Sussex

Once upon a time, a few weeks ago, the Whisky Dogs attended a party in the Sussex Down. A fairly small affair: gazebo, bar, punk covers band, piles of food and, as all parties should have, a peacock. Peacocks are brilliant. They're conversation starters. They're funny to look at. They're..well. That's actually about all they are. But that's their appeal. They're funny and you can talk about them; perfect thing to have at a party. Nestled below the Firle Beacon on Nicholas Gage, 8^th Viscount Gage's estate the party was held in the manicured garden of a coaching inn turned small holding and certainly possessed a picturesque, Sussex charm. One which was only added to by the presence of a large number of the local hunt. The whole thing did become a bit...horsey. Not a bad thing, of course, and certainly led to some unusual conversations. Never had I thought to hear so much on the topic of horse dieting.

And so we drank the night away. I recall a case of Thornbridge's Wild Swan vanishing before the sun set. Very tasty it was too. There was also a bottle of Ballantine's 17 Year Old, the best whisky in the world in 2011, which disappeared in moments. Also there was some gin. Quite a lot of gin. Possibly rather too much gin. And so it went, singing, dancing, gin. Then we fell asleep in our tents or, erm, cars; only to be woken by the charmingly rural sound of the inhuman banshee shrieks emanating from the bloody peacock. They do not make pleasant noises.

There we were. Hungover. Hungry. Tired. In tents. Facing the unrelenting, baking sun of a summer's morn in southern England. This was truly a day not seen since the Luftwaffe contested the skies over the verdant rolling hills of the Downs. It was desperate. It was also rather unpleasant. We tried everything our striving, suffering minds could think of to improve our situation. Food. Coffee. Tears. Sleep. A bracing cliffside walk. Striding into the sea, chased by a spaniel. Nothing was working. Were we doomed?

Eventually we came to the obvious conclusion. We needed a beer. We needed it badly. It wasn't easy. Body and mind rebelled; it was too hot, we were too hungover. Using the lessons learnt the previous evening from our red-coated, fox-slaying brethren we took our hangovers in a firm hand and retreated to the Pilot Inn for a pint of Harveys.

Harveys is a family-run brewery in Lewes which has been in business for some 200 years and is something of an institution in the southern counties; especially East Sussex. This is a beer which belongs to a place like few others. Other regional beers can be enjoyed practically anywhere they can be found. Thornbridge's offerings may be at their best on a windswept hilltop, peering out at the persistent drizzle that characterises the Peaks, but they're as wonderfully palatable regardless of where they're enjoyed. Another coastal brewery, St Austell, may actually be better enjoyed inland and away from the salt tang of the Cornish air.

Harveys, much like a foaming ale version of Antaeus, loses something when taken away from its chosen ground. Away from sea and cliff and Down the ale tends to fall a little flat. Maybe it just doesn't travel well. As such the Pilot was probably one of the better places to indulge in several pints of the stuff. The sea is ever present and the place is basically perched on the edge of a cliff, at the eastern edge of the Downs. Maybe it was the location, maybe the context, maybe the tortured state of our nerves and livers. Whevs.

That pint of medicinal ale was, without exaggeration, one of the best pints I have ever savoured. Everything came together. Sat in the sun, pleasantly tired, with sand in my shoes and the sound of sea and gull that first sip was like a snatched taste of Elysium. And, frankly, if that isn't a reason to go drink a beer by the sea then nothing will ever persuade you.

James

Also, ignore everything positive previously said about peacocks. Squawking monstrosities.