The Idler

Country Diary 81

ONE MORNING IN MID OCTOBER, I DECIDED THAT I could save a fortune by brewing my own beer. Right now I am spending anything from £1.20 to £2 per bottle of fine ale, and it’s all adding up to a considerable outlay. So I took myself off to the local homebrew shop. I was looking forward to it. I imagined long conversations about breweries, real ale and hops with a cheery moustachioed member of CAMRA. Instead there was a large bespectacled unsmiling woman behind the counter who answered my queries in as few syllables as possible.

“And what’s this?”

“Capper.”

“And those wooden things in the window?”

“Not for beer. Cider and wine.”

“And how do you choose from all these kits?”

“Cheaper worse. More expensive better.”

In the end I chose a kit titled something like Noggin’s Nog, bought 100 caps, a capping device and a long-handled spoon. I had a 25 litre bucket at home from my previous disastrous homebrew experiment, when I cut my hands with broken glass. The kit itself was £20 and promised to make 40 pints. That was 50p a pint. There would be some work involved, clearly, but it would be worth it. And I would have brewed my own beer, surely the ultimate act in satisfying self-sufficiency.

I brought the kit home with great excitement. Victoria was away so I was on my own with three children. Well, they could be useful and help me brew the beer. The first step was simply to open the two cans in the kit, pour the treacley gooey substance in them into the bucket, mix with water, and then mix in the yeast. The first six pints of this water had to be boiling, so I set various kettles and pans to boil. Then disaster struck. I tipped a pan of boiling water all over my hand and wrist, burning it agonisingly. But I had to carry on. I had to finish making the beer, and I had to make tea for the children and get them to bed and read a story. There was no time for self-pity. I kept my hand dunked in a large bowl of cold water for ten minutes. Then I filled up the bucket, mixed in the yeast, put the lid on it and put it in the cupboard behind the Rayburn. Strange that that last time I attempted brewing, I also injured myself. Who would have thought it was so dangerous?

ANYWAY, I got through the night by keeping the bowl of cold water by my side at all times. Even the intense agony I had endured while making this beer would be worth it. I was going to save one pound for every bottle of beer. Since I drink around 25 bottles a week, that’s £1,300 a year.

A WEEK LATER, my hand now brown and scabbed, I took the bucket out of the cupboard. I washed and sterilised forty old beer bottles. I put the bucket on a chair on the kitchen table. I poured a teaspoon of sugar into each bottle because that apparently helps the conditioning process in some way. I began the process of siphoning the contents of the bucket into the bottles. This was a satisfying process. I did get a few mouthfuls of unfinished beer, which tasted pretty unpleasant, although it did have a faint beery taste about it. Still, it was not finished yet. When all the bottles were full, and I managed 42, it was time to put the caps on the bottles. I was fearful of this stage, because it was while capping last time that I smashed a bottle and cut my hand. So I put the splayed cap on top of the bottle, then the capping device, and then banged gently with the hammer. Very slowly the edges of the cap turn inwards to grip the bottle. Well, when this was done, I put the brown bottles, without labels, in four cases and left them in the pub. It was a very nice sight. Now there was a two week wait before the beer would be ready.

TWO WEEKS LATER, the Cotleigh Barn Owl had run out, and it was time to sample the first home made beer. With great excitement, I put a bottle of Tom’s Ale on the table and took the bottle opener from the drawer. I opened the bottle and it emitted a satisfying fizzing sound. I poured it slowly into my pint glass with handle. It had a nice dark brown colour and a good head. Then I drank a draught and my body was filled with a huge disappopintment. It was… it was drinkable, but only just. It had a yeasty taste, and was watery. There was a hint of beer, I suppose. It was like beer-flavoured drink. Like something you might get out of a soda siphon. Clearly there was more to this beer brewing business that met the eye. It also produced an unsettled stomach, and later, a bout of flatulence. As for the alcoholic effect, I’m not sure if it was even getting me drunk. Just very full up. I reflected that it really is going to save me a lot money, as I’ll barely be able to drink much of it. A few of days later, Victoria was going in to town and asked if I wanted anything.”A case of Cotleigh Barn Owl, please,” I said, and that night I returned to heaven after my self-inflicted purgatory. I think that maybe the hand injuries sustained on each home brew session were trying to tell me something. And that something is: “NO! NO! NO!”

ENDS