The Trans-Pennine Ale Trail

Britain may no longer rule the world but it is safe to say that Britain did go about inventing most of it. Not just the obvious stuff either, you know, rule of law, parliamentary democracy, gunboat diplomacy, cricket. Britain also invented railways, the jet engine, the pub, concentration camps, ale, the deep fried Mars bar and the myth of Welsh nationalism. All of which came about by taking something which already existed and making it actually work well – or in the case of the Mars bar, turning it into a precision guided killing machine. In batter. I mean, the ancient Greeks invented the steam engine but it took a slightly odd Cornishman and the allure of obscene amounts of money to make it actually do anything worthwhile.

As to this, allow me to return to this site's new apparent purpose; ale. Bit of a misnomer at the top of the page, but let's ignore that. Right. As I was saying about British inventions, they're all built on previous ideas made better. And what's better than taking a bunch of good ideas and mashing them together? Thermodynamics says you can never get out more than you put in but, in this case, frankly, I disagree. Take four of the best things to come out of Britain – trains, pubs, ale (obviously), and architecture. Architecture? I hear you cry, but this is the country that glorified Brutalism! To which I say, basically, shut up. Add to this mix the beauty of the Pennines and, with a stroke of maniacal genius, you have just invented the Trans-Pennine Ale Trail.

Running through the northern reaches of the Peaks from Manchester in the west through to the outer environs of Leeds in the east the trail comprises most of the stations between Stalybridge and Dewsbury. Charmingly, most of the pubs and bars in question are actually within the stations themselves. This is a throwback to a bygone age of rail travel, where most of the larger stations would have had a general tea-room which occasionally served something a little stronger. Now, with the exception of the detestable franchises selling unrecognisable styrofoam cups of grey, scummy liquid, upsettingly few remain. Those that do are often in some of the most ostentatious Victorian stations; most of which are located in the northern counties where new industrial money produced some truly remarkable examples of architecture.

First, the Dewsbury, at the easternmost end of the trail, is a town located about halfway between Hudderfield and Leeds. Here, nestled below the typical wrought iron gridding, is a pleasant bar of time-darkened wood named the West Riding Refreshment Rooms. The beer here appears to tend towards heavy, full headed varieties, which I wasn't quite sure we'd be able to cope with. This concern was not helped when two pints of white foam were deposited before our slightly concerned eyes. Given time and patience these coalesced into a surprisingly clear and light pint, perfect to take the remaining sharp edges off a hangover. However Dewsbury is not a place where one can spend a day; the bar is fairly small, chaotic and perpetually crowded, and so on to Huddersfield.

'Uddersfield, as the man on the train called it, proved to be a revelation. I was expecting a slightly decayed post-industrial town (shameful southern bias, I'm afraid). In contrast I found a huge station of pale stone, which opened up onto a similarly large esplanade of very impressive civic buildings. I mean, the one opposite the facade of Doric-columned stone which forms the station's entrance had a very large reclining Brittania placed on its roof. Its neighbour settling for the slightly less showy but always classic lions. The better of the two bars in this station is the Head of Steam, a slightly incongrously '50's diner-themed bar divided into four sections; in principle for dining and accommodating children and the like. The beer here is impressively varied in character and locality, with ciders being fairly well represented in addition. Having been amused by the name I settled in to a good few, very pleasant, pints of Copper Dragon, which I would recommend to all and sundry. My compatriot, clearly possessed of a more varied palate, sampled far more widely – even venturing so far as to try a beer from South Yorkshire.

And then...

Well, and then we went home. This is the inherent flaw of the Ale Trail; there are nine stops. Train services, while regular, and not as often as would be ideal and so it is very difficult to do all nine stops (or even more than two) in a given day unless you are starting in Manchester or Leeds. The train times/opening hours/point at which the sun has crossed the yardarm get into a bit of a snare otherwise. Starting late, with a hangover, was probably not the best approach to take. We do apologise.

Perhaps the most difficult part of the day was the slightly arduous journey back to the the relatively tame southern Peaks from the wilds of the Pennines, which caused some complaints. It is apparently very difficult to get around in the north. Not sure I agree. I mean, we managed to cover nearly two hundred hungover and drunken miles with fairly little fuss, confusion or tears. By contrast the very next day I managed to get in a bit of a muddle over the three stations in West Hampstead and, let's face it, that's just a road, a few houses and some grass. For all their complaining these northern jessies don't even know they're born.

James

The Ale Festival

Although we here at Whisky Dog Blog are primarily concerned with distilled beverages, I feel it worthwhile to discuss the CAMRA Ale festival I recently attended in Derby’s historic roundhouse; a wonderful building now used as part of Derby College. I have previously been to one of these events held in Stoke-on-Trent, accompanied by the two other writers on this blog and they will be unsurprised to know that the clientele was much the same: middle aged men in CAMRA t-shirts talking loudly about the superiority of their chosen tipple.

Upon perusing the large selection of cask ales on sale, I noticed a far smaller stand catering to those who wanted to taste U.S craft beers as well as beers from Europe. I ignored this section at first, instead tucking into many a half of fine English beer; admittedly focusing mainly on Pale Ales. Although the beer was good, it just wasn’t hitting the spot. It was all quite samey and I was dying for something to hit me and make me take notice.  So I decided to wander over the aforementioned stand.

Now (and this is relatively important), I have long been of the opinion (as I imagine many Englishmen have) that American beer is just mass produced, watery, tasteless, shite that can only be drunk without risk of mockery when consuming a pizza. It was with delight on this evening that I discovered something that allows me to completely repudiate this view. I was first, however, confronted with the spectacle of Scotsman aggressively yelling “your bein’ fuckn’ uncouth” at a pretty inoffensive looking English student for swigging his beer straight out of the bottle. When the guy enquired as to whether it was appropriate for a member of CAMRA’s staff to speak to festival goers in this fashion (adding quite rightly that once he had paid for the beer he could consume it in whatever way he saw fit) and also adding that he was rather offended by the incident, the Scotsman responded “Good! I meant to fuckn’ offend ya!”.

I will first of all confess that the main reason for choosing to try Rogue breweries ‘Yellow Snow IPA’ was for two aesthetic reasons: firstly, the bottle looked cool. Secondly, the name made me giggle. Be that as it may, I was quite astounded upon tasting it. There is no doubting that it was the right choice, this truly is a marvellous beer. It has everything you look for in a quality IPA, it is hoppy and strong tasting, it doesn’t feel thin on the palate and although a few bottles can make you feel a little worse for were the day after, it truly is a beer that forces you to take notice of its quality. I was quite astonished by how good this ale was and purchased a couple to take home. I later began wishing and hadn’t consumed them straight away, but it really is that tasty.

A few days later I was in Tesco (of all places) and saw that they had a small selection of American craft beers and I decided to try the only one I had never seen before. It was Goose Island’s ‘India Pale Ale’ and again, it was utterly fantastic. Not as strong tasting as the Rogue IPA, owing primarily to the fact that it isn’t as well hopped, but a beer of great quality none the less. These two beers genuinely are two of the tastiest beers I have drunk in a very long time and have caused me to totally renounce the snobbish, elitist and, frankly, quite ridiculous attitude I had towards American beers in the past.

I have a theory as to why I possessed this attitude in the first place. It is not untrue to claim that the overwhelming bulk of American ‘beer’ (if indeed it deserves that title) sold in British pubs and supermarkets is complete and utter garbage. Both cheaply produced and wildly overpriced it is sold to a public who, while having very good access to modern British craft beer, have very limited access to real American beers. Consequently we began to act as if these big brands spoke for American brewing as a whole, rather like assuming that certain fast food chains are the full international expression of American cuisine. In the words of David Brent: “don’t assume, it makes an ass out of you and me.”     

Joe 

Caol Ila 12 year old

There are few pleasures, I believe, which elicit more frowning approbation than drinking by oneself. I don't know, maybe taking heroin or watching Take Me Out might result in the same staid disapproval – not really my field of expertise. Anyway. Drinking alone is something which must be done with a certain degree of both preparation and decorum. This is not something you can approach by buying eight cans of Strongbow and shoving a Steven Seagal film on a TV; or it shouldn't be, anyway. You need a classic of cinema or television; I chose Jurassic Park, but something with artistic merit might work too. Or any of the current spate of really, really brilliant Danish TV shows would do nicely. Once you've got the entertainment sorted some serious thought has to be given to the evening's spirit, discussed below. Once all that has been sorted out all that remains is to settle down, pour a glass and luxuriate in the glow of absolute self indulgence.

This is not the forum for anything which may be described as having the astounding depth, or the infinite complexity, or the untempered searing power which many whiskies may claim. This is a situation which calls for subtlety, for a whisky which possesses all the characteristics of its home region, but veils them behind a delicate, floral and honey sweet film of, well, reticence – I suppose. In this regard a twelve year old Caol Ila swiftly steps forwards as the perfect candidate. An Islay malt, produced at Port Askaig on the island, the first thing to notice is the fact that this whisky is practically colourless. This stands it in stark contrast with its island brethren, which tend towards dark, faintly imposing amber shades.

Port Askaig was once the main link between Islay and the mainland, and this whisky demonstrates a blending of the two worlds. On the one hand all the wealth of flavours, the pervasive oil and salt of a windswept shore, and the fierce peatiness of the island's water are present here. This is not a malt which could ever be thought to have come from anywhere but Islay, or perhaps that fine distillery located in Scotland's wild North which was once only accessible by boat. On the other is the fine, smooth and accessible characteristic more normally associated with its East coast brethren.

While this scotch will not win awards for complexity, or possess the sheer power of some of the other fine spirits reviewed here, it captures perfectly just how refined and delicate whisky can be and still retain its wonderful potency. This is not an anaemic Lowland or Speyside, it is absolutely a product of Islay, possessing the island's wonderful mix of sea and smoke, yet it smooths over these with a fascinating floral blanket without in any way smothering them. As the bottle itself says this is Islay 'elegantly expressed with clarity and balance'. And it does it very well indeed.

As a vital aspect of an evening spent with a bottle and one's choice of entertainment it also succeeds with flying colours. The delicate nature makes it far more drinkable than most Islay malts, which tend to be so complex as to exhaust the palette after three or perhaps four drams. This does lead me on to my main criticism of Caol Ila – the light and delicate body is a little unsatisfying. Considering this is a fairly young malt from Islay the finish tails off with worrying rapidity. Conversely this also makes it one of the more intriguing expressions from that wonderful island – it is a malt that leaves one wanting more. It is, as Oscar Wilde didn't quite say on the topic of perfect pleasures, exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied.

Oh, and it's pronounced Cull Ee-La.

James

Sazerac 18

Researching a dissertation yields the prospect of spending successive evenings pouring over musty books to the ire of yourself and others. Conversely it can provide a fantastic excuse to indulge, evening after evening, in a glass or two of excellent whiskey. Accompanying successive nights of reading, note-taking and typing with the lilting tunes of Miles Davis and a glass of session whiskey can lead to a quiet, rather cultured form of alcoholism. If there is something that could be considered a session dram then the Sazerac 18 may be it… if it wasn’t for the £100 plus price tag for a single bottle. It is, perhaps, for the best that it is priced towards the upper extreme of what most people, including myself, would consider acceptable to spend on a bottle of whiskey because if it is drunk as a session whiskey the Sazerac 18 can prove dangerous to any remaining credit you hold with Father Time and your chosen banking institution. I shall try and explain through my experience why it is (rather sadly considering these small mitigating factors) the closest I have come to the perfect session whisky.

The first opening of a Sazerac 18 releases such a delicious smell that when we opened our first, and so far only bottle, I was reminded of a tour around a Caribbean rum distillery I had been on some six years previously. Part of the excursion at the Mount Gay Rum Distillery took the group through a room filled almost entirely with a gigantic wooden vat, its staves soaked in the ingredients of years of rum production. The humid air was saturated with the bewitching smells of raisin and molasses. Opening the bottle of Sazerac 18 reawakened this memory and I hoped against all hopes that this rye was as brilliant on the palate as it was on the nose.

A plethora of words can be used to describe the way this rye tastes: butterscotch, toffee, caramel, raisin, vanilla – indeed it does have some fantastically ‘rummy’ undertones. You will find these words thrown around rather overwhelmingly in most tastings of this rye but this bears no reflection on how the whiskey comes together on the palate. The sweeter tones are not overbearing, instead they are balanced by the more familiar notes of an exceptionally refined Kentucky rye: oak, leather and a hint of spice. This is to describe the interplay between the different flavors that my humble palate could detect, a more experienced taster would, I imagine, experience a luscious balance of rising and falling flavors that would prove to be even more enticing than to an amateur enthusiast such as myself.

In my experience consecutive tastings of a whisky always seem to fall, (by varying margins) slightly short of the experience, burnt into your memory of the first sip. The Sazerac 18 is a rare example of a whisky that quietly delights you as every sampling comes within a hairs breadth of replicating the first heady meeting. Each time you taste this rye you find yourself chasing another of its delicious components and then taking another sip to confirm what delicate hint of its ambrosial composition you had experienced. 

The Glenlivet 15 year old French Oak Reserve

When I was younger I knew this chap who, well, let's just say he wasn't very bright. One day he was indulging in that quintessential teenage activity; playing with fireworks. He lit the fuse and went to throw this really quite powerful explosive and the fuse went out. So he relit it and went to throw this really quite powerful explosive and it blew most of his hand off. Raining bits and pieces, quite a lot of noise, traumatic experience all round. The point is that just because you're performing the same action with the same object you probably shouldn't expect the same reaction. Also, never ever play with fireworks.

This applies, just barely, to whisky. The object of today's review is the 15 year old French Oak Reserve The Glenlivet. The Glenlivet distillery is located near Moray in Scotland, in the Spey region and opened in 1824 – making it one of the oldest still active whisky producers. Located in the glen of Glenlivet the distillery was so successful that a huge number of smaller producers started calling their produce Glenlivet, resulting in it being called the 'longest glen in Scotland'. As a result of a pretty major legal challenge the distillery earned the right to call its, and only its, product The Glenlivet. Hopefully that's cleared up any confusion over its grammatically horrible name. I've sampled this particular scotch twice and have to say that it seems to be a real inconsistency between bottles.

In keeping with the rather dubious firework theme the first occasion was at the Lewes Bonfire, I'm not sure how many people have been to – or heard of – this event but it has to be one of the most staggeringly insane things England has managed to produce. After actually wanting to host the Olympics and Desperate Scousewives, of course. Essentially, in remembrance of both the Gunpowder Plot and the burning of seventeen Protestant martyrs, the entire town dresses up in costumes and marches through the streets carrying burning crosses and flaming torches while towing lit barrels of tar and torching effigies of the Pope and other disliked public figures while generally blowing stuff up with gunpowder.

See? Insane. When sampled in this smoke and fire filled environment the scotch came across as light, sweet and fruity with only a slight hint of smokiness. Somewhere between plum brandy and a cigarette, in fact. It was also incredibly smooth and even refreshing, we may have drunk the entire bottle in less than an hour. I have since come to the conclusion that since we were drinking it while essentially passive-smoking twenty cigarettes, a bonfire and the gun deck of HMS Victory in October 1805 our impressions may have been a little bit off.

So, if on first tasting the whisky comes across as mellow, smooth and even a little underpowered – a malt one could happily spend an entire evening drinking – then the second tasting, with a different bottle; in the rather less insane confines of my own home, was something of a shock. Whether it was a different casking, an over-strength bottle or just the lack of a persistent cloud of smoke I don't know but the second bottle of this fine spirit figuratively blew my hand off. The smoothness was still there but the lightness of body, the sweet fruitiness, had been utterly smothered by a raw, fiery spiciness and incredibly dry finish which just seems to come out of nowhere. Not necessarily unpleasant, but it undoubtedly seemed in many respects closer to a Highland malt than the balanced Speyside I was expecting. This is one of the things I find most appealing about whisky; despite the industrial quantities in which it is currently being produced there is still something of an art, rather than a science, to it. Hopefully my third opportunity to indulge in this particular expression will strike a balance between perfectly nice fizzle and fiery explosiveness. In conclusion; do try this malt, and don't go back to lit fireworks, chaps.

James

Lagavulin 16 Yr

There are few drinks whose pouring can induce yourfellow unknowing drinkers to inhale and then, as a consequence, walk outside tosee if someone is having a spontaneous bonfire. Lagavulin is one of thesedrinks. Although it is a whisky I have sampled on numerous occasions, it neverceases to blow me away with its subtle power and complexity. 

On this occasion it was a weeklong stint onMetronidazole and consequent time on the wagon that gave me a hankering for a dram of great quality and sophistication. The dregs from New Year aside, thequality pickings were slim. Glenmorangie, a superior whisky to be sure, justwasn't enough; it's luscious fruit-like nose depleted by the repeated openingsof weekend lodgers. The Glenfiddich: empty and maliciously placed back its boxto entice the eventual disappointment of the luckless imbiber. It then occurredto me that I had stashed something in the back of the kitchen cupboard prior toNew Years Eve; having forgot about it, I assumed it must still be there. I hadhidden it, primarily with selfish intent but also to prevent the disapprovinggasps of John Smiths drinking relatives. 

The Lagavulin. There it was. Not much left, but enoughfor a decent dram. The gasps, as it happens, were mine, although they were notdisapproving. To call this ‘a dram of great quality and sophistication’ is an understatement; it may indeed be the mostconsistently brilliant whisky ever to be had. Upon sipping this wonderful malt,I began thinking about all the different Lagavulin bottling's that I havetasted. I remember my first: a 16yr finished in Pedro Ximenez port casks;somehow the magic of my first taste has never left me. It may not be the drinkfor everyone, in fact I know it isn't, but I truly do pity those who cannotappreciate the peat and pepper of the nose, the brine and salt of the palletand the long, peaty, alcoholic finish.     

Moredifficult to find that many whiskies, it is perhaps one of the least famous ofthe Islay malts – its Ardbeg, Laphroig and Bruichladdich brethren beating it tothe punch – but on average it is most certainly the tastiest and most consistent.It can be brought from some higher end supermarkets (Waitrose and the like) butit may take more time and patience to locate in bars. The 16yr, priced ataround £38-40 is the standard expression with older bottling’s comings in atfar higher prices.

There aresmokier whiskies, Ardbeg for one, and great whiskies too, but there is somethingindescribable about the joys of a Lagavulin. According to its wonderfullystylish and understated bottle, locals say: “time takes out the fire but leavesin the warmth.” I dare say they are right.


Joe

Talisker 10 Year Old

As North American editor the primary focus of my updates should be the Rye and Bourbon whiskies available to me during my jaunt across British Columbia and Alberta. I have utterly neglected this task and for this update have decided upon something a bit more familiar and close to home.

Making the most of a very spring-like day in early February we took a boat out on Burrard Inlet and launching at Port Moody sped up Indian Arm to the falls. Turning around at Wigwam Inn – now the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club, its days as a gentrified brothel behind it – we came back to see the sunset spread behind the mountains like a gigantic bruise from which trails of cloud veined out over the dusky sky. Wind chilled faces and hands needed relief so we stopped at The Boathouse restaurant for a drink and a bite to eat. As it was a game night oysters were on special at $1.20 a go so I cautiously ordered a couple of the Chef’s Bay variety. After being told that it was the wrong time of year for my choice I settled on a starting round of two Royal Miyagi.

The Boathouse has an extensive wine and cocktail list so could have offered a good Chablis to accompany my oysters but I was hankering after a Scotch. My initial instinct was to go with something that had spent its life ageing close to the sea: salt and seaweed would be worthy companions for the regal oyster. I asked if the bar stocked any Islay Single Malts and was told they had Crown Royal (excellent when topped with ginger ale and lime) so I jumped the comprehension barrier by asking more generally for a Single Malt Scotch. Talisker was duly mentioned and I ordered up a single measure of the ten year old. In reflection my want of a briny Islay Malt may have been a little rash as the lingering iodine in some of the island’s heftier candidates may have proved overpowering for the oyster’s delicate flavors. As it happened the Talisker substitute worked wonderfully. I was greeted with a smoky element that seemed more pronounced than in previous liaisons with this malt. The peppery dimension found in Talisker’s older expressions was almost entirely absent but in the circumstances this did not detract from the overall experience. Talisker affords a good balance between the qualities of the Islay and Mainland malts but has a character that betrays its island birthplace. Taking a mere lip moistener of this younger and perhaps less complex dram from Skye prepared the palate perfectly. The additional hint of the aforementioned smoke to the first briny, then fresh, and finally delicious umami aftertaste of the oyster lifted the entire composition. I quickly made an order for four more oysters. 


Chris