How Old P Saved My Life

Almost two years ago, my wife Martha and I microchipped the cat, packed our bags to within a sock of the airline weight limit and flew from Boston to Yorkshire.

I had been a lucky guy in Boston. My brewing career had leapt from dream into reality. Seven breweries later, I’d be hard-pressed to name one friend who isn’t connected to beer. Fun beer, be it from Boston, Belgium or the West Coast, was constantly within reach.

Now here I am, a Yorkshire brewer, and I just brewed my millionth Yorkshire pint. I have to say, the perspective from the “Old Country” is a strange one. I gaze out westward, and it’s not just the burritos I’m missing. Which brings me to the Old P…

I love Yorkshire: the ragged moorland that shelters ruined abbeys and bedraggled sheep, the cheerful butchers, steamy tea rooms and of course the pubs. I love everything about a good Yorkshire pub, from the wafting smoke of a coal fire under low oak beam ceilings, to horse brasses on the walls and old men speaking an unfathomable dialect as they gamble on domino games. But as I’ve roamed from pub to pub, it’s slowly become obvious that England is a one beer-style country… Bitter.

We drink a lot of bitter in Yorkshire: Bitter, Golden Bitter, Special Bitter and Strong Bitter. The difference between all of these is usually around 0.5 percent alcohol. We moved to a town with three Sam Smith pubs that serve only one cask beer. Yes, it’s bitter (although a glorious oak cask-conditioned one). For the first time in memory, beer is, I almost daren’t say it, dull.

Where are the Porters and Stouts, Brown Ales and Export Ales, Stock Ales, Old Ales, real IPAs and Barleywines? The American craft brewing movement was spiritually based on the “real ale” revival of the UK in the ’70s, and it’s blossomed into a culture that supports tradition alongside innovation. So what happened in the UK?

There’s no doubt we’ve had some fabulous beers in Yorkshire. But there’s more to life than Bitter. At beer festivals, you’ll find row upon row of “golden” ales. Brewers don’t feature at these events and there are no impassioned drinkers clamoring to try something new. In a couple of words the comparisons are all talked out. Instead, there are people comparing notes on which beer is, basically, the most “drinkable.” Yorkshiremen, it seems, like their beer the way they like their tea: consistent, frequent and weak.

So what am I saying? I’m saying, in short, that while I’m in awe of living and working in this ancient, traditional beer culture, it feels like something big is missing—something big, like enthusiasm for the brewing and selling of British beer.

So what about the Old P? Ah yes, Old Peculier! Just when you think it’s a washout, there it is. All on its own, dark and complex with hints of plums, crystal malt, caramel and Roxbury Russet apples. Served from the wood, it adopts lactic undertones and an inexplicable mouthfeel. It’s an ale on cask that soars to the same heights as Rochefort 10 and St. Bernardus Abt 12, but with the slim 5.7 percent alcohol content of an American Pale Ale. Simply brilliant. Martha and I covet every minute spent in front of this pint.

In a sense I’ve been saved by Old P, but I have also gained more from life as a Yorkshire brewer. It’s a proper honest living, and nothing beats mashing in with black malt that’s still warm from the maltster’s drum. Yorkshire is one of those most inspiring, ancient of places. And there are a few hard to find, old and beautiful remnants of this creative past. So cheers to you my American brewing friends, and keep up the great work. I’m a Yorkshire brewer, and I’ll be seeing you soon. ■