A place at the table


First there were three chairs, and then there were two — a powerful and moving tale of these extraordinary times by Emma Inch  

A few days ago, my partner put away one of our kitchen chairs. She didn’t tell me she was doing it, and I wasn’t there to see it happen, but the next time I went into the kitchen I realised there were only two chairs at the table. I stared at the space where a third should be and cried.

We bought our kitchen table when our daughter was still in a highchair. She didn’t need to sit with us as her tray provided plenty of room for her chubby, yoghurt-covered hands. We only added the third chair later, as she grew bigger. The table is small, too small for three really. Whenever we sit together for a weekend breakfast our elbows nudge with each spread of the butter, and our hands bump together whenever we reach for the salt. My partner complains there is never enough room for the marmalade, but for the past few years three chairs have sat at that table and we’ve made the best of it. But now there are only two chairs once more. 

There are still three people living in our house — me, my partner and our now seven-year-old daughter — it’s just that one of us can no longer join the others at the table. Since lockdown began back in March, I have been ‘shielding’. I don’t have COVID-19.  I’m not infectious; I’m not even sick. But unfortunately I have an underlying condition requiring the use of daily medication that lowers my immunity, meaning I could become seriously ill if I do get infected. 

As a result of shielding, I’m unable to leave the house, even for a short walk. I now sleep in the spare room, use a separate bathroom and prepare my food alone. Such is my apparent vulnerability, I mustn’t go within two metres of the people I live with. No hugs. No kisses. No tickling my daughter until tears of laughter run down her face. No holding my partner when things all get too much. 

And no sitting at the same table.


The last time I was in a pub I sat at a table with only two chairs. 

I arrived with three friends late on a Saturday afternoon. It was bone cold outside but as we opened the door to the pub we were met by a damp rush of heat and noise. England were playing Wales in the Six Nations rugby tournament that day and the match was flashing away on television sets positioned all around the room. Lots of people were stood at the bar, their heads raised to the TV screens, in places two or three deep, and we had to squeeze sideways past the door to fight our way inside.

None of us were particularly interested in the match, so we briefly considered moving on somewhere else. However, the pub served great beer — brewed only a mile or so across town — and we were more than ready for a pint. We stayed and were surprised to quickly find an empty table by an open window, the only place in the venue without a clear view of the television. It was very nearly perfect apart from the fact that there were four of us and only two chairs.

Being pub friends, the answer was simple: we would swap in and out of the chairs — two sitting first and then the other two taking a turn — until the match ended and more seats became available. It was a tall table meaning that sitting or standing, we were all at the same eye level and could chat together easily. So, with the rhythm set by the buying of each round, two of us sat for the first beer, then stood for the second, sat for the third, and so on.

The ebb and flow of the rugby match caused intermittent surges of people, their heads tilted back, and faces lit by the screens, willing their team to get the ball across the line. At our table, arms sometimes touched arms, backs were brushed by strangers on their way to the bar, and at times we had to lean in close, almost grazing cheeks to hear each other’s words. On the table our glasses became muddled in front of us. We took sips of each other’s drinks and shared a bag of peanuts. Occasionally I felt the breath from someone else’s speech or snorted laughter against my face. I kissed acquaintances hello and hugged loved ones goodbye. All the time, standing — then sitting — in a seat warmed by another person’s body heat, in that endless dance of the chairs. Because, in a pub, even when there are not enough seats, there is always enough room for friends.


Due to the restrictions of shielding, I’ve been unable to leave my own house for so long that I’ve not actually seen the empty streets. I’ve not witnessed the supermarket queues or the unfilled shelves. I’ve not seen people in masks, or the grey-empty trains and buses. And I’ve not seen the closed down, boarded-up pubs standing empty on street corners. 

And in a way that makes me lucky. Because as I mourn for what we have lost, and grow fearful of what is to come, I know there is still one table left by an open window where two chairs will always be enough.

Pils-thrills and ferry aches


The holiday beer is a moment to savour, but recreating it at home is the challenge. Step 1, writes Katie Mather, is: get a lager.


It’s after 12 o’clock somewhere in the world, and where we are right now is exactly what time it is. The sun has risen to a glorious peak in an impeccable sky and under a Perrier parasol you’re relaxed and shaded. The heat of the day warms you through to the bones. Breathing deep, there’s an ozonic scent of salt and sardines in the air, lifting the gentle hum of hot terracotta, coconut suncream and charred seafood — calamari? — being grilling somewhere out of sight. On the table in front of you, bathed in the sunlit glare of whitewashed walls, is a stemmed and frosty half-glass of local lager, bubbling with the anticipation of being your first holiday beer.

Welcome to one of my happy places. I escape there during the cruel wastelands of January and February and on the darkest days I cling to the memory of it like a lilo swept out in a riptide. When the nights grasp tight, squeezing winter’s weak, grey-white days into a desperate four or five hours, strong, blinding sunlight becomes mythical. I keep my happy reserve of it safe in my head until summer comes back around, and against all odds, it always does. But you never know. Seasonal Affective Disorder is no joke.

Recreating the happy place at home requires a few specific ingredients. You need a rare afternoon when the English clouds part for a few hours, heating up the patio to accommodate bare feet. When swallows appear between the rooftops and you start feeling peckish, throw an appropriate glass in the freezer and dawdle to the shops. Pick up the beers that most suit your appetite. ‘Holiday beer’ can be any lager, as long as its underwhelming taste is totally compensated for by the joyful scenes of beaches and olive groves and legs of ibérico ham it beams directly into your head. Pick food to suit the beer you’ve chosen. Return home, light a barbecue, and pour. Ignore the chilly breeze. Those were not spots of rain. Pour another. Relax.

Dorada, Birra Moretti, Cruzcampo, Tropical, Sagres, Mythos… These beers represent something special to me that’s about much more than how they taste. Their colour reminds me of how whole the world feels when the sun comes out again. How time slows while you watch their tiny bubbles rise, and how everything starts making sense again.

But let’s get back to the happy place. The café table and the parasol, the glass of beer. Beside it, a bowl of torn focaccia, or crumbling cubes of cheese. Perhaps chicharones, if you’re lucky. The sun is shining through your little beer, and you can hear bells from an ancient cathedral clanging in the distance. Maybe you’re with somebody, or maybe you’re contentedly alone with your thoughts. There might be a plaza to watch the world pass by, or the horizon to contemplate out at sea but the beer, at least for me, will be the same. Local lager, poured foamy and cold. A glowing glass of sunshine. 

First printed in Original Gravity #18, spring 2018

Solidarity for Hospitality


Your local might be shut, but there are things we can do argues Jessica Mason 

It has been a tricky few days with so much conflicting advice, uncertainty and frustration. But in times of crisis, we have to plan and pull together in any way we can. For the hospitality sector there has been no reassurances and no show of solidarity and I know that this has left so many of us gobsmacked about what the new recommendations mean for each person and business. Most are terrified that everything they have built will be crushed by the latest government hints on safety measures meaning to avoid going out to eat and drink or socialise.

Advising and recommending people to stay away from pubs and restaurants, but without the government forcing them to close puts the entire hospitality industry at risk of, not just infection, but with no way to claim insurance or pay their staff. This means that, without customer support, many venues will fold within the coming months and not return. 

I don’t know an MP that hasn’t had their picture inside a pub to support their campaign when it suited them, but now they’ve been completely sacrificed without considering the people who work within them.  

I listened to Emmanuel Macron in France, enforcing rules for safety, protecting all businesses so that lives and livelihoods are not under threat throughout the spread of the pandemic. But, so far, all we have from our UK government are a lot of vague recommendations. Boris Johnson has done nothing to help people get through this — he has offered no leadership, no compassion and, even in his delivery, he offers no support or empathy. There is just a lot of bumbling; no understanding of people; no perception of mounting anxieties; no true plan to protect others in the wake of such global uncertainty. I still cannot believe how someone can show such detachment from humanity. He offers no firm guidance while in the seat of power and he is the one person who can. To be so out of touch and uncaring about the knock-on effect of the constraints is shame inducing. And if it isn’t ignorance, but a calculated approach to reduce pay-outs, then it’s worse. Much worse.

I want to help the industry I love. I’ve supported the hospitality industry for over 10 years throughout my career and yet I feel staggeringly paralysed between wanting to be of use and support my local and needing to adhere to the WHO advice and keep my family safe using distancing measures. However, my silence would be deafening right now if I said nothing about the quandary this places me in. Would I be safe by not carrying the virus onto others more vulnerable if I diligently washed my hands, but still ventured out to pubs and restaurants? Would I be helping? Or is the only helpful thing to do right now distancing myself? The answer is that I don’t know.

But while I don’t know, I don’t intend to sit indoors and do nothing. I intend to make some kind of a difference, or at least try to.

We hear quite a lot of conflicting opinions about COVID-19 and how we can limit its spread. If we try to support local indie businesses, are we selfishly putting others at risk? My feeling is that it will be a personal decision and everyone is simply trying to do all they can. Everyone is just trying to do the right thing and support the people and businesses around them.

So, here are my plans, let’s do what little we can to support others, but stay safe.

  • For the places that were once drinking and dining destinations that are feeling the reduced custom and no government support, if you are turning your outdoor spaces into drive-by bottle shops then I will buy from you. I will collect drinks. My money will continue to go into your tills. PLEASE TELL YOUR LOCAL COMMUNITY VIA SOCIAL MEDIA IF YOU PLAN TO DO THIS. People want to support those who have given them a community space for so many years.
  • For the places offering takeaway or adapting to set up a delivery service for local residents so we can all still support your business, I will buy from you. I will feel sad to not be visiting and clinking glasses in your establishment, but you have my unwavering support.
  • For the many places offering gift vouchers to buy for a meal for the future. I will purchase these and continue to support you from afar. Keep alerting people on how to buy them and where. When we return in the future, I am happy for just a portion of the voucher amount to be removed from the bill and the new voucher amount updated. There is no way I expect the knock on effect of a scheme designed to help you to become something that puts you out of business once you do open. I want to pay something each time — that’s the gratitude I feel for all of the good times we have shared.
  • We want an industry to return to in the future. Even if our government doesn’t show its support, we need to show solidarity ourselves. Stay in touch and share learnings for what is working to keep things afloat without putting anyone at risk.

I’m hugely passionate about how people and pubs can foster communities. And for so many years you have helped me, even if you haven’t realised it. Socially isolating may be better for our lungs, but it will have a knock-on effect on our emotional and mental wellbeing over the approaching months. I plan to write a lot more letters to friends and family, but also stay in contact with as many people as I can across the industry to make sure that if anyone needs an ear, I am here for them. 

Sometimes, when we don’t know what to say, we avoid saying anything because we fear the awkwardness of broaching conversation in adversity. I just want to suggest we grow a little braver for others, not just ourselves, by keeping the lines of communication open, even when the pubs are closed.

Review: Utopian Brewery, Dark Lager

Tasting Notes: Utopian Brewery, DARK LAGER [5.4%]

Let’s think about the Roman god Janus — and lager

Beer is like the Roman god Janus in the face it shows to the world. On the one hand, when you enter the brewery forest of stainless steel it is tough and urban, but when you consider the ingredients that merge together to make beer, it is rustic. Lager, all too readily, can be seen to be urban, street-wise, the soundtrack to a thousand nocturnal adventures, a hard-edged soul that is best at home in an overly chromed bar on a busy city street, where the nights are fringed with noise and frigid when caught in the limelight that every drinker brings with them. It is tough, street smart, go-ahead in its brewing kit, that towers like a minor cathedral close to a Welsh motorway. Yet, there is another more benevolent, less gritty, bucolic side to lager (think small villages with their own breweries in the Franconian countryside for instance). To me, Utopian also show this penchant for a Janus-like face. Based in the depths of the Devon countryside where rolling hills reach out for the granite hardness of Dartmoor, I feel these rural, rustic nature when I consider where their beers are made, but when I drink this rich and full-bodied riff on a Dunkel I am then reminded of times dodging the cycles and tourists of Munich. I drank deeply of this in an Exeter pub and felt happy with my lot. I hope others feel the same. ATJ


Review: Ramsgate Brewery, Gadds’ She Sells Seashells

Tasting Notes: Ramsgate Brewery, GADDS’ SHE SELLS SEASHELLS [4.7%]

Eddie Gadd makes great beer — this is one of them

I like this beer a lot. I found it in a pub and drank four pints of it but it’s also in cans. I loved its pristine golden sheen, making the beer as clear as a mountain stream. I loved its twirl of citrus on the nose, reminiscent of lemon curd, something that also spread onto the palate before an assertive bitterness balanced any drift to over-sweetness. This gorgeous bitter finish continued with a lovely embrace of dryness, the kind of bitterness that hooks you into a beer and makes it difficult for you to let go. Its sweet malt and earthy citrus Kentish hop nose and bittersweetness makes me think of the Kentish coast as the English Channel goes on its way and another pint is called for. ATJ 


Review: Wiper and True, Old Twelfth Night Orchard Ale

Tasting Notes: Wiper & True, OLD TWELFTH NIGHT ORCHARD ALE, 2017 VINTAGE [6%]

Apple pressings meet farmhouse ale and time with this unique beer

Here’s a lovely, luscious idea for a beer: back in 2017, Michael Wiper mixed the pressings from apples picked from his own orchard with a wort made from a traditional farmhouse malt mash overseen by Jonny Mills of the eponymous brewery. After the boil, to which Wai-iti and Simcoe were added, the result was divided between two French oak barrels and time did the rest. This was released at the start of the year and if you are lucky you might still be able to get one from the brewery as it is a gorgeous beer. Bruised gold in colour, limpid and lightly carbonated, it has the earthiness of an old barn on the nose, alongside an apple-like sweetness. It is dry and still on the palate, medium bodied, gripped by a grapefruit-like tartness and on the verge of a bounteous juiciness. The finish is soft and quenching and yes it is a bit like a cider but also has a depth and body you don’t even get in the best ciders. Fabulous. ATJ 


Available: honestbrew.co.uk/shop/wiper-and-true-old-twelfth-night-orchard-ale

Sentimental Journey

Sentimental Journey

What on earth is nostalgia, is it a good thing, a bad thing, a thing itself? Adrian Tierney-Jones muses on what constitutes nostalgia and spends time in a bar in Mons


Nostalgia is everywhere, it permeates every aspect of our lives. Some of us praise it, others pray that it goes away, but that is a prayer (like all prayers) that is never answered. I see nostalgia as a longing for something that never really existed, on a par with a creation myth, a national mythology that a nation lives by, the stories that we tell ourselves to pass the day, to pass the time, to wear away the year. 

On the other hand, is it such a bad thing, this need for nostalgia? It could be if you’re the sort of person who believes that the beer you would rather not buy is nowhere as good as it used to be and that the absence in the pub of the smell of cigarette smoke and the shouts directed at those perceived to be different is a change for the worse. 

Nostalgia could be something a bit more benevolent, though. I have a nostalgia, a longing for when the world of beer was young to me and a Bavarian Weizen was a rare creature and the Trappist Tripel an unknown quantity, glinting and winking at me from the glass, the world of beer unknown and ready to be discovered (or should that be re-discovered?). Then there are times, moments perhaps, that continue to exist long after time has moved on, recordings or etchings of life as it is lived and is that a nostalgia for something that has passed?

Is this nostalgic this moment? It is noon, Sunday lunchtime, in the Excelsior, a bar on the main square of Mons. A few weeks ago. There is a glass of St-Feuillien’s Grand Cru in front of me, a glow of amber, the scent of spice, honey and citrus and an elegance of dryness, bitterness and sweetness on the tongue. There is a silence in the bar, a Sunday silence, the slow tick-tock of time silence, all of which creates those gorgeously reflective and unhurried moments only to be found in a bar or a pub in those early minutes after opening time. I am a lone drinker, in a space surrounded by wooden panels indented and engraved with the names of Martin s Pale Ale, Guinness and Gordon Scotch ale, while at the end of this long high-ceilinged room a confessional-like bar stands, a red neon sign for St-Feuillien glowing above. 

Beyond the windows of the Excelsior, the glass coloured and latticed, people scurry along, but here in the wooden womb-like centre of the bar I am a slow sole drinker, unconcerned about whether the glass of beer in front of me (another sip and it reveals more richness) is rated or tapped or the best or the worst or whether its spell will burst like an unruly balloon at a children’s party. It is moments like these, silent, soothing, subtle moments like these, that makes a place like the Excelsior a haven and a hidden place and turns a glass of beer (any beer that you like) into such a valuable companion. The door opens, a young couple, all giggles and long scarves, tumble in, and with my beer finished I return to the world, determined to hold onto the silence that my time in the Excelsior has created. 

Original Gravity’s writers remember 2019

Original Gravity’s writers remember 2019

We asked some of our favourite Original Gravity writers (actually, all of our writers are favourites) to try and sum up their beer-flecked highlights of 2019, here is what they had to say (ok, write if you’re going to be pedantic about it)


Apparently — Jessica Mason

Whether a story is false or factual, once retold in a pub, it becomes an anecdote. But over time, recounted chronicles grow rich with embellishment. Fables become refreshed. Re-spun with more colour. The once apocryphal tale gains the authentication of becoming pub parable.

At least, this is what I gleaned during the start of the year in a pub known by some as The Bell in Ticehurst. A place famed for its storytelling and rumoured to have been Rudyard Kipling’s local. A pub that calls itself: The Bell, Apparently. 

Scribed upon the entrance is an explanation for why the pub’s name has been adapted. It is a simple nod to the art of a good yarn. Anything can be told and retold if the word ‘apparently’ is added. Say it and no one can question your statement. 

For example, apparently, Kipling wrote A Smuggler’s Song while sitting in his favourite chair at The Bell. It makes us look back around the pub with fond eyes, feeling very much like a part of history ourselves when we walk on the same stone floor or drink beer drawn from its cellar.

The word ‘apparently’ reminds us how pubs are places of folly. It reminds us the most tantalising revelations are rarely borne from phlegmatic fact, because people play the central role in public houses. Narrators of lore convene in bars and, with active minds and kind hearts, have a readiness to believe in more than the daily grind. In pubs we hear the voices of others. They can help bridge all sorts of social divides. They give us perspective.

As a nation gone asunder, we need to remember that we may all grasp different viewpoints, but we are all still people. And we care.

But let’s also remember that pubs aren’t just about stories and chatter. They’re also the absorbers of secrets. As much a witness to what we obsess about, cry over or oft reconsider. They retain the unrepeatable. They capture the whispers left unheard. They guide us while we quietly etch out a path for our future, setting the world to rights over glassware.

In the countless pubs I’ve visited — around 200 this year alone — I think of the adage: ‘If these walls could talk.’ And I think of all the people who unburden themselves in this way. Those who divulge all to those who they trust. Each confidential admission nullified or righted by the nod of a head or the unequivocal warmth of a friendly returned gaze. 

I won’t tell you any more about The Bell. In many ways I don’t need to do that. Just visit for yourself. Whether you share your viewpoint or reveal your secrets, I’m confident that the pub will honour both story and silence. 

And, I hear that there’s happiness found in both, apparently.


I Travel — Eoghan Walsh

I’ve done more beer-related travel this year than has been good for my health, but I’ve been rewarded with some fantastic memories. In June I made it to Amsterdam for the Carnivale Brettanomyces for the first time — a festival dedicated solely to the far-out world of wild fermented beers.

The whole weekend was an eye-opener, but sitting in the upstairs parish meeting room of a canalside French protestant church listening to Ulrike Genz of Berlin brewery Schneeeule and avid home-brewer Benedikt Koch guide a roomful of beer drinkers around the history of Berliner Weisse through their own beers was not somewhere I ever thought I would find myself. I think it most sticks in my mind because I was slumped asleep in my chair before even the first beers were passed around. No shade on the quality of their talk, but on my own overindulgence the night before.

2019 was also the year I finally made the pilgrimage to the home of Czech lager and drank Pilsner Urquell tapped directly from the barrel, underneath the brewery in the gargantuan den of cellar tunnels once used to store the beer. Czech beer was what brought me and my wife together when we were drunken students studying abroad in Czechia, and this would have been an even more resonant moment to savour had it not been for the 30 or so other tourists lining up behind me for their drop of unfiltered světlý ležák.


Bride ale — Kathie Mather

This year some of the best beer memories I made were in Cumbria. At our wedding in Grizedale in April I drank pints of Bluebird Bitter and Hawkshead Gold in my muddy wedding dress, poured from our own ramshackle bar put together by friends. We spent the following week or so in Grasmere, and visited as many brilliant Lakeland pubs as we could. Drinking dark ales looking out over the fells from The Kirkstone Pass Inn is always an afternoon well-spent. The best windows let you watch cyclists reach the top of The Struggle, and if you like, you can wave encouragement to them as they puff and blow their way past. We also travelled all the way to The White Swan in Cockermouth because we’d been told on some authority that they had Jarl. They did. It was perfect. It also had a landlord willing to tell us about local ghosts, and show us witch marks scratched into the ancient beams.



Where brewers drink — Joe Stange

In mid-summer, visiting the Schönramer brewery — which, over the decades, has been dialling in its beautiful beers in its beautiful sub-Alpine setting — and heading with the brewers after their shifts to a nearby lakeside watering hole, to drink more cool Pils and watch the locals swim.


Still waters — Lottie Gross

I drank a lot of beer this year, but one of the finest was sipped in Rwanda on the terrace of my lodge, overlooking Virunga National Park and the various volcanic peaks that spread out before me. I asked for whatever the local brew was and, just my luck, I got a 6.5% dark ale called Virunga Mist. Glorious. Elsewhere, I sipped American craft beers in the sweltering sun at Flying Dog Brewery in Maryland, USA, and Dutch booze brewed by Brouwerij ‘t IJ inside a windmill in Amsterdam. There’s nothing quite as gratifying, though, as cracking open a trusty Old Speckled Hen just after lunch while in the proverbial driver’s seat of a canal boat. My dog, my dad and I went cruising on the Kennet and Avon on his 38-foot narrowboat on the hottest weekend of the year and the promise of pints at the end of the canal kept us moving. No one else in the family loves it quite like we do, so beer and boats are our bonding mechanisms.


Friedenfelser Zoigl, drunk at the Blockhütte Waldnaabtal, a beer garden in the Oberpfalz, Germany — Will Hawkes

In the middle of the Waldnaabtal, a nature reserve built around a winding, rock-strewn stretch of the Waldnaab river, is the Blockhütte, a log cabin with a large shaded beer garden. I arrived at just after 3pm on a hot June day, having walked 15 miles with a pack on my back. It was almost comically tranquil. A young woman served me as her children played on the steps of the hut; the river gurgled gently in the background; a few cyclists rode up; a few others left. Half-an-hour of absolute calm. The beer was quite nice, too.


Harvey’s Sussex Best — Adrian Tierney-Jones

Lots of memories from this year: the trip to BrewDog’s new brewery in Ohio, Indie Beer Feast, finally visiting Magic Rock and Brasserie de L’Abbaye des Rocs (not at the same time obviously), the staggering immensity of the Guinness brewery in Dublin, craft beer bar hopping with my son in Seville, Prague (twice) and several small breweries in south and north Bohemia and organising the Exeter Beer Weekend. However, what stands out in such a sharp focus that it makes me catch my breath is a couple of pints of Harvey’s Sussex Best one quiet Saturday lunchtime in the Hourglass in Exeter, an old corner pub, one of whose windows still has the ‘City Brewery Ales’ slogan of the long-gone Norman & Pring Brewery etched into its fabric. I sat on a stool, around the corner from the bar, book in hand, mesmerised by the pub’s stillness, but it was the beer that turned my world upside down. Over two pints, I forgot my book and drank deeply of this unyielding interplay between English hops and English barley. There was a pungency, an urgency in the flavours, a muskiness, a maturity, a bittersweetness and the bitter finish collaborated with my palate in demanding more. Two pints was enough, I was sated, the glass was empty, I said cheers to the bartender and went out as if in a dream. 


Birmingham vs Leicester, a cautionary tale — Laura Hadland

2019 has been a unique year in my beer journey. Having spent some 90% of the year pregnant (long story), this has been the year that I have really got to know alcohol free beer well. What was borne out of necessity apparently couldn’t have come at a better time.

Breweries around the world have really got to grips with low and no alcohol products that are full of flavour and character. I tip my cap in particular to Adnams, Krombacher and Brooklyn Lager here. They have produced booze-free beers that I would happily choose over their ‘full fat’ cousins.

However my beer experience of the year is an event that took place in the short window when I fell off the wagon. It was the day of the CAMRA Good Beer Guide Launch and it sticks in my memory because great beer is made so much better by great company.

I had received an invitation from one of CAMRA’s National Directors, Ash Corbett-Collins, to celebrate the book’s publication in Birmingham. We’d chatted a bit on Twitter, but never met in person so I thought it would be a great opportunity to put a face to the tweets. What I hadn’t realised was that all of the CAMRA regions were celebrating the Good Beer Guide at the same time.

This meant that I was put in a bit of a quandary when I received an invitation to the East Midlands launch from my friends at Leicester CAMRA. Not wanting to let anyone down, I decided to go to both. After all, Birmingham and Leicester are only separated by a 50 minute train journey. Admittedly that tiny, packed, sweaty Cross Country Train can be uncomfortably akin to Dante’s Seventh Circle of Hell (Violence). But still, only for 50 minutes.

The West Midlands crew had assembled in the cavernous Head of Steam, conveniently located at literal spitting distance from Birmingham New Street. CAMRA members, branch committees, brewers, publicans, National Executive and more gathered to shoot the breeze. In particular, I was delighted to meet Cy Day – West Midlands Regional Co-ordinator. A more amiable, humorous and generally genial person I have not met in a long time. My chat with him was accompanied by the nicely balanced Ground Patrol NZ IPA from Maldon’s Bad Seed Brewery, an easy going beer with a skilfully blended hop profile.

After a couple of hours of friendly banter, it was back on the Hades Express and a quick scout of some of Leicester’s finest real ale pubs to find the East Midland contingent on their more active celebration. Discovering them in the Rutland & Derby, before moving to the Two Tailed Lion followed by the Blue Boar I was in plenty of time to discover my home crowd in good spirits. They had been joined by the great Gillian Hough (above), another CAMRA National Executive member and notable champion of cider and perry. Gillian was another Beer Twitter pal who I had not had the pleasure of meeting IRL before — the magic of social media!

I enjoyed a few good halves over the rest of the evening, but Northern Monk’s Eternal stood out for me. I loved the session IPA so much that ‘Tasty shit!’ was the only note I made. But when you’ve got fantastic pubs, beers and wonderful people to share it all with, who needs notebooks?


I Travel, part II — Pete Brown

2019 was a year of unexpected and largely unplanned travel. It’s the kind of concentrated, turbo-charged year that has never happened to me before and is extremely unlikely to happen again. I haven’t been to so many countries in one year since I wrote Three Sheets to the Wind back in 2006. 

The world has changed a great deal: back then I had an amazing procession of fantastic beer experiences, most of which consisted of drinking mainstream, commercial lager brands because there wasn’t much else available, although the beer-drinking cultures I explored were no worse for that.

These days the availability of a wide range of beer styles is simply unbelievable from an early noughties point of view, but the unwelcome side effect of this is a sort of global blanding out of craft beer: you can get a hazy IPA anywhere in any big city in the world now. Great. But the quirkiness and local character I used to enjoy seems to be under threat as a result. 

It was great then, to go on a number of different trips that reconnected me with the joy to be had drinking beer around the world. 

Grimbergen may not be best Abbey beer to have come out of Belgium, but in the café behind the big clock-face in the Musée D’Orsay in Paris, it was enough to turn a cheese plate into the most memorable lunch of the year. Accidentally booking an AirBandB opposite the Monk Café in Brussels gave me a new favourite place in a city full of them, the Spag Bol threatening to eclipse the range of ‘social’ beer bottles. And £20 for a bottle of Westverletern 12 is not a rip off if you’re spending the money knowingly to create the perfect interlude to the sparking Christmas markets in an ancient, fire-lit pub. The most relaxed, blissful afternoon of the year was spent chilling with At Hops End, a new brewpub in a national park on the outskirts of Johannesburg. Two weeks later I was presenting to a roomful of craft brewers in Melbourne at BrewCon 2019, the annual conference of Australia’s independent brewers, and judging their beers. Three weeks after that, it was Lagunitas in Kerouac’s favourite San Francisco Bar, and Pliny the Elder at the new Russian River brewery. Jackhammer IPA at BrewDog’s amazing Doghouse Hotel in Ohio, and a range of special brews to commemorate International Stout Day with Guinness in Dublin, all added up to a year spent rediscovering the perfect beer moment: micro or micro, old or new, mainstream or weird – all that matters is sharing good beer with good people.

You must remember this

You must remember this

You might be surprised but that stripped down metallic ko aesthetic and bald brickwork of your favourite craft beer bar or tap is actually an exercise in nostalgia as Pete Brown explains


Nostalgia – literally – ain’t what it used to be. 

A word we now associate with a wistful longing for times past was originally coined in 1688 to describe homesickness among Swiss mercenaries fighting in France and Italy. It’s derived from Greek nostos, meaning ‘returning home’, and algos, meaning ‘pain’ or ‘ache’. It was seen as a debilitating condition at the time, a real illness that could even lead to death.  

In its modern usage, the past we yearn to return to often turns out never to have been there at all. We misremember it at best: at worst, we invent it. 

Christmas is a time of nostalgia. White Christmas is the best-selling Christmas song ever, with its yearning for Christmases ‘like the ones we used to know’. But did we? The snow is fake in the original movie – even back in the 1940s, it’s doubtful whether the Christmases were white, but we’ve been dreaming of them ever since. 

Charles Dickens pretty much invented the idea of a traditional Christmas, one we yearn to get back to. While researching a book about the George Inn in Southwark, I discovered a story in The Times from 1936, when members of the Dickens Fellowship feasted on boar’s head, venison and game pie, accompanied by carol singers and mulled ale. The account depicts a desperate pain of separation from a past no one there is old enough to remember, in a pub that has been a node of Dickensian nostalgia ever since.

I’m currently researching a book about the concept of ‘craft’ in its broadest sense, exploring what – if anything – we can learn that might inform the ongoing debate around craft beer. 

Nostalgia is central to craft, which is a direct product of the Industrial Revolution. It began as a reaction against the production line, deskilled labour and the standardised products it created. The Arts and Crafts Movement aimed to give workers back their dignity, returning them to a pre-industrial era of skilled craftsmanship for the many. 

In reality, the Industrial Revolution never deskilled a population of happy artisans. Less than 10% of the UK population were engaged in trades that could be described as craftsmanship – the vast majority were peasants performing menial tasks. Richard Blauner, in his book, Work Satisfaction and Industrial Trends, claims the typical medieval worker was ‘practically nothing more than a working beast’. As Christopher Frayling, author of On Craftsmanship observes, ‘The history which underpins much of the “craft revival” is, in fact, nostalgia masquerading as history’.

Frayling wrote this in response to the craft revival of the 1970s and 1980s, when stripped pine floorboards, floral prints and the Diary of an Edwardian Country Lady coalesced as part of a widespread reaction to consumer capitalism and automation. Suddenly, anything rustic or rough around the edges was considered superior to machine-built perfection. 

It’s no coincidence that the Campaign for Real Ale began around the same time. The yearning for ‘proper beer’ rather than ‘industrial fizz’ was part of a much broader yearning for the artisanship of a pre-industrial age, just as the modern craft beer boom is just one small part of yet another reaction against the dominance and homogeneity of global brands and corporations. 

Looked at in this context, it’s surprising CAMRA wasn’t CAMCA – the Campaign for Craft Ale. I guess it doesn’t scan as well. The choice of ‘real’ shows that our eternal quest for authenticity in what we buy is nothing new, the choice of the then-antiquated word ‘ale’ rather than ‘beer’ demonstrating a similar nostalgia for a misremembered past (especially given they were trying to preserve – if you want to be pedantic about it – hopped beers rather than unhopped traditional ales.)     

Frayling tells us that craft comes adorned in rural and pre-industrial imagery, and in most cases, it does. But modern craft beer forms an interesting exception to this rule. The imagery of the industrial estate and railway arch, of exposed heating ducts and stripped-back bare brickwork, is central to the aesthetic of craft beer. It suggests something post- rather than pre-industrial, taking the detritus of the industrial age and repurposing it, reshaping old components into something new.

Craft beer combines that eternal longing for pre-industrial artisanship with a nostalgia for the industrial age itself, and a relentless urge to create something new. To paraphrase Will Rogers, the American movie actor, cowboy and vaudeville artist, who originated the famous phrase, ‘Craft beer ain’t what it used to be and probably never was’. 

Original Gravity 2020

Original Gravity 2020

When Daniel Neilson created Original Gravity at the end of 2014, his vision was for a different kind of beer magazine, one that was like ‘your slightly more knowledgeable best mate, full of interesting, readable stories that appealed to both beer novice and expert’…


When Daniel Neilson created Original Gravity at the end of 2014, his vision was for a different kind of beer magazine, one that was like ‘your slightly more knowledgeable best mate, full of interesting, readable stories that appealed to both beer novice and expert’. It has always been singled out for the design by Adam McNaught-Davies (lindoneast.co.uk).  

Pulling together a quality print magazine that consistently lives up to expectations is a lot of work — too much for one person. So at the start of 2017, Daniel brought on board award-winning beer writers Adrian Tierney Jones and Pete Brown, as editor and editor-at-large respectively. As a team of three, we raised our ambitions even further, with a lofty mission of attempting to become ‘the New Yorker of beer’. Big goals should always be out of reach — you have to try much harder to reach them, and we think we made some big strides, introducing fresh and incredibly talented voices to beer who had real human, engaging, often moving stories to tell.

OG is distributed to quality bars and pubs and is free to pick up. Every penny of production costs has to be met by advertising. We pay the writers we commission and hopefully, there may even be some profit left to split between the three of us. Achieving the required amount of ad revenue has been getting increasingly difficult. We don’t press the ‘Go’ button until we know there’s a surplus. Original Gravity #23 was due to drop in September, but it didn’t hit that surplus.

For the moment then, the UK print edition of Original Gravity is temporarily on hold (the Canadian edition launches in Alberta as well as Ontario next year). We still believe the model works, but we need to take time out and rethink it in the UK. In the meantime, we’ll be publishing original content on originalgravitymag.com, including commentary on issues in beer that we feel we want to talk about (as well as continuing with occasional Original Gravity Live events). At the moment there is no budget for new writers, so it will be Pete Brown and Adrian Tierney-Jones who will be putting in the words, which means that the message of OG that has been there from the start — independent, asymmetrical, unconventional — will still be heard.

A big thank you to all the advertisers, distributors, stockists, writers and readers who have supported us so far. We’re not giving up. And we’ll let you know as soon as OG is ready to return to print.