Books are unbelievably great.
Today, I have learned that the majority of hops used in the Belgian brewing industry are produced in the UK, because Belgian hop production is very limited, and because the varieties produced in the UK are much better suited to matured beers than hops produced in central europe, because the latter produce undesirable flavours after a period of time.
This is two-times pleasing.
It’s pleasing first-off because as the author points out, hops were first introduced to the UK by Flemish weavers in the Middle Ages. Nice to give something back, I thought.
It’s secondly, and more profoundly pleasing personally, because of serendipity.
I pour a second beer and sit back in the easy camping chair. The scrawled label says 6.5%. The rapid mellowing, soporific effect suggests that it has developed greater potency in the bottle since being brewed 18 months ago at our previous home in Cornwall.
The sun disappeared behind the trees an hour or so ago. I gaze up at the uncountable pinpricks of light slowly emerging from the increasing darkness. A double flashing light emerges from behind the roofline of the house. After a noticeable delay, the dissipated jet roar follows from the same location. The cocooned passengers make their way leisurely across the night sky.
This small shed was constructed to protect our grass bales and Hazel faggots. We found a just-right length of galvanised steel guttering in a nearby reclamation yard, and were struggling with how to connect this to a downpipe; practically and aesthetically.