Occasional tedious ramblings from a feminist, atheist, autistic academic and historic narrow boater who likes cats, beer, tea, and solitude, and is strangely fascinated by the cinema organ.
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
Reading Pete Brown's latest excellent post has reminded me of a fleeting feeling I had before Christmas, which is on course to firm up into a niggling dissatisfaction. Our works Christmas outing took us for a pre-prandial drink at a popular local hostelry where they had at least half a dozen cask ales on (I fear it was at least in part out of deference to my tastes that the place was chosen). The range was dominated by IPAs (and a pale Christmas ale - a novelty too far, you might think). Now I am a self confessed lover of IPA but there was nothing there to satisfy me. Why? Because my sudden realisation was that I want a proper English IPA that tastes of English hops, not one that has aromas of bleeding grapefruit and elderflower. Enough already with the New World hops. Give me fuggles and goldings, and lots of them.