A Day at the Village Fair
It was a glorious day on the village green. Children ran past with rolling hoops, played with skipping ropes or cup- and- ball or spun diabolos. Well-dressed ladies milled around stalls which offered flowers, books, sweets, hats and toys and families picniced on the lawn under the lush chestnut trees.
In front of the historic Alloa tower a Punch and Judy show was drawing in the crowds from the nearby tent where the Alva Drama Society had just finished their performance of ‘Wind in the Willows’.
While I was queueing for a lunch of Arbroath Smokies , Derek Baty cycled by on his penny farthing bike.
All in all it was a perfect day at the village fair, yet I was alone for lunch. Within fifteen minutes of arriving at the 150th anniversary celebrations of the Burgh of Alloa (see my entry for May 15), John pouted like a petulant child and demanded to be told where the beerfest was held. After I had shot a roll of slide-film (pictures and a more detailed report will follow ASAP), it was time to follow him.
The 18th Alloa Spring Ale Festival took place in the townhall: all wood panels, textured wallpaper and velvet curtains. It is not often that you get to sit on the carpet in such august surroundings, fag in one hand and pint in the other. Beams of sunlight flooded through the tall windows and the hall echoed with talk and laughter – and occasional singing from the CAMRA volunteers behind a bar which stretched almost the entire length of the room, lined all the way with beer tabs. Over 60 real ales were on offer (read this list and weep – or laugh if you were there!).
John was in paradise but – oddly enough for a German – I never got used to drinking beer.
CAMRA can usually be relied on to cater for all tastes and there was wine on offer (give that a miss) as well as cider, perry and “goose juice”, a gooseberry-lemonade which, at 2.5%, might have been considered a soft drink (count me out then…)
The cider was Rich’s Farmhouse Cider which tasted satisfyingly of ripe apples fallen from the tree and just starting to rot – as a good cider should.
Perry is not a drink that I have ever come across outside CAMRA festivals (as they put it: “…it is rarely available away from the farm gate.”). The cloudy liquid smelled like a blend of vinegar and John’s unwashed socks. My eyes widened – perhaps I should have asked for a taste. But I needn’t have worried, it tasted much better than it smelled. Juicy and tart it left a furry tingle on the tongue as when crushing soft overripe pears against the palate. A definite winner. Memories of bland pub ciders were galaxies away.
John swooned over a last helping of Okell’s Mild the only beer I tasted as it is not bitter, rather it tastes of what my bro used to call “liquid bread”. Rye-bread to be specific. The bread of my childhood and, it seems, of John’s who sneaked the odd sip during his teenage years on the Isle of Man. It lingered with a taste of smokey oak.
Happy and pleasantly tipsy, we strolled to the bus stop for our trip back to Stirling while the shadows slowly begun to lengthen in the early evening sun.
Tags: Travels on my Doorstep, Tag Index
Denni