Up at the 5am again, tea in bed in front of more football, off alone for breakfast this morning , a night on the beers and curry has left Jed worse for wear, I don’t order coffee this time.
Richard appears double eager to get the job done today, we have a flight to catch, he has responsibilities. Action brewer wear is donned before the organised chaos ensues. A quick taste of yesterdays fermenting brew to check we are on the right track, big fruity hops, citrus and berry fruit, orange sweet yeasty malt, young beer in all its glory. No Special B today a pale brew will bring yesterdays dark one down in the blend. We nail our mash temp, coffee, and then its time to run off. Today I do it almost totally solo, again I am reminded that the fundamentals remain the same, it’s all a case of scale. Today the malt gods have smiled and we have a high extract demanding we dilute slightly in the kettle to hit the right specs. Again we singe the hairs on our arms as we control the kettle, we up the hops, there is no point leaving Richard with odds and ends of NZ Goldings which he doesn’t use. Everything goes like clock work and soon I find myself shovelling out grain into sacks, when I do this in the kitchen at home the dog forms a scrum at my feet jostling for her share of the sweet nutty spent grain, here what spills is hosed off the wet floor into the drains.
We pump the last batch of wort into the vessel that is already ½ full of fermenting beer and return her to the warm room. We change and in moments find ourselves in the convivial surroundings of Maori Hill at a restaurant that cooks it’s steaks over open wood fires. Richard, Father, Jed and myself trade tales over good beer and wine, the food is out of this world. A long cab ride to the airport and we fly out amongst the fog and sleet, bound for home, mission accomplished. Fun with stainless was great but both Jed and I have Sarahs to get home to.
Thanks to Jed Soane for the Picture, All rights remain with him.
I stand at the end of the bar, sipping my pint of mild and nibbling on a piece of crunchy home baked pork rind. The pub has a warm cosy vibe tonight, a refuge from the darkening winters night outside and a bustle of workers making their way home. Richard enthuses about his handiwork and quite right to, the mild is 3%abv, tawny and absolutely bursting with flavour and body, I could drink it all night. I watch down the bar , the handpumps are working hard, May is Handpump Festival at Albar, the pump closest to me is dispensing my creation. I watch as punters order pints, real pints imperial pints not like the ones up north, sniff the voluminous sparkler driven white foam (that will not adorn my pint when I get to ordering it) and then sip deep. They seem to like it, I like it, all is well.
