What better way to end a hike through the Peak District than a warm pub and something peculiar?
.Everyone probably has stories about beer and the UK. I'm sure a lot of these have to do with interesting hair color choices, the merits of meat pies and getting sick on the underground. However, one of my cherished memories of a great beer in Britain is not based in the streets of London or Princess Risborough (bonus points if you know where the hell that is) but instead on a cold and blustery day in the Peak District which is up by Sheffield but doesn’t involve said Sheffield. Right after college my buddy Dave and I were backpacking through Europe. We happened to be camping in Vienna (yes, we'll get to the UK in a moment) and on my way back from the pay phone, I ran into a Brit and asked how it was going. After mentioning not so good as he was trying to get in touch with his girlfriend, we started chatting. So began a long friendship, a strange carpool to Budapest and eventually the Peak District. I guess I should jump forward to that.
After hitchhiking through the rest of East-Central Europe and parts of the West, Dave and I headed up to London to visit our new British friend - George. After many months behind the former iron curtain, the land of curries and other spiced food was a royal treat. During our visit we took a trip up to the Peak District which, if you haven't been there, is really a beautiful area best explored on foot. Of course being from Colorado I didn't feel like we saw many peaks but hey, since they did give us Black Adder (also discovered on this trip) and Monty Python we can cut them some slack. It is actually a stunning area with rolling hills, ancient (at least older than the US) pasture walls, rock formations and bogs. We also encountered that quaint British tradition – gray overcast skies, wind and a penetrating cold. Despite the best protection Goretex can provide, after a few hours of tramping around we were chilled to the bone and ready to escape the cold. Time for that other quaint British tradition – the Pub.
We found one in a small village and it was a true escape. The ceiling wasn’t much more than 7’ high and in fact, you had to duck under some of the rafters. The heat from the fireplace enveloped you as soon as you walked in – if heat could have real mass, here it would be like being enveloped in a big down comforter. Very pleasant. George suggested we try a local brew – Theakston’s Old Peculier. The barkeep pulled (yes, pulled) a draft of one of the darkest beers I had ever had with a medium head into a pint glass. It wasn’t ice cold (good beer doesn’t have to be ice cold to kill you taste buds like some American beers) and the first sip had me hooked. The warmth I felt from the fire was now coursing through me in the form of a perfect flavor. Not a heavy stout and not with a Czech black beer lightness either, but just right. I think we stayed in place for a few rounds and I even managed to score a Theakston’s bar towel which I still have. Then it was back to the hustle and bustle of London.
I recently reconnected with George – for which I am thankful. His girlfriend Tina is now his wife and I’ve seen them a few times over the years but not nearly enough. In any case, I look forward to making that trek again with them, finding that pub and enjoying another great Old Peculier. And George - this beer tale is for you.
