‘Where is it? Where is it?’ he had had it the night before, he could remember that. Shoved it in his bag as he left the pub. Now though, as he was ready to go drinking again, he couldn’t find it.
‘Where the bloody hell is it?’
Trying to recreate his steps from last night he realised he could barely recall getting home, never mind what he did when he actually got home.
As he stood in the kitchen getting more and more annoyed he spied a shiny handle sticking out from the dishes soaking in the sink. There was the bastard. As he pulled it out from under plates and pans a vague memory came to him. He’d chucked the tankard in the sink when he got back, after having a particularly sticky pint of Sarah Hughes Dark Ruby Mild, and could tell it needed a rinse.
After running it under the tap for a few seconds he reckoned that was good enough. Waved it round in the air for a bit to dry it that threw it in his bag. Final check he had his glasses, baccy, and wallet.
‘I can leave the bloody house now then’, so he did.
This Saturday was to try a new place. A craft brewery had opened up a taproom in the centre recently, and he hadn’t had the chance to go until today. The brewery did mostly keg beer, but apparently at this new place they had put some cask on. That was today’s target.
On walking in it seemed a pleasant enough place. Chalkboard beer list, seating with back support, brewery kit tucked nicely to one side.
‘My heart sunk a little then when I didn’t see any handpulls, but there was someone stood in front of them’ he chuckled to the lady behind the bar.
She smiled back and told him what the three casks beers on today were. Being short-sighted he slightly pulled his glasses down and leaned way too close to the pump clips to read them. The lady behind the bar thought he looked not dissimilar to a turtle as he did this.
‘Hmm yes, can I have a taster of the pale ale.’
There wasn’t unkindness in the reply but there was definitely a beat between the her hearing him, and her pulling a mouthful of pale ale into a small glass.
Like sipping mouthwash he swilled the taster round his mouth, getting everything he could out of it.
‘Yeah, I’ll have a pint of that then. How much is it?’
‘£4.50’
He waited til her back was turned to grimace.
Four pound bloody fifty!
Placing the pint on the bar, she pressed a few buttons on the card reader and turned it towards him.
He put £4.50 in change next to it.
‘Oh, sorry, we’re card only.’
‘Eh?’
‘We’re card only’ she said again, then pointed to a sign behind her.
‘…but I haven’t got my card on me. Can I just pay in cash?’
She mulled it over ‘Sorry, but we just don’t take cash, plus we don’t have any change.’
‘Oh, that’s OK’ he chimed in, ‘I’ve got correct change. Four pound coins, two twenty pence pieces, and a 10p.’
He smiled, knowing he’d won.
The bartender took his change, and as she put it on the side next to some blue roll, he patted the wallet full of bank cards in his trouser pocket.
He chose the closest seat to the bar, to keep an eye of things, and sat down with his pint.
Reaching into his backpack he fumbled around for the tankard, and pulled it out. A cursory blow into it to clear any fluff from the bag, a wipe round the rim with his shirt sleeve, and jobs a good ‘un. He studied his pint, solid pale gold colour, nice head, not too much not too little. Perfectly poured. With one graceful swoop he poured the majority of it straight into his tankard, but the tankard couldn’t hold a full pint, so about a third of the beer still rested in the glass. Lacing slowly descended down into it after his vigorous pouring. He waited a second, ‘Good things come to those who wait’ he thought to himself with more than a wry smile. When he was happy the beer had settled he chugged heartily from the tankard. Citrusy, hoppy, goodness filled him up and he smiled behind the foam that had accumulated in his moustache. He felt comfy and contented for the first time that day.
This is how he wiled away the hours. Pint after pint, tankard fill after tankard fill. He could always tell people stared. Not in an impolite way, in a curious way.
‘That guy’s brought his own tanked to drink out of.’
In the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that weird, but it raised questions. Why a tankard? Was a glass not good enough? It’s not that he didn’t like drinking out of glass pints, far from it, he just had a preference. That preference just so happen to dictate that he carry around a pewter tankard at all times. In case of emergency, or for such planned drinking as today.
If he thought about it deeper though, something multiple pints can help with, he guessed it was a bit of a throwback. A little nod to a far-gone age of boozing, and he liked that. He liked that feeling of connection with the past. Plus it wasn’t harming anyone so balls to it.
Hours went by as he worked his way back and forth between the three cask options. Pale ale, onto another pale ale, onto a brown ale. He had thought about heading over to a pub across town at one point, but the brown ale had gone and been changed to a stout, so obviously he had to stay for that. It was after that first stout he started to feel the booze. The CAMRA magazine he had happily been reading suddenly became a chore as the words wouldn’t keep still. As others around him were getting served or queuing (in a single file no less) he stood and peered closely at the pump clip. ‘Stout 5.7%’. No wonder his head was warming with booze. Best call it a day for now.
Before gathering his things he looked over the taproom. It had filled nicely in the time he had sat there, and he was happy to see a place so local to him doing well. A few drinkers, getting as merry as him, had even inquired about the tankard. He laughed with them as he replied ‘Ah, it’s tastes better. You should bring your own next time’ to which they promised they would.
Time to get off though, he thought.
As he reached over to grab his tankard the haze in his head miscalculated the distance and he knocked it over. Luckily it was empty and made no mess. Though now he could read the simple inscription etched into the bottom of the tankard.
‘To Charlie, Happy Birthday. From all the staff at The Swan’
For a split second a thousand memories from decades past flooded into Charlie’s mind. Some were sad but most were happy, warm memories.
He had thought of going home, but now Charlie decided to have one more, for old times sake.
Pints Of Cask Make You Strong 