'll be judging the final BOS. She goes to the technical area to ask.

When she gets back she says: "Yes, I got you the last spot."

That wasn't what I wanted to hear. It's a compliment to be asked, but I know how long these things can take. Especially if there are a couple of argumentative bastards on the panel.

I've been chatting with Dick Cantwell. "Maybe I should just fuck off and pretend I misunderstood."

Dick, who will be on the panel says: "I won't tell anyone."

I really can't face any more hanging around. Plus all the arguing. It's amazing how a day of hanging around tires you out more than actually doing stuff.

The bus to the hotel should be leaving in 15 minutes, at 17:00. I move quickly to the exit. The bus is already there and the driver lets me on.

At 15:20 I'm still sat there on my own reading Viz. I'm such an intellectual. The driver says something in Portuguese that I don't understand, but it's clear from his hand gestures that he's wondering where the fuck everyone else is, too. He gets off the bus and makes a phone call.

15 minutes later he tells me that the bus has been put back an hour. At least I think that's what he says. He gestures for me to get on the other bus. The one allocated to the other judges' hotel. I say Ibis several times so the other driver knows where I'm supposed to be going.

It all works out perfectly. I get my own private bus back to the hotel. The right one.

I've some time to kill before the bus at 20:00 to tonight's restaurant. It would be stupid not to spend the time wisely. Drinking capirinhas in the hotel bar.

Martyn turns up when I'm just starting my third. He joins me in a capirinha. No sign of any of the BOS judges. We chat away merrily. We get two more capirinhas. This is fun. I'm getting mine sem azucar. Can't be doing with that sugar stuff.

It's getting on for 20:00 (the time when we're supposed to leave for dinner) when a bus with judges arrives. Not all of them. Just the ones who only did the first BOS round. With 100 gold medal beers, they had to do it in two phases. If it's possible, I feel even happier about dodging judging it.

We depart for Pomerode and the Schornstein brewery before the last of the judges return. I suppose they'll be going there directly from the judging.

Pomerode is a surreal place. With its Easter egg trees, giant Easter egg and signs all in German. We pile into the taproom and grab seats. I'm sitting with Martyn, Chris, Michael Hall and his wife. Soon were wrapping our lips around a pretty good Pils.

The buffet this evening is feijoada, Brazil's national dish. A black bean stew with various bits of meat in it. It's pretty good, but I'm starting to feel meat burnout. I've eaten a fatty mountain of it in the last couple of days. Can't turn my nose up at some lovely fatty pork, mind.

While we're eating, it starts pissing it down again. Tropical style. We're in a covered area outside and I have to move to stop getting drenched.

It's well after 9:00 when the bus with the last judges rumble up. I really dodged a bullet there. It's exactly what I expected to happen, based on my past BOS experiences. Both times, I barely got any dinner.

Chris trails off to the brewery, but Martyn and I resist. When I was here 2 years ago I had to abort a visit because it was so fucking hot.

Chris comes back and entices Martyn and I with tales of a cachaca shop. We follow him to the brewery. Where there's a crowd of judges tucking into beers directly from the tank. I get a Stout with cumaru. It's pretty nice. Best of all it's really cold. I'm already regretting coming in here. It's really hot. Sweat is dripping off me.

Next is a fresh hop beer, made with hops from Sao Paolo state. I'm surprised that they can grow hops that close to the equator. I thought they needed more hours of daylight than you you get at those latitudes.

We chat briefly with the female brewer, then I have to bale. I'm already half melted.

Around midnight, everyone is stocking up on drinks for the bus ride home. I get a nice cachaca. Far latter than planed, the bus bounces away. I hope everyone got on. I didn't see anyone counting heads.

Some one asks the driver to put on the radio, but it's broken. Instead, the Brazilians at the back make their own entertainment, singing away. It's much noisier than on the outward journey. I wonder why? Rather like a school trip.

It's getting on for 1 AM when we stagger off the bus. I head straight to bed. Yet another early start tomorrow.

 

Schornstein Kneipe
Rua Hermann Weege, 60
Centro,
Pomerode
SC, 89107-000.
https://www.schornstein.com.br

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

 

A new box of books

I flogged the last copies I had of the Home Brewer's Guide to Vintage Beer whilst in Florida in February. Now worries, I coild order a new box easily enough.

I contacted the publisher with my order and after a while they came back saying that it was no longer in stock at the warehouse. That didn't worry me. It's been out of print for a few years. But they'll print some up on demand when I want fresh copies.

Not quite so easy this time. They weren't sure if that was still possible. After some some huming and hawing, it was passed back up the chain of command. I waited for a definitive reply.

I'll be honest. I was bricking it. I was faced with the prospect of never getting any more copies.  Which would have been a real bastard.

Finally the word came down from on high. Yes, they could print up some more.

Not that that was the end of it. Printing, shipping and all the (Brexit-induced) customs shit delayed delivery by another few weeks. Almost three months after my initial request, a box plopped onto my doormat yesterday:

If you'd like to have a copy of your very own, signed by me, click the relevant button in the column to the left. I've 31 left, after dispatching ones already ordered. If you miss out now, who knpws how long it will take for me to get more copies.

Blumenau judging (day two)

The bus has been brought forward to 8:00 from 8:30. Using nature's alarm clock, I rise at 6:45. Leaving enough time for a shower before breakfast.

Which is a very rushed affair, as I get distracted by the internet. Just cheese and orange juice today. That's all the major food groups, isn't it?

It's already pretty hot when we roll up at the judging location. Luckily, the airco is on full blast inside.

I've only one fellow judge today: Juan Martin Villareal from Argentina. Is this a good or a bad thing? With any luck, it will mean we rattle through the flights quicker.

First up are English Summer Ales. Happily, just four beers in the flight. It doesn't take too long to get through them. A couple are quite nice. Then there's the one with the Brettanomyces infection.

The styles I'm judging have definitely been tailored to me. Next it's Koyt, Koit, Kuyt or however you want to spell it. I don't notice much of an oat character in any of them. Other than a good degree of murk in some.

We finish the morning with English Brown Ale. The guidelines we're using are total bollocks. The strength is given as 4.2% - 6% ABV. I explain to Juan that most UK versions, Newcastle Brown excepted, were 3.2% ABV, tops.

Many are too pale. Almost none of them have any sweetness, which is one of the defining characteristics. Only two resemble UK versions at all.

It's a buffet lunch, obviously. Brazilians do love their buffets. It's OK. I shovel on some of the bacon-flavoured sand. Yum.

Historic beers greet us after lunch. Starting with an East India Porter, Lichtenhainer and Grisette. All are pretty good. The Lichtenhainer having just the right level of slight tartness. Things are looking up

A couple of indistinct beers follow, where I'm not sure what they're meant to be. Vague descriptions don't help. Then there's the mysterious Bavarian Lager, Old World XXXX. Where the XXXX stands for a redacted name. I immediately twig what it is: a Kulmbacher. I guess they've missed that off because Kulmbacher is a brand name. It's wonderful Strong, black and hoppy. Full of dark malt flavours. Easily the best beer I've judged. We're happy to award it a gold medal. I just wish I could buy it back home.

A torture style follows: Irish Red Ale. They're as bad as I expected. Only one drinkable example among them.

The day ends with Robust porter. The first beer up is a delight of dark malts. Sadly, that isn't typical of the beers that follow. Which are full of faults. Until the very last beer, which is also pretty good.

We've been at it since 8:30, and it's now almost 19:00. When the bus to the barbecue is due to leave.

I sit next to Martyn on the bus. He always has new and interesting beer history stuff to regale me with.

The barbecue is amazing. Especially the pork. I get myself a big plate of meat and some token salad.

There are two indoor bowls courts. Sort of like a stretch version of bocci. Several of the other judges have I go. I'm happy to watch. Too knacked to do much moving. And too full of meat. Tim Webb gets a second plateful. How could he possibly et more?

It's spitting rain as we wait for the bus outside. It doesn't make it any cooler. Even though it's 22:00, it's still boiling. It's been so fucking hot today. And really humid. 34 C, but feels like 41 C. Just as well I've been indoors all day. Though even there the airco was struggling to keep the temperature reasonable.

Back at the hotel, I go straight to my room. No capirinhas tonight. Just the soothing embrace of Laphroaig.

 

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.

Blumenau judging

Using the sun as my alarm clock, I rise at 6:45. Leaving enough time for some writing before I tumble downstairs for breakfast.

I sit next to Chris with my extremely meagre plate. I don't usually eat in the morning. My appetite isn't great before noon.

As is usual at such events, there's a fair bit of buggering around before we get stuck into the judging. It doesn't help that I didn't read the instructions and haven't brought a laptop with me. And that I've forgotten my judging account password. After a fair bit of fiddling, I can log on with a borrowed tablet.

I have two Brazilians on my table, Ronaldo and Taina. We kick off with Scottish Light Ale. Two beers in the flight. One pale, one dark. After judging the first beer, the tablet won't react. After a while I'm given a laptop. Now we can get going.

Second flight is English Pale Mild. One beer is pale. WTF?

Next is Dark Mild. And one example is pale. Seems a pretty rookie mistake in choosing the category to enter the beer in. Of the five beers, two are actully pretty good takes on Dark Mild.

After a few snacks, the heavy duty work begins: 12 English Barley Wines. Fuck me. These beers are a bit strong, even for me. Some are sticky messes. But almost half the flight is pretty good. So good I polish them off. Maybe not the brightest of ideas on a relatively empty stomach.

Judging finished early - 15:30 - and we're whisked off to Beer Vila. The beer pub in the weird German village. Which freaks out some of the judges who've never been here before.

What to drink? A half litre of Imperial Stout (Lohn Bier Carvoeira) seems like a good idea. After all, I was mostly drinking, sorry, judging Mild earlier. Apart from those 12 Barley Wines.

It's hot. Fucking hot. At least there's a bit of a breeze. My beer turns up first. Unlike my food, for which I'm still waiting when everyone else has finished theirs. I'm halfway through my Double IPA (half litre) when it turns up.

Chris is slightly worried by a threatening thunderstorm. We pay up  and hurry off in the hope of reaching the hotel before the storm breaks.

It's a bit further to the hotel than I remember. I fell quite knacked by the time we get there. I know what will liven me up - a capirinha. I'm feeling a bit ausgebiered. It seems to work the trick. Chris is very critical of their caparinha making skills and insists on more limes. Then spoons in extra sugar, somewhat defeating the point.

Various judges troll up, chat and share beers from their breweries. It's all very jolly.

Martyn, who left Beer Vila early, turns up with more bags of shopping. Iberia still haven't responded to him, let alone find his missing bag.

More capirinhas follow. I'm just about to head off to bed when my arm is twisted to drink another. But That's it. Was it three or four? Enough for tonight. I don't want to be up too late. It's another 8:00 bus tomorrow. And I want to get today written up. Which is what I've just done.

I watch Celebrity Bake Off Brasil.It's a bit weird. one of the presenting team is wearing gloves.

The Laphroaig will be chasing me to slumber soon. Whether I like it or not.

 

Bier Vila
R. Alberto Stein, 199
Sala 100 - Velha,
Blumenau - SC.

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.
 

Blumenau day one

My step counter/watch died yesterday. Leaving me to rely on the arrival of daylight to tell me when to rise.

For the first time this trip, I go for breakfast. Only because it's free. It's what I now recognise as a typical Brazilian hotel breakfast. Scrambled eggs, that weird sliced up sausage, cake and fruit. Oh, and cheese. I have some of the first and the last. The cheese is much better than in Florianopolis. It actually has some flavour.

Martyn won't be arriving until mid to late afternoon. Looks like I'll be lunching alone.

First, I nip down to the supermarket. To get myself some water and a bottle of Velho Barreiro. 13.50 reals it cost - that's more than 2 euros. And it's only a 910 ml bottle. The thieving bastards.

This is great. I can remember where everything is here. Where to go for lunch? Choperia Tunga, perhaps.

Blumenau high street is as lively as ever. No deserted shop units and plenty of punters. And plenty of shade for watery old me to walk in.

I sit outside Choperia Tunga and wait for a waiter. Another bloke equally decrepit and weight-challenged does the same at the other end of the seating. After 10 minutes, I call it a day. The other bloke was less patient than me and fucked off after 5 minutes.

I give the weirdly-named Tip Tim just over the river a try. The sun burns on the shadeless bridge. I'm well ready for a cold beer when I get to the other side.

I grab a seat in the covered outdoor area. And odrer a big bottle of Kaiser. Some fish thing. And a cachaca. purely for digestive purposes.

The four blokes on the table in front of me just got a huge pile of meat and chips that they're sharing. Looks like enough food to feed 20 starving giants.

The Kaiser isn't great, but it's cold and wet. Just what I need after a bit of a walk. Unsurprisingly, it's hot. far too hot for someone as English as me.

The cachaca isn't what I expected. It's a capirinha rather than a shot. Served in a jam jar. Pretty nice, mind. full of alcoholy goodness. So nice, I order a second.

The four blokes have polished off their food mountain without too much trouble. I guess they won't be eating for another week.

I feel so hot on the way home that I nip into a  couple of shops just to cool down. It seems worse here than in Sao Paolo, I think because it's more humid. The sun isn't even out and my brain is boiling.

I liven up after 20 minutes in my airconditioned room. Thank god for airco. I really wouldn't be able to do Brazil without it.

Hanging around in my room I cool down while I wait for an enail from Martyn. Which never comes.

There's a bus to dinner at 19:30. I wander downstairs half an hour before, hoping to meet up with some fellow judges. And have a quick beer. I'm not disappointed. There's a whole gaggle of them. Many of then I know.

Martyn turns up with bags of shopping. Iberia lost his bag and he's had to buy new clothes. That's one of my nightmares. Not buying new clothes. My bag being lost. (Though I'm not that keen on buying clothes, either.) It's happened once. That's why I always have a change of clothes in my carry-on luggage.

I sit at a table with Pete Slosberg, Martyn, Chris Flaskamp and Doug Piper. What to drink? I kick off with a cocoa IPA that's recommended to me. A bit strange, but tasty enough. After that I move on to Imperial Stout. It feels like that kind of night.

It's well after 21:00 when the buffet opens. I nip straight in. Not that I'm feeling that hungry. It's a bit late for me.

I have a very interesting chat with one of the Polish judges about Grodziskie, one of my many beery obsessions.

By the time we get back to the hotel, it's pushing midnight. The bus to judging tomorrow is at 8:00. Unsurprisingly, everyone goes straight to their room.

Tip Tim
R. República Argentina, 74
Ponta Aguda,
Blumenau - SC.

My accommodation most of my food and some beer were paid for by Concurso Brasileiro de Cervejas Blumenau. All travelling expenses I paid myself.