|Soul porter: just what you need to warm|
When my alarm went off this morning and it was still dark outside, the day took a turn for the weird. Nothing sinister. Just nothing particularly good either. It was hard work from the off. I felt tired after having a quite late night, then my bike seat went wonky on the way in, then I took ages to finish writing a feature that should really only have taken an hour.
Not even the goodies on offer thank's to the office 'Bake Off' were enough to ward off the ennui. Things didn't get much better on the way home as the seat was still playing up and for some reason Strava (the GPS bike ride logger) was glitchy and failed to record my journey.
And finally, having just typed out tonight's post, Blogger wanted me to sign in again, so I copied (or so I thought) what I'd written so I could paste it if I lost anything. Lost it all, pressed CTRL + V and nothing happened. Great. Half an hour wasted, with nothing to show for the effort. I'd claim it was really incisive and funny too, but what's the point? We all know that's bollocks. It only happened 15 minutes ago and I can't remember a thing I wrote, so it can't have been all that interesting.
In truth, I'm still feeling a bit ropey after the weekend too and would usually go without beer for a few days as a result. But I can't. I'm pretty much off the wagon till gone Christmas.
Fortunately - and this could be the turning point for the day - if there was one beer I'd opt for if I were doing the choosing, it would be a mid-strength porter. And that's exactly what I've got here, brewed I don't know where but doubtless selected with care.
Smell: Like rich, charred prunes soaked in coffee that's been laced with neat ethanol
Tasting notes: It's a reassuring warm woollen blanket of a beer that has quite possibly salvaged my day. Like an old friend popping round to pay you back the fiver they owe you after 15 years or more, this is as welcome as it is overdue. It pours out of the bottle like you're topping up with engine oil, but with a satisfying fizz by the end. It's a similar story on the tongue, when first up there's lovely, smooth, warming roundness the like of which pre-Raphaelite beauties used to peddle before a swiftly delivered, sharp, admonishing rap on the knuckles disturbs your reverie by way of a cart-load of hoppy bitterness. Nothing particularly complex about it, but a fine example of its type.
Session factor: Reasonably high, especially at this time of year. Not too strong and delightfully drinkable.
Gut reaction: Calming, soothing. Like an alcoholic Gaviscon.
Actual beer: Cheddar Ales Totty Pot (good grief). It's 4.7% - I suspect Sam was drinking when he wrote the labels.
Turns out Totty Pot is a cave at the top of Cheddar Gorge.
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