Brew

Today

Work is progressing in fits and starts on the conversion into apartments of the brewery opposite Spencer House. 

Paul is inclined to grumble about the back and forth arrival of large trucks, the vans parked in the road and the dust. "It's only temporary," I tell him "it would be much worse if it was still a brewery - there would be big trucks leaving in the small hours, constant noise and a terrible smell!"

Fuggles hops, before drying

In My Day

When we first joined the wine circle, Paul decided to try his hand at making beer. No kit-buying for him; he bought a large pan to mash the hops, sacks of dried hops and huge jars of malted barley (I'm very glad he didn't take to mashing his own malt).

He was retired by this time and on unpredictable days would be seized by beer-making frenzy. He'd browse through recipe books and get going. I could always tell before I reached home; the smell of hops would waft up the Close, and entry to the steaming, yeast-scented house required an act of courage.

After dealing with the issues arising from over-conditioning the bottles (One of our friends had a stain on her ceiling for years after the contents of one bottle flew skywards when opened), Paul became quite skilled at this particular art. He made all sorts of beers. His light wheat beer was very successful and much enjoyed by one of my nieces, although Paul was very affronted when another relative said "It almost tastes like real beer." ("It is real beer!" hissed Paul under his breath).

His stout was horrible, apparently, and found its way into the sewers bypassing the usual stage of being drunk.

The problem was actually drinking the beer. All the recipes tended to produce large quantities and home-made real ale doesn't keep very long. Paul, who constantly struggles to maintain a decent weight, found himself drinking more and more beer, just to use it up.

His swan-song was also his finest hour. It was the Queen's Golden jubilee and in accordance with tradition, there was a party in the Close. Paul laboured to produce a five-gallon barrel of "Jubilee Ale". As the residents gathered on the green he offered the beer. Most people were doubtful about home-brew, but neighbour Pete was game. "This is great!" he enthused "Got any more?" His enthusiasm spread and soon there was a queue of men at our kitchen door wanting to try the Jubilee Ale. Now this was no 3% fizz; it was the full 6.5% or so, not a drink to be taken lightly. This didn't stop our neighbours who between them emptied the barrel. The party went with a swing. Not so the next morning which saw a succession of head-clutching males trying to get on with their morning chores. Most still managed to croak "Great beer, Paul!" before dashing indoors for a little lie-down.

Paul doesn't make beer any more, preferring to select from the great range of real ales available in the shops, but does like to recall his finest hour. I, on the other hand, find the large pan very useful and am glad not to have the house filled with malty steam at random intervals. Although I must confess I'll also be happy when the builders have all gone home.