Saturday pubs
A beer festival rather than a pub
I first went to a beer festival when I was 21, a CAMRA one at the Corn Exchange, Cambridge — this was where I had seen the Clash and many other bands of that era and even played a gig on the stage once, where someone spat at our bassist, and given the times I didn’t know if it was a reflection on the music we were playing or an act of appreciation. I didn’t exactly endear myself to the earnest server at the festival when I asked if they had any Holsten Pils, my standard tipple at the time. I had a half of Everard’s Tiger instead, which I thought appalling. That was me and beer festivals for another 10 years. Next time I went to the London Drinker one near Euston Station and had six pints of Woodforde’s Wherry. This didn’t actually endear me to my then girlfriend when I got in, as we’d planned to go out that night.
Since then I’ve been to many beer festivals in the UK, Europe and the US, but over the past couple of years have recently found myself becoming less interested in them. I don’t think I will be going to CAMRA’s big bash next summer or any others held by the Campaign or SIBA though I might go to the odd pub one locally as I did when researching A Pub For All Seasons. I just find the idea of standing around drinking beer in a big hall rather unappealing, when I could be in a pub or a bar studying a favourite beer and either chatting with people or sitting quietly at early doors (as was the case the other day in the Wellington in Birmingham). However, there is one beer festival that I do enjoy and that is St Austell Brewery’s, to which (disclosure) I was invited a week ago. Even though there were over a hundred beers, I stuck with several of the same ones, but there was something about the atmosphere of the event that stayed with me even though I was only there for three hours from 11am to 2pm.
There was music. For someone who spent their late teens, 20s and early 30s going to gigs (and playing and reviewing them), I’m not bothered by live music anymore. However, at this event, for a brief while, I watched a covers band that played Jumping Jack Flash and other notable songs from the 1960s. Even though I hate the idea of covers bands (‘why don’t you write your own music?’ is the theme of my thoughts whenever I think of them), for some reason it was pretty stirring. Then I went into one of serving areas dotted around the brewery. People were steadily drifting in, intention on their faces as they approached the bar.
Looking around I saw two middle aged couples sharing a table, all of them on their phones. I could see that one of the women who had her back to me was seemingly playing a game. Others at different tables were looking into inner space, perhaps trying to think what the next beer would be, before they returned to flicking through the festival’s guide. ‘Hey big man!’ A guy in his 30s approached another man of the same age and gave him a manly hug, while colour was provided by a group of six guys in Hawaiian shirts, middle aged once again and slightly gone to seed. Elsewhere, Vans’ and old guys rule t-shirts, while a heavily tattooed security woman stalked the floor, head turning from left to right with the rhythm of a metronome. Couples stood about, perhaps wondering why they had come, the thump of music from the space where the bands played, the smell of pasties from a stand was a crooked finger and there seemed the urgency of intoxicated friendship.
And this is where I started to really like the festival. Voices merged into a Soundcloud. ‘I don’t know anyone’s names but I totally love the crowd at that pub’, while a small-batch black IPA made by St Austell thrilled me, followed by a rare treat of a barley wine from Manchester. There was an exuberance, an energy, a friendliness, the enclosed bonding of men and women and the happiness of many pints. People looked excited as they kept coming in, bringing with them whoops and shouts as friends were seen. A group mentality was at work, perhaps similar to what you experience at a football match in the company of the supporters of your team, the pounding sound of music continued, a soundtrack to the rallying of people in pursuit of a good time, whether that involved intoxication or the shaking blancmange of laughter between mates in the corner.
After I left I walked down the road to the station and I could hear the cry of seagulls above the town, bright and vibrant, while unseen but echoing up towards the station a busker in the centre of town sang the blues with the sense of midnight at the crossroads and an escalator of men and women passed me on the way to the brewery, their moods and sense of anticipation seemingly growing with every step. For one brief spell of time I enjoyed a beer festival.
Shameless plug: my latest book A Pub For All Seasons is now available (Headline).