Drinking in the UK, Part One

What eventually became The Greatest Vacation Ever started with a wedding announcement. My friend David B., who had been professoring in Holland for several years and lately in Plymouth, England, determined that he would marry an Englishwoman and that he intended doing so in England, located rather inconveniently far from Oregon. This would also be occasion for a gathering of, not eagles so much as beer geeks, scattered across the US and as far east as Germany. I decided that it would be foolish to travel all that way and not visit something beyond Plymouth and that I could stretch the whole trip to a fortnight (already practicing British-isms).

After considering altbiers in Dusseldorf and serious pubcrawling through Belgium, I chose the undeniable pull from Scotland, eventually focusing on Islay, with its concentration of great distilleries. The most logical jumping-off point for Islay is Glasgow, and my friend Peter's offer to travel up from Manchester for a few days in town was the final selling point. Having grown up (to some extent--opinions on the subject will vary) nearby, Peter is practically a native guide, and proved to have an unerring nose for the best pubs and the best ales. He has been heavily (heh) involved with the Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) for years; he knows his stuff.

Over the weeks and months before my trip, David and Peter schooled me in the arcana of UK pubs and their surroundings. I would arrive prepared for the correct approach to ordering (up at the bar, none of this lurking about at the table) and the correct approach to paying (no tips, and count your change thoroughly). I learned about black cabs, which ATMs to avoid (those in pubs) and the difference between proper (Northern) and improper (Southern) dispense. No one mentioned, however, that the Scots print their own pound notes and, worse, issue them from three separate Scottish banks. You're sure this is real money? This one's got an engraving of a distillery!

Glasgow turned out to be a lovely city, one that has scraped off most of the industrial soot to reveal huge and beautiful Victorian architecture. My bed & breakfast was on Belhaven Terrace, a neighborhood of winding streets and gorgeous old flats, with high ceilings, huge windows and marvelous clay chimney pots. Arriving there completely knackered after an endless flight through San Francisco and Heathrow (bah), I summoned the strength to make the 10-minute hike down to Tennents, which fulfilled all my fantasies of British pubs. A big u-shaped bar surrounded by lots of floor space and "snugs" all around, serving 8-10 beautifully cellared and conditioned real ales--and a surprise to me, a chalkboard listing each of the ales on tap, along with their alcohol content and price (which varied according to the former).

My first real ale was a Deuchar's (Dooker's Jew-chers) IPA, followed in short order by two pints of Caledonian 80' and dinner: shepherd's pie, served with peas and what I was to learn were the ubiquitous British chips. Meat & gravy covered with mashed potatoes and served with . . . chips. (Chips are inescapable in the UK and most, quite honestly, are not overwhelming goodness. There is, presumably, an enormous surplus of them and pubs and restaurants everywhere are required to offload them whenever possible. The wise traveler learns to tuck them under napkins or onto someone else's plate.) The beer was superb. Over the next few days I developed a real taste for Scottish beer, especially the maltier varieties and continued to marvel at how much flavor could be tucked into beers of what I would consider low-alcohol content, often under 4% a.b.v.

On my walk to the pub and over dinner, I got my first real tastes of something else: Glaswegian, the nearly-incomprehensible language of the locals. This, although a cartoon, is a damn good representation of what I mean. As David had warned me when I rang him on my mobile (UK speak for "cell phone"), "They don't come with subtitles." The friendly young couple that sat next to me during dinner did their best, but the fellow may as well have been speaking Urdu. The young woman made the effort to speak more slowly and was willing to repeat herself so that I could get the gist of it. I'm pretty sure I could live in Glasgow for a decade and never really get it.

Next: the intrepid guide takes me in hand.

Random Photo of the Day

Experimenting with a macro lens. Depth of field is miniscule and without enough light (and a dog tugging on the leash) it's difficult to tell what's in focus and what isn't. And difficult to know in advance what the camera is going to see that I didn't, like the drops of water in this image. More research is definitely required.

I promise to do better

It appears I haven't posted a damn thing for a month and not much previous to that. Premature New Years Resolution: post more frequently, and think of something worthwhile to write about.

At any rate, to my thousands upon thousands of loyal readers: Merry Christmas.

The photo is from a wicked storm in January 2005(?): most welcome sight of the day, as a nice warm bus rolls toward me.

Ranting after rush hour

Are bicyclists just stupid, or do they have a death wish? Or, charitably, have they simply never driven an automobile at night, in the pouring rain, in heavy traffic? Perhaps this is it, and they lack the essential knowledge of what, exactly, an automobile driver can SEE through a rain-streaked window, reflected from a rain-streaked sideview mirror. Maybe this is why bicyclists persist in assuming that they're just as visible as a 16-wheeler with dozens of running lights--especially to someone trying to merge into traffic from a parking spot in the pouring rain, in heavy traffic, in the dark while not either hitting another vehicle, bicycle or being struck by same.

I have a lot of respect for Portland's cyclists, especially the die-hards who commute every day regardless of how crap the weather is: rain, sleet, cold, even snow (the truly mad among them). But, BUT, bicyclists have to remember they're jousting with big heavy moving masses of steel while they have nothing but a cheesy helmet and bravado in return. If you ride a bike, for God's sake, you have to assume that everyone in a car is blind, stupid and self-involved. You cannot assume that just because you happen to be in The Bike Lane! that you're visible, even if you also have one of those really cool blinky lights on the front. Always assume you're invisible and split seconds away from death.

For that matter, get the hell off the main drag (Hawthorne Blvd, in this case) even if it does have a bike lane and even if it is the most direct route. It's also where all the damn cars are!

It's OK. I'm home safe, not having killed one of you through no real effort of your own. We've survived another commute.

More eating and drinking in Eugene

I guess I am in a rut. Last weekend, I drove down to Eugene just to attend an afternoon party at Ryan and Jenaya's. Pear cocktails, sparkling wine, more wine, beer, delicious ham, sweet potato fries . . . and some serious cognacs rescued from the evil clutches of Hurricane Katrina. Ryan reports that consumption reached 7.67 drinks per person, which seems a bit excessive, especially since some people were clearly not doing their share. Perhaps the fellow sneaking out the back with a couple of cases of wine skewed the curve?

Drinking and having fun in Eugene

Actually, this photo and these photos were taken months ago. It was summer, I'm pretty sure. Hmmm, June. Ryan, Jenaya and I visited the Bier Stein (finally!) for dinner and a selection of interesting (not always great) beers. Sandwiches were excellent and, as always with these two, I had a lot of fun. The woman sitting to my right asked me "Do you always take pictures of your food?" as though it was an odd practice, but . . . maybe it is. It does help to remind me of great meals and great evenings, even in Eugene in June.

The Bier Stein is a pub that specializes, oddly enough, in beer. Lots of excellent beers on tap and a huge selection of bottled beers in the reach-in coolers along several walls. You can buy beers to take home, or pick out something and have it poured into a reasonably-correct glass to consume on-premises. Since this is Oregon, they have to serve food, and it's very good pub food, well-suited to accompany something from the cooler. On this evening, we beat the rush; by the time we actually got to eat the place was jammed and no seats were left.

Random Photo of the Day

It's not my photo! My son, Alex, sent this to me and can't track down the original link. So if it's yours, I apologize and would love to give you credit. But it's a baby hedgehog! Soooo cute.