Vintage Beer Tasting in aid of Ukraine

Last week I had the very good fortune to attend Pete Brown's beer tasting in aid of Ukraine. A good cause and a chance to try some ancient and rare beers from his collection. 

I was lucky enough to have been gifted a ticket by James McDonnell, one of the auction winners. And very grateful I was, too. Even if it meant a frantic 24-hour trip to London. Also the first time I'd been to the UK in almost 3 years. By far the longest I've ever been out of the country.

The tasting was held in the Parcel Yard in King's Cross Station, giving me a chance to reacquaint myself with cask ESB. And British pubs.

Star of the show was Ratcliff Ale, brewed in 1869 for the son of one of the directors of Bass. A Majority Ale which was never able to fulfill its purpose, as the son died before reaching 21. That it had an intact wax seal got my hopes up.

And . . . I wasn't disappointed. OK, it was flat as a Russian tyre, but it wasn't off. Lots of lovely oxidation flavours adding deep sherry notes. Along with some leathery Brettanomyces flavours. Biggest surprise was the level of bitterness. Amazing that that should have lasted 150 years.

You'll probably be surprised to learn that this was the first time I'd drunk Hardy Ale. Not quite sure why that is. The 2003 vintage we tried was extremely good. And surprisingly chocolatey. That's something I wasn't expecting.

It's always way more fun drinking very special beers like these in company. There was some good discussions about the flavours we could pick up. Lots that I would have missed, had I been drinking alone.

A great, if somewhat tiring experience. My flight being delayed by 2 hours meant I had to go straight to the Parcel Yard from Gatwick.

I can't be arsed to transcribe all my tasting notes. You'll have to struggle with my awful handwriting. I'll admit that there are a couple of words even I can't make out.

What was being drunk in Somerset in 1888?

At least in the pubs served by Hancocks of Wiveliscombe. Maybe they were atypical. But the short answer is: Mild Ale.

Three-quarters of their output was Mild. Way more than any other beer. Yet they only brewed the one. At a time when three or even four wasn't uncommon. While the two Pale ales could only manage 7% between them. Implying a the area around the brewery wasn't wealthy. Assuming that's where they sold their beer.

Being honest, I've no idea what GA was. The more I look at it, the more it looks like a weaker Mild Ale. Not having found a price list yet, I don't know what it was marketed as. And what does GA stand for? Golden Ale? Guinea Ale? Any suggestions?

I've found plenty of beers described as Guinea Ale in price lists. Almost always a Pale Ale costing 1s 2d per gallon. While, based on the OG, this GA would be 10d per gallon, at most.

The Porter was a surprise. Even if they only brewed it a couple of times.

Long answer: bucket-loads of Mild Ale, a few teaspoons of Pale Ale and Stout and a pint pot of something that I don't know what the hell it is.

Almost forgot. Hancock GA is full of No. 3 invert sugar. What more shouts Mild than that?

Hancock output second half of 1888
Beer	Style	OG	Barrels	%
BA	Pale Ale	1060.1	313	2.53%
BB	Pale Ale	1052.6	559	4.52%
GA	Pale Ale	1039.3	1,406	11.38%
Porter	Porter	1052.6	77	0.62%
Stout	Stout	1066.3	689	5.58%
XX	Mild Ale	1050.2	9,313	75.37%
Total			12,357
Source:
Hancock brewing record held at South West Heritage Trust Somerset Archive, document number DD/HCK/5/2/1.

The figures come from the brewing records covering the period 1st June to 29th of December.. Pretty much exactly six months.

West Coast trip this summer

With the kids. Who are now both of legal drinking age. Which is going to make things a whole lot more fun. While being heavy on my wallet.

To try and lighten the load a little, I'll be available to give talks, throw a few hops in a brew, sign books. Anything you fancy, really.

This is our schedule:

Tuesday 26th July and Wednesday 27th July: Portland
Thursday 28th July to Saturday 30th July: Los Angeles
Sunday 31st July to Tuesday 2nd Aug: San Diego
Wednesday 3rd Aug to Friday 5th Aug: Vancouver 

Get in touch if you'd like me to drop by. I'm sure the kids won't mind. They're getting a free holiday, after all.

We kick off in Seattle, where on Sunday 24rd July, I'll be at Foggy Noggin. The theme is one of my obsessions.

Let's Brew Wednesday - 1888 Hancock BB

As well as brewing a shit-load of Mild, Hancock also dabbled a little with Pale Ales. Though this is a pretty odd example.

Why? Because, just like XX, it contains a very large amount of No. 3 invert sugar. Which leaves it extremely dark for a Pale Ale: about the colour of modern Dark Mild. It’s all a bit weird. It is more heavily hopped than XX, 5 lbs per quarter (336 lbs) of malt compared to 4.25 lbs. Not a huge amount more, but it is more.

The gravity is also a little higher than XX, but the two beers aren’t massively different. I just wish I could find a price for Hancock, which might make clearer exactly what their beers were marketed as.

Just two types of hops this time, half Worcester and half Kent, both from the 1887 season. Which leave it slightly more bitter than XX at 34 IBU compared to 27 IBU. Both calculated, of course.

1888 Hancock BB
pale malt	5.75 lb	62.16%
No. 3 invert sugar	3.50 lb	37.84%
Fuggles 90 mins	1.00 oz
Fuggles 60 mins	1.00 oz
Fuggles 30 mins	1.00 oz
Goldings dry hops	0.50 oz
OG	1052.5
FG	1013
ABV	5.23
Apparent attenuation	75.24%
IBU	34
SRM	18
Mash at	155º F
Sparge at	190º F
Boil time	90 minutes
pitching temp	59º F
Yeast	White Labs WLP099 Super High Gravity

 

Cartagena Beer

You may have guessed from what I wrote earlier about my time in Columbia that it wasn’t a beer trip. Well, not in that sense. I wasn’t going out of my way looking for good beer.

Club Colombia was what I mostly drank. A perfectly OK Lager. If you drink it while it’s cold. As good an incentive as any to keep up the drinking pace. I was perfectly happy to drink it. Always from a bottle. I don’t think I ever saw it on draught.

Over at Beer Advocate, Club Colombia gets varied reviews. A few gushing with praise and a few others gushing with venom. And lots of mediocre scores. The negative comments I find undeserved. It’s a perfectly practical drinking beer. Which was all we needed. One that was easy to get hold of.

While having a breakfast – the one with the very loud man – I spotted a “craft beer” sign on the restaurant opposite.

“Do you fancy a quick one over the road? It is almost ten, after all.”

It didn’t take much arm twisting to get Mikey to agree. He’s as big a pisshead as I am, when on holiday.

We took seat on the balcony, which overlooked a small square. Very scenic to look down on. And we were beyond the clutches of the dreadful buskers.

They sell three 3 Cordilleras beers on draught: Blanca, Rosada and Negra. We both opted for the latter. It’s nice and dark, with a hint of roast. A pleasant enough Dark Lager, I thought. According to both RateBeer and Beer Advocate, it’s a Stout. OK. Didn’t particularly strike me as being a Stout. 

A perfectly drinkable beer, but pricey at $14,000 for 30-35 cl. I knew I had zero chance of getting Mikey to have a second one.

“Fancy moving on to the local?”

“Sure, Mikey.”

Which is what we did for a few hours. Bottles of Club Colombia Negra and shots Medellin 3 year old rum. Very nice that is. The rum, I mean.

More about that next time.

Butcher's Tears Pivo Festival

A couple of times a year, Butcher's Tears is home to a beer festival. There's the Franconian Anstich Festival, featuring gravity-served Lager. And the Pivo Festival, with Czech Lager. I really enjoy both.

Now the Berlin Beer Festival is no more, I get very few opportunities to drink good Czech Lager. Fuck all, really. Which is pretty annoying. I'd much rather get stuck into half litres of good drinking beer than piss around with thimbles of sludge.

It's also a day out for the family. Though Alexei took a bit of persuading. He kept insisting he had studying to do. Where is his sense of priorities? Obviously, drinking Czech beer takes preference. Especially as he wasn't paying for it.

I went for amber or dark beers. Dolores and the kids for the pale ones. The selection of both was pretty good. I made sure that I got some of the Fleku 13º, having missed out last year. It's still as good as ever. Though the Cernokostolecky 13º was its equal. The Vinoharadske amber 13º was another cracker.

No detailed report, as I've a nice lump of pork to roast. I will leave you with some photos. As you'll see, it got pretty damn crowded.

Cartagena breakfasts (part two)

After a couple of days of breakfast disappointments, we decided to try another new place.

As with many restaurants we visited early doors, it was deserted. Almost. One table was occupied by a group of men. One of whom was so load, that he literally made me jump. And hurt my ears. While being right over the other side of the room. And me having my back towards him. I was so glad when they fucked off and I could eat my breakfast in peace.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I was delighted to see fried eggs on the menu. But worried they’d come hard fried again. That would be such a downer. I tried to make clear I wanted the yolks runny when I ordered.

“Huevos fritos. Liquido, por favor.”

See how fluent I am in Spanish. Almost like a native. At least the waitress understood, as two beautifully fried eggs arrive a little later. I’m so happy. Even though they’re served with nothing other than toast.

I didn’t have a beer to wash it down for a change, instead having a coffee. Mikey, made of stronger stuff than me, stuck with Club Colombia. What a hero.

No breakfast the next day. I was feeling as sick as a dog. I didn’t leave my room all day. And ate nothing save a couple of bananas.

Luckily, it only lasted a day. I awoke the following day with quite a hunger. Time for another new breakfast location. Quite a posh looking place where the staff outnumbered customers by three to one.

Scrambled eggs with ham, I order. And a coffee. I’m such a wimp. It was already 9:30 and there I am drinking something alcohol-free. Mikey, true to tradition, stuck with Club Colombia.

After ordering, I notice that they did fried eggs. Damn. The scrambled eggs are pretty nice, with loads of really tasty ham. But I do like fried eggs for my breakfast. Maybe we needed to return here.

Which is exactly what we did. There’s something on the menu called an American breakfast. I quite fancy that. But it comes with scrambled eggs. I order it and ask if I can have fried eggs. No problemo. “Liquido, por favor.” It worked last time. Let’s see what happens here.

Finally, three-quarters of the way into my stay, I get something like the breakfast I was after. I’m so happy. My breakfast looked happy, too.

I was so pleased, I went back the next day.

Let's Brew - 1888 Hancock Porter

Here’s a real oddity – a provincial Porter from the late 19th century. By the late 1880s, in England Porter brewing was mostly limited to London and the surrounding area. Though Stout continued to be universally brewed.

It looks remarkably similar to a London Porter of the period in terms of strength and grist. The latter is the classic London trinity of malts: pale, brown and black. Along with a massive quantity of No. 3 invert sugar, which makes up 40% of the total. That wasn’t something you’d see in London, where the sugar content would be no more than half that.

There were just two types of hops: Bohemian from the 1887 harvest and Kent from 1886. In large enough quantities to leave the beer over 40 (calculated) IBU.

1888 Hancock Porter
pale malt	4.00 lb	42.11%
brown malt	1.25 lb	13.16%
black malt	0.50 lb	5.26%
No. 3 invert sugar	3.75 lb	39.47%
Fuggles 120 mins	2.00 oz
Saaz 30 mins	2.00 oz
OG	1053
FG	1015
ABV	5.03
Apparent attenuation	71.70%
IBU	43
SRM	32
Mash at	156º F
Sparge at	190º F
Boil time	120 minutes
pitching temp	58.5º F
Yeast	White Labs WLP099 Super High Gravity

Cartagena breakfasts

Breakfasts. We ate quite a lot of those. One every day in fact. Not always that early.

In Colombia, breakfast means eggs. Mostly scrambled. As I was to find out. As I began my quest for fried eggs. More of that later.

My first morning there, Mikey tried to take me to a place he’d been before. But he took a wrong turning and we ended up at some random place. In a courtyard set well back from the street. No wonder we were the only customers.

While I was waiting for my eggs with ham and cheese, I got my first taste of Club Colombia. Rather bizarrely served with a glass full of ice. Mikey had settled on Club Colombia as it was the strongest of the standard Lagers. It’s OK. Not unpleasant.

Oddly, my eggs came with chips. No vinegar, sadly. Not a bad breakfast.

 

The next day, we breakfasted where Mikey had wanted to take me the day before. A place with big open windows, high ceilings with fans and a breakfast menu.

Yippee! I squealed (well, not literally) when I spotted huevos fritos - fried eggs – as one of the options. You can imagine my disappointment when it arrived with the yolks fried solid. They came with a small sausage, a piece of cheese and some inedible fritters. Not a breakfast I’ve had before.

OK other than the fritters, if a little strange. Club Colombia was the perfect accompaniment, with its beeriness and alcoholiness. Along with a shot or two of Medellin 3 year old rum.

Huevos Rancheros. I spotted those on the menu of the first place. Aren’t they a sort of fancy fried eggs? I suggested we gave them a try.

The restaurant was as deserted as before. Two beers to wake us up. And two Huevos Rancheros.

What a disappointment. Not the beer. The food. More fucking scrambled eggs. With some sort of meat bits. Not very nice. It’s not served with toast, but plain white bread. Which is almost as hard as toast.
 

Not very nice at all. Worst breakfast by far.

More breakfast fun next time. Will I get proper fried eggs? Yes. I will.
 

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.